Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (22 page)

Reaching the tip of the incline beyond exhausted his body. Simon lifted his leg to step and his numb foot caught on the snow bank. Stumbling forward, he dropped to his knees. He placed his hands out to catch himself, only to have them disappear in the deep snow.

Luthor appeared by his side, slipping his arms beneath Simon’s armpits and pulling him upright with surprising strength.

“Leave me, Luthor,” Simon muttered. “You clearly have far more strength than I do remaining. Go and find the werewolf tribes. See if they’ll send someone to retrieve my remains.”

“That’s absolute rubbish, sir,” Luthor said, crouching at his side. “I have no intention of leaving you. Now come on and get to your feet.”

“I can’t,” Simon replied. “I’m defeated. I should have never brought you out here. We should have taken our chances in Haversham, confronting the whole of the city if necessary. Had we died then, it would have been a far bit better a fate than to die alone and forgotten. We’re going to perish here and no one, probably not even the werewolves themselves, is going to find our bodies.”

Luthor grasped Simon by the shoulders and shook him violently. The Inquisitor raised his eyes to his friend. “We’re not defeated yet. We just need to go a little further, but in order for that to happen, I need you to get to your feet. Now get up.”

Simon shook his head and it earned him another violent shake from Luthor in response.

“Stop shaking me, damn you.”

“I’ll stop shaking you when you quit wallowing in your own self-pity and stand up.”

“Just let me—”

He was interrupted with another violent shake.

“Stop that!” Simon barked angrily.

Luthor smiled. “There’s the fire in your belly that I’ve come to know. Now get on your feet.”

Simon shifted his weight so that he could free a foot. He placed it in the snow for support. “I’m growing to greatly dislike you. The word ‘hate’ has been bantered around in my mind lately.”

“Excellent, sir. Your hate will keep you warm.”

“So will beating you senseless, I presume.”

Luthor laughed though it quickly turned into a ragged cough. “If that’s what it takes, then I’ll accept my punishment.”

Simon forced his other leg beneath him and stood awkwardly. None of his limbs felt as though they were cooperating fully, as though he were standing on artificial limbs that had never been properly fitted.

He took a step and nearly fell again. Only Luthor’s quick grasp kept him from collapsing fully into the snow.

“I’ve got you, sir.”

Simon shook his head. “How is it that you still have any strength at all, Luthor? I have a weariness in my chest the likes of which I’ve never felt before, yet you still have the strength to support my weight.”

“I never had the displeasure of being entranced by a demon. It’s taken more out of you than you are willing to admit.”

“Maybe so,” Simon said wearily. “Maybe so.”

He planted his feet beneath him once more and looked toward the horizon. The mountains still seemed impossibly far away. The slowly setting sun cast deep shadows over their peaks, only adding to the illusion of their distance.

As he tried to step again, his legs simply gave out and he dropped heavily to the snow. Not even Luthor’s support could keep him upright, and they both fell to their knees.

“I’m done, Luthor,” Simon sighed.

“No, you’re not. You just need to get up and moving once more. Once the blood flow returns to your limbs, you’ll feel perfectly revived once more.”

Simon shook his head. “Your pathetic motivational speeches aren’t going to work this time. I don’t even have the strength to stand.”

The Inquisitor started to lean backward, and Luthor caught his head before he could fall completely into the snow. Simon’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to remain conscious.

“Sir, you can’t fall asleep. I can’t carry you, and I certainly won’t leave you here. I need you to wake up.”

“Forgive me,” Simon said quietly. “Forgive me for being so foolish. We should have never come.”

“Sir,” Luthor said. He struck Simon’s cheek with some force, leaving bright red fingerprints across the man’s face. Even with the strike, Simon refused to fully open his eyelids.

Despite what Simon believed, Luthor was equally as exhausted. The protective runes on his body kept him warmer and prolonged his energy beyond normal human means, but their power was nearly expired. The same ache that Simon felt was creeping into every iota of Luthor’s body.

