A Children's Tale (5 page)

"Cap'n! We got Comp'ny!"
 

H
unter had turned at William's shout just as the crewman's kicking legs were jerked abruptly upwards, out of sight. Immediately, Angela snarled and leapt towards the tunnel.

"Angela! No!" Hunter reached for her, but the young werewolf was too quick. She was up and above before he could lay hand to her. He yanked his pistol from the holster at his belt.

"Bloody hell of a thing."

Moira, in turn, drew weapons. O'Fallon even struggled to rise despite protests from young Miles.
Hunter shook his head. "We can't all rush out there."

Moira quickly checked the load in her pistols. "Not plannin' on it, but someone needs ta be watchin' ya back."
Hunter smiled grimly, "True enough."

The captain adjusted his grip nervously while he crawled up the dugout tunnel towards the surface. Just when he could see trees and sky, he adjusted the grip on his pistol, then eased up to look above the surface of the snow. A few feet from him stood William with his back against a tree. Angela, still in her werewolf form, crouched within reach of William with her teeth bared at two large, upright, white-furred beasts.

Neither creature seemed eager to attack, but both seemed tense. Perhaps it was William and Angela's appearance from under the snow, or simply uncertainty on how to deal with the snarling were-girl. As quietly as he could, Hunter pulled himself out of the hole and onto the loose snow. He paused to get his balance, and snow crunched lightly against his weight. Neither of the beasts moved, their attention still focused on the pair at the base of the tree. The captain sidestepped carefully away from the hole and raised his pistol, but the moment it was even with the creatures, the snow erupted around him in a storm of white.

"Bloody hell!"

A quick step backwards avoided the reach of two more creatures that were to either side of him. Captain Hunter spun towards the one to his right, whipping the barrel of his pistol across the side of the creature's face. It howled and fell backwards into the snow. Without pause, Hunter turned to the one on his left, only to face a bow with a drawn arrow. Light glinted off the metal arrowhead pointed at his chest. The captain's gaze followed the arrow back to its owner. At the other end of the bow, beneath the snow-dusted, thick fur was a weathered, tanned, human face with a white wrap over the mouth. As the wind stirred the branches overhead, causing a light puff of snow to drift downward, neither Hunter or the furred man opposite moved. Off to his left, four more of the men in furs emerged from the forest, bows at the ready.

Finally, the bowman nodded at Hunter's weapon and slowly relaxed the hold on his bowstring. Unsure, Hunter waited, which elicited a few harsh words from the bowman's guttural language. Again, the furred bowman nodded at Hunter's weapon, then relaxed the tension on his bowstring. Outnumbered, Hunter did the only thing he thought would spare lives. He lowered his own pistol slowly with a heavy sigh of frustration. 

"Cap'n?" William called out from a few feet away.

"Stand down, Will. I don't think they mean us harm."
Angela snarled at the pair in front of her. "I don't like their smell."
Hunter slowly dropped his pistol into its holster. "I daresay they are not fond of yours, young lady. Withdraw the claws and stand easy."

Angela eased off her posture, but did not transform back to her human form. William likewise let go of some tree branch he had been using as a club.

"Aye, Cap'n. Just sure hope ya know what yer about."

"I do also, William. Though I daresay we have little choice."

It was young Miles and youthful innocence that finally bridged the gap between the groups. So accustomed to helping with O'Fallon's wounds, once free of the cave Miles automatically grabbed a small medical bag from William, then offered bandages and antiseptic to the tribesman Hunter had struck across the face. Without a complaint, Miles helped dress the cuts and offered an endless stream of questions and comments. Some of these the tribesman seemed to understand, others he did not. Nonetheless, the tribesmen's attitude did soften. It was as though if Miles' attitude removed some unknown suspicion in their minds.

Slowly, an uneasy alliance formed between the small group of airship sailors and the mountain tribe-folk while the snow was cleared away to recover what of the sailors supplies survived the avalanche. After recovering what they could, the long hike down-slope through the snow began. The first hour, the group moved in silence until they stopped under a rocky outcrop for shelter against the sharp mountain winds.

Hunter blew on his hands and rubbed them together against the cold. He glanced at Angela who, still in her part-wolf form, turned her gaze towards the snow at her feet.

