Dark Age (The Reckoning Turbines Book 1)

by Robert T. Bradley

  Hans smiled at him. ‘Having it all over your hands, Max, you might be wanting to wear gloves in future?’

  ‘It’s ok.’ He reached back down and pulled out a small bottle. ‘This’ll destabilise it.’

  Max poured it all over his hands and cleaned it off. ‘There, see, my hands are perfectly safe.’

  ‘We should still find a spring, old boy.’ Hans noticed small orange patches on his own clothing. ‘Herbalists like you are hard to find.’

  ‘Your compliments as always, are most welcome, Hans. I don’t know how you do it.’ Max stood back and looked up at the tree canopy. ‘You got up it faster than a squirrel.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere Maximus, keep it up.’ Hans plunked his hat from the forest mud, dusted off the old leaves and placed it back on his head. ‘If I were ten years younger, I’d have got up faster than a bird! – this way!’ He struck Max on the back, almost making him drop his potions. ‘I saw a village settlement a little further ahead, nothing much, a few roofs and a single church spire. We should warn them.’

  ‘Why?’ Max asked. ‘Them last lot of oafs we tried to warn, they didn’t listen to us, it’s the problem with these country folk, they’re numbskulls.’ Max looked at the direction Hans pointed and then down at his friend’s four-foot-long legs, and let out a squeak like a deflating balloon. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Not far, come on.’ said Hans, striding off.

  Trees, dense with foliage, moss and branches, the forest looked darker this way compared to the natural path back the way they entered, made even brighter by the orange fungus. Death had never looked so inviting.

  II

  Untouched by the fungi, sprouting out from the forest bushes between the natural path Hans and Max had discovered through instinct, skill and general knowledge, was a fully grown cherry tree. Sunlight shone down through a crack in the canopy and lit up the tree giving it a glowing, ethereal twinkle.

  ‘Doesn’t it look magical.’ Hans approached it with his hand outward flat, in caution. ‘November, isn’t it Max?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Although it’s not been a particularly cold one,’ replied the Herbalist.

  ‘Aren’t cherry trees supposed to fruit in–’

  ‘– spring. Gosh, how odd?’ Max interrupted.

  Hans studied the base of the tree. ‘The fungi doesn’t appear to be here.’

  ‘Maybe it’s affecting the soil?’ said Max. ‘We should take some samples.’ The Herbalist got down to his knees and scraped the dirt from under his boots.

  ‘No, old boy,’ said Hans. ‘From around the base of the tree.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Max bundled over and worked the dirt.

  ‘Might be an idea to collect some from the bark as well, old boy, from the bottom.’

  ‘It’s a dwarf tree. They’re known to bloom far earlier then their full-grown counterparts, perhaps it’s a mutation?’

  ‘You’re a mutation,’ Hans muttered and reached in his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and blew out the smoke as he examined the leaves above him and looked back at the mudded track. He bent his gloved hand over the road’s surface and studied the shape with his forearm. ‘A cart, fruit peddler, perhaps. Looks like it dug into this path daily, and for several years.’

  ‘Maybe some cherries fell off and this one so happened to grow under the correct conditions?’ said Max.

  ‘I wouldn’t rule it out, old boy.’ Hans returned to his feet. ‘Collect as many cherries as you can carry.’

  A whistle sounded from the path they’d just travelled.

  ‘Do you think we should use them as food, or do you want me to test–’

  ‘Max? Can you hear?’

  The whistling was a simple, gentle tune, the pitch wasn’t high and Hans thought it must have been coming from a child. ‘Max, quick, hide in the bush, there behind the tree,’ he said hastily.

  ‘Which one?’ replied Max, spoilt for choice.

  ‘This one. Here.’ Hans pulled him into cover and positioned himself flat. Max copied him as the whistling became louder.

  ‘Why are we hiding?’ whispered Max.

  We’re not supposed to be here, remember? They own this forest.’

  ‘Exactly why we’re dressed as Moorlanders, surely?’

  ‘Yes, of course but these folk, in all their mini fortress towns, they know each other. If news gets out strange men with even stranger accents are taking samples of their curses and god knows what else, only the Mother could take a guess at what they might do to us.’

