Steam Dogs
Authors: Sharon Joss
Steam Dogs
By
Sharon Joss
STEAM DOGS
Copyright
©
2015 by Sharon Joss
All rights reserved.
Published 2015 by Aja Publishing
www.ajapublishing.wordpress.com
Book and cover design Copyright
© 2015 by Aja Publishing
Cover design by S. Roest / Aja Publishing
Cover Art Copyright
© by Demonza.com
Heraldic Griffin Design Copyright
© by Buch / Dreamstime
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
All characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictional, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or
incidents or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored
in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the
publisher.
KINDLE EDITION
ISBN:
978-1-941544-31-0
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ryde, Isle of Wight, England
August 1851
When he
reached the top of the hill, eleven-year-old Simon Atters turned
to watch his friends, Holly and Glenn, push the wooden handcart down the
boardwalk toward their house. Piled high with wooden balls and clubs from their
juggling practice, it took the efforts of both twins to move the heavy cart
down the rough planks. Beyond the boardwalk, the tide had turned, and waves of
The Solent had reclaimed much of the white sand beach below Ryde Pier.
He grinned as the evening breeze riffled his hair.
I’m on top of the world
. From here, he
could see the whole town, the Abbey, and even the green forest surrounding the
Queen’s summer home at Osborne. Out in the strait, a white ferry steamed across
the calm blue waters of Spithead, toward Gilkicker Point and Gosport on the
mainland a mile away.
From the town below, the bells of Holy Trinity Church echoed off
the trees of the pine and oak forest behind him.
“Oh crikes,” Simon
muttered. Late again. His father would be furious. He turned toward the woods
and ran.
Hairy needles of nettles stung at his bare calves. He leapt over
thorny vines of blackberry and brambles that stretched across the game trail
like deadly snares. Even on the brightest summer day the light was always dim
here, but now that the sun was setting, the deep shadows gave the place a
certain menace.
A rabbit darted across the trail and Simon stumbled but caught
himself. Overhead a red squirrel scolded angrily—as if to warn of Sir
Hilary’s pending wrath.
An important
visitor for dinner
, his father had cautioned.
Don’t be late
.
“Who is it? Does it have anything to do with my birthday next
week?”
“It’s a surprise. If you’re not here on time, you’ll never know.”
Sir Hillary frowned, but Simon had seen the ghost of a smile playing at his
father’s lips.
He hoped so. He’d been waiting all his life to turn twelve. To
receive his birthright--the fire magick, which Sir Hilary had held in trust for
him until he was old enough to control it. Like his late mother, he’d been born
a fire mage, but his mother had taken it from him at birth to keep him safe,
and when she died, she’d passed it to his father, Sir Hilary, the Wizard of
Ryde.
Although a powerful weather wizard, with mastery of air and water,
his father had no ability with fire, and thus had postponed arranging a fire
mage for a tutor until Simon's twelfth birthday.
Surefooted on the summer grass, Simon emerged from the woods and
raced past the graveyard headstones. The light faded quickly after sunset. Already
the first stars were beginning to show. The other kids might have been afraid
of running through a graveyard, even in the daytime, but he’d grown up playing
among the headstones; there was nothing here that would harm him.
He halted, panting in the paved courtyard in front of the yellow
stone house, the color washed to a ghostly pale of eventide. Light gleamed
warmly from every window on the first floor. Sheer curtains fluttered at the
open windows, welcoming the cool breeze of evening.
A dappled mare drowsed beside the hitching post in front. He
stroked her neck, trying to decide if he should go in boldly or sneak upstairs
and clean up first. It was the cook's and housekeeper’s night off.
The mare whickered softly; a contented sound. He held his hand to
her soft nose and she nibbled gently at his fingers. The aroma of baking apples
reached him through the open windows, and his stomach growled. A shadowy figure
crossed the room.
Who was it?
