Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval
- -
- 100%
- +
Franco considered his words carefully. ‘A few of the locals may have had my attention. You’ll be surprised how talkative people can be after a few drinks. Stories get told, rumours spilt.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I knew it. The last thing we need is trouble. You of all people used to repeat that – until that rat came along. Keep it all legitimate, you preached, and now you’re looking into things like this. Don’t get yourself involved in her lifestyle. It’s not your business.’
‘I’m not. This is a side venture. It’s strictly a one-off.’
‘Rubbish!’ Misu exclaimed. ‘It’s never a one-off with you. There’s always something else to steal your attention. If it’s not this, it’s some other idiotic cause. You should put your efforts in the business rather than some silly chase for whatever the hell that is.’ By now she had risen from her seat, and her voice and tone had risen too.
‘You don’t even know what this is. Do not lecture me.’ He scowled, shielding his eyes from the sun coming through the carriage window behind her. ‘And certainly don’t be doing it on my train.’
This was painfully ignored.
‘I don’t need to know what it is because I know what you’ll end up doing. I know it’ll lead to us running around for a few weeks chasing some trinket on a whim. Her whim, may I add. These things never end well and I refuse to sew up another bullet wound on account of your stupidity.’ Misu pulled her black hair into a ponytail before fastening a clip around it.
‘Watch your tongue when you speak to me,’ Franco said, giving a stark warning that this matter was over. ‘This isn’t your call to make.’
She snatched her glass and proceeded to storm out. Before she did, she pulled open the door to the connecting carriage and looked behind her.
‘Then you can make it on your lonesome. Damn you. Focus on us, Franco. Not some fantasy.’
And with that she left.
Franco watched the door slam, the sound of the hissing engine and wheels on tracks falling quieter. The carriage rocked back and forth in slow momentum. He ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing down his damp neck to his shoulder. The indented scar where he’d been struck by a bullet some months ago was a stark reminder that Misu spoke the truth. He was comfortable with the Gambler’s Den. He led a nomadic life, one blessed with freedom – an alarmingly rare commodity.
Those aboard depended on him to make the right choices. They looked up to him but not because he wanted them to; it was because they needed someone to give orders. Franco was never good at taking orders so he couldn’t relate to their views, but he did understand that everybody needed a leader in some form. However, he hadn’t set out for the Den to become what it was – an extravagant travelling casino. The rundown steam engine was a wreck when he first set eyes on it, rusting away in a derelict yard. Abandoned and gradually being absorbed by the rising sand, Franco was offered the opportunity to take the Den and fix it up.
There was not much else to indulge in, unless criminality was your thing. Home was depressingly void of excitement, forcing laborious graft from any and all. But Franco hated the prospect of working in the mine, or being stuck in the smelter until injury or death allowed respite. No, for him it was a hobby that had expanded beyond his expectations, and soon became something far more important, something others in his position would fail to attain.
It became a way out.
The first time the train staggered into life had given him a feeling like no other. Valves spluttered, choking on the sand, before purifying them with titanic blasts of steam. Each creak and groan within its behemoth-like frame led to another task to resolve: a split in its funnel, the almost melodic pounding from the boiler when fired up. The poor thing was falling apart, but it was nothing that hard graft couldn’t resolve.
Each time the Gambler’s Den ran, the ride got smoother. The breakdowns became fewer and further between. Franco was not an engineer, far from it in fact, but his grandfather was keen to get the lad’s hands dirty and adopting this train was like adopting a child. It would always have to be cared for – he was constantly reminded, by the words emanating from beneath the grease-soaked whiskers of the old man – and he wouldn’t be around for ever.
That was a sobering truth.
Gentle trips from outpost to outpost, nothing taxing at first, felt exhilarating and the braver the ventures became, the more people wanted to join him. So many were desperate to abandon homes with limited opportunities or leave their history behind them in a haze of steam and dust. Franco provided escapism for those who did not want to be found any more. Whilst he secretly resented that, was he so different?
He got to his feet, leant on the frame of a window, and looked out. The scenery was the same as before – barren and desolate. A pack of feral dogs chased the train over the waste ground, one oddly staring at Franco as he contemplated it. The sun beat down. The dust was choking. To others, the world was not worth exploring, as it seemed that in every direction they went it was the same picture – sand and more sand. It consumed everything relentlessly.
Every village, every town, even the very horizon embraced its vastness, enough to scrub ambition from all those in it. How many times had he heard people complaining about their lives, about their circumstances out here? Far too numerous to count. Escape. All people stated that they wanted to escape. Not leave, but to escape, as if the Sand Sea had imprisoned them and was solely responsible for their difficult lives.