The cold was a living beast, enveloping them both. Its seedy fingers were creeping into Luthor’s mind, clouding his ability to concentrate. He looked down at his friend and noticed Simon’s eyes fully closed. His chest barely rose and fell with each respective breath, and his skin felt icy to the touch. If he wasn’t warmed soon, he knew Simon would die of exposure.

Luthor looked to the snow beside Simon and tried to summon a mystical flame, one that could burn without wood for fuel and even on top of the moist snow. Sparks flickered at the ends of his fingers before a small wisp of flame appeared. As he extended his fingers toward the surface of the snow, however, the flame danced briefly before evaporating into a small puff of white smoke. He tried again, but the sparks refused to light. Under normal circumstances, summoning a flame would have been child’s play, but his clouded mind refused to focus enough for his magic to coalesce.

Had he still been able to cry, Luthor would have shed a tear. He curled his arms around Simon and pulled the Inquisitor close to his body, hoping their shared warmth would help the man survive even a few moments longer.

Darkness enveloped Luthor and for a moment, he feared he fell asleep and the sun had set. He looked up to see the silhouette of a man blocking the setting sun. Fur lined his body and a flintlock rifle rested comfortably in his hand, the stock of which was pressed to his hip.

Luthor turned his head and noticed more of the natives surrounding him, pointing spears and knives threateningly toward the exhausted pair.

“Please,” Luthor managed through a dry throat and cracked lips. “Please, we’ve come to seek your help.”

The tribesman in front of him lifted his rifle from his hip, spun it gracefully in his hand, and drove the stock of the rifle into Luthor’s face. The apothecary was unconscious long before he fell backward into the snow.

Luthor opened his eyes to an inky blackness. Panicked, he looked to the side only to realize something was pressing against his face. He reached up tentatively and his hand closed on fur. Grasping the fur, he pulled the blanket away.

Sunlight streamed through a small hole above him, though wooden poles jutting from the narrow hole above bisected the light. The air around him was warm and smelled of a combination of wood smoke and lye.

Disoriented, he sat up in the pile of furs that made his bed. A fire crackled merrily in the center of the animal hide-covered tent. Though the beam of light from above and the small campfire provided illumination, the dome-like tent was mostly shadowed.

A soft moan beside him alerted Luthor that he wasn’t alone. He glanced over quickly and found Simon buried similarly in furs, though the Inquisitor was sleeping soundly. Luthor leaned over until his ear hovered an inch above Simon’s face. Slowly, gently, he felt the man exhale. The rush of air against the side of his face made Luthor far happier than he believed possible.

“Sir?” Luthor asked, gently shaking the Inquisitor’s shoulder.

Though Simon responded with a faint groan of displeasure, he didn’t awaken. He pulled away the blanket and found Simon dressed in an odd assortment of furs and hides that covered most of his exposed skin. Looking down, he noticed that he was similarly dressed.

Simon groaned again, and his brow furrowed in discomfort. Luthor returned Simon’s blanket, tucking it in affectionately around the man’s chin. Simon immediately relaxed and fell back into his deep slumber.

Luthor stood and looked around the room. His eyes had adjusted quite a bit since awakening, and he could now clearly see the thin outline of a hide doorway on the opposite side of the fire. Standing stoically by the door was a tribesman, dressed in similar furs but carrying a short, wickedly pointed spear.

“Excuse me,” Luthor said as he walked around the campfire. The smell of smoke and lye grew stronger the closer he got to the edge of the tent. “Do you understand me?”

As he grew closer, the guard raised his spear, pointing it at Luthor’s chest. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I see that you clearly do understand me, even if you don’t speak the language. Where are we?”

The guard said nothing.

“I refuse to be one of those incessant fools who speaks slower or louder merely in an attempt to get you to understand me better. Was it you that treated my friend? He was suffering from hypothermia and what I have to assume was acute onset of frostbite. Is he better now?”

The guard remained silent, the tip of his spear unwavering.

Luthor looked down at his own hands and noticed that they were red and slightly inflamed, but otherwise healed. He didn’t know whether to attribute it to whatever healing was done by the tribesmen or to his own supernatural ability to heal, but he was grateful to be healthier.

