The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Read online

  Centuries ago a mysterious family of mad geniuses split into five clans; feuding, hiding, hording their secrets of fighting and art, magic and science. Now at the dawn of the mechanical 19th century, only the five clans united can hold back the blood-red tide of industrial apocalypse.

  Unless they dive into it laughing. I did say 'mad'.

  Quest of the Five Clans

  Book 1: the Blood Tartan

  Raymond St. Elmo, 2017

  If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,

  Go visit it by the pale moonlight…

  Sir Walter Scott, Lay of the Last Minstrel

  Chapter 1

  In which a surprise awaits the hero beyond the third door.

  I dislike violence. I dislike describing violence. If I swim in blood as a fish in water, still I cherish each day without a scream. Excepting the rare cry of laughter. Why can't I labor at something with regular cries of joy? The barker at a fair, perhaps, selling chances to win a prize for a sweetheart. I would rig the fortune-wheel, letting all lovers win. Not a practical plan, I would become impoverished. Alas that violence pays so well.

  But walk through a fair and note: the barkers wear pained grins, sad scowls. Their hearts are unmoved by laughing children, cuddling couples. Happy smiles give them toothache, shouts of joy give them earache. No, they stare beyond the throng, dreaming of being heroic burglar-assassins. Fair-workers long for the adventure of fog-shrouded nights, running across rooftops, falling upon the guard to a villain's lair. Crossing blades with brigands who gasp to recognize the deadly blade they face. They want my life as I want theirs. The old conundrum: one values most, what one lacks.

  Well, to work. I leaped the roof-gap to the warehouse, descended mist-slippery bricks, waited spider-like for the first guard to pass beneath. I did not kill; merely dropped behind, stunned with a blow. I left him tied in a corner, feeling the usual remorse. I don't count it a casual thing to be knocked senseless. Nor to awaken in pain, bound like a sack of meal. Nor to face one's employer, explain how one failed in the task. Nor return home, explain the loss of one’s employment to a hungry family. Alas; fortune in battle is a wheel I cannot rig for the joy of others.

  I used his key to enter the door. Walked with confident step down a lantern-lit hall, to unlock another door. Within I faced a second guard. He stood foil drawn, dueling a target-dummy. A flourish, a lunge, and he ran the poor straw heart through. Then repeated. At each strike, he struggled to position his left hand to finger-scratch the top of his head. A peculiar style. Perhaps his hair itched? He glanced at me, but as I stood in shadow wearing the outer guards' cloak and helm, he took little notice.

  "Like this," I said, moving beside him. I lunged, letting the motion unfold slowly as a flower in morning light. "Hold your center of balance like a cat. The free arm becomes your tail, not your hat."

  He tried it so, holding the left arm more sensibly. "Better," I said. He repeated the move in a more sensible flow. He nodded pleased, then turned. His eyes widened. "Ha. You're the Seraph."

  I thumped his exposed nape. Then left him bound. More remorse. I comforted my conscience that I did not cut the man’s throat. No doubt the carnival-barker day-dreaming of being Seraph would have sliced away, shaking his head at life’s need for death, struggling not to grin.

  One guard left twixt me and the inner office, according to my informant. Therein a closet held a hidden cabinet with ledger books the Magisterium needed to prove that Alderman Black was a traitorous, slave-dealing smuggling pirate-prince in league with devils. Or at least a tax embezzler. Hanging a pirate-prince for embezzlement would not appeal to an adventure-dreaming carnival barker. He’d want something dramatic; perhaps a duel atop a racing carriage. I have fought three such duels. Once the carriage careened in flames. Give me a quiet hanging any day. To watch, I mean.

  Back to work. I unlocked the third door, entered the warehouse proper. A dark Aladdin’s cavern of boxes and sheeted goods, barrels and chests. Ladders leading to higher levels. Smells of spices, cloths, food-stuffs, rat-shit, coffee-beans. Twenty steps beyond waited a table, lantern-lit. A single guard sat facing the light, back to me. I thought little of him for that. He should face the door, not stare in the light. And a bottle too? He did not turn at my confident boot-steps. He sipped the bottle, vandalized his employer's table with a dagger.

