Young Writers Society

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?