"Young miss? I believe you had an explanation?"

"Yes Sirrah." She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm not Miles' sister proper. Though, that's kinda obvious now I guess." She hesitated, sighed and pushed onward. "My own mum, she was the housekeeper for Miles' parents. When they were off and away, she looked after Miles and myself."

"So where is your mother now?"

"She's passed on, Sirrah. Two summers back a fever took her. There wasn't anythin' the doctors could do. Mum took ill so very fast. There wasn't much they could be doing. Miles' parents took me in as their own. Even with my … problem.” She shivered uncomfortably against the cold. “They said they wanted to adopt me. Before they did, they got asked to go off on some trip. We had to stay with Miles' father's brother.”

"Uncle Ian," Miles chimed in.

"He was nice enough, I suppose." Angela exchanged a glance with Miles. "Not much raised a voice - only a few times, when we didn't follow the rules he set down at home. Didn't let us out much unless we were watched. We really didn't go too many places outside his home."
Moira joined them, offering a leather waterskin filled with a heady, dark broth. "The hunters there think we be needin' a good swig or two. It'll warm ya, I'll give you that."

"Ladies first." Hunter said and nodded towards Angela. The young girl managed a smile and took a small drink. Miles followed suit a moment later. Hunter took a drink himself, then handed the waterskin back to Moira with a thin smile.\

"Thank you Moira. Have the others had some?"

"Nay a drop yet, about to pour some down O'Fallon's rum gullet. Might do him a bit o' good." With a grin, she walked around and over to O'Fallon and William.

The captain returned his attention to the two children. "How long have your parents been away?"

"Just upwards to a year." Miles said with a touch of sadness in his voice. "But they said they'd send for us once it was safe."
Hunter frowned. "Your father and mother, they are scholars of a sort?"
Miles beamed with pride. "They're historians."

"Mother is a scientist, Father is a historian." Angela corrected her brother firmly.

"S'what I meant."

Captain Hunter interrupted quickly. "Your uncle, Ian, sent us to rescue you once news reached him in London that your airship was overdue. Is that where you two were going? To meet your parents?"
Angela nodded, "Yes Sirrah, Uncle said that Mother and Father were expecting us at the ruins of Northumbrage. He packed us straight away, and found the first airship heading there."

“Northumbrage?”

“Yes Sirrah.”

"I see." The captain looked over to where O'Fallon was rising slowly to his feet under the close watch of William and the tribesmen. "Well my dear, somehow we'll return you to your parents. Although, you were the one sneaking about the camp were you not?”

Angela looked at the ground, a faint touch of pink showed faintly around her eyes while she blushed.

“I'll take that as a yes. Next time, mind yourself skulking about an encampment like that. You could've been grievously hurt. Am I clear?”

"Yes Captain."

"Good. Now, go see if you can help William with O'Fallon. I suspect our stoic hosts are becoming eager for us to quit this place."
The children ran past Moira in William's direction. She watched them a moment, lifted and adjusted her backpack's weight on her shoulders, and joined Hunter while he lifted his own pack.

"S'what do you think?"

"About what, pray tell?"

She smirked. "About the story they're tellin'. Ya believe 'em?"

"As much as they think it's the truth, yes. Now is it the truth? Mind you dear, no, I think it's half-truths at best. I believe they know only what they know. There are loose threads to weave of their story. The most obvious is that the uncle stated they were bound for Port Camden, yet they believe Northumbrage. Neither are within five days sail from each other. Also, why did he send them alone? I would think a relation would accompany them back to their parents?”

“If he's na' good with children, the though of goin' with 'em may not have come ta him.” Moira commented.

“Perhaps. I still feel like something is wrong here. It feels rather dire.”

"Somethin' more to mix the fuel, then. Angela mentioned to me in passin' that their Uncle was quite steady in checkin' over their parents' home. Always had the children with him, askin' if they saw anythin' out o' place in every room. She said it was a regular weekly outin'."

"A slight obsessed fellow."

"Aye, true that."

Hunter looked over at two of their guards. "The concern of what to do about the children and their uncle comes later. Foremost are our stoic hosts. Have you been able to understand them? I've had little luck on my own."

