NaNoWriMo 2011 Day 10 - Story 2

Archerd blinked in confusion. “Worse than having your head chopped off? What could be worse than that?”

His father gave him a grim smile. “Oh, it can be worse indeed. Terrible as it is, having your head cut off is a quick way to go, but we’re getting ahead of the story — if you’ll pardon the phrase again.

“See the problem is that while we know what and who ended poor Jeck’s life, we’ve never been entirely sure what happened to him after that.”

“After? What do you mean after? Is Jeck — I mean — is he … Is it his spirit that people say they hear?” Archerd could feel himself going pale, though whether from dread or excitement, he couldn’t say. The two were very mixed up together inside him.

“There are many who believe exactly that. There is, however, no conclusive evidence to support the idea, while there is much circumstantial evidence.

“Did you know I found most of that evidence?”

Archerd blinked. “No. I knew you were involved, but not more than that. Was mom there too?”

Altman chuckled. “Your mom was in no fit state to be involved, though she nearly had fits that she couldn’t be part of it. No, she was far too big, carrying you around as she was! I had only myself to rely on, I’m afraid. The investigation was a tough one. I had to work alone. Nobody else wanted anything to do with it; they were too spooked by the circumstances of Jeck’s death and the strange events afterward.

“As I said, Jeck had owed money to a bad character. A new community in unsettled, un-policed land holds a certain appeal to those with a, shall we say, checkered past, and this place, as nice as it can be, was and is no exception.

“They had gotten into a fight … a disagreement over the results of a bet. Colum Heely was the worst of a bad lot of thugs in these parts back then. I see the name doesn’t mean much to you, and it’s just as well; his sort is best forgotten. I’m sad to say that I won’t forget it any time soon though. What happened to that man … that should never happen to anyone, and that’s a fact.

“I don’t know the specific details; I can’t imagine anybody does. Those were between Jeck and Colum, and they’re not talking. What I do know is that just over a week after Jeck died, Colum turned up dead too, and there were things about it … sorry, son.” He cleared his throat, and his face had gone gray, eyes hollow.

“It was straight out of a book of mystery fiction, a classic locked-room puzzle. He was in a housing dormitory, a tiny shack the workmen used. It was a single room, locked and latched from the inside, without a window or other exit. There was a chimney for the fire, but it was too narrow for even a child to descend.

“Colum was inside. His nearest neighbors, 3 of them, all independently claimed they heard Colum arguing loudly with someone else. He sounded terribly afraid, they said, and that was something in itself, for Colum was a big man, the sort nobody wanted to trifle with, and not much given to fear.

“As to the identity of the other, every one of them swore the voice was Jeck’s! I tried to reason with them, one had even seen the body himself, but they were all certain it was him, though none could make out any of the words either had been saying.

“They all agreed on the particulars of the exchange, as well. It went on for no more than 5 minutes, and ended with Colum shouting, and finally a loud, terrible scream.” He stopped there and drank again; his color was still all wrong, and his knuckles were white such that Archerd feared for a moment his father might crush the glass in his hand.

“I arrived within a quarter of an hour, by which time Colum’s room had long gone silent. I had this pocket watch even then,” he pulled a familiar, beautiful brass watch out by a chain, “so I was able to verify the time.” He popped the watch open and gazed at the face for a moment. “Half past ten. Just as it was that night.” The firelight danced across his face with the shadows, giving him an almost otherworldly air, and he closed the watch with a metallic snap, dropping it back into a pocket.

“It took some time for us to get into Colum’s room. As I said, it was locked from the inside like a sealed room mystery, and that is indeed exactly what we faced. Once we did get in … I am afraid, my son, the sight nearly unmanned me completely. Jeck … he’d lost his head. Colum lost a lot more than that. The remains were …” The gray of his pallor started to take on a distinctly greenish tint. “It took us another quarter-hour to account for every piece of him. When Jeck lost his head, it was clear he’d been met with a blade, but Colum, he had been … torn. Even chewed in places.” He stared blankly at the fire; Archerd could almost have thought his father had forgotten he was there.