  Perhaps a trap. I scanned the upper levels for archers in hiding. The lighting favored me. And really; men in hiding are a noisy business. They shift, making wood flooring creak. They whisper, pant, wipe sweaty palms. No, the upper levels held only boxes and rats.

  I stepped behind the lone guard, leaned over his shoulder. He continued to carve the table-top. He mumbled words I did not catch. A bit of song, perhaps. Oh, horrors. A pool of tears glistened on the table. He sniffled, and a fresh drop fell. A lonely sticky business, entirely inappropriate on guard duty. I considered the carving. A girl's face, with waves of hair. No doubt the reason for the drink, the sniffles, the tears. I swung to thump the lovelorn fool. Fortune's wheel spun. Not for him, but me.

  He twisted with speed to astonish a snake. My blow missed. His knife slashed where my stomach resided had I not rolled forwards. My escape was reflex, mere training in follow-through after a failed strike. In my head I stood at peace while he slumped unconscious, face to his tears. The mind plays tricks in the time twixt two beats of the startled heart.

  I tumbled across the table, grabbing the bottle as I passed. Turning, I flung it but he was already out of the light into shadows. No, he was under the table and striking at my feet. I leaped straight up and onto the table, like a girl frighted by a mouse. His sword cut through a chair leg. Heavier than a rapier; a saber. The chair fell dead. When had he drawn blade?

  I stood atop the table, twisting my gaze about, fearing he'd cut my feet out from behind. An absurd situation. I considered his next tactic. Kick a table-leg away, attack as I fell? I stared down at the carving. A girl's face, heart-shaped, framed in strange knotted circles. She returned my gaze with a slash of a smile. I winked, wondering at the fellow below us both.

  Why didn't he call for help? He need not fight; merely make noise. At least one other guard loitered by the front gate. If he came alone I would manage; but if he clanged alarms there remained no time to dispatch both guards, gain the records room, find the hidden books and escape. I kicked the lamp, less in strategy than anger. It smashed against a wall of crates. Against all odds the flame did not extinguish, but became flickers of spilled light, promising conflagration.

  The table toppled as predicted. Prepared, I landed neatly, blade at ready, the over-set table now between me and the lamp-light. No one in sight. I did not ask ‘where did he go’? I'd have died at the question mark. No, I jumped to the side, the saber murdering the air just where my head had decided itself safe.

  And now I faced the man; but there came no circling while we measured each other's worth. Not a bit of banter. He went straight for my death with a thrust and a stamp. It was horrifying, doubly so for the expression on his face. I knew it at once.

  It was… absent-mindedness. I faced a young man sticky with tears whose thoughts were elsewhere, for all that he cut me quick across the shoulder and followed with a kick that swept me from my feet. His eyes slouched, dreaming, brooding. He wasn't thinking of me. The girl, no doubt.

  Falling, I decided to roll forwards not away. His saber was longer, heavier than my foil. I should have the advantage in speed. The growing light of flame shone behind him while I remained shadowed; another advantage. I am the Seraph, unbeatable in matters of blade, edge and point. A final advantage.

  If I won within the circle of his sab
er it became my game. When I came up from the roll I slashed. He stepped to the side, I lunged, he parried and would have cut my throat with a knife he held in his other hand, but that I doubted in my soul that tonight I was unbeatable in matters of blade, edge, etc. Humiliating to admit, but I ducked. The slash tolled on the stolen helmet. I could think of nothing to do but jump back again. A stage acrobat pantomiming a frog. This embarrassed.

  He gave me no time to blush. He threw the knife, then lunged just where I would have jumped to avoid the throw. I'd parried instead, sent it flying. He followed his lunge with a step closer and high slashes down; I retreated, parrying vaguely.

  I reviewed my dusty notes, scarcely unfolded: strategy for facing a superior opponent. 'Search for a weakness', was all I recalled. Also 'flee'. We did some fast thrust and parries, me retreating, not knowing what waited behind me. Perhaps a guard with an axe, or a pile of buckets to tangle my feet.

  I considered the dreaming, teary face. "Who's the girl?" I asked. "Tavern, alley or hay-stack?"

