The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (33 page)

Retrieving the remaining pouches, Simon tossed them haphazardly amidst the jars. Though they lacked the power to shatter the thick glass of the oil vessels, their added heat would serve well.

Simon dipped the torch into the oil, soaking the lining of his jacket. He jammed the torch between a set of jars, ensuring it was wedged tightly into place. Pulling out the sliver of flint and his knife, he worked quickly, lighting the torch. He knew already that time was working against him and it wouldn’t be long at all until he was discovered. After a few attempts, the torch lit. The fabric from his jacket burned brilliantly, soaked as it was in oil. The fine weave dissolved quickly in the flame, though, and fragments of smoldering cloth dropped into the wagon.

The Inquisitor stepped around the side of the wagon as the torch burned brightly within. A pair of logs blocked the back wheels, keeping the wagon from rolling away. He quickly kicked aside the one closest before moving toward the far side of the wagon.

A gunshot rang out, and the wood near his shoulder splintered from the impact. Simon jumped in surprise and glanced quickly around. A guard near the horses chambered a second round and took aim. Simon dove behind the wagon as the guard fired again, barely missing the Inquisitor.

“A repeater rifle,” Simon bemoaned. He glanced skyward as he drew his revolver. “A bit of karma, even the slightest little bit, would go a long way right about now, you realize? Of course you couldn’t just give him a single-shot flintlock rifle like the rest of the guards.”

The wheel near his head reverberated as a bullet struck it from the opposite side. Armed townsfolk were coming around the far end of the building, alerted by the sound of gunfire. Simon took aim at the new guards, but the one nearest the horses fired again, forcing the Inquisitor to duck once more.

Growling in frustration, Simon rolled toward the corral of horses and took aim. The guard chambered another round as Simon pulled the trigger. Both weapons fired, but the guard’s bullet went far wide as he collapsed into the grass. The horses behind him bucked in fear, their leather thongs nearly pulling the top beam of the hitch out of place.

From his prone position, Simon was able to push the other log out of place near the back wheel. He leapt to his feet despite the rain of gunfire that now filled the air. When he threw his shoulder into the back of the wagon, it started rolling forward of its own volition. Simon ensured it picked up enough speed, pushing it past the nearest wagon before stepping away and letting it careen toward the front of the manor. Raising his pistol, he fired into the back of the wagon. The bullet shattered some of the jars as it passed cleanly through the thick glass. Oil spilled into the back of the wagon. As the oil struck some of the burning pitch falling from the torch, it ignited brilliantly. The flames burned high, igniting the gunpowder pouches. The wagon threw sparks high into the air as its cloth cover was consumed in flames.

Sparks and burning tarp flittered through the air, settling onto other wagons nearby. Their covers, likewise, ignited, and the fire spread unbidden throughout the nearest wagons.

Simon had little time to appreciate his handiwork before a hail of gunfire forced him to turn and run. He could hear the panicked yells of the townsfolk loading the coffins into the wagons and hoped that his wanton destruction continued even as he fled.

He fired blindly behind him as he ran toward the horses. They pulled away at his approach, rocking the top of the hitch. Simon leapt into the air and struck the hitch with his feet. His extra force, coupled with the panicked horses, knocked the top log free from the post. The horses’ harnesses unwound from the beam as it rolled away and they stampeded away from the manor house, disappearing into the woods.

Simon used the fleeing horses for cover as he also ran into the woods.

Simon raced through the forest, chased at every step by the pursuing gunfire. Leaves rained down around him as the whizzing bullets destroyed them. Trunks of trees splintered and shattered under the barrage. Simon wanted to return fire but was more than acutely aware that only three bullets remained in his revolver.

They had raced past Whitten Hall proper with all haste; Simon kept his pursuers at bay by remaining in the now familiar woods rather than chancing entry into the outpost. His shoulders and neck ached from carrying the heavy bag of food, but it was a necessary evil. The adrenaline coursing through his system gave him the strength to run on, despite its weight.

Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he looked past the onslaught of muzzle flashes and stared, instead, toward the black pillar of smoke that rose over the tree line. There was no doubt that a good number of wagons had been consumed by the flames and, judging solely from the thickness of the choking smoke, the manor house itself might have been ignited as well.

Ahead, the trees began to thin, something that would be dangerous for Simon. The only reason he remained uninjured was the dense woods through which he ran. Thinning trees would give the hunters a much better chance of putting a bullet somewhere vital.

The ground began sloping gently downward as he reached the top of the valley on the west side of town. The slew of boulders filled the valley, leaving behind a maze of interconnecting pathways. None of which Simon actually knew, he realized morosely, though he doubted the same could be said for Tom and his men.

“I’ll kill you when I catch you!” Tom yelled, reaffirming the man’s dogged pursuit.

Reaching the crest of the bowl-shaped depression, the Inquisitor glanced quickly left and right. The right continued its graceful downward slope before being intersected by a set of large stones. To his left, a gash appeared in the terrain. Simon remembered walking along the edge of the ravine earlier. At its widest, it was ten feet across. While not an impossible jump, he assumed he was better suited for the leap than those chasing him. It might be the best way to lose his pursuers, at least temporarily.

He turned and raced along the ravine. Behind him, hunters emerged from the woods and continued firing. He felt fire in his arm as a bullet grazed his shoulder. The satchel of fruit tumbled from his wounded shoulder and disappeared into the bushes nearby. Blood seeped into the white dress shirt even as Simon tried to stem the flow with pressure on the wound. Realizing he had no more time, he turned and leapt for the far side of the ravine.

For a glorious moment, it seemed like everything would play out in Simon’s favor. That moment passed in a brief, sad moment as the arc of his leap carried him far short of the opposite side of the gully. His eyes widening in surprise, Simon reached out and grasped the lip of the cliff. The exposed stone of the ridge struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him even as he sought purchase with his hands. He dug the butt of the pistol into the dirt, refusing to relinquish the weapon. His other hand found only grass, which gave way at the roots as he struggled to maintain his precarious position.

Simon glanced down and saw the fast moving but shallow stream nearly twenty feet below. Dropping wasn’t an option he readily considered, until sparks flew from beside him as a bullet barely missed. Dangling as he was, he was exposed and an easy target for the trained hunters.

As the pain grew in his injured shoulder, Simon whimpered and let go with his arms. He dropped heavily into the gloomy ravine. The walls narrowed slightly around him during his quick drop, though he refused to use his hands to retard his descent. He was as likely to break his wrist as he was to effectively slow his fall.

He crashed into the water with a thunderous splash. The stream, if it were even to be called that, was barely two feet deep. His feet struck the rocky bottom of the water first, and he felt something give painfully in his ankle. A scream escaped his lips as he collapsed into the cold water.

Simon grasped his ankle as it immediately began to swell. He didn’t know if it was broken or merely sprained, but neither answer appealed to him. Grasping the stones nearby, he clawed his way out of the water and dragged himself under an overhang of rock that would protect him from view from above.

As he pushed himself tightly against the stone wall, Simon shivered from the combination of cold and shock settling over his system. Glancing down at his ankle, he willed it to move. Very slowly, and with great pain, he was able to move his foot slightly up and down. The Inquisitor winced but forced a smile. The ankle wasn’t broken. Despite all the complications a badly sprained ankle would cause, a broken ankle would most certainly be a death sentence.

Simon raised his pistol and flipped open the drum. Three casings were spent, and he pulled these from the revolver and dropped them into the dirt. Rotating the drum, he lined up the next round before closing the pistol. He leaned his head back against the stone and sighed, discouraged by his current predicament.

Dirt and stone drifted down past the overhang of rock under which he hid. He pulled his limbs in tightly, ensuring he left nothing visible from above.