A surprise, his father had
said. While it might have something to do with his coming birthday, he knew Sir
Hillary was not keen on seeing his son follow in his footsteps.
“It would not be the end of the world, son, if you decided
against magery. I would be delighted to see you continue your studies at the
university. Magick’s usefulness is fading, I fear. Technology is the thing.
Consider the telegraph! Or the potential in hydrogen fuel cells. You’re more
than clever enough for advanced studies, if you put your mind to it.”
“Very well for you to say. You’re the Wizard of Ryde.”
His father shook his head. “I am merely a glorified civil
servant; a paid observer of tides and weather patterns. Without the governor’s
honorarium I’d have ended up a mountebank and we’d be living on the street,
which is where you’ll end up if you do not start applying yourself. You lack
focus, son. Whether to the study of magick or other scholarly pursuits, you
must apply yourself! Even an officer requires an education these days.”
Simon shuddered at the idea of life in the military.
“Your mother and I discussed your future often. A military
career may not appeal you now, but it wouldn’t have to be forever.” His father
smiled encouragingly. “Who knows? With the right connections, you could end up
in politics, or even a royal appointment. I do have a few influential friends
who could assist in that direction.”
“I don’t want to go into politics. I want to learn
magick.”
“To what end, boy?” Sir Hillary’s exasperation always put
Simon on the defensive. “Fire magick has no practical application, other than
destruction. I would not want my son to become a war mage.”
“But I want to be a wizard. If you could learn to master a
second element, why couldn’t I? You control water and air, why couldn’t I
control fire and water? And you keep telling me steam power is the way of the
future.”
A flash of something akin to parental pride flickered in
his father’s expression. “Very well.
But I must warn you that a wizard’s
apprenticeship is even more difficult than that of a mage, and no less
difficult than university studies.”
Simon fervently hoped the mysterious guest was neither one
of his father's cronies in the governor's office nor a headmaster for some
overlander military academy. If so,
better to go straight in. No sense in putting
himself out, then. He brushed the worst of the beach sand and stickers from his
clothes and dragged his fingers through his hair.
The sounds of a heated argument reached him through the open
windows, then glass breaking, followed by angry words. He stepped toward the
window cautiously, as the itchy feel of strange magick bled like a miasma from
inside the house. Whatever it was, this was not his father’s air or water
magick. This was something else. Something darker.
From inside the house, his father’s voice become a strangled cry.
Simon froze, still a dozen steps from the front door. Through the
curtain lace, he could make out the figure of a well-dressed, dark-haired man,
but no sign of his fair-haired father.
What
happened?
His heart pounded.
The man dropped below his line of vision.
Simon crept closer to the open window and peeped over the sill.
On the floor of his study, Sir Hillary lay unmoving; his eyes
rolled completely back in his head. A dark, spreading stain moved quickly across
his bloodless skin, consuming him in an inky blackness. Leaning over him,
draining the last bit of magick from his father’s dying lips, crouched the
killer.
Wizard’s kiss.
Simon hissed at the sight.
In
the same way that his own magick had been taken from him by his mother and
passed to his father for safekeeping, or passed down from father to son, so too
could a wizard become more powerful by stealing it.
The stranger’s thick black hair with the distinctive white streak identified
him as a wizard immediately. The stranger locked eyes with him, and without
releasing his grip on Sir Hilary’s corpse, spoke to him as though he were
speaking around a mouthful of wine, “I see you, boy. Come here to me now.”
But this Simon would not do. His father had schooled him from an
early age to recognize a wizard’s mesmerizing eyes and compelling voice as a
spell, no different than those his parents had taught him to control his latent
greenfire. Simon clapped his hands to his ears and fled into the cemetery. Past
the markers and crypts he ran, his heart pounding. He did not stop until he reached
the woods at the far end of the graveyard.
He crouched, too terrified to move, heedless of the thorns and
thistles which tore at his clothes and skin. White smoke began pouring from the
open windows, and orange flames flickered in the second floor windows.
