Metal and Magic

by Chris Paton

  “Ja,” said the soldier waiting for them outside the dome. “There's two, and they bring news of the airship.”

  “The Flying Scotsman?” said Luise.

  “Ja, the same.”

  The first flyer flew low over the train. As the pilot drew close to the engineering car, he held out his arm and dropped a leather sandbag onto the roof. The soldier exchanged a wave with the pilot and then ran forwards to pick up the bag. A brass message cylinder was attached to the side with a metal ring and pin. The soldier removed the pin and pulled the cylinder free.

  “I have to get this to Fräulein von Ense,” he said and turned towards the ladder.

  “No need,” said Hannah as she climbed up the ladder and stepped onto the roof. “I heard the flyers were close. Do you have a message?”

  “Ja, Fräulein,” the soldier said. He dipped his head as he handed the cylinder to Hannah.

  Luise waited for Hannah to read the message. It was difficult to read her expression in the dim light, but there was no mistaking her body language. A shiver of excitement rippled across Hannah's shoulders and she handed the message to the soldier.

  “Take this to the officer's car and see that Oberleutnant Schmidt gets it as quick as you can.”

  “Ja, Fräulein,” the soldier said. He pocketed the messages and slid down the ladder and climbed into the train.

  Luise waited for Hannah to walk across the roof to join them. Hannah glanced at Emilia as if making a decision, and then she spoke.

  “The Flying Scotsman has crashed up ahead. There is wreckage everywhere.”

  “Crashed?”

  “Ja, maybe it was damaged in the fight?” Hannah said with a brief smile for Emilia. “Can Khronos fly?”

  “I don't know?” Luise said and gripped the edges of the blanket. “I don't think so. Once he has taken a human body...”

  “Then he is limited to travelling as humans do. Ja, it was the same with Aether and Khaos.”

  “Then we have a chance to stop him.”

  “Ja,” said Hannah. “I think we do. Come,” she gestured towards the ladder. “We must make preparations.”

  Chapter 15

  The Hindu Kush

  Afghanistan

  July, 1851

  The village had a name once, Tahir told Hari and his companions as they ate around a cooking fire outside a small compound of packed earth. But ever since they had created the djinn and been abandoned by the bandits, people had stopped calling the village by its name. In fact, he explained, the people in the neighbouring villages had stopped referring to it by name at all. Sast simply ceased to exist, and was avoided as a cursed place. Trade stopped, the number of travellers on the road thinned to the point where they were like short lengths of straw in the wind – bleached by the sun and twisted away from the village by the wind.

  “The first winter was hard,” Tahir said. “The second was unbearable. We lost many people, and many others moved to other villages, only to return, shunned and desperate.” He took a handful of earth from the ground around the fire. “Dust is all we have left, and the few goats that wander into the village.”

  Hari watched Jamie as the man spoke of the village. The young Englishman chewed at the meat he was offered, but was distracted every second mouthful by the djinn pit. Hari could only imagine what horrors the sight of the pit conjured in Jamie's mind. I must get him away from here, as quickly as possible. The meat was succulent, Hari noted, but a glance at Najma and further observation of Jamie suggested that none of them enjoyed the meal, for every mouthful seemed to evoke another story of starvation and woe from their host.

  “And then,” Tahir said, “we had a visit from one of the metal djinn.”

  “What?” said Hari and snapped his head towards Tahir. “What kind of djinn?”

  “Like a man, but very big. We had heard of them, but had not seen them. It was made of metal and it moved of its own accord, but it could not fly like djinn,” he said with a quick look at Jamie.

  “When was this?”

  “Last month.”

  “And where did it go?”

  “Go? It didn't go anywhere. It stopped here.” Tahir's face stretched unfamiliar muscles into a smile. “Would you like to see it?”

  “It is still here?”

  “Yes,” he said and stood up. “Come.”

  “I will wait here with Jamie,” said Najma. “I will make sure he eats,” she said with a nod to Hari as he glanced at the pit. “Don't worry, Nightjar. I will keep a close eye on him.” Najma tapped the barrel of the Lightning Jezail where it lay in her lap.