Luthor placed his hands on his hips in frustration as he faced the guard again. “Is there someone with whom I could discuss this matter? Are we your prisoners or are you our benefactors?”

He took a step forward, and the guard extended his arm until the tip of the spear pressed against Luthor’s chest. Despite the thick fur shirt, he could feel the sharpened metal tip biting into the flesh beneath.

“Fair enough,” he said. “You’ve made your point. You’re clearly more the former rather than the latter. So what shall I do in the meantime? Shall I just stand here and wait until you feel more talkative?”

The spear was pulled away from his chest. Using its tip as a pointer, the guard motioned toward the pile of furs on the floor.

Luthor looked at the furs before looking back to the guard. “So you do understand me after all? Very well, I’ll play the part of your patient captive until your boss arrives.”

Luthor returned to the furs and sat down beside Simon. He placed his hand on the man’s forehead and was pleasantly surprised to note a lack of fever. Though Simon wouldn’t yet wake up, it was because of his body’s need to regenerate rather than fighting against a burgeoning infection.

The wait was blissfully short before the tent flap was thrown aside and the room flooded with natural sunlight. Luthor turned and noted a much smaller silhouette at the door. The person who ducked under the opening was much shorter than the muscular guard watching the prisoners. As the newcomer entered the room, the light from the campfire danced across her features.

The red from the fire matched her red hair. Her features were weatherworn but still remarkably attractive. Though she looked starkly different in native furs as compared to the stately dress she had worn to the governor’s Winter Ball, there was no mistaking it was the same woman. This was the same woman, Luthor had to remind himself, who had subsequently transformed into a werewolf before throwing herself off the third-story balcony.

She smiled as she realized that the apothecary was awake and made her way around the fire. Luthor climbed to his feet as she approached, though he was suddenly feeling less attracted to her than he had at the ball.

“We were never properly introduced,” Mattie said, extending her hand. “My name is Mattie.”

“The werewolf,” Luthor replied, staring at her hand.

She slowly curled her finger and withdrew her hand. “If such titles make you happy then yes, I’m Mattie the werewolf.”

Luthor’s hard expression softened as he glanced over his shoulder to where the Inquisitor slept soundly. “You rescued us, I presume?”

“We watch Haversham intently, recording anyone who enters or exits the city. We saw you both escape through one of the tunnel entrances. When you collapsed in the snow, yes, we rescued you and brought you both here.”

Luthor raised his hand to his face and touched the skin beneath his eye. Though it had mostly healed already, it was still tender to the touch.

“I recall it being a fairly violent rescue from my perspective. Still, we both owe you a debt of gratitude.” He motioned toward the guard, who remained stoically at his post. “Though I’m under the distinct impression we are not your honored guests.”

Mattie looked over her shoulder toward the guard. “He’s unfortunately a necessary precaution, until we can decide what sort of threat you both pose.”

Luthor pointed toward Simon. “The Inquisitor is sound asleep, still recovering from his wounds. We’re clearly not a threat.”

Mattie frowned and glared at Luthor. “Perhaps I misspoke. We’re deciding what sort of a threat
you
are.”

Luthor was taken aback. He placed his hand on his chest in mock indignation. “Me? I’m hardly a threat.”

Mattie looked over his shoulder and saw Simon stir. “Perhaps this is a better discussion for outside.”

She turned and walked toward the tent flap. The guard pulled it aside for her, allowing her to pass through. Though he glared at Luthor, he didn’t impede his exit.

Luthor was forced to raise a hand to block the glare as he stepped outside. The sun was once again burning brightly overhead. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the tent’s interior, and the brilliant sunlight was practically blinding. He still had his glasses on his face, but the tinted lenses were missing.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked, realizing that it was at least the following day.

“Two days now,” Mattie replied.

She walked away from the stunned apothecary and approached a central bonfire. Thick logs, brushed free of collecting snow, were placed around the fire like benches. The fire itself roared taller than Luthor, its flames licking the sky and sending a cloud of black smoke toward the mountains nearby. Around him, natives wandered between similarly formed dome tents. Though some appeared to be family, most of the people he saw were warriors, carrying rifles or spears.