  That won a puzzled look. He frowned, noticing me. For the first time tonight. The change in focus did not prevent him making a sweep and a stamp that sent me in retreat again. Light shone on another knife. How many did he carry? When had he drawn it? I wondered, and threw one of my own.

  He bat it with his saber, my chance to step close with a slash to the face. He blocked with an arm. I felt no bite of blade into bone; he'd wrapped his cloak about the arm. I cut cloth, though. When next winter winds blew, he'd regret crossing blades with the Seraph.

  He launched another attack, I retreated, tripped on a bucket and fell, rolling under a second guard coming up behind me, sword drawn. I tangled his footing with my bucket. Well, it was at hand, wasn't it? He fell. I moved up and behind, hitting him on the back of his neck. With my fist. Not the bucket. He went down, I smiled. Reality as it should be. But then the teary madman swept his blade with wonderfully long reach to cut me across the face. Two wounds now. I bled. Me. Seraph. Wounded by a common guard, a sniffling no-one.

  Furious, I leaped into the circle of the saber. We grappled. I am six feet, weighing over fourteen stone. He was far lighter. Which did not prevent him grabbing my neck and belt, throwing me. That turned out to be a good thing, as I was past the area of the blast when the burning crate exploded. Must have been lamp oil.

  And now the warehouse was aflame. I lay at the far end of the alley of crates, no longer shadowed. All was light. The mad dreamer included. His shirt burned, saber and tear-streaked face reflecting fire. He looked a devil. Well, I have never seen a devil; but I guess them something like. Mad-faced and fire-lit. Indifferent to your existence, yet fatal to it.

  I stood, wobbling. The guard dropped the sabre, tore away his burning shirt to reveal scrawny chest. This scarecrow threw me ten feet? We considered each other, the flames, the downed guard; and made our choices. He grabbed the downed man by neck and belt, hefted him over a shoulder. He ran towards the exit. I looked to the path towards the inner rooms. Considering completed, I ran.

  For the exit, of course. It was leave or die. It took strategy just to navigate to the doorway, leaping pools of flame. Past waited the guard-room, fast filling with smoke. I slashed smoke-curtains with my foil, in case the Teary Dreamer waited in ambush. He did not. I reached the hall; then the open door and cool night.

  I stood ready to fight, but the cobbles held only the guard just rescued by the Madman. The guard lay staring up at the night-sky, coughing. And then I recalled the second guard. The one I instructed in fencing form, then thumped. He lay still tied in the corner of the guard-room. I turned, faced a doorway of smoke and decision.

  He was just a hireling. He took his chances with his pay. Coin from a slave-dealing merchant-robber-prince. Far better lives depended on my survival. Besides, the Teary Madman lurked within the smoke. Foolish to go back.

  Sensible words. I would have yielded, sighing for the hardness of a warrior's life. But I’d just been humbled. Bah. One fights best because one knows oneself to be best. Doubt the worth of your courage, your hand will do the same. I ran back into the smoke, stumbling to the guard-room.

  I came to a chamber of hell where a line of burning men awaited me, swords drawn. A bit of a shock. Ah, no, it was just the row of target dummies, their straw aflame. Sparks rained from the ceiling. A roof-beam growled, making dramatic threats to fall. The shirtless figure of the Madman stood coughing, searching. I looked to the corner where I'd left the guard. Gone.

  "Was here," I shouted, pointing my blade to the empty corner. The man couldn't have untied himself so soon. No, he would have rolled to take cover from the rain of sparks. And hide from the assassin. I was sure he recognized me. I scanned the room. Rows of cots on either side.

  "Under those," I pointed. The Madman began kicking cots aside. I rushed along the other side, looking under each. Too many bed-rolls and shoes and smoke. I began flipping things over. A bundle of clothes twitched, became the outline of a man. I bent over him, knife drawn to cut his bindings. Of course he kicked at me. I rebounded, feeling hurt in face and soul.

  "Damnation," I coughed. "Stop that." Couldn't really blame him. I was an assassin looming over him with a dagger. Probably my knife and eyes glowed with evil red light. I sliced the ropes, dropped the knife to show I was friend. Of course he grabbed it and tried to gut me. Oh, well, I thumped him again.