  The whistling had stopped. Both men could hear the tapping of shoes. Hans parted the leaves of the bush, and in front of him he saw her. She was about eight years old, thin with shoulder length ginger hair brighter than the sunlight rays she skipped through. She stopped at the cherry tree, a few feet away from the trunk, and conducted a bow like a stage performer.

  ‘Mr Bics?’ the little girl said to the tree. ‘Mr Bics, I’ve come back as I promised I would.’

  Hans and Max looked at each other.

  The little girl tapped her empty basket against her knees.

  ‘Where are her parents?’ A swift glove quickly covered Max’s mouth. Hans eyes widened at him.

  ‘Come on, Mr Bics,’ the girl continued. ‘I did everything you asked.’

  The silence from the tree was deafening. Hans imagination bolted from its stable. He looked at Max who also held a fixed expression of perplexity.

  The girl held out her hand and started to giggle. ‘Mr Bics, stop playing games, you promised if I did those things you’d reward me.’

  Hans squeezed his eyelids together. The girl’s giggles – under normal circumstances – might be labelled cute and lovely, but under these rather odd circumstances they were positivity terrifying. Hans opened an eye and saw the girl, still grinning at the tree, a perfectly sane smile on her face. He looked at the tree, it did what trees tend to do when asked questions by humans and did nothing.

  ‘Come on, Mr Bics,’ she said.

  ‘Oh Mother, come on Mr Bics,’ Max repeated under his breath.

  A bending sound of wood came from the tree.

  ‘I can’t watch,’ muttered Max.

  The sound increased in shrill. Hans thought it might have been coming from someplace else, behind the tree, it seemed but before he could make any kind of investigation, it stopped. He darted his glare back to the girl’s hand, and a cherry fell from the tree directly into her palm. ‘Thank you, Mr Bics.’

  She skipped off back down the natural path of the forest, and Hans and Max both looked at each other in expressions of both terror and confusion.

  ‘I’m a little unsure,’ Hans cautiously stood, ‘of what we just witnessed.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Max. ‘I’m just as puzzled.’

  Hans dusted off dirt.

  ‘Shall we go after her?’ said Max.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Hans replied.

  ‘But it might have been–’

  ‘Don’t say it, old boy,’ Hans snapped. ‘No, let’s take a closer look at this Mr Bics here.’

  Slowly Hans approached the cherry tree. ‘Mr Bics?’ he said under his breath. He clutched a cherry, a big deep red juicy one, and pulled it. Secure – he tried again, nothing. He used both hands. ‘It won’t come off.’ He tugged, held his breath and tugged some more until his face turned pink.

  ‘Perhaps you need to ask for it?’ Max said, still stood by the bush.

  Hans removed his long sharp hunter’s knife from his left boots hidden sheaf and sliced through the vine. Red liquid spurted out of the branch and landed on Hans’ pointed chin.

  ‘Oh, careful.’ Max ran over, ‘have you cut yourself?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ Hans checked his gloves, not a scratch, cut or slice.

  ‘Oh Hans, look.’ Max pointed at the vine. Red liquid dripped from the branch onto Hans’ forehead and ran quickly over his cheek to join the other drops. He wiped some on his finger and gave it a pointed tongue-tip tast
e.

  ‘What is it?’ Max asked.

  Hans looked at his companion, aware of the expression on his face with an air of a man ready to spell out bad news. ‘It’s blood, old boy.’

  Max didn’t say a word. Instead his face twitched and Hans thought of nothing but the absurdity of the situation. ‘Perhaps we should set up camp, get off this path and go over there towards those bushes.’ Hans notice the scrubs he pointed at move from one side to another. ‘Max,’ he whispered, as nervous energy filtered into his body from an untraceable duct, ‘get ready to...’

  It was too late. A beast, black as jet, sprang out from the undergrowth.

  Hans dived out of the way ‘Banshee!’ he cried. ‘Run, Max, run!’

  Max’s glasses flung from his head, and the black hulk of muscle was a blur. The banshee regained its jaguar’s agility, panted, pounced and in a fury charged in an explosion of speed at the herbalist.