The more the train ran, the more Franco realized that he could do just that.
* * *
Misu stormed through each carriage wearing the most terrible of scowls. That arrogant fool, she thought. How condescending of him to pass me off! The Gambler’s Den would grind to a halt if I wasn’t organizing people whilst he obsessed over these follies.
She burst into the residence carriage of the showgirls, a number of whom jumped in surprise at the loud entrance, prompting others looking out from their rooms. They buzzed around Misu, who shook in annoyance with fists clenched. Her insistence that she was fine was brushed aside in a collective embrace. The showgirls enfolded their superior, the mother of their family, speaking out against Franco and citing how his opinion was worthless. For them, seeing Misu frustrated was becoming a depressing regularity.
* * *
Wyld had taken up residence in the storage car. Her trunk was hidden among a series of props that were erected on demand for various shows. She grasped at the padlock, its keyhole just for decoration. Her fingers jabbed the trunk’s base in sequence before she twisted the padlock itself in various ways. It clicked open from the momentum. The trunk lid fell open. Inside, beneath a false compartment, was a bevy of various lock-picking tools, small firearms, and knives.
From the very bottom, wrapped up in a blanket, Wyld produced a golden statue: a winged effigy of unusual splendour. He stood proudly, lance aloft and gloriously gilded wings spread outward. It was a religious figure, one of many who held significance, especially to those living in a region where few had little more than their faith. Ungloving a finger, she ran a fingertip down the statue’s face before whispering a small prayer.
From her knapsack she pulled out a similar sculpture, similar in design but larger in build. The score from Rustec mirrored the one already in her possession, though it exhibited a catalogue of differences. She only paid it a glance in comparison to the affection portrayed to the one from the chest. Tenderly binding them with the same fabric, Wyld replaced her prizes, closed the trunk, and made herself comfortable for a much-needed sleep.
* * *
Franco was less content. The glass of brandy that he had poured to make the night warmer was empty, despite filling it up for the fifth time. He traced the line drawn on the regional map with his finger, tapping the named destination closest to their location. Sheets of paper with additions scrawled all over did nothing but raise concern.
Financially the Den was in trouble. The recent suppression on trading routes to the south was forcing oil and machine prices upward. With a hiss, he acknowledged the amount of additional shows the Den would have to perform – unless there was another way. If only they could be outlaws, to steal what was needed without a care in the world.
It was a thought others shared. Bandit groups were rife and roaming unchecked through the trade routes. Even private security groups were having trouble repelling them from shipments passing through. It was only the large companies that had the resources and manpower to successfully repel any attempts on their sand ships. It was hard not to resort to black-market trading, as the Den would be in a perfect position to carry goods past district checkpoints.
The most Franco resorted to was imbursement by Wyld who, he was under no illusions, was paying her way with dirty money. Hers was as good as anybody else’s and, thanks to her dubious nature, the income would be steady, on her part at least. What other choice did he have?
His fingers trailed over the track paths that wound over the mountain ranges on the dog-eared map. By taking the route passing over the handful of deep canyons that separated the Sand Sea, they could make it to Windberg. There was a town before the canyon crossing, and one after that would add a few days to their travel, as well as trading posts scattered nearby in case of any unexpected need to obtain supplies. Naturally there was a possibility of this route becoming precarious, so Franco decided it was best to ask advice from someone more knowledgeable than he – the Den’s driver.
With strong strides and whilst grasping the map tightly, Franco left his carriage and made his way outside. Dust filled the air. It was not enough to be choking but sufficient to steal breath.
The mighty Gambler’s Den, as it powered over the landscape, was a sight to behold. As it rocked gently side to side with momentum, a smile momentarily broke through the stern gaze that Franco had cemented on his features. Each piston that pulled, every wheel that spun, the glorious machine was, in a word, magnificent. Ever so lightly brushing his fingertips over the steel surfaces, Franco showed the compassion he had for his beloved vehicle. He felt like a youngster again, witnessing its first breaths of life after being relegated to scrap, a feeling that he wished would not part ways with him until death saw fit.
As he proceeded around the carriage walkways, the thunderous roars became louder. Large plumes of steam billowed high into the air and dragged overhead with speed. The clattering of train tracks smoothly merged into the wise words from the past, words that were spoken by the only man Franco was willing to receive advice from. They patiently reminded him to treat the Gambler’s Den like a woman.
Give it the stick when it falls out of line; give affection when it behaves.