“There was blood everywhere, and worse. The thing that stood out through all that though was a black mark on the wall above the stove. The wall was charring … not charred, but still charring. There was a lump of metal on the stove right by the wall. It looked like it had been flung and landed on the cast-iron. Close enough to the wall to scorch, but not to burn.

“We found more like it in the room, smaller bits that charred the wood they landed on without causing flame. I must confess that after I escaped that foul abattoir, I was sick. Not just physically sick, but sick to the spirit, as well. I found myself entertaining thoughts that were wholly unscientific, but that molten metal had also given me a valuable starting place, illogical as the entire scene had been; Jeck had worked at the ironworks, of course. And at that time, there was only one place you could have expected to find metal in that condition.”

NaNoWriMo 2011 Day 9 - Story 2

“And I trust you know of the ironworks incident? You wouldn’t remember it, of course. It was before your time, if only barely.”

“Of course. People still talk about it, especially at school. Several of my friends … they have to walk past that place every day. Sometimes at night!” He shivered; the ironworks was a local legend in Dolesham. One of the first large industrial buildings completed in town, before the town even had a name, it had had a proud but very short-lived history serving the fledgling community by smelting the ores that the early miners of the community brought out of their tunnels.

What most residents of the town didn’t know, and what Archerd was sworn never to talk about, was that the ironworks had had a secret purpose. Altman had used it as a cover to process electrite, the rare mineral to which the town owed its very existence. The electrite facility had been very small, tucked away in the basement of the large structure, accessed by only a very few trusted inpiduals, but it was there that the trouble had begun.

“Is it true what they say, Father?”

Altman’s face was grave. “They say a great many things, Archerd. Some of those things are true, others are exaggerations, still more are either entirely in error, or are outright lies.”

“They say the ironworks is …” he gulped, face serious. “They say it’s haunted. They say if you go there late at night there are the sounds of people still working there, and unearthly lights that move.”

“I have heard these stories too.”

“You don’t believe them?”

Altman settled back in his chair and shivered despite the heat from the now cheerful blaze. “It certainly is the right sort of night for a tale such as this one. You would hear it?”

“Yes!” Archerd sat forward eagerly, shivering a little himself.

“Well then, I suppose you’re old enough to hear it. But not a word to your sisters, not until they’re older.

“Fifteen years or so ago, it was a cold autumn, much as this one is. It was darker though. We had storms that year like you’ve never seen, and people to care for. The town wasn’t so much a town back then, but we had miners and construction men, and traders and farmers and medics. The farmers we didn’t have to worry about so much. They mostly lived off in their own homes by their fields.

“The miners though, and construction laborers, they were another matter. Most of them were in temporary shelters, good enough in the summer, or the milder days of autumn. But those storms, and that cold! We put as many of them up in our home as we could fit, but word was getting out even then that we were prosperous and there was good mining to be done. People were arriving and bringing families. We couldn’t house and feed everyone.”

“The head of the construction teams — you know old Waldon Sias, I believe—” and Archerd nodded, “he did his best to accommodate everyone. His crews worked all day every day and into the nights to make sure everyone had some place warm to escape the coming cold and to sleep. And they were able to do it. Every family, every crewman, every miner, every fortune-seeker, every woman and child had a place to stay, if not call their own.”

Altman frowned and rose to his feet with a mild grunt of exertion. “I’m sorry son, I need to wet my throat if I’m to tell this tale.” He left and returned shortly with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Not a word to your mother, now. Not that she’d mind, you understand, but … I do have stern and responsible reputation to uphold.” He poured himself a generous glass and Archerd a half-glass.

Archerd sipped the red, sweet light liquid and managed not to cough as it hit his throat. “Careful son, most wine isn’t so strong, but the vintners here can produce some powerful stuff. Take it slow.”

“Now then, that’s better,” he said with a sigh. “Yes, old Waldon was able to house everyone we couldn’t take in. But nothing comes without a price — and don’t you ever believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Waldon’s teams were too busy working on housing, a task of the highest importance and most dire necessity, but that meant they couldn’t spend their time on finishing other things. Things such as the ironworks.”

“But I thought the ironworks was complete?” Archerd felt a pleasant warmth from the wine, and found himself being drawn into the story.