  Hans hurried to look inside his bag for his Cornish flintlock, but it was missing. ‘In circles, man, bring him back.’ Hans searched his body, and muttered, ‘Bugger, must have fallen from the holster.’

  Max sped past him, Hans gripped his dagger and leapt high into the air, slamming the blade down and bludgeoning in black flesh. The creature screamed and collapsed with Hans on top of it.

  Max carried on running.

  ‘You can stop, Max, it’s dead.’

  III

  Close shaves with death had a habit of forcing one to bouts of day dreams, Hans thought. The setup their camp at twilight, lay poisons, set traps and built the largest fire Hans had ever built.

  ‘I miss the city.’ Maximus sat back on his buttocks, legs crossed, with a river of tears running over his cheeks, they made him look like a boy who’d just discovered the limits of his mortality.

  ‘I’d rather face another Banshee.’ Hans threw a large log on the fire. ‘It’s those god awful Sootrail downpours, day after day. Surely you don’t miss those, old boy?’

  ‘You get used to them,’ said Max.

  The flames licked the forest canopy, merging in a destructive dance. Hans stood over the fire, his hands spread outward. A million shades of orange reflected off his spectacles. Removing them, he gave the lenses a wipe with his tunic, and noticing the blood stains from the cherry tree he held it to the fire’s light to get a clearer look.

  ‘You’re awfully familiar with the fire, sat a little close, don’t you think Max?’ Hans lit a Macclesfield cigarette. ‘I know you’re impressed by its size, but no need to give it a kiss.’

  The Herbalist pulled his eyes away from the fire and looked at Hans, saying nothing; instead he sat swaying in a rock of mild madness. A nervous fellow, Hans thought; his fear surfaced in twitches and an odd wildness Hans struggled to understand.

  ‘How about some coffee?’ Hans waved a tin cup at him.

  ‘Coffee? Exactly what I need right now, thank you.’

  ‘Come on Max, herbalists of your calibre must know with flames as epic as these, we’re safe. And those legs of yours, I’ve not seen a pair so stumpy carry one so rapid.’ Hans poured himself a cup and downed it. ‘You should be proud of them both.’

  ‘I’ve never been chased by a beast.’ Max’s eyes flicked from left to right in their sockets like a pair of billiard balls bouncing between cushions before their descent into a corner pocket. ‘It wanted me for supper.’

  Hans pictured the grotesque image of the beast, tucking away at his companions unexercised body. He struggled to purify the vision, thanks to a notion banshees might have taste. ‘Well I guess I’d be the dessert.’ Peering down at him from his glasses, Hans searched for light-hearted words to cheer him up. ‘I’d have had the thing choking on my cock!’

  ‘You don’t have dessert with supper,’ Max said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ Hans replied sheepishly.

  ‘This woman we’re looking for,’ Max continued, ‘she’s a powerful witch if she’s able to control beasts as large – she must know we’re hunting her.’

  ‘Witch?’ Hans rolled his eyes. ‘An ancient and crude term for the oldest of rebellious professions. I prefer to call them meddlers of the natural order.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Said Max, nervously.

  Hans hoped his claim thunderstruck the otherwise expert herbalist, would he detect any hint of his admiration? He knew they were no more witches than imaginative protestors, daring enough to break the boundaries around them and the status quo.

  ‘Max darling.’ Hans stood over him. ‘We’re all a little rebellious at times, don’t make yourself any more a numpty than the rest of those lot you call colleagues. These gorgeous forests we so often find ourselves in, they’d never forgive you.’ He removed each leather glove and fluttered his long spindly fingers over the fire, his cigarette hanging from his lip. The glow illuminated the scars on both his hands and cast shadows over his sharp features, he looked back at Max. ‘And neither would I.’

  Hans spent the rest of the early evening making calculations while half wishing he’d moved out this far, away from all the politics and stupid errands of the Royal Order. The village was another day’s walk away and the trees’ illness appeared to slow further from the epi-centre.

