The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  A massive flash of lightning rippled across the screen. An instant later, the screen ghosted completely, bathing the room in a phosphorescent glow.

  “Switch to another feed, Dr. Barrett,” said Dr. Wyle calmly. “Nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. Some lightning just got too close to that particular pinlegs. Ah, there we are …”

  The aerial feed resumed as another pinlegs swept over the scene. Great clouds of steam billowed past its lens, revealing the galleon as it began to right itself like a bobbing cork. The krakens were sinking back into the sea, their tentacles sliding limp and lifeless off the decks.

  A cold knot formed in Prusias’s stomach. “Who’s on that ship?”

  For the moment, however, Dr. Wyle was speechless.

  The king wheeled upon Dr. Barrett. “Who’s on that damn ship?” The technician quickly adjusted his controls, switching the feed to one from a pinlegs upon its deck. The creature was racing along, weaving between fallen bodies and wreckage as it scuttled toward some objective. Sound flooded the viewing room, a cacophony of cries, groaning timbers, and the rapid tink-tink-tink of the creature’s many legs. It passed under a slower scorp that was apparently rushing at same target.

  Dr. Wyle found his voice. “Someone important. All the pinlegs and scorps are heading for them, so it must be a top-priority target. The Director, possibly, or—”

  “Menlo,” Prusias growled, lumbering forward to glare at the figure onscreen.

  The young sorcerer’s pale face grew larger, crisper as the pinlegs scuttled toward him. He was bleeding profusely and leaning against the splintered base of a mast, but the boy seemed to have his wits about him.

  Was he standing over someone?

  When Prusias glimpsed the fallen person’s face, he almost shouted. He restrained himself, however. The glimpse was brief, the face obscured, and the pinlegs was moving swiftly, its lens trembling as it zoomed in on its target. Several other pinlegs and scorps were even closer, all converging upon David Menlo.

  Scowling, Menlo raised his hand. Instantly, the pinlegs and scorps jolted backward, as though they’d struck an invisible wall. For a second, the screen showed only sky as the pinlegs was flipped onto its back. It righted itself in a flurry of kicking legs and snapping feelers, but soon it was flipped again, now flying backward in a dizzying, alternating jumble of ship and sky. A sharp crackle of static and the feed went dead.

  “Switch to another,” ordered Prusias, his eyes locked on the screen.

  “Those on deck are out of commission,” reported Dr. Barrett. “I’ll switch back to an aerial view.”

  Instantly, the screen illuminated, relaying a flyby over the flagship’s deck. David Menlo remained where he’d been, but every pinlegs and scorps had been blasted a hundred feet away where they lay in tangled, smoking heaps of legs, body segments, and stingers.

  The onscreen image began to shake violently.

  “What’s happening?” asked Lady Praav. “Is that an earthquake?”

  “The camera’s airborne,” Lord Grael muttered. “Why would an earthquake make it shake?”

  Prusias turned toward Dr. Barrett. “Why is it doing that?”

  The technician frowned at his receiver. The light within its tubes was pulsing wildly, creating little arcs of electricity that danced against the glass. “It’s some sort of atmospheric disturbance,” he reported. “I’ll switch to a higher altitude.”

  The new feed showed a broader view of the sea—a sea that appeared to be hissing and boiling as steam billowed off its surface. Beyond the flagship, another galleon sheared in half, a kraken wrenching the stern away in an explosion of splintered timbers. Prusias cackled.

  But again, the picture started trembling, jostling and shaking violently as though a train were rumbling past.

  “Can’t you fix that?” snapped Prusias. The technologists were ruining his show.

  “I’m trying, Your Majesty,” said Dr. Barrett. “It’s just …” The technician trailed off, his mouth agape as he stared at the screen. Several people gasped as all muffled conversations ceased. Prusias turned back to the screen.

  Ships were rising into the air. Dozens of carracks, frigates, even Hadesian galleons were being lifted slowly out of the sea as though by invisible cranes. Water streamed down their broken hulls, running over the krakens that clung to them. In the midst of this impossible scene, hovered a tiny, solitary figure.

  Bram.

