Hannibal’s Blood
Captain Gerald Foster shook his
head as he assessed the state of his jacket; this adventuring was playing
absolute hob with his wardrobe. The rough
stone chute to the lower level of the temple may not have been the most elegant
way down but it was by far the most expedient they had found so far. “I’ll be down to my gardening trousers in a
month at this rate” he muttered to himself.
“Did you say something Captain?”
called down the Baroness.
“That woman has ears like a bloody
bat.” Captain Foster thought quite loudly but making quite sure that not a
syllable escaped his lips.
“Should I send the lantern down?”
she enquired.
Gaining
the ledge at the edge of the pit trap Gerald attempted to reach for the torch
he had dropped down the shaft as it sputtered near the cruel sharpened stones
at the pit’s bottom. Whoever it was that
built this temple, Gerald decided, they were not a nice people. No
wonder we couldn’t get any of the locals to come up here he thought, the elders in the village had the right of
it – this place is literally a death trap. Giving the torch up as a lost
cause Gerald stood and brushed the dust and cobwebs from his pants. A faint red glow began to fill the adjacent
chamber to where Foster currently stood.
“Wait a moment your Excellency” he called up. Drawing his Colt revolver the captain eased
into the next room. The glow became noticeably
stronger. The rough stone chamber, Gerald noted with a
quick glance, held several disparate items: one simple unadorned stone alter, one
broken urn, one clear glass bottle giving off a steady albeit malevolent red
glow, and one corpse.
At first Captain Foster thought
that the sandstone lower crypt was being cooled in some fashion, but with a
start he realized that it was his very flesh that was becoming chilled. Quickly stepping back into the next room the
heat and humidity of the African air descended upon him. His face and hands burned as if he had come
into a warm room from being outside too long on a bitterly cold night. The glow
from the bottle slowly and sullenly faded.
“Captain Foster what in blazes is
going on down there?” echoed the Baroness’ voice from the top of the tunnel. “Do you need assistance?”
“I am all right for the moment your
Excellency.” Gerald called up rubbing his hands together to clear the last of
the chill, “but what was the name of that fellow that you were so concerned
knew the location of this artifact?”
“He went by Francis Swinton; he was
a fairly well known artificer in some circles.” the Baroness called down “Is there
some indication that he has been in the sub-crypt?”
“Perhaps,” replied Foster “Did he
have a penchant for brown tweed?”
“Captain Foster!” the Baroness
barked “What does that have to do with anything? I’m coming down this instant!”
“Your excellency,” the Captain replied,
“before you descend please bring Dr. Turnbull. I would very much like his opinion on the
current situation; things appear a bit… precarious in the sub-crypt.”
“Suit yourself Captain,” the
Baroness huffed, “I will return shortly.”
Damnation,
Gerald thought to himself as the friendly glow of the lantern receded from the
top of the chute leaving him with only the fitful red glow of the adjacent room
and his guttering torch, I should have
had her send down the spare lantern.
After a short interval, that felt
much longer in presence of something most likely dangerous to his person,
Gerald could hear the clomping steps of Dr. Turnbull approaching via the upper
crypt. Accompanying the doctor’s steps
was a running tirade from the Baroness--“Really doctor I am at my wits end with
that man. I’ve hired on this crew to
complete a specific job and at the prices I am paying I expect professionalism
above all professionalism!”
Gerald smiled to himself; much like
a rock in a surging river the tirade seemed to have little effect on the good
doctor. It will take a very long time to wear down Dr. Myron Thaddeus Turnbull my
dear Baroness, Gerald thought to himself.
“Oy laddie what have you found?”
called down Myron.
“I believe I’ve discovered the
artifact Doctor, but there are some complications that I could use your
professional opinion on.” Gerald called
up.
“Ooh professional is it?” the
doctor quipped “Well then I’ll be right down.”
Accompanied by a ratcheting sound
Dr. Turnbull’s stumpy form slowly descended the chute. With an oath he pulled up short when his
lantern revealed the sharpened stone spikes at the bottom of the pit. “A bit of hand if you would lad” called the
doctor. Leaning over Gerald grabbed the
front of Myron’s leather airship harness and pulled him to the pits ledge. With
his feet planted on solid ground the doctor pressed a brass button on the
device attached to his harness. With a
final loud whirr and clanking the device released the rope. Returning the climbing device to one of the
many hooks on his belt Turnbull stretched until there was an audible crack of
his back “Oof,” he exclaimed. “Much
appreciated my good captain, so what is it you needed my most expert opinion on?”
the doctor asked with just the slightest wiggle of his eyebrows.
