The
train comes to a sudden stop, jolting Jo awake. The gas lamps lighting the
cabin flicker, casting the engine in a brief darkness, before recoiling with
twice the ferocity. Jo blinks the remaining tiredness from her eyes. Her
suitcase has slid from beneath her seat and across the aisle, and her hat’s
been knocked askew. She does her best to adjust it before rising to her feet.
Jo is a
short woman, but she carries herself in a terrifying manner. Her owllike
features are emphasized by the harsh red-light filtering through the train’s
window. She scan’s the cabin. It’s as if they had been taken between the fists
of giants, and then shaken about like a small child’s toy. Gentlemen in worn
suits scurry after their bags, and affronted ladies fix their bonnets.
Oscar,
Jo’s travel companion, looks like he’s about to be sick. His pale face is green
around the edges, and his lips are pressed into a fine line, and his watery
blue eyes are close to tears. He sits in the bench opposite Jo, half slumped
over.
“How do
you handle a job with so much travel,” Jo says dryly, retrieving her bag from
the aisleway, “and still be this horribly motion sick?”
Oscar
takes a deep breath and stands up to stretch. The train has still not resumed
it’s movement. “This has been a worse ride than most. I’m
getting too old for this nonsense.”
Jo
snorts, affronted, “I'm older than you are.”
He tips
his hat, “And you look great for your age. Age being a hundred and two,”
“Stuff
it,” Jo says, though they both laugh.
They return
to their seats. Jo glances out the window into the scenery. The sky is a
flaming inferno of color, but the land itself is gray and hilly. In the far
distance, the horizon is staggered by a fierce mountain range. The jaw of a
monster due to snap shut. It’s where the train is meant to be taking them.
“Why do
you suppose we stopped?” Jo asks.
“No idea,”
says Oscar, “Hopefully we’ll get going again soon.” He checks his watch, “We’re
going to be late.”
A woman
across the aisleway from them leans over. She’s got pretty amber eyes that
consume her whole face. She boarded on the last stop and spent the majority of
her ride completing a knitting project, which was now gingerly folded atop her
luggage. She says, “I think something might be wrong. Did you feel how suddenly
the train lurched?
Oscar
scratches the side of his head ruefully, “I sure did.”
“It
could be anything,” Jo says calmly, “trains stop for a variety of reasons, and
not all indicate mechanical issues. There could be something blocking the path
ahead, or they’re doing a routine check on the engine. Don’t worry.”
The
woman scans Jo up and down, from her flamboyant hat to her practical dress. By
virtue of her job, her clothes were both comfortable and finely made. “You’re
not from around here,” she says, with slight wariness, “where are the two of
you from?”
“Sol,”
Oscar replies with no hesitation. If he were sitting next to Jo, she would have
kicked him. “And you? Did you grow up around here?”
“Yes. I
catch a train home each year from where I live now.” Her eyes shift between
them, “We don’t get many visitors from the capital.”
“Most
disembark several stations South,” Jo agrees. The softer, more palatable
mountain range is the summer home of many wealthy landowners. This railway was
built during the war, meant to transport materials north. Thus, the only Sol
denizens this side of The Kingdom sees are federal, like Jo and Oscar.
“You’re
visiting family, then?” Oscar asks, looking a little bit healthier now that the
train’s been stopped.
“I am,”
the woman warms somewhat. She reaches for her knitting project, and unfolds it
for the two of them to see. “It’s my favorite nieces birthday, I make one for
her every year.”
“It’s a
lovely blanket,” Jo says. It’s a brighter shade of green than Jo has seen in
several days. “Where does your niece live?”
The
woman smiles, “My family runs an apple farm in Monsbury.” Says the woman.
“That’s
lovely,” Oscar smiles, pleased, “That town is our stop, as well.”
The
women clams up as quickly as a book slamming shut. She drops the blanket onto
her lap, her hands tightening into small fists. “Why?” she asks, “What purpose
do you have there?”
