Chapter 4: Sage Warning

  For a frontier town, Hodgeworth proved to have a surprisingly competent Town Watch. Turner and company had to stay and answer questions until nightfall, but no charges were pressed. The victim's wounds didn't match any of their weapons; they'd been in the market all day with witnesses to confirm it, and they still carried the wine and letter for delivery. Despite Turner's worries, they were released reasonably quickly.

  The pub in Hodgeworth was large enough to keep a few rooms available for passing travelers. Apparently, the mead here was just that good. The storm broke while the watch was questioning them, but it hadn't struck as fiercely as Turner had feared. The rain now fell in a steady patter against the roof, without the roaring, wind-whipped rattling he'd expected.

  "You think our delivery had anything to do with this?" Milo asked as he settled in. He slid a second mug of spiced mead over to his brother as he questioned Turner. The stoneware had a nice finish, Turner noted - glossy, painted, local. The reputation of this town's honey and mead was, apparently, well-earned.

  Turner shook his head, savoring a mouthful of the warm liquid. It burned, just a little, but the cinnamon and clove clung pleasantly on the tongue. "I know I'm always looking for angles like that but... no. Not this time." His free hand rubbed his chin, thumb grazing the scar once or twice. "The tracks you found are almost certainly from the same one who killed the glassmaker, and they came from the west. They’d have had to move fast, and they’d have needed to know exactly when we were arriving. Maybe they saw we were here and figured we’d make convenient scapegoats - but for once, I have to admit this is likely a coincidence.”

  Nora finally joined the table about then, overhearing most of it as she sat down. She'd opted for a smaller mug, though Turner knew she rarely drank at all. Even that small concession said a lot about how much the murder had rattled her. "Nothing stolen, and the only damage looked incidental," Nora noted, leaning back in her chair. "The glassmaker - Mister Henley, I guess - was the target. He had a lot of strange clients, commissions from other towns, but nobody seems to know anyone who'd want him dead."

  Turner grunted. None of that surprised him. "That'll make it rough. But it's too dangerous to move now. We'll get up early tomorrow and see if we can track it with the Watch." He nodded toward the brothers. "You two should stay here. I did want to put you up for a challenge, but if we find who did this... it's not going to be safe."

  Milo and Martin weren't twins, but in that moment, they choked on their drinks in perfect sync. It would've been comical if the topic weren't so grim.

  Martin coughed first, clearing his throat. "You took a dangerous job? Why?" He drew a breath, trying to center himself. "I mean... that's not like you, Turner."

  Milo picked up the thread, still hoarse. "You're scared to take contracts that might be dangerous, and now you know this one is?" He narrowed his eyes. "What's going on?"

  Turner shook his head and held up three fingers. "Three reasons."

  He ticked off the first. "One: we're not getting full payment for the delivery. Maybe if we go back to Sparston... maybe. Probably not. And we're broke. Unless we start selling weapons and travel gear, we need a job - and the Watch offered to pay."

  He lowered a second finger. "Two: this town's big on superstition. The shrines matter here. Now, I'm not religious, but I know what that means. We bail right after one of the town's biggest names ends up dead? Even if they don't blame us, they'll remember us - and not fondly. Reputation matters. If it were certain death, I'd say bugger it. But the Watch is going with us."

  He lowered the third finger. "And finally... I've got a bad feeling. I think it'll get worse if no one steps in. Whoever's behind this - strong, ruthless. I doubt they'll stop at one."

  He exhaled, slow and steady, and set his mug down. "I know I can be careful. But I'm not heartless, guys. Sometimes you have to take a stand. If nobody takes care of the problem, it will only get worse."

  Milo glanced at his brother before replying. "I don't... I don't disagree, I just didn't expect to hear that from you," came the mystified voice. "I... we know it's dangerous. That's what makes it worse, hearing you say this. Whatever did that wasn't a random bandit, and what we found in the forest wasn't normal."

  Martin’s hand hit the table with a sharp thud. "Milo is right. This isn't what we were asking for, but what would we feel like if we walked away?" He nodded to Turner... then, his eyes went to Nora. "You knew he'd want to stay." It wasn't an accusation or question.

  Nora sipped her mead, silent for a breath. Then she shrugged. "I know Turner. I know he wouldn't endanger us without a good reason." She looked toward Turner. "Besides, when I do argue, he listens. Usually."

  Turner ignored the jab, all business now. "Leave your travel packs in the room, they'll be fine. Wear your cloaks though. It will almost certainly be raining, at least a little. We don’t know what we’re up against yet, even with the Watch."