"Nary a word. What they're speakin' sounds odd, na something I've heard. William's been tryin ta work it out. He's quick with languages. May have figured it, by now."

"When the chance happens, we need to ask."

A grunt and a firm tap on the shoulder alerted Hunter to the tribesman that had walked up, unheard, behind him. The captain stood and brushed the snow from his clothes. "Leaving so soon? Well lead on Sirrah, shan't be late eh?"

The tribesman's expression showed no emotion or reaction to the comment. He pointed down the thin, snow-covered trail that wound its way downslope, and said something in his guttural language.

"Right, then." Hunter sighed and walked over to take his turn pulling O'Fallon on a hastily-carved litter.

A
few miles above the mountains, the 
Griffin
 slipped through the stray mist of white clouds. Her gas bag was tight and the rear propellers turned slowly. Aboard, Tonks looked over the edge of the ladder to the forward cargo hold of the 
Griffin. 
Krumer walked among the short stacks of crates below deck, carrying a clipboard. The first mate would pause a moment, review the list on the clipboard then inspect the particular crate of interest for signs of damage.

“Mr Whitehorse?”

Krumer looked up from the crate that held his attention. “Eh?”

“Doc has something.”

“Good!” Krumer crossed over and scaled the ladder, leaving the worn wooden clipboard to sway gently from a small loop of twine.

Tonks stepped back when Krumer appeared above. “Doc didn't say much but sent word he'd gotten something interesting out of that bug.”

Krumer snorted and rolled his eyes at the comment before he walked towards the rear of the ship. “Spirits willing, Doc and his talent for understatement could rankle even a shaman.”

Tonks fell into step alongside Krumer. “Must be good, though. I heard tell he's got that 'look' about him.”

“Look? What look?”

“Ya know the one. The 'I've got ya' look.”

“Ah that one.”

The pair descended below deck again into the rear cargo hold. However, instead of holding cargo, a room had been built into the back that served as an on board hospice. Krumer knocked on the partially open door. 

“Enter.” Replied a thin, almost nasal voice. 

Krumer pushed the door open and slipped inside. Tonks followed after.

"Tonks tells me you have learned something, Thorias. You've taken the bug apart, then?"

The man within put down the pen he had been using to write notes in his logbook. Thorias Llewellyn, usually known as 'Doc' to most of the crew, was a tall, thin figure with long brown hair an deep blue eyes. Fastidious, even for an elf, his appearance was often neat and trim. His black vest was brushed, white shirts pressed - or as pressed as a shirt may be aboard a privateer airship - and his long chestnut, brown hair pulled back and tied neatly behind him. Even his cutlass of Toledo steel that hung on the wall looked as it had been polished that very day. He leaned back from the small desk and gave the first mate a sour look. The brass dragonfly bug buzzed it's wings, then let out a brief squeak at the idea of being taken apart. 

"Mr. Whitehorse, I did no such thing. Nor will I. Clockworks, like this little bug here, are rare and considered a living being. I'd no more 'take him apart' than I would you, Sirrah. Unless it was to remove another bullet from your tough orcish hide."

"Birds are natural. That's a machine." Krumer snorted.

"He says his name's Arcady. He's also got feelings that you're stepping on as sure as if you'd kicked him." Thorias replied sharply.

"Arcady?"

"Yes. Automatic Rewinding Clockwork Dragonfly. ARCDY or 'Arcady'." 

"You don't wind a bird."

Tonks tried to suppress a laugh at the argument and managed only to turn it into a cough. Quickly he interjected, "Well all right then, but ya did learn something?"

Doc Thorias raised an eyebrow at the pilot. "Of course I did. Wouldn't have sent word, otherwise. This little fella's a fountain of information. When no one's tryin' to threaten him, that is. Seems he was given out to a mercenary company. Some bunch called RiBeld. Heard tell of them?"

Krumer frowned in thought while Tonks sighed and nodded. "Aye, that I do. High priced mercenaries started by Archibald RiBeld. RiBeld was supposedly some duke. The fourth duke of Collinsway, some little place North of London. The whole company is ruthless to ever single man-jack of them."