In the
last ten years of work, Jo has encountered all sorts of hostility from locals.
Especially those in the far reaches of Solace, like this woman. Normally, she
tries to stay discreet- but since Oscar makes such a thing impossible-
answering their questions with blunt honesty is the next best thing.
“A
dragon has roosted in a mountain near Monsbury. I’ve been sent by the queen to
handle the issue. Mr. Williams is like my secretary. He keeps records of our
assignment and sends them back to court for review.” Oscar coughs, disgruntled
at being called secretary. His real job as a scribe is considered much
more prestigious. In fact, if he wasn’t so affable to a fault, Jo might have
even called him her boss.
The
woman’s eyes widen, then glance nervously behind her, as though she’s thinking
about smashing the window and making a bolt for it. She dismisses the
possibility after only a second and looks back at Jo.
“I know
something about it,” she says slowly, her mountaineer accent drawing out each
syllable, “the dragon. My sister’s been writing me letters.” She hugs the
knitted blanket to her chest, her hands trembling slightly, “Some of their
orchard’s been scorched. No one’s been hurt, but last I heard from them,
they’ve been struggling to meet the duke’s rent. We don’t own the land, see. We
pay to operate it. I’m worried about them, though. I don’t know how they’ll
make ends meet this year.” A knit forms between her brow, and she shakes her
head, “But I’m yapping all for nothing; you don’t give a cent about that, do
you?”
She
doesn’t mean it as a jab, only an observation. But there’s still a fierce
bitterness behind her words. Oscar watches her with growing sympathy.
“I’m
really sorry to hear that,” he says.
“Do you
know anything else about the dragon?” Jo asks.
She
shakes her head, but then says, “It has been taking cattle. And Julianne, my
sister, says that that it’s made its home on Fotia.” Jo and Oscar
exchange a glance. The woman sighs, “King Mountain.”
“That’s
what we read in the report,” says Jo to Oscar. She offers a smile at the woman,
“Thank you for your help.”
“My name
is Miriam. My family is the Peterson’s.” She weighs her next words carefully,
“If you need any help once you arrive, I’d be happy to oblige you. I know the
area well.”
“We’ll
keep that in mind,” Jo says, pleased. She tosses a look out the window and sees
the same stubborn scenery as before. She sighs through gritted teeth. Just as
she’s about to complain loudly- or worse, begin to consider that something
might actually be wrong- the compartment door slides open, revealing a frazzled
conductor. At once, all eyes in the cabin swivel to look at him. He freezes
like a deer at the end of a crosshair, before gingerly clearing his throat. From
the front row, Jo can see the glint of sweat gleaming from his brow.
“We’re
deeply sorry for the delay,” he says hoarsely, “There is an obstruction to our
path forward, and it will be awhile before it can clear.”
“How
long?” Someone yells from the back.
The
conductor adjusts his perfectly aligned hat, “Anywhere from an hour to,” he
blushes, “much, much longer.”
Immediately,
he is met with a barrage of furious voices. He doesn’t bother to reply to any
of them, only shrinking further, like a turtle into his shell.
“What
could delay the train for so long?” Jo wonders.
The
conductor glances up at her, then at Oscar, then at the passengers, (soon to be
mob). He sighs and beckons the two of them forward out of the cabin.
The
sliding door slams shut behind them, cutting off the angry rumblings of
peeved-off passengers. They’re now in a small, empty cabin that’s being used to
store luggage. It smells vaguely of dust, and through the dim light of the
windows, Jo can see it’s in desperate need of some spring cleaning.
The
conductor is smiling sheepishly at them, inclining his head into almost a
half-bow. “Ms. Gundry, I understand that you’re a Licensed Practitioner?”
“I
received my degree from the Lewes Institute of Magic,” says Jo. She frowns,
“will you tell us what’s the matter with the train?”
The
conductor fidgets with his uniform. He’s young, his face round and blue eyes
wide. “Yes,” he says, clearing his throat, “yes, we thought you and your
associate might be able to help. We don’t normally ask passengers to handle
such matters, but you’re professionals, so I thought-“
“Get on
with it,” Jo snaps.