Captain Foster smiled as he took in
his friend. Standing just a bit over 5
feet in height the doctor with his bushy muttonchops would have been comical if
not for the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle packed onto his short
frame. Although in fairness the doctor’s
fashion sense was also something one had to become inured to; the combination
of a vest and kilt made of heavy canvas along with a bowler was quite enough
but when you added in the ubiquitous gadgets and tools strapped to his broad
leather belt, he was a walking tinker’s cart.
“I say Myron, I understand that your kilt would be comfortable in this
heat, but shouldn’t it be a Turnbull tartan and not made of canvas?”
“Oh, aye lad the airflow is welcome
if you know what I mean” remarked Turnbull,” but I’ll be boiled before I let
some jumped up weaver tell me what to wear when! So onward and hopefully upward, what do you
have for me?”
Just as Gerald was about to answer
there was snicking noise like the combination of a bat flittering about and a
knife being drawn from a sheath. Both
Myron and Gerald turned to observe a small clockwork owl alight on the pinnacle
of one of the stone spikes. “WHO-nic,
WHO-nic, WHO-nic” it softly called as it turned it’s lantern like eyes on the
two adventures.
“Make yourself presentable lad,”
drawled Myron, “Her highness approaches.”
“Careful doctor,” Gerald whispered
pointing up the chute, “ears like a bat.”
With more grace than either of the men
the Baroness, rappelled down the rope to a point just above the sharpened
spikes. Pushing off of the back wall
with her legs Saundra swung across the pit landing in a three-point stance on
the ledge. Gerald briefly admired the
cleavage that this maneuver exposed before offering an arm to the dark haired
baroness. Waving him off Saundra
regained her feet and brushed nonexistent dust from her split skirt and armored
outer corset. Within moments the little
metal owl alighted on the baroness’s shoulder and settled in. Adjusting her round pith helmet and
accompanying white veil the baroness pinned both the captain and the doctor
with her dark brown eyes. “Gentlemen?”
she enquired with a wave of her hand indicating that an explanation of the
situation should proceed both quickly and succinctly.
Clearing his throat Captain Foster
took charge of the situation. “Ahem, yes
your Excellency if you will both please follow me.” Gerald led both the doctor and the baroness
to the entrance of the next room. “Be
careful not to cross the threshold,” he stated in a low firm tone, “I believe
that the artifact has been damaged and become unstable.”
As the trio stared into the sub-crypt the
Baroness whispered, “Bubo please be a dear.”
With a soft hoot and the whir of gears the light from the eyes of the
small owl intensified until their output was like that of two electric
torches. As sufficient light exposed the
room the Baroness hissed, “Damn you, you arrogant and foolhardy man.”
“Excuse me?” asked Captain Foster.
“Not you…this time,” replied the
Baroness, gesturing with hand at the scene before them of the broken pottery,
device, and corpse. “I would bet good money
that before us lays one Francis Swinton, and his failed experiment to harness
the power of Hannibal’s Blood through the use of Bachellise’s hypothesis on
malign dissipation.”
“Good eye lass!” the doctor
interjected excitedly, “I do believe your assessment is correct.” He hurriedly grabbed down a set of goggles
strapped to his hat and placed them over his eyes. With a few deft adjustments to the small
dials on the goggles’ sides he began to mutter to himself as he peered into the
room.
Gerald, his head snapping back and
forth from this rapid fire exchange like he was at a tennis match finally
looked to the Baroness for explanation.
“Your Excellency, Bale-cheesy who?” he enquired.
“Bachellise,” she corrected. “He was an Italian priest from approximately
200 years ago that had some experience with artifacts, especially those of a
malign influence. One of his hypotheses
was that with the proper application of a grounding force much like that of a lightning
rod the dangerous emanations from such relics could be cancelled out. But it appears that the hypothesis has been
proven wrong” the Baroness concluded gesturing towards the corpse.
“I’d not be so quick to jump to conclusions,”
the doctor interjected, “I believe the hypothesis was sound – it’s his welds
that I question.” Taking off his goggles
Myron offered them to the captain. “Take
a look at the top right hand side of that brass frame Gerald, and tell me what
you see,” the doctor instructed. Gerald
donned the goggles and quickly adjusted the dials to get a close-up view of the
brass device.
“It appears Myron has the right of
it your Excellency,” Gerald remarked handing back the goggles, “there is a
broken weld at the top of the device.”
“Do ya think you can command your
wee beastie to fly in the room and reattach the wire?” Myron enquired of Saundra.
The baroness paused before
answering, “Well, I’m not sure Dr. Turnbull.
My ability to control the aetherium at a distance may be affected by the
emanations from the artifact.”
Myron detected a bit of
prevarication in this answer, but decided not to pursue it. “Well your excellency if you could but try?”
he asked.