Franco’s grandfather was a man who ran on tradition and the old ways, including the archaic attitudes regarding the opposite sex. It was no wonder that his wife had left him. Still, his gravelly voice – slightly slurred by a ritualistic mid-afternoon vodka – brought comfort, just as much as they did when he was a child. Back then there was no greater mechanic. To the young Franco, there was no greater man.
‘I try, old man.’ Franco patted the carriage’s side affectionately, a weary sigh escaping. ‘I try.’
Chapter Two
Postponement
Velencia was a once-thriving trading town, but like so many others in the region, when train tracks carved shorter routes from A to B, business slowed. For most, it was a sign that life was for living elsewhere. The most determined stayed behind until even they were convinced by the populace’s mass exodus.
Velencia deteriorated in time and eventually became abandoned. Empty businesses stood in Main Street and its residences dissolved into husks. The Sand Sea had swept in and began to erode the structures away, blistering paint and carving wood and brick alike. Large drifts piled in doorways and alleys, and over time layer upon layer of sand was deposited. Unlike Rustec, there was nobody to shift it away, leaving the town partially concealed by its environment.
When a dust-storm threatened from the north, there was no option but for Franco to request a diversion. A looming blanket of rust was seen far in advance over the horizon and all that could be done was to make haste to the nearest shelter, or the closest thing resembling one. The Gambler’s Den was still a couple of hours away from anything resembling a settlement, which made the decision easy. To be caught in the middle of nowhere by the large storm would be disastrous.
The lack of any natural formation to take shelter in – such as a gully, recess, or the like – was problematic. Exposed, the best-case scenario was that the train would have to be freed from a thick covering of sand to continue, but that was hilariously optimistic. Unlike a sandstorm, he clarified to the showgirls who asked the difference, a dust-storm normally carried much more violent winds. Franco had witnessed a good few of these first-hand and was right to secure the locomotive for its impact.
With no other option they would need to take refuge in the remains of Velencia.
When the Den pulled up to the broken platform that was, remarkably, still intact, everyone got to work. Large canvas covers were fastened around the train, protecting anywhere the sand could cause a nuisance. Already the breeze had picked up, attempting to wrestle them away into the air. The girls and even Franco himself bolted the ropes to the train’s frame tightly, double-checking for any signs of slackness before retreating inside.
Watching from one of the exposed windows, each of them observed a mass of orange plumes swarming in the distance. It hung silently, arching, almost motionless. Surrounding tumbleweed that dotted the landscape lurched sideways in unison, quickly consumed in quiet ferocity. Day descended to night, with the wind rattling though every air vent. Misu busied herself lighting the oil lamps, flooding the carriages with subdued illumination.
‘Best get comfortable, everybody,’ Franco proposed, relieving a bottle of red wine from a wall rack. Its cork was stubborn but not enough for someone with hours to kill. ‘It’s a nasty one out there. It looks like we might be a little late for our next show.’
Few spoke. It had been a while since they had seen a storm this large and violent; they knew between them that all that could be done was to wait it out. The suggestion was made to play cards to pass the time, a few of the girls partaking in a few hands while the time idled away. Victories were not cheered for fear of setting off the tinder atmosphere between the two most imposing presences in the room.
Hours trickled by, but whenever Franco suggested something new to pass the time, Misu loudly sighed, distracting herself with whatever was at hand. A coin. A coaster. Her fingernails. Everything held a sense of fascination when it competed with Franco’s voice, thanks to their quarrel. Sure, there were other cars she could retreat to, but that took effort and there was a risk of inadvertently bumping into that stowaway in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents.
The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting.
Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept.
Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather.
Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid.
* * *
As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence.
How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do.
Vehicles littered the yard too.
Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.
All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years.
‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound.
Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds.
The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled.
‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be.
‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’
‘Except me.’
Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’
‘We’ve been here for ever.’
‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted.
Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’
The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog.
‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’
Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around.
Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside.
Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior.
Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame.
‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders.
‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze.
‘It’s a wreck.’
‘That’s all it is to you?’
‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact.
‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring.
‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’
‘It pulled ore?’
‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’
He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed.
‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean, but still.’
‘Haven’t we all?’
The engine cab may have been blanketed by dust but this mattered not to Pappy. He stepped inside, trying not to let his excitement run away with him. His hands drifted over the knobs and pipes, most tarnished with age but seemingly in acceptable condition. Memories dictated movements. He gently tested levers with a tug this way and that. The firebox took more encouragement, though it finally opened. Large metal jaws exposed the heart of the locomotive, once an all-consuming fire, now just a recess harbouring darkness and ashes.