  Milo shook his head, "Sometimes I wonder..." He didn't finish the thought, but Nora was smirking, and Martin chuckled, so he was pretty sure he didn't need to. Turner wasn't sure what they were talking about, but from their good humor, he supposed it wasn't his concern.

  He'd warned them it would likely be raining, but even Turner found the weather miserable. He tightened his travel cloak around him, the water beading along the edge of the hood and dripping down. It wasn’t cold - just miserably wet. The late summer warmth kept it tolerable, and his waterproof cloak held strong, leaving him damp but cozy.

  Turner moved up to walk next to Captain Tarnlow, commander of the Town Watch. Tarnlow was no-nonsense, pragmatic - he’d let them go without fuss once their alibi checked out. Turner liked him. He also had decent gear, unlike the half dozen others in the Watch. Turner was sure the town had more militia, out here in the boonies as it were, but this was most likely the limit of those on active duty at any given time.

  Tarnlow was also sharp - another reason Turner liked him. The watchman knew why Turner was trudging up beside him. "One of the farmers has an old toolshed that he hasn't used in years," Tarnlow explained without preamble. "Said he's heard some strange noises from it the past couple nights - some creaking, some whistling. Might be nothing, but if they haven't fled town, they'd need somewhere to stay, and you four are the only recent arrivals."

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  Nora, who had crept up behind Turner and Captain Tarnlow during the discussion, announced herself. "Something's wrong," she murmured to both. "I've felt off since coming here. At first, I thought it was just uneasiness from what we found on the trip here. Since we started walking this way, though... it's been getting worse. I can't put my finger on it. I've never felt anything like this before."

  Turner looked back at her, then to Tarnlow. "I'm usually the one saying I have a bad feeling. If Nora's uneasy, she's seen something we haven't. We should be careful." The heavy weight of his revolver was suddenly more prominent at his side. Turner touched the wooden grip gently, as if reassuring himself it was still there. The rounds were too expensive to waste, but he had a feeling they'd need every edge they could get.

  Tarnlow didn't shrug it off, but he gave Nora a wary look. Then he grunted, "If there's something in there, I don't intend to give it a chance. We all saw what it did to Henley. Whether it's a man or some strange beast, if we find it this ends tonight."

  Turner wasn't so sure it would be that easy, but before he could comment, one of the other watchmen called out. "Captain! Something on the road up ahead!"

  Milo was up beside Turner in an instant, squinting in the distance. Turner, too, was straining to see up ahead. The rain had picked up into a steady downpour, not torrential but enough to obscure anything in the distance in a fine grey mist. That watchman must have had some incredible eyesight - it was over a minute before Turner could discern the figure hobbling forward. He wore an earthen-toned cloak, his face hidden in shadow and the downpour. He moved with a slow, uneven gait, leaning on a gnarled cane as he shuffled toward the group.

  A small town like this, the Town Watch was often shoddy, but Turner saw none of that here. Tarnlow ran a tight ship. The various watchmen stepped forward in a loose but recognizable formation, spears held ready. Milo and Martin flanked on either side with their own spears. Only Tarnlow had a sword, and he put his hand on the hilt of the old but obviously cared-for blade as he called out a challenge. "State your business!"

  It was here that Turner realized his mistake. It wasn't an old man... it was an old woman. The hood of the cloak lifted enough to show a familiar face, wrinkled yet still clear-eyed despite the painful, arthritic shuffle. The priestess from the shrine at the market, Turner realized. This time, he finally heard her speak - a sharp, carrying voice that clashed with her shriveled frame.

  "About time you boys got here!" The priestess gestured with her cane. "Been making my way here since dawn! If you boys prayed more often, the Sad Mother could tell you where to go!" Her scathing admonitions faded to grumbling that Turner couldn't make out, while the men looked at one another. The spears returned to a relaxed position while Tarnlow cursed under his breath.

  "Grana Thess!" Tarnlow called out, putting on a more friendly tone. "What has you out in this weather? You should be resting!" The entire unit advanced, at ease now that the 'mysterious figure' had turned out to be a cantankerous old lady that the whole town knew. In a less oppressive atmosphere, Turner might have chuckled.