Saundra closed her eyes and the
small metal owl shuffled from her shoulder down to her wrist. Taking a step back from the archway the
baroness flicked her arm upward much like a falconer launching a hawk. The owl circled the outer chamber twice
before heading for the opening to the alcove.
As the owl reached the threshold it let out a loud metallic shriek and
fell to the floor. Saundra clutched at
her heart and almost swooned. Careening to the doorway she snatched the owl up
and stumbled off to the side of the antechamber. Sliding down to the floor she clutched the
owl to her chest.
Gerald and Myron looked at one
another with identical raised eyebrows (albeit one pair was much bushier). Neither had ever seen the normally
unflappable lady so distraught. Gerald quickly
moved to the baroness’s side to somehow salvage the situation. While the captain was distracted Myron took a
deep breath and stuck his prosthetic hand and arm through the doorway. Expecting to feel a shock or at least lose
control of his brass and aetherium limb he was a bit surprised when neither
happened. Waggling the fingers of his
artificial left hand he then stuck his right hand past the doorway, and
immediately snatched it back. It felt as
if he has stuck his hand in ice water.
The bottle in the chamber flared with light, briefly. Myron’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at
the baroness. Neither she nor Gerald had
noted his impromptu experiment. You’ve got secrets lass, the doctor thought, I just hope they aren’t the kind that get
us all killed.
“Right then,” Myron stated making a
hand gesture to Gerald to continue to see to the baroness while he busily
searched around his person for the right device. “Looks like this may be a job
for man’s oldest tool.” Seeing the
quizzical look on Gerald’s face Myron sighed, “A stick lad, I’m looking for a
stick, actually a telescoping rod to be precise. Ahh, here it is” Myron exclaimed pulling a
fat brass tube from one of his many pockets.
Making sure he had the device facing the correct direction Myron pressed
a small button on it. With a pop like a large
party cracker sections of the tube began to extend until he was holding a stave
a little over 12 feet in length each section just a bit smaller than the one
before it. Bracing the rod against the
side of the doorway Myron carefully pushed the loose wire back into place. Gritting his teeth Myron moved his right hand
passed the threshold once again. This
time there was no response from the bottle.
“That seems to have done it Captain,” Myron remarked turning to look at
the pair.
By this point Saundra had regained
her feet and was now brushing real dirt off of her clothing. The small owl sat hunched and yet somehow
wary on her shoulder. “Yes captain,” she replied, “I’m quite sure I am all
right now you can stop fussing. The
artifact just gave me a bit of a start. There must have been some sort of
reaction with the aetherium… I believe
that I will return to the ship for a while.
You gentlemen appear to have everything in hand now.”
“Yes, of course your Excellency.”
Gerald stammered as the baroness brushed past him.
Taking a device similar to Myron’s
from her belt Sandra attached it to the rope at the edge of the chamber. With a ratcheting noise her lithe form was quickly
drawn up the stone chute and out of sight.
Leaving the edge of the pit trap
Gerald returned to the doorway. “Good
work doctor,” he stated making his way into the chamber. “Should we nab the little devil and be off?”
Myron’s metal limb shot out faster
than the eye could follow nabbing Gerald’s arm as if in a vice. “Captain that metal is making the most
tenuous of connections at this time. I
suggest we get Adelaide and also bring down the containment box. I’d rather not wind up like poor old what’s
his name there.”
Gerald groaned as he thought of the
two tasks now before him. “Myron,” he
complained, “that box weighs close to 700 pounds if it weighs an ounce, and
waking up Adelaide is never a job to be taken lightly.”
Myron chuckled as he answered,
“Come now laddie, the safety and health of your crew are paramount to the ways
of captaincy. Anyway,” he continued
casting a glance over to their way out of the lower chamber, “You have a
penchant for dangerous women.”
Gerald spluttered but then laughed
in spite of himself, “You’re too shrewd for your own good Myron, but it’ll take
the three of us maneuver that blasted box down here so you might as well accompany
me topside. Anyway it will most likely
take the well-honed bedside manner of a learned man such as yourself to wake
that Cajun spitfire without bodily harm.”
“Alright then lad,” Myron quipped
as he marched over to the rope compressing the telescoping rod and placing a
fresh black powder cartridge in its breech.
Looking down at the device he smiled, “At least I can poke the bear from
a safe distance, and let her know it was on your orders.” Having the last word the doctor snapped his brass
ascender to the rope was quickly whisked out of site.
Gerald’s back began to ache just
thinking of the work that would be needed to manhandle the containment box down
here and for a moment was tempted to just grab the damn bottle and be done with
it, but he could still picture the rictus grin of one Francis Swinton lying
just feet away and decided to clamp down on that impulse. Why can
it never be easy?
M-T-T