“Two days?” Luthor asked in disbelief.

“You were tired and clearly needed the rest,” Mattie said as she stopped near the bonfire. Her red hair billowed as waves of heat rolled over her. “We saw no reason to disturb you.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“No,” Mattie replied. “It’s about time we change the dynamic of this relationship. You are our guests and I have far too many questions that you will answer in turn.”

Luthor suddenly felt very aware of all the warriors surrounding him, carrying their assorted weapons. “Very well.”

“Why are you here?”

Luthor gestured toward the people around him. “I think you know why we’re here. There were clearly founded reports of werewolves in this region. Simon is an Inquisitor, and we were assigned to discover the truth.”

“That’s only partially true,” Mattie said. “If you were only searching for werewolves, you would have finished your investigation by now. Clearly, I transformed before your eyes. Furthermore, you wouldn’t have snuck out of the city in the dead of night, like thieves. What were you running from?”

Luthor bit his lip as he stared at the redhead. “The same thing you have been, unless I’m mistaken.”

Mattie turned toward him and smiled. “Then you now realize the threat Gideon Dosett poses?”

“Far more than I believe even you do.”

Mattie stared at him intently, as though attempting to decode his cryptic last statement.

Luthor quickly changed the subject. “You said inside that you thought I was a threat.”

“I said we were deciding how much of a threat you were,” she corrected.

“But I am right in assuming that you believe me to be a threat?”

Mattie’s gaze narrowed as she continued staring at him. “We had to undress you to warm you and treat your frostbite. I saw the marks on your body.”

Luthor paled. “You’d do well to forget what you saw. Whatever you think it was, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“I know what you are,” she continued.

Luthor clenched his teeth and walked toward her. He grabbed her by her arm and pulled her in close. One of the tribesmen nearby clenched his spear and stepped forward threateningly. Mattie raised her hand and shook her head, letting him know she wasn’t in trouble.

“You know nothing about me,” Luthor said.

“You’re a wizard,” Mattie said, not intimidated by the short man. “Those are runes, aren’t they?”

The color returned to Luthor’s face in a bright crimson, and he let her go.

Mattie jutted a thumb toward the tent in which Simon slept. “Does he know?”

“No!” Luthor said brusquely. “No, he doesn’t, nor will he.”

“Who are you? And I don’t mean what’s your name and I certainly don’t mean the farce about how you’re an apothecary. Who are you really?”

Luthor took off his glasses and wiped their lenses with the lapel of his fur-lined parka. He chewed on his bottom lip as he worked, as much to delay the inevitable as to actually clean his glasses. He wondered how much to actually reveal to her before quickly realizing that he had little option. He was her prisoner, and they needed her help.

“I work for a shadow organization known as the Cabal of Mages,” he said finally, albeit hesitantly.

Mattie shook her head. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Luthor laughed nervously. “They wouldn’t be a very good shadow organization if you had. Do you know of the Rift and the threat it poses to our kingdom?”

Mattie shrugged but continued watching Luthor cautiously. “I’ve heard the stories. It’s a passage to a world of magic. Vile monsters have escaped from its depths.”

“You’re right, but only partially so.”

Luthor sat down on a log near the central campfire. He patted the spot beside him, inviting Mattie to sit. She looked at him for a moment before deciding he wasn’t a threat. Sitting down, she stared at the obviously strained man. Luthor looked around them and noticed the wary eyes of a number of guards standing nearby, ready to strike at the apothecary.

Luthor replaced his glasses on his face. He then held up his hands, balling them into fists while keeping them a foot apart. “The Rift is a vestibule between our world and a world of magic, but it’s not the world of magic you presume. This realm of magic isn’t a fantasy world full of mischievous gnomes, prancing elves, merry dwarves, and benevolent human kingdoms. The realm of magic is a place of nightmares, full of vile monsters.”

“Like werewolves?” Mattie asked sarcastically.