Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval

Chapter Four

Windberg

Windberg, from the outset, resembled a normal port town – only it was much grander. Unlike most of the other settlements, the sprawling docks were much larger as it sat upon one of the main shipping lanes across the Sand Sea, an expansive of desert that had been previously impossible to traverse. That was before man’s obsession with machinery ensured their domination over this natural void.

Massive ships moored themselves here, immense steam-powered boats adorned with giant caterpillar tracks that towered over the rugged buildings and heaved with cargo containers. When these pulled into dock, the ground violently shuddered under each heave of caterpillar tread. Goods, ore, oil – there was no cargo that the ships didn’t haul.

Naturally these were obvious targets for bandits as holding one to ransom could amass a fortune. It soon became common practice for the shipping companies to employ mercenaries, who would protect the transport from any bandits who tried their luck. Local bars attracted every kind of pay-hungry outcast from all around, who either had a talent for protection or became desperate enough to cut a living from such a dangerous profession. But this trade brought crime and with that, trouble.

The city of Windberg needed the law to be tough and assertive. The criminal element would have easily thrived unchecked if not for the swift motions of those in charge. To keep the public happy, elections were held for those who deemed themselves up to the task of keeping Windberg safe. For sure, some who offered their service were questionable in their dealings behind closed doors, but they were brushed aside by a population tired of gun-runners and back-alley thugs. The people demanded change and their wish came true.

The people got Sheriff Alex Juniper.

Juniper was not a man known for his compassion. Many ignored the rumours of brutality against criminals that found themselves thrown into cells on account of his results. Illegal fraternities were raided, back-alley trading crushed, and contraband impounded. Petty thieves, roaming thugs – these were now unheard of in Windberg. The streets were deemed safe for everyone and had been for the past couple of years. Of course, there still existed a handful of racketeers, but with the local difficulties, their operations were driven either underground or fronted by clubs or bars, the gloss of legitimacy thick and misleading.

Alex Juniper was one of those rare people who could not be bought. For him, being the sentry of order was a calling from the Holy Sorceress herself and no amount of kickbacks could encourage him to turn a blind eye to the unsavoury. Those messengers who hand-delivered plain, bound packages full of bribe money were spared jail so they could deliver his own. They were sent back, usually with an arm broken, to tell their boss that the attempt was a failure and would always be so.

Whilst Windberg was a relative sanctuary to those who abided by the government of man and the teachings of the Holy Sorceress, its outskirts were less protected. Rolling waves of sand and cliff ensured that bandits had too many caves to hide in, allowing them to ambush passing carriages, and no matter how many posses were sent out into the wilderness to bring in gang leaders, those returning were always fewer in number than when they left.

It was in these outskirts after a good couple of hours’ travel where a straggle of brigands tried to stop the Den’s arrival. They rode hard on horseback, pounding through the desert wastes, shoddily aiming pistols that cracked with every shot. Most were just for intimidation. It wasn’t the intention to hurt anybody, yet, as ransom on those possessing such a fine vehicle could be lucrative, though some shots did strike against the carriage sides.

Franco separated a window blind between thumb and forefinger, catching a look at these rogues thrashing their animals in the morning sun. Vermin, he cursed, deciding to rise from his seat and walk the length of his carriage to the telephone intercom. With sharp prods of his finger the trumpet receiver was brought to his ear and he waited for the crackling voice to come through.

The boxcar, nestled between the end observation car and the showgirls’ quarters, had come alive. Inside, a phone rattled in shrill alarm. Bustling within was the organized retaliation by the showgirls, who, in this instance, had the responsibility of returning fire. The top of the carriage had a section that swung over, revealing a rudimentary cannon that launched shells, shells that burst over the sand and tore through the unfortunate horse and rider caught in the impact.

Each shell was loaded into the cannon’s breech, supported by a drive mechanism; two of the showgirls slid one at a time into a stuttering belt loader, while another showgirl called directions as she stared into a lowered periscope. The carriage rattled with each boom – a tremendous kick that sent vibrations down to its floor. Between the feminine bodies, the train’s head of security pressed through, easing each aside to reach the ringing phone.

Jacques released the conical ear piece and spoke into the mounted receiver.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Mister Jacques,’ Franco said, watching another rider fall from the carriage window. Sand erupted in heavy plumes with each shot. ‘There seem to be people firing at my train.’

‘That there is, sir.’ Jacques gestured to the women inside to continue the retaliation. ‘I would guess it be on account of the money we’re carrying, that with it being our lot and all.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Pay them no mind. We are already all over it.’

‘I’m relieved to know that is the case. I shall leave things in your more than capable hands.’

Capable they were indeed. For months now, Jacques had provided the protection that the Den had required. It was not his brawn that made him unique, though few could take a punch from him and keep composure. Nor was it his handiness with firearms, though his aim was keener than most who brandished weaponry. What Jacques brought was presence.