“The initial construction was, yes, but that was just the most critical parts to get the foundry functional since we had started attracting so many miners. Suffice to say the ironworks grew, but through no fault of Waldon’s, it was perhaps a bit more rushed than it should have been.

“That had been in the spring of that year, and it operated well all through the summer. As autumn’s chill crept into the air, all that began to change. The men who labored at the ironworks soon began to complain of strange sounds, much as you described.

“At first nobody paid it any mind. But one day …” The elder Dolet paused and drank from his glass, eyes lingering in the depths of the ruby wine. “It became a bigger matter the day they found Jeck.” He drank again, eyes faintly haunted.

“Jeck was one of the foundry men, and indeed one of the first who had claimed to hear the unearthly noises, as he called them. They found him that day still at his station, first thing when the ironworks was opened up, as if he’d never left. Only thing was, they found him missing his head.”

Archerd’s eyes widened and his breath caught mid-sip. He’d heard of Jeck, everyone had, but the stories were so muddled it was all rumor and legend.

“Of course this was terrible, the more so as back then we had no constabulary to turn to, no inspectors to investigate, no guardsmen to call. All of that was to soon change, but for the moment, we’d had only ourselves. We sent messengers to summon the inspector and guards from Holdswaine but they’d be at least two weeks to call away for such an isolated incident in a fly-speck of a … You couldn’t even call it a town back then, not really. It was still more of a camp.”

“So there was Jeck, headless, and they couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, if you’ll pardon the expression, son.” Archerd blanched and gulped.

“I heard about it quickly, within the hour if I recall correctly. News traveled fast around town in those days, and Waldon made sure to get the word to me. We’d been in a spot of trouble before, he and I; I’m sure I’ve told you the tale already.

“They brought me in to make of it what I could, but for all my education, I am now and was then a man of science, not an inspector. I like to think I made a fair attempt, as the fundamentals of an investigation are remarkably similar, be they in a lab or a crime scene, but a true inspector is trained in many ways to know what sorts of things to look for, and I lack such training to this day.”

“I will spare you the worst details, but he was found in the middle of the floor, in a large clear area with no obvious equipment that might have moved or shifted and caused him injury. Of his head there was no sign, and indeed to this day we have never located it.

“What was located was the murder weapon — for yes, we did later learn it was an ugly circumstance of money owed that had done him in — and the circumstances of that discovery were worse even than that of Jeck himself.”

NaNoWriMo 2011 Day 8 - Story 2

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS

by Gordon S. McLeod

The moon crept up through the sky as though afraid of what it might disturb. The town slept fitfully, or most of it; the old Dolet manor still showed lights. The streets outside were quiet, not even animals roaming too far in the chill air of autumn.

The windows of the manor were shut tight against the cold and young master Archerd Dolet set a new fat log on the embers of the fire. As flame began to crackle around it, the light flashed off the round glasses he wore. He stared into the flames pensively.

Footsteps from behind roused him, and he turned, startled. “Father, you’re up late.”

“I could say the same, m’boy, and should.” Altman set his lighter down on a sturdy wooden end table. “You beat me to it. I was about to build up the flame myself. It’s going to be a cold one tonight.” Next, he sat himself down in a beautiful old overstuffed armchair. “Have a seat, son. Sit with me a while.”

Archerd did as he was bid automatically. He was a strong young man, 14 years of age with a slightly heavier build than his father. His features favored his mother, he had the same heart-shaped face. Of late though, he’d taken people aback with the intensity and curiosity of his gaze; in that, he’d definitely taken after Altman.

“Father, I’ve been wondering … Why do you always get so melancholy this time of year? I mean, I talked to mother and she said the two of you first met right at this time of year! Shouldn’t it make you happy?”

Altman smiled, a slightly twisted smile. “Oh yes, son. That much does make me happier than you can yet know, of course. It’s …”

Archerd held his breath for a moment, then prompted, “It’s …?”

“Well. You know of course your mother and I were instrumental in establishing this township and settling the whole of the valley and the lands around it.”

“Of course.” He could hardly forget it; he was forever Altman’s son, son of the founder, sometimes even son of the huntress. His father wasn’t the only revered figure in the family.