  As Dr. Barrett zoomed in, Prusias’s fears were confirmed. He saw the man all too clearly, his arms outstretched, his hair whipping wildly about. The sorcerer looked like a rabid wolf, his eyes blank and white, his face twisted into a strained and snarled grimace.

  Gods, what a foe!

  The picture flickered and dimmed suddenly, as though its energy was drawn away, absorbed by the sorcerer. Bram was glowing now, his body crackling with heat and light. Prusias glanced at the technician’s machine. Its tubes were almost dark. He gazed back at the screen, resigned to what was about to happen.

  When Bram screamed, great bolts of energy shot from his hands, striking the nearest krakens and instantly arcing to the others to form a buckling, incandescent latticework. Krakens split apart, their exoskeletons melting as they dropped from the hovering ships like huge, shriveled spiders. The display was growing brighter. From the corner of his eye, Bram saw the technician set down the receiver and back away.

  The tubes exploded in a spray of tiny glass shards as the receiver skittered off the table. Every screen went black. Madam Petra’s torque clattered onto the inlaid floor, where it rolled in a slow, wobbling arc before toppling over.

  No one spoke. All eyes followed the king as he paced slowly past their tables and bent down to pick up the smoking torque. There was a hiss as the metal touched his flesh, but the demon paid it no mind. He was too busy processing, soaking in what he had just seen. He set the torque down on the smuggler’s dessert plate.

  “Thank you for letting us borrow this,” he muttered absently.

  The woman nodded, her fear mingling wonderfully with her perfume. Returning to his table, Prusias called for wine. A servant hurried over to fill his glass.

  I’m surrounded by insects, mused Prusias, noting that the servant’s hands were trembling. With an inward sigh, he glanced up at his guests and raised his glass.

  “A toast! To your entertainment and my victory.”

  Wary looks were exchanged as the braymas and other guests raised their glasses and took a sip. Only Lord Grael abstained. Leaning back in his chair, the rakshasa puffed on his pipe with an insolent smile.

  “What victory is that, friend Prusias?” he called.

  Wiping wine from his mouth, Prusias fixed the demon with a penetrating stare. “Were you not attending, Grael? My victory is all but assured.”

  With a savage laugh, the rakshasa thumped the table so that its dishes clattered. “I’m just an old warrior, Prusias,” he confessed amiably. “I have not your taste for politics and cleverness. Only a warped mind, a human mind, could prize victory from what I just saw.”

  “That’s your problem, Grael,” replied Prusias. “Your imagination has a very short leash. You see a battle that’s been lost; I see a war that’s been won. Let Rowan crow about their ‘triumph’ at sea. They’ve lost dozens of ships, thousands of people, and—unless I’m very much mistaken—they’ve also lost their Director.”

  “How do you know that?” inquired Lady Praav.

  “She was at David Menlo’s feet,” replied Prusias, sniffing his wine. “I only had a glimpse, but I don’t believe I’m mistaken. No, I’d wager Gabrielle Richter has seen her last sunset.”

  The demon glanced at Dr. Barrett, curious if the news would have any effect on the Rowan graduate. But it had not. The technician looked as impassive as his colleagues. You spoke true, my boy. You do belong to the Workshop.

  “Their Director doesn’t matter,” spat Grael. “What matters is Bram. You said he wouldn’t fight Rowan’s battles.”

&
nbsp; “I was as surprised as any to see him,” said Prusias. “The man didn’t lift a finger to defend Rowan when we besieged them. Why should he do so now?” The demon shrugged. “I don’t know why he aided them, Grael, but I’m pleased he did. Magic has its price, you know—even for one such as he. That display we just witnessed was very impressive. And very costly. It will take months, perhaps years, for Bram to recover fully. Rowan just fired its biggest weapon before their army even landed!”

  Lord Grael sat perfectly rigid, almost pinned by Prusias’s stare.

  “Someone pour my friend some wine,” said Prusias, grinning savagely at his rival. “He neglected to toast my victory.”

  The wine was poured and set before Lord Grael, who eyed it as though it were hemlock. Nevertheless, the demon stood and raised the glass high.