Crikes, he’s set the house
on fire!
Thick acrid smoke drifted across the
graveyard. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and squinted against the sting
in his eyes. Situated at the end of an empty lane, Simon knew he would have to
pass in front of the house to go for help. The wizard would see him
When the murderer finally emerged, he spoke softly. The sound
carried easily over the crackling flames and across the distance. Simon could
hear him plain as day, even with his fingers in his ears.
“I know you, boy. Simon, isn’t it? Come out, Simon.”
The wizard’s voice beckoned, filled with promises and assurance,
but Simon merely cowered, trembling, beneath the brambles. Flames crackled in
the silence.
Sparks flew up into
the night sky.
“Your father says you’re just a latent, but I’m not sure I believe
him. Why don’t you come out and show me what you can do?”
The cloying sensation of dark magick mingled with the smell of wet
earth crawled across Simon’s skin, filling him with cold dread.
He’s using earth magick to search for me!
Keeping his fingers in his ears, he leaned into the stinging nettles and thorns
of his hiding place, focusing on the pain instead of the killer’s comforting
voice.
“I knew of your mother, before she died. Are you surprised? She
was a far more powerful fire mage than that so-called weather wizard she
married. Fire magick is exceedingly rare.
Come
out, Simon
. Let’s have a proper look at you.”
The compulsion was almost overwhelming; only the tight tangle of
blackberry vines held him back. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with
smoke, trying to drive away the smell of damp earth, but the smoke made him
want to cough. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
His father’s killer scanned the graveyard. He stared right at
Simon’s hiding place. “Come out or I’ll raise the dead and let
them
find you.”
Simon dared not move. He wasn’t afraid of wights, but if this
wizard could really raise the dead…
The mare whinnied loudly, and began to struggle against her tether.
A large black hound came running up the road, barking at the flames.
Simon’s hopes rose at the commotion, hoping the noise would rouse
the neighbors. The horse continued to neigh loudly, clearly terrified.
Silhouetted by the flames, the wizard appeared to shrug. “A coward
then. Just like your father. So be it. I found him and I’ll find you too, one
day. I’d leave tonight, if I was you. This is not your home anymore.”
#
Simon waited as long as he dared. Smoke and flames poured from the
kitchen and second story windows. The front door stood wide open. The curtains
had burned, but the stone walls and floors on the ground level had prevented
the flames from consuming the room.
It took every bit of
his resolve to walk back into the house, but he had to do it. He had to see...
Oh papa.
Sir Hillary lay on the flagstones without a mark on him, save for
the unnatural grey pallor of his flesh. His sunken eyes stared, unseeing at the
ceiling. Simon brushed a strand of hair from his face and closed his father’s
eyes, before hastily wiping his hand on his shirt. The residue of magick on his
fingers left a revolting aftertaste in the back of his throat. He backed away
from his father’s body, coughing as the acrid smoke burned his lungs.
What happened here?
Did they duel? His father
had specifically lectured him of the dangers of wizard duels.
"Some mages and wizards choose dueling as a means to gain
power. Engaging in a duel is the surest way to die--even against one you
perceive to be weaker than you. Most mages and wizards hide their magick,
pretending to be less skilled than they are for just this reason. A wizard’s
duel is always to the death, and as the blood in the victim’s veins cools, the
victor will steal his opponent’s magick for his own, making him more powerful
than before. And the more powerful the wizard becomes, the more intense the
hunger for more power becomes. As a fire mage, you would be forced keep your
magick secret, lest you become a target.”
Was that what had happened? No. His father would not have engaged
in a duel, he was not that sort of man. Whoever had done this had come here for
this purpose. Guilt tore at Simon.
Maybe
if I’d been here
…tears clouded his vision.
A large crash sounded from the second floor. The second story was
collapsing. The air was becoming more difficult to breathe with every passing
minute.