  The ceiling beam fell, the Madman leaped. He rolled, came up beside me and grabbed the guard's feet. I took the guard's shoulders and we lifted. He was heavy. My face and nose and shoulder hurt. We headed towards the hall to the courtyard. The Madman took the lead, hesitated. The burning beam presented a wall of flame.

  "Ready!" I shouted. The Madman turned his head to stare at me. He smiled. I cannot easily describe that smile. It was pleasant, untouched by anger. I saw neither fear nor great interest. At most, a mild curiosity for what came next. The face of a traveler staring out a coach window at the passing scenery. Under the circumstances, it seemed entirely mad.

  More of the ceiling rained down. "Now?" I coughed. The Madman said something. Perhaps 'now'. The guard mumbled something as well but we weren't listening to him. We jumped through the flames.

  Really it was unfair. I wore leather shirt, heavy cloth pants and helmet. The Teary Madman had nothing but pants and boots. He passed through the fire with a cry of pain; but he did not drop his half of the struggling guard. I followed, we stumbled past into smoke, rushing down the hall and out.

  We dropped the guard onto cool cobbles, the warehouse aflame behind. We coughed, panted, amazed to be alive. I turned to search for the first guard, the one I'd jumped and left in the shadows. We'd better move him farther from the fire. There were no shadows now. I spotted his still-tied form, stepped towards him and the Teary Madman thumped me on the back of the head.

  When I awoke I found myself bound, set for a sack of flour against a far wall opposite the burning warehouse. My head ached. My throat burned, I felt sick, about to vomit. Unpleasant thing to do when you can't move. I considered explaining to watchmen why I had set the warehouse afire. Explaining to my employers why I had failed. I considered my earlier sympathy about awaking exactly so. I had underrated the pain by several turns of the wheel.

  A crowd had gathered, ignoring me entirely. Shouting men dashed in and out the burning building with random objects. Others formed a bucket-brigade, more ceremonial than useful. Some were breaking through the bricks of the walls, pulling out goods. No telling if they were helpful citizens or opportunistic looters. I used a razor within my sleeve to cut my cords. Not easy, but I practice. Standing, I wandered into the crowd and away, feeling a complete fool.

  Chapter 2:

  A disappointed patron expresses ultimate confidence

  "My friend, you were betrayed," insisted Magister Green. "We are not unaware that Alderman Black has spies among us." He rang a bell, scribbled a note, tended it to the summoned servant.

  I sat resting body and ego in one of the
soft, soft chairs of the Magisterium. How easy it would be to fall asleep. Easy as falling into soft excuse. I sighed, sat straight.

  "I'd love to believe so. But the fellow never called for help. A single other guard wandered in. Just the usual incompetent. A proper trap would have a troop at the ready, exits barred. And with me down, he neither cut my throat nor gave me to Black. No, he wandered away on other business. Forgot where he left me, I suspect."

  Magister Green tapped his chin with a finger, in sign of thought. "We might find him and ask. There was a tavern disturbance later. Some cloaked lunatic walked into the Sailor's Grave, picked a fight with a table of pirates. Left the place in shambles. Left the pirates in shambles. Perhaps your mysterious sword-master?"

  "No, that was me," I admitted. "The place is a rat's nest. Needs to be cleaned out every so often. And I needed to ascertain I wasn't losing my edge."

  "Are you?" asked the Magister. He poured me a glass of wine, giving me time to consider. I refused the wine and the consideration.

  "I am here, alive," I pointed out. I pushed the proffered cup away. "They are there, dead. Ergo: I remain my excellent self."

  He took the wine himself, willing to consider for me. "And that is quite excellent. My friend, you are as renowned a spadassin as one can be." A sip, a consideration. "At least, as one may be prior to the inevitable, glorious end." Sip, consider. "How then, does an anonymous warehouse guard leave you tied in an alley?"

  And that was the question. The same I asked as I sewed closed my wounds. Hearing the words again ripped the stitches open. Metaphorically. Not as painful, I admit.

  "It's a dangerous city. No reason a random stranger cannot be better."

  Green snorted. "There is every reason why such a person shall not be a nameless yeoman working night-guard duty in a dock-side warehouse."