“A
wyrm!” cries the boy, his face splitting in sheer panic, “A wyrm is pacing
along the tracks! We can’t move forward until it’s gone, but the crew is
concerned,” he gulps, and proceeds in a whisper, “that it’s going to attack the
train.”
Brief
silence passes as Jo processes this.
“Unbelievable,”
Oscar says.
“What’s
a wyrm doing so far across the border?” Jo asks. Plethora of magical creatures
cross into Solace every year- Jo’s job wouldn’t exist, otherwise- but it’s
strange for a wyrm specifically to be around this time of year. Stranger still
for it to be alone.
Under
his breath, Oscar whispers to her, “Maybe this is the “dragon” we’ve
been called to wrangle.”
“Then
the townspeople have confused their geckos for crocodiles,” drawls Jo. She
thinks on this for a moment, “It’s plausible, but unlikely. It wouldn’t explain
the burnt orchards. Wyrms don’t breathe fire.”
“So,
will you help us?” the conductor asks, desperately trying to get their
conversation back on track.
“Of course.” Jo says. “Oscar, dear, go fetch
our luggage.”
-
Oscar
steps off the train first, aiming his gun at eye level, but all the while
watching the sky. Jo would’ve preferred he had a stronger weapon when facing
off a wyrm, but the revolver would have to do.
Jo
offers the conductor a smile as she steps off the train. His pale face hangs
ghostlike in the darkness of the cabin. He barely manages a small, guilty one
in return.
Oh no,
Jo thinks, bemused, as he latches the door shut behind her, he believes
he’s sent us to die!
Poor
kid. They’d do well to prove him wrong. That sort of regret is a heavy burden
to carry. She takes careful steps down the metal rungs.
Jo
doesn’t have a gun, but she does have something better. In one hand, she holds
a wax tablet, and in the other, a stylus poised at the ready.
Magic
really wasn’t as mystical as most made it out to be. Once you knew how to read,
write, and speak the runes, understanding and implementing them was second
nature.
The
thing about spells was that once they were cast, they had a small tendency to
catch fire. This wasn’t ideal if you were writing the runes on paper, as you
tended to burn through stacks of it quickly. Wax tablets, on the other hand, melted
and were easier to carry, allowing practitioners who were on the field (like
Jo) to cast many spells in quick succession.
She
hitches up the skirt as her feet touch the frozen ground. The sun has set
behind the mountains, the sky no longer red, and instead a dimming pink. Stars
constellate the sky like flurries of snow, more than there were in the city.
They don’t do much to light the ground, however, so Jo traces a simple rune
into the wax.
“Lumos,”
The
melted wax floods the small channels carved with the stylus, and a small bulb
of light blooms from the palm of Jo’s hand, and ascends to rest a breath above
their heads. It illuminates the path ahead like a bigger, brighter star, or a
streetlight in the city.
The
train blocks their view of the tracks, as well as the alleged wyrm. Oscar
twiddles his finger over the guns trigger, and glances at Jo, “Well?”
She
sighs. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“I
suppose I’m glad to stretch my legs.” He says.
They
proceed slowly, pressed close to the side of the trains compartments, eyes
firmly ahead and mouths pressed closed. Jo has only faced one other wyrm in her
career, at the start of her internship. She was with a whole crew of young
practitioners then.
This was
better, of course. Minimal collateral damage, and Oscar could handle himself. This
would be a snap.
One last
compartment, and then the locomotive. Jo hears the soft scrapes of talons
against metal. Like steel striking flint.
Jo gives
Oscar a slight nod, urging him forward. He takes a few wary steps, and the
light above them goes out, snuffed by an invisible hand. The talons fall silent as Oscar peers around
the edge of the train. He’s completely steady, except for the slight wobble in
his chin.
His
mouth falls agape as his eyes fix on whatever lies ahead.
