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Guns, Swords, and Steam: Part 16
Topic Started: Oct 31 2011, 10:51 PM (392 Views)
James Baillie
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The main underground hall was a mass of glittering glass and shining metal, lit by oil lamps hung from the walls. The lights danced across strange gas-filled pumps and the air was heavy with sweat and fear pouring from the prisoners who stood in line. The soldiers were nervous, too; jittery, fingers stroking their triggers gently.

“This is the facility.” A single voice, commanding, harsh against the humming and hissing of the machines around him. “As a formality Jones, the vampire standing behind you with ten riflemen and two steam-guns, will order his men to kill you if you attempt to escape. I advise you not to do so, because what we are going to do here today is for the benefit of both yourselves and your country. You will leave here fairly shortly, and will be given the opportunity to do great service to the Union’s goals of modernisation and progress.”

Morgan said the word “progress” as the priests of Jupiter might say “salvation” or a captain might cry “land ho!” It was the end, the end of all ends, and all the means to get there were nothing more than processes.

Katja strained to make him out through the haze of steam. He was standing on a balcony, well away from the machines (and thus presumably any potential danger from them). He was a well-built young man, with broad shoulders, close-cropped dark hair, and a fine beard. Their captor did not seem overly harsh, and his voice was enticingly bold.

A glance at Bailliol told her that he was barely conscious. He would be no help to anyone now, surely... The Grenlach was gone, Hannel and Pearson gone. Her wits were all she had.

She looked up again at Morgan, who wore the look of a job well done. The prisoners were a little calmer, the machinery was ready, and he was about to create an army that would let his brother conquer any nation they pleased.

And then, across the hall from the narrow prison entrance, doors slammed shut and shouting began. The main doorway erupted with gunfire.




Dagalin Saye had a few mobile prison carts which he kept in various major cities. One of them currently contained Mort Turanne. The old man had looked… well, unsurprised was really the only word. He must have known Saye was coming, and the general was a little unnerved that he hadn’t even set any new traps for him to find. The old man hadn’t spoken, either, as Saye pushed one of his less useful guards through the door of the already deserted Barrel to take the crossbow bolt for him then strode in to arrest its barman.

A runner came up to him. Black uniform. That meant the facility.

”Sir. Shooting. Two men, broken in. Morgan sent me to tell you.”
“Damnit. Get on the prison cart, man. Ride, damn you all! Ride!”

He and his four remaining horseman bodyguards spurred onwards, hooves pounding on the dirt. What the hell was this about? Was the old man in the back of the cart simply playing at some game, or was he genuinely determined to bring down his old protégé? If so, why? Dagalin knew he had more than enough contingencies to deal with it, but the fact that he couldn’t work out why… that was the devil of it.

On the other hand, he reflected, it might be good to have to wrestle with the devil of it. Keep things lively, at least.

They reached the barracks soon enough, and the General simply ordered everyone to go in via the main door. Best not to let them know about the Prison entrance, good to keep a few things up one’s sleeve. The units at the barracks here were particularly loyal – always worth paying a few men a little extra at times. Contingency plans. Saye was good at contingency plans.

Once the men had been seen off, Saye relaxed for a moment. It had been an odd day, a very odd day. Mort was still quiet in the back of the cart, two men could hardly hold off a battalion… things would be all right. Staying on top, Dagalin knew, was harder than getting there. He’d won this little bout, apparently with his old mentor as the opponent. How curious that Mort should oppose him now.




“Dagalin Saye, you are hereby under arrest by orders of the Council, for dereliction of duty!”

Vampires couldn’t innovate, but they could certainly copy. Alicar remembered hearing the same words – with a name change – shouted to him by the very man he was now arresting.

“Alicar? What the hell are you on about?”

“Exactly as I say. Step into the prison cart, please. I have a guard of eighty cavalrymen here to ensure you do as I say.”

“And if I refuse?”

“The remainder of the southern army is waiting outside the town. Oh yes, lifted a siege in order to remove the general and take control. Whose idea might that have been, I wonder? Strange how the wheels turn, Saye.”

“You moved… you pulled the siege lines… I’d say I couldn’t believe you did that if I didn’t know you were a bloody idiot. We have an important situation at vital facilities which I have to deal with. Get stuffed and you can play politics when I’m ready.”

In a flash, Alicar signalled and more musket barrels than Saye could count were pointed at him.

”I would dearly like to rip your throat out, Saye, but am informed you have… protection against that particular threat. Nevertheless, enough bullets will do the trick. In the cart.”

Dagalin Saye was dumbfounded. Alicar was practically being smart. Was this Mort as well? The barracks had just been cleared, or he’d have had tens of men out here with better bloody muskets than Alicar’s dratted dragoons. And they’d pulled up a whole siege line!

The next instinct that kicked in was self-preservation. Saye scribbled a shorthand note and slipped it to one of his guards with orders, then motioned to a nervous and confused prison guard to open the cart.

He walked into the darkness.
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