It would have been easy to hire someone to be brutish. With such desperation in the region, ask anybody to rough up another for a solid wage and there wasn’t a soul who would say no. It was pure luck that Franco met Jacques, emptying a bottle of Black Peanut glass by glass in one of the more respectable taverns.

He had been a young man born into wealth, though discovered the humility of scarceness when a fire took his belongings and family. Unlike most others in similar circumstances who either begged on the streets or worked in mills for a pittance, Jacques earned an honest trade working at the market. Although only twelve years old, his literacy and accountancy skills had made him an asset. When old enough, he had taken the running of the stalls day to day, shifting any goods that were offered by suppliers for a quick turnaround, before destiny interrupted.

By chance, Jacques witnessed a well-dressed gentleman being relieved of his purse by a pickpocket of impressive skill. Calling into the throng caused the criminal to escape but for some reason Jacques gave chase. Sprinting through snaking alleyways that were always slick with sand, he eventually cornered the thief and demanded his ill-gotten possessions. A knife was quickly thrust towards Jacques, which he was not quick enough to dodge, and it instead sank into his shoulder. It was the first true experience of physical pain he had suffered, though this was hastily ignored.

In response Jacques tossed the thief against the alleyway walls until he hung limp over his shoulder. It was surprising for the purse owner to offer Jacques a job upon his return. Sure, he could have kept the money but not everybody stole given the opportunity. Principles counted for a lot and Franco, who happened to have been the victim in this whole affair, approached Jacques with a job prospect. He needed a trustworthy hand and Jacques needed money. It was an ideal arrangement.

Another crack of a revolver. Another hollow thud into the carriage side. How much was all this going to cost? Repeated entanglements were a monetary blight on funds and costs were already skyrocketing. How much more was he supposed to tolerate? The entire farce was eroding his patience.

Enraged, Franco slammed his drink down and pulled down the carriage window. The revolver, which had rested upon the table, was now gripped and bucking wildly in thunderclaps. Franco barked in anger at the nearest horse-riding bandit whilst firing rapidly. The rider spun from the saddle and rolled into the dirt, this loss finally being enough for the bandits to turn back.

‘Will you refrain from shooting at my train please?!’ Franco bellowed as loudly as his throat would permit.

The bandits began to pull back. Reading the bold sign that sped past, Franco saw it was only ten miles until they’d arrive in the safety of Windberg.

It could not come quick enough.

Misu had sat in the same carriage, sorting paperwork, or at least giving the impression that she had been doing so, but on Franco’s umpteenth glance, he noticed she was mechanically shuffling the same papers over and over again. She stared blankly, looking at the drink bottles that populated the bar where she was seated, her face multiplied by the reflections.

‘You seem fascinated by those invoices. Don’t seem so entertaining to me.’

Misu blinked away her trance, readjusting her now numb buttocks on the stool.

‘Those outside don’t have you rattled, do they?’ he enquired.

‘Not at all, I’m just working out what to do with all this …’ Her words trailed off as she quickly reviewed the pages, as if she had never noticed them before. Franco immediately noticed this hesitation. Misu was never this cagey in his presence. Maybe when they had an argument she would stop talking to him, of course. Sometimes, when he had taken to playing with patrons and gambled too frivolously, she gave the cold shoulder. And yes, that time when he accidentally implied she had put on weight did warrant blanking all of his requests – but this? This was out of the ordinary.

‘File it, surely. That’s the routine. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a touch unlike yourself.’ His fingers drummed on the bar counter.

‘I’m peachy, dear. It’s just been a rougher ride than usual and I feel a little queasy.’ Misu beamed, finally paying Franco her full attention. The smile was close to believable and easily able to hoodwink anyone else into believing all was fine. Franco was immune to such diversions but decided to play along if talking was far from her mind.

‘If that’s all it is … If you could be so kind, just make sure you’re ready with the manifest when we reach the station. We’ll be in Windberg very soon.’ Franco took his leave to his personal car to finish the last of the arrangements.

Misu’s face faded from his sight.

‘Oh and I forgot,’ he added, turning back, ‘word on the wire is that it’s customary for Bluecoats to give a hard time to all arrivals due to criminality in the area. So tell the girls to play nice.’

* * *

As Franco left to discuss his own affairs, Misu slumped down across the bar and rubbed the bridge of her nose. A tired, exasperated gasp left her throat.

Why did it have to be Windberg all places? The mere name of the city coaxed her stomach to churn.

Alex Juniper was known for many things. The first was his uncompromising stance on illegal trade. Unlike anywhere else, the sheriff had formed a task force dedicated to the interception of goods smugglers – forcing anyone to think twice about planning a route through his jurisdiction. The second was his formidable temper, hence the moniker Axe, though nobody dared to use this in his presence.