  “To Prusias and his victory! Your brayma salutes you.”

  Draining the glass, the proud rakshasa smashed it on the floor and stormed from the chamber. Most of his guests looked horrified, but Prusias merely chuckled.

  That’s just how I like you, Grael—humbled and angry. God help the first enemies I set you upon!

  David winced as the moomenhoven’s needle passed through his skin. The cut was above his right eye and superficial, albeit bloody. Mystics were being rationed for true emergencies—injuries that could not be treated with needle and thread.

  He had expended a great deal of energy destroying those two creatures that attacked the flagship, not to mention the pinlegs and those larger, scorpion-like horrors. Despite the many questions crowding his mind, he had to overcome an urge to lie down and rest.

  To take his mind off the pain and his exhaustion, he focused on the hanging lantern that illuminated this dark corner. Its swinging was almost hypnotic, as was the sound of seawater sloshing through the galleon. Plucking at his wrist stump, he listened to someone calling a cadence for those working the pumps.

  This ship won’t sink, he thought. Battered and flooded, but still seaworthy. He wished his certainty extended to other vessels in their fleet. Naiad was certainly destroyed—he had seen her shorn in half, her bowsprit swallowed by a wave. He’d heard others say the same of Andromeda, Norn, Seastar, and Bellerophon. There would be others, of course, and innumerable casualties.

  Loss was a funny thing. There was a David Menlo who cared too little, who regarded others’ needs and feelings with profound indifference. And there was a David who cared too much, who processed life and loss with a poignancy that threatened to overwhelm him. Balancing the two required tremendous focus, which is why he’d chosen this quiet corner for his treatment. He needed time to think, to regain control.

  Splash. Splash, splash.

  David did not bother to open his eyes. As the moomenhoven finished the final stitch, he heard a familiar brogue.

  “Is the young gentleman recovering?”

  “I’m fine, Tweedy,” said David. “How are you?”

  “Uninjured,” said the hare hoarsely. “Thank you for saving us, Mr. Menlo.”

  “That was my grandfather.”

  “They say you dealt with the two that attacked this ship.”

  “I suppose I did. You’re welcome, Tweedy. Any sign of my grandfather?”

  “Not since he vanished.”

  A curious silence followed. Tweedy never wasted an opportunity to fill a conversational vacuum, to declaim on matters great and small. David opened his eyes.

  Tweedy was crying.

  The gruff little hare slumped against a bulkhead, sobbing silently as he hugged his clipboard against his gray-brown belly. Easing off the table, David knelt in the water and stroked the animal’s long, trembling ears.

  “What’s wrong, Tweedy?” he asked.

  “I … I apologize,” he stammered.

  “Shhh,” said David. “What’s wrong? Why did you come to find me?”

  Wiping a paw across his eyes, the hare straightened and assumed a formal manner. “Mr. Menlo, your presence is required in the Director’s cabin. Are you fit to walk?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Thanking the moomenhoven, David followed the hare through the bowels of the vast ship. Mystics, carpenters, and domovoi were hard at work, pumping seawater and repairing the damaged hull. He avoided eye contact, only nodding as people paused from their work to thank him for what he’d done on deck.

  What had he done?

  His duty, no more. Pretending it was heroism always made him uncomfortable. He was no more heroic than anyone else who’d done his or her part. His magic was just more powerful. That didn’t make him a hero; it simply made him gifted.

  But gifted or not, he was tired. Bone weary. His chest ached; the scar above his heart burned. It always did when he channeled so much destructive energy. His outlay was a pittance compared to Bram’s, but he’d scraped his coffers dry. What David needed was sleep. He prayed his audience with the Director would be brief.

  She’d been unconscious when he found her, injured either by a broken spar or one of the larger creatures he’d seen incinerated in her vicinity. Given the chaos on deck, he hadn’t had time to inspect her closely. In that split second he’d seen her breathing. Her only visible wound was a jagged, foot-long splinter that had pierced her upper arm. Given this, his focus and energies had naturally shifted to repelling the attack. Only when it was over did David realize someone had taken Ms. Richter below.