NaNoWriMo 2011 Day 7

Kaylene was moving now, whisper-quiet, holding the hem of her long dress inches above the ground so it wouldn’t betray her by dragging over leaves or rocks. Altman held his breath. Mitchell seemed to have forgotten she was there.

“You needn’t worry about my dealings with the Conclave; let me worry about—” And that was as far as he got with that thought as Kaylene tackled him from behind. Her arm crushed round his throat, choking him, while the other grabbed his gun arm, swung it to point harmlessly into the treetops above. A jerking motion caused him to let out a strangled cry and the pistol flew from his fingers to land against a rock on the ground. It fired, a sharp, cracking report that scared off every bird in the canopy.

Altman rushed forward as Mitchell pitched forward and Kaylene pinned him to the ground. The faint, distant footsteps became the pounding of many running feet. Seconds later Waldon Sias burst onto the scene, followed by a good half dozen of his men. Mitchell, red-faced with rage, growled out “Get them!”

In less time than Altman could process, 2 of the workers accompanying Waldon had pulled pistols of their own, larger than Mitchell’s had been. They stepped back out of the group and spread to either side of them. Everyone froze, Waldon and his men too shocked to do more than stare in disbelief and growing anger at supposed friends.

Mitchell spat out a mouthful of dirt. “You couldn’t be so stupid as to think I was here alone? Now, release me!”

Kaylene reluctantly backed off; Mitchell rubbed his jaw and awkwardly got to his feet. “And now Mr. Dolet. I will have that location, or people will start dying, not just having … accidents.”

“Accidents?” Waldon’s face had turned a deep red at the words. His voice could have come from the darkest of storm clouds in the sky. His remaining men’s faces had darkened dangerously.

“Keep your eyes on them.” Mitchell spared Sias a contemptuous glance and grabbed his fallen pistol before returning his gaze to Altman. “So what is it? You’re in an awful hurry to build the road and get the docks and market up. Is it a merchant, then? I’ll have the name, or—”

Waldon Sias chose that moment to decide he’d had enough. One huge arm rocketed out, catching the nearest traitorous workman square on the jaw. He was a huge man himself, but Waldon’s blow felled him like a tree. Taking their cue from their leader, the four workmen turned their attention to the second gunman. He quickly fell under a few well placed blows without a shot fired.

Mitchell growled and shifted his pistol’s aim straight at Waldon. Altman didn’t think, he just reacted, taking several quick running steps to the side. Kaylene’s eyes widened and mouth opened in a shout, or a scream. Mitchell’s gun sounded far louder this time as it went off, Altman’s shoulder exploded in pain, and the ground twisted itself up to slam into his head.

A few moments later, after the world failed to dissolve around him, he felt hands helping him up. Mitchell was … was … “Wh … Where’d he go? Can’t let him …”

“Don’t you worry none about him, Mr. Dolet.” Waldon’s voice was hard, but as reassuring as the arm he had supporting his uninjured shoulder. “We gotta get you back to the medics again. Mitchell ain’t gonna be a problem, believe me. My boys don’t take too kindly to people playin’ with their work like that, let alone their lives. They’ll see to it he don’t try anythin’ else.”

Altman thought about that just long enough to decide it was probably better not to think about it too hard. “Good.”

With Kaylene on one side and Waldon on the other, he retraced his steps back to the medic’s wing of the house, stopping just outside the doors. It was the spot on which Altman had been struck by the stone.

“Altman.” Waldon looked very pale; Altman saw a dark, glistening patch on his shirt. The stain spread over a good part of his body. “I heard some of what Mitchell was goin’ on about. You got somethin’ to hide here.”

Altman nodded slowly. “Yes. There’s not much point in denying it, is there?”

“Nope. Just wanted to say you don’t have to worry ‘bout my boys ‘n me. We don’t know much, and what we do know, we’ll help you protect. Most men … They’d expect a man in his pay to take a bullet, not risk ‘imself like you did. You tell us what needs doin’, we’ll see it done.”

“So, my dear, you learn to relate to the men in your employ at last. There’s hope you yet!” Kaylene opened the doors, and the three disappeared inside.