  The old woman waited for the group to meet up with her, then she joined with a shuffle that barely kept up. Turner thought it strange, for a moment, that they didn't slow down for her... but they knew her better, so he followed the lead of the locals. The crone grumbled as she slogged alongside them, her cane thudding with every step. "I jes told you, did all that yelling make you deaf?" She snorted. "I feel a wrongness in my bones. The Sad Mother tells me something out here doesn't belong. I thought it was the witch girl, but no." She gestured toward Nora.

  Nora shook her head. "No. I was just telling them the same. I don’t know what it is, but it makes my skin crawl. I don't follow the Sad Mother, Grana Thess, but my own tradition tells me something vile lay ahead."

  "Keep that to yourself, witch!" Grana Thess snapped at Nora. Turner almost slowed to defend his companion, but it was just the cranky old woman being a cranky old woman. "I still remember the Covenant, but some of the villages out here... it be more of a suggestion than the Law it should be." She paused. "Your tale was well-told, yet you don't follow the Sky Kingdom? Your home did?"

  "Apologies," Nora replied in a respectful tone. "And... yes, my home followed the traditions. Even I would pray when I was younger. More than that, I try to learn what I can. I even know some of the traditions of the Quiet Ones." It was a soft boast, not quite bragging—more a ritual offering, the way one elder might tip their hat to another. Turner could tell the two wise women were feeling one another out.

  Grana Thess grunted, "Good for you." It sounded dismissive, but seemed to appease her. Turner had met the type before - she said what she meant, not hollow compliments. "... we're close now," she said, voice lowering into a soft, wary note.

  It was hard to tell, for Turner and even the sharp-eyed Milo and Martin. The rain had begun pouring down harder, and thunder rolled in the distance. That storm he'd expected earlier was finally about to break. He couldn't see far, but he could tell they'd left the road, threading through rows of knee-high, leafy crops nearly ready for harvest. Potatoes, if he wasn't mistaken. Turner had heard the lumpy brown tubers weren't native to this land. From how everyone seemed to grow them, he often wondered if his source for that nugget of trivia weren't pranking him.

  It was nearly midday, yet the shed coming up was a dark blob against the rain-whipped view. One of the watchmen had brought a lantern, fortunately. The kind that focused the light forward like one of those electric torches Turner had seen back in Edsenburg. The watchman used that now to light up the shed, while another advanced forward.

  A flash of light outlined the shed in profile, followed moments later by the clap of thunder. Closer than Turner had expected, that one. The shed was larger than he'd been led to believe, too. It still wasn't more than five yards across, but it wasn't a tiny shack either. Nora and Grana Thess stayed back, both silent now.

  Tarnlow made a gesture, and the remaining four unoccupied watchmen readied their spears. Turner and his companions didn't know the signal, but it was easy to guess - the Wellright brothers lowered their spears as well. Their shared rifle would be pointless in this downpour, too close to the enemy. Tarnlow’s oiled sword caught the rainlight as he drew, steel gleaming in the storm. Turner pulled his own weapon, thumbing back the hammer of his revolver. The only firearm still useful in weather like this was ready. He met Tarnlow’s gaze and gave a silent nod.

  At a small nod from Tarnlow, the watchman at the shed threw open the door. The entire unit tensed as the lantern light pierced through the misty rain, into the mostly dry interior of the shed. It fell across an occupant, all right. Despite everyone ready to lunge forward, every man hesitated.

  What lay before the group was not a person, nor even an animal. It was a round hemisphere sitting upon the ground, made of some kind of metal. Gleaming yellow-orange peeked through a rough, still-forming green patina, showing it to be somewhat new. Turner guessed it to be about the size of a small pony or large dog's body, but if that metal was bronze it likely weighed much more. Six spindly legs tucked against its sides, three on each, looking like a huge insect or spider. For a moment, Turner thought it was some decoration left behind.

  Lightning flickered again, strobing the inside of the shed. Thunder rolled.

  With a loud hsss-click! a section in front opened up, sliding up under the armored dome. Three gleaming sapphire-colored lenses on tubes, arranged in a triangle, revealed themselves. Right after this, a sickly blue glow lit up the trio of false 'eyes' on the thing.

  Even under the noise of the downpour, Turner could dimly hear the next part. A crackling hiss, a metallic shudder. Black smoke belched from either side as a coal-fired boiler roared to life - somehow, impossibly, on its own.

  With a shudder, the strange contraption levered itself up, three eyes scanning the militia.

  Then came the carnage.

  I’ve never done serialized fiction before, and it’s been a long, long time since I wrote anything for serious. I hope you’ve enjoyed it thus far, if you’re just coming in here at the start.