  He checked the herbal supplies for the two masks. A bundle of thyme and rosemary wrapped up in a small leather sheet looked far fresher than the mint; it had turned a dark green and the sage he’d collected earlier already begun to wilt. The mask’s hollow nose gave little in the way of protection past the plague’s nauseating aroma. The smell reminded Hans of his late grandmother’s Sunday dinners, a slither of charcoaled brisket taking the best part of an afternoon to chew and several days to digest. Even the stew of vegetables she’d boil to a state of basic matter were also present in the stench. Had she, his beloved grandmother, been a witch? Hans watched the shaking herbalist, a city dwelling Middle trained to be one with plants, looking for a ticket out of the smoke, away from the manual tasks and desks, unwilling to extend his conditioning to become a banker for fear of long hours and cramped working conditions.

  ‘Why don’t you get your head down, Max?’ Hans asked, in a tone he purposely hoped was gentle.

  ‘I won’t be able to settle, but go ahead, you can sleep, if you want,’ he replied.

  ‘You know, Max, you’re teetering on the edge of boredom when you lie.’

  ‘Fine, you’re right, but please stay awake. Thank the Mother you didn’t lose your knife as well as your gun or we’d be having our fingers chewed off by banshee cubs.’

  Hans laughed. ‘I’m sorry, old boy, I don’t know why but you tickled me, the image – a whole load of fluffy banshees tucking into my revolting digits.’

  Maximus didn’t react again, not even a smile. It was as though the herbalist had his personality boiled out of him from the shock.

  Hans disappeared to the darkness surrounding the fire. He returned in moments, carrying the banshee’s severed thigh over his shoulder, and threw it at Max. ‘Catch.’

  The weight of the slab knocked the herbalist backwards. ‘Hey, you could have made me fall into the fire!’

  ‘I was beginning to smell your flesh bubbling.’

  ‘I wasn’t hot.’

  ‘Smelt lovely, actually, your roasted flesh.’

  Max’s facial features scrunched together attempting to have a town hall meeting. ‘Why are you giving me this?’ he asked behind his tensed-up cheeks.

  ‘Hold it for two ticks.’ Hans scurried around the camp. ‘Have you seen my dagger?’

  ‘It’s there, next to the log you sat on earlier when you hacked up the things body.’ Max held the fleshly leg and gave it a wobble.

  Hans grabbed his knife and disappeared back into the darkness, this time returning with a large stick. He carved each end to points and rammed it in the undergrowth next to the fire, gesturing to Max to toss over the severed ham. He skewered the banshee flesh and tilted it at the burning pyre.

  ‘About twenty minutes should do it. Pull
the stick back and cut the leg here from this side, and turn it. Make sure the flesh isn’t too close, or it’s charcoaled banshee for supper.’ He left the meat to cook on the stick and grabbed one of the blankets from the pile behind them, laying it out next to Max. Hans took a long draw on his cigarette and peered up at the trees. The scent of burning wood and flesh engulfed the air, and the smouldering of the Middle Districts finest tobacco smothered his presumption the idiot shit himself.

  ‘Get your head down for a few winks old boy; I’ll pass you some when it’s cooked.’

  Max got up and disappeared to his tent leaving Hans alone with the fire, his thoughts and the night. Witches, Hans chuckled, so many he’d saved. This one was different than the rest, and if the reports were true, then he’d have to get inventive all over again.

  IV

  After half a day’s walking the forest branches finally parted. The trees unveiled the sight of masonry, brick work and lopsided wooden buildings with rickety thatched rooftops in shades of grey to match the overcast sky and brown – brown everywhere, and not a sign of orange; civilization never looked so simplistic yet so convivial. Hans sighed.

  The trail through the forest had caked his boots thick with mud, yet Max’s remained immaculate.

  ‘How is it, man, I’m covered in this filth, and you’re virtually as spotless as the day you were born?’ Hans bashed each of his heels on the crude stone slab pathway out of the forest.

  The herbalist inspected his own cleanliness and gave Hans a wicked grin of suggested triumph. ‘I didn’t follow you into those bogs,’ he muttered. ‘I kept oneself to the ridges.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Hans replied, ‘aren’t you the clever tracker.’ He took off his hat, wiped his brow, returned the hat and tipped his head in good sport, uttering under his breath ‘Oneself?’ He could stomach an idiot only for so long, but a smart idiot was nothing short of annoying.