  “Truly,” said Hari. “I know you will.” He followed Tahir through the tumbledown village and into the parched field in the shadow of the mountain. Tahir gestured at a path between the grasses and led Hari into a shallow gully. Hari squinted into the gloom between the rocky sides of the gully and nodded as Tahir made to lift a heavy dust-laden cloth from a large object lying on the gully floor. As Tahir removed the cloth he revealed the familiar shape of a brass emissary like the one Hari and Jamie had chased through the Khyber Pass, and fought at the battle of Adina Pur.

  “Yes,” Hari said as he stepped forwards to examine the emissary's brass plates, boiler and appendages. “It is an emissary. But why did it come here?” he wondered aloud. “And how did you stop it?”

  “Stop it? We did nothing. The emissary walked around the village,” Tahir said and described the emissary's route with a hand in the air tracing the path and contours from remains on the village to the gully. “When it reached the gully, it climbed down and stopped. It just lay down.”

  “Truly? It just lay down?”

  “Yes,” he said. His teeth flashed in the light of the moon creeping above the mountains.

  “This I have never heard of,” Hari said and frowned. He kneeled down to open the door of the boiler. The furnace contained only ash and the tank was empty of water.

  “We want to sell it. What should we ask for it, mystic? What is it worth?”

  Hari stood and clapped the ash from his hands onto the ground. He studied the sides of the gully and traced the route back to the emissary.

  “Mystic? What are you thinking?”

  Hari walked around the emissary before speaking. He kneeled by the head and studied the grille, and then he continued his examination, smoothing his hands along the arms from the shoulder sockets to the double-plated brass fingertips. Hari moved to examine the legs, the knee joints and the cloven feet. He squirmed a finger beneath his dirty turban and scratched his head.

  “There is nothing wrong with this emissary. It is in perfect condition.”

  “Ah,” said Tahir and clapped his hands. “Then it is worth a lot of money. This is a good day. Our village is saved.” Swirls of dust puffed into the air around Tahir 's sandaled feet as he danced at the head of the emissary.

  “Perhaps,” said Hari. “You can try and take it to Cabool. The British engineers would be interested in a perfect specimen such as this. But...” Hari stopped talking and walked to the gully side. He climbed up and scanned the terrain. It was flat, all the way to the mountains. “Are there any other gullies like this?”

  “No,” Tahir said and moved to cover the emissary with the cloth. Hari noticed the renewed vigour in the man's movements, but the greater puzzle still eluded him.

  “Why here?” he said. “The man that controls the emissary must have line of sight between the emissary and the control box,” Hari said aloud as he recalled what he knew of the Wallendorf emissaries. “And if that contact is broken, the emissary will continue on its course, until it runs out of fuel, or is stopped by some obstacle.” Hari remembered the early emissary models he had found wading hopelessly through snowdrifts until the furnace ran out of fuel and the water in the boiler froze. “But this one, crawled down a gully and lay down to die... Or,” Hari lifted his head and blew out a small whistle. He jogged a short distance away from the gully and turned to look back. Even in the moonlight the thin scrub was e
nough to hide the gully from view. “You crawled down there to hide,” Hari said and laughed. “But from whom? Your controller? Hah,” he said and gripped the pommel of his kukri. “Yes, you are like Luise's demons. You have something inside that drives you beyond the range and imagination of Wallendorf's technology and his men. Truly,” Hari said and strode back towards the gully, “there is much to learn and much that can help us on this quest.” He stopped at the lip of the gully. “Tahir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I will give you ten gold sovereigns if you promise to leave the emissary under that cloth until I send someone to come and retrieve it.”

  “Ten gold coins?”

  “Not coins – British sovereigns. You can buy what you need for the winter, and even rebuild some of your village,” Hari said and started to walk towards the path. “I will leave the payment in the village. Tell no one of the emissary. I will send someone for it.”

  The familiar mix of excitement and adventure drove Hari along the path and into the village. He found Jamie and Najma sitting close to the fire sharing a large mug of tea. Najma looked up at the sound of Hari's sandals crunching the grit beneath his feet. Jamie stared beyond the rim of the mug. Hari stopped and waited for him to blink and look up.