“I know you’re down there, Inquisitor,” Tom Wriggleton yelled from above. “You won’t get away from me.”

Simon bit back a series of biting retorts, knowing none of them would help in his current situation.

“You are by far the worst, and definitely the most irksome, Royal Inquisitor I’ve ever met.”

Simon shrugged. One stinging retort might not cause too much trouble. “Technically, I’m the only Royal Inquisitor you’ve met, which makes me, by default, also the best you’ve ever met.”

A bullet crashed harmlessly into the water in front of him, splashing the rocks nearby.

“Tell me, Tom, how are your travel plans progressing?”

More than one gunshot rang out in response. Sparks flew from the rocks nearby, though none came close to striking the concealed Inquisitor.

“I’m going to kill you,” Tom yelled back. “I hope you realize that. I’m going to personally find you and your friends and kill you with my bare hands.”

Simon smirked at the obvious irritation in the man’s voice. “Nonsense. You’re merely a pawn, answering to a devilish master. Do you really think your vampire masters will allow you to—?”

“The vampires be damned!” Tom interrupted. “I’ll take my punishment after I’ve killed you all. Better to ask for forgiveness and all that.”

Simon frowned deeply. Tom was quickly becoming a liability, one that could greatly hinder his ability to escape with his life. Simon knew he’d only survive if the vampires wanted to personally kill him. With Tom’s personal vendetta, Simon’s plans were quickly becoming jeopardized.

“If you want me, you know where I am,” Simon said. “Why don’t you come down and kill me with your bare hands?”

The Inquisitor heard nothing for a long moment before a scuffle broke out above him. Moments later, a yell broke the air and a body crashed into the water. The man groaned from his prone position, even as he tried to retrieve the rifle he had dropped into the stream.

The man caught sight of Simon huddled beneath the overhang. He raised the rifle from the water and pulled the trigger. His efforts were met with only a dry click as the hammer fell forward.

“Your powder got wet,” Simon remarked as he raised his pistol.

He fired once, striking the man in the chest. He fell backward with a soft groan before lying still. The water downstream from the body began running red with his seeping blood.

“I do apologize, Tom. Your man appears to have suffered a rather lethal allergic reaction to lead,” Simon said. “Perhaps you could come down personally next time?”

Predictably, Tom and his men fired into the gulch. Simon was forced to pull his legs closer to his chest to avoid dangerously close ricochets.

The Inquisitor glanced upstream and noted that the overhang extended for some distance to his left. Stifling a whimper of pain, he forced himself to his feet. The ankle screamed in protest, but it supported his weight well enough for him to walk, albeit slowly.

The drone of gunfire continued unabated for a few minutes, giving him time to slide further away from the hunters. Even as he retreated, the echo of Tom’s impetuous curses dogged him.

The ravine splintered into offshoot tributaries a short ways past where Tom and his minions searched for Simon. He chose a branch that led further away from the human hunters. He could hear their movements along the ridges above but caught no sight as he fled.

Simon was forced to pause often to catch his breath, as the pain in his ankle sapped his energy. It radiated through his knee and rested in his hip. His other leg was growing equally as exhausted as he overcompensated for the injury.

His narrow tributary ended abruptly at a sloped incline. Water poured from between a fissure in the rock face, feeding the narrow creek at his feet. The slope was rocky but not impossible to climb, even in his hobbled state. Clenching his jaw against the strain to his ankle, Simon braced himself against an outcropping of rock and began climbing.

His pace was slow, pausing as he did every so often both to rest and strain to hear any sound of pursuit. The ravine had divided so many times that it certainly looked like a river delta when viewed from above. It would be hard to search every branch of the crevice, which boded well for Simon’s escape.

The incline crested and quickly fell away on the far side, leading into the boulder-strewn valley. The sun was beginning to set, so much of the day having been spent in either observation or fleeing. Though he didn’t envy the thought of being caught outdoors at night with a sprained ankle, the gloom of the impending dusk offered some concealment.