He was the law here, as much as it was defined and sometimes a little over. Sometimes getting the job done was a messy business, fraught with all manner of unpleasantries. Were they necessary? To the sheriff, they were more than that. They were mandatory.

Someone like Franco – dangerously aloof, unpredictable, and brazen – and with the Gambler’s Den in tow, could only result in trouble of the worst kind.

And Alex Juniper would be ready for him.

* * *

Harold Wigglesbottom walked the length of Platform 4 and back again. He checked his gold pocket watch, secured to his breast pocket by a chain, and tutted once more. Punctuality was important to Harold, as Windberg Central Station needed to run, in his verbose opinion, like a proverbial clock. Trains came and passed through Windberg with alarming frequency, bringing passengers, cargo, and post, so it took just one delay to hold everything up. Delays were not favourable to him, a perpetual annoyance that few took seriously, so when the arrival at Platform 4 was five minutes overdue, it caused nothing but irritation.

He snapped the watch case shut and slid it back inside his vest, walking back with ledger in hand towards the accompanying constabulary referred to as Bluecoats. Harold was familiar with the law, and the routine of spot inspections for new arrivals, but even this display was significantly more heavy-handed than was customary. It seemed that their dear sheriff had been expecting the new arrivals. Lucky them.

* * *

By the time the Gambler’s Den had finally pulled in, the security had reorganized into formation, jostling Harold for floor space, with others cautiously securing every exit. Harold recorded the train number in his ledger, elbowing those in his way aside for a view of the platform clock, on his platform, in his station.

Sheriff Juniper watched the carriages haul past to a squealing stop, bursts of steam erupting out. The heaving beast – gilded and proud – dwarfed the men who stood in preparation on Platform 4.

It was an unexpected welcome for Franco, who stepped out from his carriage, followed by Misu and Jacques. A bevy of showgirls sauntered from the back carriage, dressed in all their finery and chirping with excitement. They froze in surprise. Any dealings with the law usually resulted in one of two outcomes: bribery or arguments, and so they were right to be cautious.

It was Harold who approached first. He moved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a chubby finger, jowls shaking as he asserted an authority above the Bluecoats.

‘Welcome to Windberg, sir. Nature of business?’

‘Nothing but entertainment, my friend. Yours and ours.’

Franco, dressed in a long azure coat with gold trim and a red cravat, reached his hand out to Juniper’s approach. The gesture was unreturned as the sheriff brushed past. His concern for the vehicle was too absorbing.

‘Any cargo we need to declare? Hazardous, livestock, et cetera?’ Harold asked.

‘Clean as they come.’

‘Good news. Your signature.’

Harold thrust out a thick, floppy, suede-covered book and a pen. Franco beamed as he flawlessly scrawled his name.

Juniper was not happy. He wasn’t impressed with the presence of the train in his city, or with its owners or the business it touted. It reeked of suspicion. A gut feeling had turned his stomach the moment he had heard of its arrival and this was always a sign that trouble was afoot.

‘Where have you come from?’ came his first demand for information, flat and imposing.

‘Ashdown.’

The sheriff nodded, impatiently biting the inside of his cheek. In truth no answer would suffice nor subdue any suspicions of wrongdoing.

‘I want to see your stamps.’

Misu immediately handed over the logbook with a trembling grip, showing the time and date the Gambler’s Den arrived at each destination. Alongside each were the verified imprints from each corresponding stationmaster, authenticating claims of the route. Pages were flicked back and forth.

‘It says here you went through Rustec a week back. You never mentioned that,’ Juniper accused.

‘You never asked … We just passed through, gave the small-town folks there a reason to celebrate. Can you clarify what this is about, sheriff?’

The logbook was slapped shut and passed back. Alex paced alongside the carriage and inspected its veneer. ‘Word on the wire was that there was a break-in at some museum in Rustec. Some relic was stolen. Very valuable. Expert work by all accounts.’

‘We heard that too. There’s some sticky-fingered folks out there,’ Franco returned, not liking where this was going.

‘You wouldn’t have heard anything else, would you? Anything specific? An enterprising man like yourself must hear things in your line of work. Numerous things I suppose.’ Juniper finally acknowledged Franco and sized him up. As expected, Juniper was barrel-chested and weathered in appearance. The gaze that brought the truth in many an interrogation failed to intimidate Franco, who passed it off.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied.

The sheriff ran his hand over the steely veneer of the nearest carriage, tracing each bullet hole in sequence. Only now was Franco able to assess the damage of their little run-in. Not to mention calculate the approximate cost.

‘Run into some trouble, did we?’

‘We get just as much as anybody else.’ Franco shrugged. ‘The Den just knows how to defend itself.’

‘No unlicensed weaponry I hope.’

‘Perish the thought, sheriff. Papers for them all.’