“I’ll be
hanged,” he says.
“What is
it?” Jo whispers, “Can you take the shot?”
He eases
back around the train, pressing his back to the engine, shaking his head. “Not
from here. We would need to get closer.”
She
curses, though that was to be expected. She untucks the stylus from behind her
ear, a dark curl falling loose, “Very well then,” she starts to trace a looping
series of runes into the wax, “let’s do this the hard way.”
Oscar
chances another look around the train. His throat bobs, and his brow pinches
together. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a wyrm in person,” he says, “I don’t
remember them being so big.”
Jo
scratches in the final letter with an inch of wax to spare. She sighs, and
returns the stylus to her pocket. “It won’t matter a bit. I just need a good
look at the wyrm, and some time to spare. Will you keep the thing distracted
for me?”
Oscar
glances at the tablet, a small frown forming his face, “That looks like a hefty
spell,” he says, “if it doesn’t kill the beast, you’re out.”
“Oh, please,”
Jo says, squashing the squirming in her stomach, “It’s complex, but not taxing.
I know what I’m doing.”
There’s
a thunderous shriek, the fierce sound of a furious wyrm, and then the hissing
of metal once more. Oscar dares another look around the corner. In the dark
light, his face pales.
“It’s
getting closer to the train,” he glances back at her, grim. He says, “very
well, Jo. Just don’t get me killed out there.”
“I won’t.”
She promises. He smiles, and blasts into the clearing.
She’s
going to try her darned best, anyway.
At the
sound of the first gunshot, she launches after him, ice crunching beneath her
feet. Jo can barely see the steps ahead of her, so instead she focuses on where
she’s going- a small outcropping of rocks piled beside the cliff face. An
echoing bellow nearly knocks Jo off her feet, and five resounding bullets pelt
her ears. But she grimaces and ploughs forward.
She
feels the chill of the rocks through her gloves as she scales up them, her
tablet held between her teeth like bark to dull the pain. Inelegantly, Jo
slides belly first onto the flat rock before throwing her feet beneath her.
“Jove,”
she hisses when she’s good and steady. Jo is directly across the clearing from
Oscar’s cover behind a small patch of trees, as thin and compact as rows of
stakes. He flits among them like a small doe, reloading and firing at random
intervals.
Luring
the wyrm closer.
It’s a
gnarled mass of shadow, taller than a house. Leathery gray skin is stretched
over a skeletal frame like a blanket drawn over a corpse. It pulls back it’s
lips to shriek once more, revealing rows and rows of wicked yellow fangs.
Saliva rains from the heavens in an acidic stench.
It’s absolutely
bigger than the one from her internship.
She
scrambles for her wax tablet, her heart spasming in her chest as words flail
from her mouth in an incomprehensible waterfall of fear.
It
doesn’t matter, because the intent is there, and Jo knows the spell she’s
constructed is a good one. No more than a heartbeat passes. The wyrm raises
it’s wings, massive, stained windows glittering in the starlight.
And
then, they catch fire.
The wyrm,
at first, doesn’t know what has happened. It whips it’s head from side to side
before the agony registers. It throws back it’s head and screams, beating
both of it’s wings, battling gravity to force itself off the ground.
But
instead, both it’s legs give way. It falls forward off the tracks, still
wailing, as the fire burns away the membrane between it’s bones. Jo is almost
sorry as the blaze creeps along towards it’s body. But before she can feel too
bad, a silhouette places a revolver to the wyrm’s writhing underbelly, and a
shot resounds around the clearing.
Jo snaps
her fingers, and the flames recede, putting a swift end to the impromptu
bonfire. All that’s left behind is charred remains, and a rancid stench.
A slight
burning sensation lodges in the back of Jo’s throat, as if she swallowed a hot
coal with her dinner. She is used to the feeling, and quickly enough it
subsides. She smooths the folds of her skirt.
There,
now, she thinks, wasn’t that easy enough?
Points: 34
Reviews: 7
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