Delayed In Transit (eBook)

Chapter 1

“The report was delivered. The local magistrate has been double-checked for any signs of corruption. And the local knights seem to have a handle on the problems of the city.”

“Does this mean we can finally get a room and sleep in tomorrow?”

“No, we have to leave at dawn to hit a town in the south before the week is up.”

“Allen! We’ve been moving from one town to another checking on things nonstop for six months now. You know I like to travel as much as the next guy, but this is bordering on torture. I need a break.”

“We can break when the job is done. The next town is the last one on our list.”

“That’s what you said about this town! How can you lie to me like that?”

“Easily. I won’t even lose a second of sleep at the end of the night over it either.”

“Why you-!”

The arguing pair were walking down the paved alley of a large town. Night had fallen some time ago and the only lights in town were the lamps on the main roads and the slivers that came from the gaps in windows along the alley.

Most people were huddled inside against the dark, eating or getting ready for bed. Those who weren’t were hurrying on their way, eager to finish the day’s work so they could do likewise. Except for the pair in the alley. These two were wearing long traveling cloaks over their heavy shirts and pants. Their thick-soled boots thumped with each step. Their hoods were pulled down low, almost hiding the brass-rimmed goggles and masks they both wore, keeping their faces from view. The only sign or marking on them was a silver belt buckle.

The buckle was embossed with the emblem of a coin purse with two pairs of wings stretching out from the cord that bound it.

“Just ’cause the masters put you in charge,” the slightly shorter of the two remarked, pointing at his comrade with one gloved finger, “doesn’t mean you get to be a slave driver. I’m going to complain to management.”

“Go right ahead,” the other, Allen, replied unconcernedly, not looking up from the small map in his hand. “You know very well why the masters paired us up and put me in charge; to keep you in line and prevent you from doing anything foolish.”

“Hey, I am not some child who needs to be monitored!”

“Says the man who, last time he had a night off, got drunk in a tavern full of coal miners and started a brawl that led to the almost complete destruction of said tavern, the stables next door, and the smithy across the street. I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to drag the smith himself in on your side during the fight when it was you who wrecked the cart he was working on.”

“Ah, good times,” the shorter man said, his voice full of nostalgia. “Don’t forget I spent the rest of the night with both the innkeeper’s and the blacksmith’s daughters.”

“How can I? You bring it up as often as you can. Considering the damage you did to their establishments, though, I have to call into serious doubt the credibility of the last bit of your story.”

“All true, my brother, all true. They were good friends, you know. And both were extremely flexible. Mmm, now that was the right way to end an evening.”

“Ugh.” Allen tilted his head back, obviously rolling his eyes behind his goggles. “In any case, I believe we can find a cheap room near the south gate. We’ll sleep for a bit, and then be off at first light. If we’re lucky, we can make the next town by noon and from there–.” Allen stopped and looked back.

“Tom?”

Tom had stopped at an intersection of an alleyway a few steps behind Allen. His air of cheerful carefreeness had vanished. In its place was a stillness so complete, he didn’t seem to be breathing. Allen moved to stand beside his friend and looked down the alley as well.

Past several intersections, a group of men could be seen. Most of them were gathered around the form of a young man on the ground, kicking and lashing out at him. A pair of others were standing a little apart, holding the arms of another young man behind his back. The restrained young man was clearly shouting at the men, struggling to break free.

Even as the pair in the alley watched, one of the men turned from the boy on the ground and walked over to the other. He threw a hard punch into the boy’s stomach, making him double over and cough violently.

“Detestable,” Allen muttered, frowning behind his goggles as he looked at the scene. “But not something we can get involved in. It is not our business and we should not intervene. We will report it to the knights and keep ourselves out of it, as the Code states.”

“Allen,” Tom said softly. “I heard it.”

“It?” Allen turned his head slightly, looking at Tom with one eye.

Tom turned his head to look at Allen. The eyes behind his goggles were wide, filled with strange light and purpose. “The Voice of Hermes.”

Allen didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He simply looked at his partner in silence.

Tom stared right back at him, not a trace of falsehood in his voice or posture.

“Damn you.” Allen’s voice was flat, without emotion. Without another word, he turned back toward the alley and pushed back his cloak. Along Allen’s belt were five wooden Containers, each one embossed with the same Emblem as his belt buckle. There was no blade on his belt. Instead, strapped to his right hip and thigh was a thin, rectangular plank of dark wood, a bit over a foot long and half that wide. Reaching down, Allen grabbed one of the long sides and jerked it free of the half holster it rested in. He raised the plank, giving it a small jerk. A spark ran down the length of the plank, revealing a thin black line. Another spark ran from the middle of the line to the far side of the plank from Allen’s hand.

The plank split along the lines even as Allen flipped it around in his hands. The two smaller halves flipped up as if they were hinged, the far side splitting again along its middle so it was twice as long as the middle section. The back section split as well, but shifted so it was perpendicular to the rest of the plank. The splitting and folding revealed a long metal shaft on the top of the now reformed plank, a small raised needle tip of metal at the far end, with several smaller ones at the closer end. A small curved bit of metal flipped down from a concealed spot on the bottom. Runes, deeply carved, could be seen running the length of the barrel and down along the buttstock. The entire transformation had taken less time than it took to blink.

Allen raised the Wifle even as it unfolded, planting it on his shoulder just as all its parts settled into place. He settled the buttstock in place and rested his cheek on it, looking down the barrel with a calm, chilling impassiveness.

Tom had begun to move almost before Allen had finished speaking. Before his friend had even touched the collapsed Wifle, he took off at a sprint down the alley. His cape bellowed behind him as he moved with the speed of an arrow, flashing the four Containers on his belt. He, like Allen, had no dagger. Instead, a curved wooden handle was strapped to each of Tom’s thighs.

Reaching down, Tom closed his fingers around the grips and pulled. Out of the heavy leather holsters on his legs, attached to the end of the handles, came several blocks of metal. They were thin, maybe an inch or two wide, four tall and five long. Each of them gleamed in the moonlight, the runes etched in their surfaces flashing briefly. Small needle tips stood up along their tops as well.

Tom drew his Wistols with a flourish, spinning them around his fingers as he raised them, taking aim even as he ran. A single rune on the inside of the Wistols glowed with a faint red light as Tom’s fingers came to rest on the triggers.

The men didn’t even see Tom running toward them—not that they could have done much if they had. Just before Tom reached the group, there was a sharp whistle from behind him and one of the men crumpled to the ground with a cry. The others looked around and just had enough time to register that their comrade was down and clutching at the small pinky-sized hole in the back of his calf before Tom was on them.

He ran right up to the pair holding the young man and aimed his Wistols at their knees. There was a pair of sharp and short whistles from his Wistols and each man had a pinky-sized hole in his kneecaps. Tom jumped even as he fired and his feet flashed out, landing a kick to each man’s face. The force hurled the men away from the boy and Tom landed lightly between the boy and the other men. He rose, his Wistols already trained on another pair of men. At this point, the men saw who they were dealing with and several cried out in shock.

“Porter!”

The largest of the men, standing on the other side of the prone boy, snarled, glaring at Tom.

“This doesn’t concern you!”

“Leave now,” Tom said, his voice flat and emotionless as he looked down his sights at the men before him. “And you won’t have to worry about me.”

“To...