  Triple the usual number of guards was stationed outside her cabin door. Among them, David recognized several members of the Bloodstone Circle, a cadre of Agents second only to the Red Branch. These ones aren’t assigned to this ship, thought David. They must have come over from the Typhon. But why? Right now there are a million better uses for them than standing outside a door—even the Director’s.

  The guards stood aside as David entered for the second time that evening. Ndidi Awolowo, Ms. Richter’s chief adviser, stood in the waiting room engaged in quiet conversation with two Mystics and a wizened dvergar. The dvergar and Miss Awolowo were a study in contrasts. The former was short and squat with mottled gray skin and eyes like small white pebbles; the latter was tall and regal in colorful robes, an ageless Nigerian beauty with skin like polished horn. Her large, dark eyes fell upon David as he entered. She offered a grandmother’s smile, both happy and sad.

  “There you are,” she said. “Thank you, Tweedy. That will be all.”

  “I could stay,” volunteered the hare.

  Miss Awolowo shook her head. “I’m sorry but there is a protocol to follow.”

  With a dutiful bow, the hare withdrew and David was left in the waiting room with Miss Awolowo, the dvergar, and the Mystics. When Miss Awolowo took his hand, David’s unease intensified. What was going on? Where was Ms. Richter?

  The others followed as she led David into the cabin that served as Ms. Richter’s office. There, he saw Joseph Vincenti, Rowan’s retired Instructor of Devices, and Armand Black, Captain of the Bloodstone Circle. Both men were grave as they eyed the table where the Director lay.

  Two moomenhovens were attending to Ms. Richter, their practiced hands anointing her strong but tranquil face with camphor oil. A pastor was sitting in one of the unbroken chairs. He looked wearier than David felt as he perused his Bible, thumbing from page to page in search of a reading. Why was he doing that?

  The realization struck David like a silent thunderbolt.

  Ms. Richter was dead.

  Miss Awolowo was somber but composed. “There will be time to grieve later,” she said. She set a box upon the desk, its top embossed with the Rowan seal. Taking a key from around her neck, Miss Awolowo opened it and removed a large envelope sealed with wax and twined with silvery, glowing cobwebs. She turned to the dvergar.

  “Aurvangr, would you verify that it is intact?”

  This the dvergar did, inspecting the seal with a jeweler’s lens and murmuring words in Old Norse. Pronouncing it sound, he returned the envelope to Miss Awolowo, who promptly opened it with a silver knife. She slid several
papers out, found the one she was looking for, and invited the Mystics to inspect it.

  “Would you please attest that this was written by Gabrielle Richter?”

  Each of the Mystics held the paper in turn, their fingers dancing lightly over its surface as though they were reading Braille.

  “It is authentic,” they confirmed.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Awolowo, taking it from her. “Do Armand Black and Joseph Vincenti concur that the protocols have been followed?”

  “We do,” replied the men in unison.

  “Very well,” said Miss Awolowo, holding the sheet up to the lantern. “These are the succession wishes of Gabrielle Richter, twenty-fourth Director of Rowan.”

  The parchment gave off a golden glow. Tears filled David’s eyes as Ms. Richter’s voice filled the cabin.

  “I, Gabrielle Dorothy Richter, being of sound mind and body, do hereby name my replacement should death or incapacity prevent me from fulfilling my duties. This is the Director’s privilege in times of war. While the appointment is temporary, my successor shall assume all powers, privileges, and responsibilities of my office until the Council can agree upon a permanent replacement. In the event of my death or incapacity, Rowan’s acting Director shall be …”

  David shut his eyes. No. Someone else. Anyone else.

  “… David Menlo.”

  All strength seemed to leave his body. Clutching a nearby table, he slid into a broken chair. Gazing up, he found that all eyes were upon him. The Mystics and dvergar were impassive, Vincenti was nodding, but Armand Black merely turned to Miss Awolowo.

  “Not Bram?” he asked.

  “Apparently not,” replied Miss Awolowo. “You heard Gabrielle as well as I.”

  Armand Black voiced his objections as though David weren’t in the room. “He can’t be Director. He’s still a boy!”