  “Was it an emissary?” Najma said. “Like the one in Adina Pur?”

  “Yes,” said Hari. “A most interesting emissary. I believe it escaped from its master.”

  “Escaped?” said Jamie and looked up.

  Hari smiled and held out his arm to pull Jamie to his feet. “Yes. Escaped. As we should this very night. If we are going to travel by djinn it is best to do it under the cover of darkness.”

  “But the moon,” said Najma as she stood and took the mug from Jamie.

  “Cannot be helped,” said Hari. “We must leave now. Are you rested, British? Are you full?”

  “I have eaten,” he said and looked at Najma. “It was difficult to refuse.”

  “You need your strength,” Najma said and placed her hand on Jamie's arm. She pulled it away quickly as their eyes met. “And,” she added. “I do not want to walk all the way to Russia.”

  “Then we must fly,” said Hari. He took a step forwards and lifted Jamie's arm. “You must hold us, one under each arm. You must not drop us, British. No matter what.”

  “I am not stupid, Hari.”

  “No, you are not. But the djinn,” Hari said and placed his hand flat on Jamie's chest. “They can be careless.”

  Jamie sighed and turned to look at the pit. He was silent for a moment as he strained to hear the sounds of the djinn within. “I have learned my lesson,” he said and looked down at his feet. His toes curled into smoke and the dust around his heels was tinged with blue as his feet and legs merged into a vortex of djinnsmoke. “Prepare yourselves.”

  Najma picked up her rifle and slung it over her shoulder. She tightened the sling, pressed her shirt into her pantaloons and buttoned her tunic. Hari placed a small leather bag of money by the cooking fire and snugged his satchel tight. He nodded at Jamie as the young Englishman wavered above the ground upon a twisted coil of blue smoke tinged with electric sparks and snaps of ancient desert magic.

  “Are you ready?” he said.

  With a quick glance at Hari, Najma nodded and took a step closer to Jamie. She tensed and held her arms straight against her sides. Jamie wrapped a thick arm around her waist. Najma gripped the knotted muscles of his forearm and held her breath.

  “Hari?” Jamie said and held out his left arm. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Hari said and pressed his hands together. He locked his elbows to his chest and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Although, I am suddenly reminded of something,” he said as visions on the tilting deck of The Flying Scotsman flashed through his mind.

  “And what is that, little man?” Jamie said with the deep, booming inflection of the djinn.

  “I have recently discovered an uncomfortable appreciation of heights.”

  “What does that mean?” said Najma as she exhaled.

  “I am afraid of them.”

  She laughed. “The Nightjar is afraid of heights?”

  “Truly,” said Hari and stepped into Jamie's embrace. “Three times now I have flown in an airship, and twice I have fallen out of one. Perhaps,” he said, “it is not a fear of flying that I have, but a fear of airships...” Hari held his breath as Jamie pulled him tight into his chest and launched into the dark desert night. “Alas,” said Hari through gritted teeth. “It is not just airships.”

  Najma's shriek of glee was smothered by the djinni's laughter like a battery of cannons erupting above the village. The wind whipped Najma's long, black hair behind her head as she stared, teary-eyed towards the mountains as the djinni raced across the plain and up towards the snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush, northwards and out of the desert.

  Chapter 16

  The Great Southern Plain

  Arkhangelsk Oblast

  July, 1851

  Kapitan Lev Bryullov, twisted into the air as the bullet slammed into his left arm. Lena bit into the powder cloud as she stalked towards the Russian and pressed her leather boot into his chest. Bryullov grunted and stared at the Cossack as she bent down, her battle-tangled hair tickling her jawline as she sneered at the man beneath her boot.

  “We've met before,” said Bryullov as he returned the Cossack's sneer. “Of course, I am only guessing. It is difficult to know for sure. The last time I saw you, you were running away.”

  “Why, you...”

  “Lena,” Stepan said as he dismounted and sprinted the short distance to where Bryullov squirmed beneath Lena's boot. “We need him.” Stepan caught Lena's hand as she twisted the pistol in her grip and made to strike Bryullov with the hardwood butt of the handle.