NaNoWriMo 2011 Day 6

“You monster! You set that up? You could have killed him!” Kaylene felt like she wanted to rush forward and crush him herself, but Altman was leaning too heavily on her shoulder.

“Come now, it was little more than a demonstration of … bad luck.” Mitchell seemed unphased by Kaylene’s anger. He almost seemed to take satisfaction in it.

“Why? What do you stand to gain? What do you hope to accomplish?” There was something tugging at a corner of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

“I simply thought you’d be easier to deal with in the absence of your work crew, of course. I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Dolet, and it is not for the ears of others.” He radiated supreme self-confidence. “Your lady-wife is free to stay, of course.”

She nearly did break away from him then, and he found he had to hang on to her before she subsided.

“You have some nerve Mitchell,” she growled.

“Indeed you do. I’m afraid I’ve very little interest in doing any sort of business with unknown men who start their bids with crude traps and attempted murder.”

“Unknown men? I am insulted! Why, Mr. Dolet, we have done business before.”

Altman looked closer; the tugging at the corner of his mind grew more insistent. He did look familiar, though the clothes were wrong, the manner, and — the face! He wore a short trimmed beard now, with the mustache shaved off. Take the beard away and … Yes, he was the spitting image of his last electrite client.

The pieces clicked and clattered in Altman’s head, tumblers falling one by one into place. “Of course. You’ve changed; you were so much better dressed the last time we met. I like the beard, it’s a nice touch.”

Mitchell nodded with a sardonic smile and Altman began to pace up and down what would soon be the road. “May I assume you’re dissatisfied with the quality of the electrite? Feeling overburdened by the safe handling and storage of it? You’ve come for a refund?” He didn’t buy it for a second of course, but he wanted to keep Mitchell from leaving, or from doing anything rash. With just a little luck, he thought, mouth twisting at the irony.

“Mr. Dolet, please. You’re brighter than that. You know as well as I do that I want more. A lot more, in fact.” His words were pleasant and his mouth was smiling, but his eyes were cold.

“And you expect me to give it to you, just like that.”

“Yes, I do.” The voice had followed the eyes; flat and cold. Now we’re coming to it. “And as to your next question, no, I won’t be satisfied with more samples, Mr. Dolet. I want it all. I want to know where you get it from.”

Altman froze and tried very, very hard not to let his shock show on his face. Kaylene openly gaped, but thankfully Altman’s pacing had taken him to Mitchell’s far side and he wasn’t facing her. He didn’t know! He was standing less than 500 meters from a potential mother-lode and he had no idea!

He cleared his throat. “That’s a pretty big request, Mr. Mitchell.”

“You misunderstand. It’s not a request. It’s a demand, and I’ll have it met.” His dark eyes were ice as he spoke, his posture threatening. It would have been intimidating but for the faint but familiar sound of footsteps coming around the path from the clearing. Waldon Sias and his men.

“You seem confident, yet here you stand, unarmed, and you’ve given no reason why I should—”

Mitchell dipped a hand into a pocket then, and Altman found himself facing a tiny pistol that looked no less deadly for its size. Kaylene dropped into a half-crouch, an odd sight with her long dress. The look on her face as her eyes focused in on Mitchell would’ve kept the strongest man from laughing.

“This should do for the moment, Altman. You don’t mind if I call you Altman, do you? As for the longer term, it would be unfortunate, don’t you think, if the Conclave were to learn of your little enterprise?” Sias’ footsteps were a bit louder now but still too distant for him to be of any help, and neither he nor his men would be armed.

Altman frowned. He’d half expected the Conclave threat; they were the highest scientific order in the land, and held a monopoly over most vital resources. That included the one other large source of electrite known, and all but the smallest other known sources as well. They wouldn’t be happy to learn of a source of this magnitude less than a week’s journey from their citadel in Holdswaine if it were already claimed, and worse, Altman had not yet legally claimed it as that would have drawn the Conclave’s attention firmly onto him. Mitchell might not know the source was right here, but with the Conclave actively investigating, they’d find it in no time.

“The Conclave’s attention would be unfortunate, yes, but that’s as true for you as it is for me. You could tell them, but you’d never see another scrap of electrite from my source if you did.”