  “Ah, Kapitan Skuratov,” Bryullov said and coughed as Lena stabbed the heel of her boot into his ribs. “I see you have gone feral and joined the scourge of Russia. You truly are a patriot. Anna would be proud.”

  “Anna? You dare to mention my wife's name?” Stepan kneeled beside Bryullov and squeezed his hand around the Russian's throat. “It is patriots like you that have forced my wife and the people of Arkhangelsk into slavery at the hands of our enemies.”

  “Kapitan?” said Lena as Bryullov choked for breath.

  “You invited them into our country, to force our people into our mines...”

  “Kapitan,” Lena said. She tucked her pistol into her bandolier and took hold of Stepan's jacket, lifted him up and pulled him off Bryullov.

  “What?” Stepan said as he stumbled in the dirt. He trembled as Lena brushed the dirt from his jacket. Stepan leered at Bryullov and took a step forwards.

  “Hah,” Lena said and laughed. “Such restraint. Maybe I should become an officer, eh?”

  “You are both contemptible,” Bryullov said as he sat up. “An insult to the Russian Empire. I would shoot you both and feed you to the wolves.”

  Lena laughed again as she watched Bryullov inspect the wound in his arm. He poked at the hole in his uniform and grimaced as he explored the ragged flesh beneath the torn and bloody cloth. The beat of hooves pounded through the ground and they all three looked up to see Ivan arrive with three Cossacks. They slowed to a halt and moved their horses into a protective perimeter as Ivan slipped out of the saddle and strode through the dirt to greet his daughter.

  “She is alive,” he said to Stepan as he smoothed a rough hand on Lena's cheek. “Has she behaved?”

  “As much as I have,” said Stepan with a nod towards Bryullov. “Although, the devil himself has tempted us both.”

  “Da,” Ivan said. He kissed Lena on the forehead and turned towards Bryullov. “Kapitan Bryullov.”

  “Ivan Timofeyevich,” Bryullov said with a sigh. “It has been a long time.”

  “This is true.” Ivan turned and pointed a stubby finger at Stepan’s horse. “You have not lost your touch.”

  “And yet I seem to have lost my horse,
” Bryullov said and glared at Stepan. “For the moment.”

  “We need to get him back to camp,” said Stepan. “He will be useful if Moscow sends more troops.”

  “Sure,” Ivan said and waved one of his men over. “Mishka will see to it.”

  Mishka grinned as he circled Bryullov, clapping his hands in the Russian's face. Bryullov, for his part, kept his eyes locked on Stepan. His jaw stiffened as Mishka bound his wrists with a length of leather cord and pulled him to his feet. Mishka turned Bryullov towards his horse.

  “Just a minute,” Stepan said. He walked towards Bryullov and stopped in front of him.

  “Kapitan?” said Bryullov. “Have you had a change of heart? Do you wish to surrender?”

  “Tell me something. How does a man like you, a hero of the Russian army, renowned for his daring and adventurous exploits in the service of the Empire – how does such a man let a foreign power enter his country and take over one of the great cities of the north? How does he do that and sleep at night?”

  The muscles in Bryullov's jaw flickered with a short spasm of energy as he gritted his teeth and took a measured breath. Short flecks of anger blistered in his eyes.

  “I sleep...”

  “Yes?” Stepan said and pressed his face closer to Bryullov's. “How do you sleep? Traitor?”

  Stepan caught Bryullov's knee on his thigh as he twisted in anticipation of the Russian's attack. Mishka drew his pistol and whipped Bryullov in the lower back until the Russian sank to his knees. Bryullov twisted his neck to glare up at Stepan. He coughed and spat on the ground.

  “We all make sacrifices for our country, Kapitan Skuratov. What will yours be, I wonder, when this is all over?”

  “I have sacrificed enough already.”

  “Yes,” Bryullov said and laughed. “I can see that from the company you keep.” He grunted and collapsed to the floor as Mishka hit him again.

  “Enough,” said Ivan. “Mishka, take him back to camp. And you,” he said to Stepan. “You will come with me to Arkhangelsk. The Cossacks are gathering just south of the gates. It is time to begin the siege. Come, we will make plans as we ride.”