Devon Monk - Dead Iron

The bird scratched and bit, nipping flesh off the thick of his hand. He held tight. There was something inside the bird that kept it alive. Not steam like any other matic he’d ever seen—the bird wasn’t hot enough, though there was a coal and a small portion of water running through it. Something more than springs, more than clockwork. Something strong. All his life he’d known the best way to figure out how something came together was to tear it apart.

Jeb squeezed the bird in one hand, keeping the wings tucked tight, the tiny tick in its breast growing faster. He ran his fingers over its head feeling for the seam. Easy as a thumbnail through an apple skin, he split the weld on its face. The bird’s head hinged open.

Inside that metal skull was more metal, fine gears and cogs that would make a watchmaker drool. But it wasn’t just a tightened spring that made the owl tick. He pried open the back of the bird.

The innards looked like a watch, tightly coiled and geared, layers of things that ticked, pumped, spun. But there in the center of the copper and brass was a glass vial. Filled with an unearthly green light. Glim.

This matic wasn’t fueled by steam alone. Something more fired it—the rarest thing of all—glim. Not a good magic, sweet magic, earth-and-home magic like his Mae’s magic, glim was something else altogether. They said it was harvested by airships from the top of the sky, filtered, and trapped in glass to be sold to only the richest men. Jeb had never seen it, and never in his life had enough money or land to sell for even an ounce of it.

But it was a wondrous discovery that the most scientific of minds had put to use. Glim enhanced all that it touched. Made a piece of coal burn twice as long, made a crop yield three times its fruit, and, it was rumored, could even give a man a long, long life.

This glim must have come from whatever dark hole Shard LeFel had crawled himself out of.

Jeb smiled. He was hungry for that. For the glim that fueled an undead thing. Powerful hungry.

This he understood. This he could destroy. So easy.

He tore the ticker apart and broke the vial with his teeth. He sucked up the glim, taking it down like corn whiskey, and licking his lips for more.

It tasted good, the glim in that matic’s brain. It filled him. Warmed him. Made him stronger. Fueled him too, just like it fueled the undead owl.

He dropped the ticker, which fell in a clank of copper and brass amid the brush and pine needles. Then he started walking again. A little faster than before.

And for the first time since he died, Jeb Lindson laughed.

Shard LeFel enjoyed his luxuries. He saw no need to be in anything but the finest comfort at all times. His train carriage was adorned in gold and rare woods, precious jewels set in the rococo arched ceiling of the long, wide living car that dripped with crystal gas-lamp chandeliers, wall sconces, and tapestries. Mirrors, murals, and reliefs depicted scenes from a much older earth where creatures of myth feasted upon pleasures, and his kind—the Ele and the Strange—walked the land as gods.

LeFel was not mortal by choice. Banished by his brother, the king, to this mortal land, he had been trapped here for three hundred years. And though he was immortal in his land, here, in this savage place, time chewed upon his soul and flesh like a dog tearing through meat. He was dying, becoming more and more frail no matter what concoctions or devices he employed to slow time’s cruel hammer.

The beat of his death drummed ever nearer. When the full moon waned in just two days, he would die. Unless he returned to the immortal realm.

But he had not spent his exile brooding over his circumstance. He had spent it investigating the ways of cheating his sentence, and, thusly, his death. His long life had been devoted to finding a way to return to his own lands, so he could live forever, and mete his revenge upon his brother. That one clear goal had guided him through the decades with a hard desire, and had, in its own way, afforded him yet more pleasures.

He was well schooled in the kept knowledge of magic, and well versed in both the wild and gentle sciences.

And he, a highborn Ele, had befriended the lowly Strange.

A most unusual happenstance. And one he had used to his best advantage.

In trade for their knowledge he had given the Strange a promise: he would lay the dead iron down, cutting paths to guide the Strange across the land so they could slake their hunger on the nightmares and pain of mortals, and walk as men.

Through the ages, some Strange had found ways to hitch upon a nightmare, slink through a shadow, and pluck, howl, or frighten in this mortal world. But they were little more than wisps, ghosts, frights. He had given them Ele knowledge of blood and moonlight and earthly magic. All things the Strange needed to devise bodies of flesh, bone, and other odd bits and gears into the dark and delightful Strangework.

His knowledge opened the New World to their appetites. Their knowledge devised for him a doorway home. But even so, the door would swing closed too swiftly for him to walk through, and only the most nimble of Strange would be able to slip between lands before the door was sealed for good.

So the Strange had gathered up bits and pieces and created a device most clever to keep that door open—the Holder. And LeFel had spent the last fifty years keeping the Holder hidden from the king’s guards—those few men who walked the land protecting mortals from the Strange and Strange devices.

LeFel lifted the Holder in his hand, tipping the sphere to catch the thin light of morning in all the hue and tone fine metal could offer.

The Holder was the size of a large apple. Seven intricate pieces fashioned from seven ancient metals locked and bound together to create it. Gold, silver, copper, tin, lead, native mercury, and iron bound the cogs, gears, pistons, cranks, and valves that held still and silent within and without the sphere, overlapping, arcing, flowing as if carved by wind and softened by hammer. Odd symbols further detailed the jewellike Holder, the cryptic language of the Strange binding forbidden spells into the metal. And at the heart of the sphere, glimpsed by the artful wedges through which the inner workings could be seen, was a glass vial of liquid mercury, suspended by copper strings.

Each piece glittered and glowed, in equal parts art, design, and device. Shard LeFel took delight in knowing that fitted together the Holder was a great weapon, and also that each piece, if left separate, was a wicked weapon of its own. But the Holder would serve for him one purpose: to hold open the door between the realm of the Ele and Strange and this mortal dirt.

This was even more valuable than the glim dragonfly caught in the cage. This was even more valuable than a king’s vault full of gold and glim. With this one device, Shard LeFel would shuck his mortal sentence, and change the face of the land forever.

The matics up the rail let out a screech and thump, a chain breaking free with a load of wood. Shard drew his gaze away from the Holder, and rose to replace it within the protective dead iron chest set deep within the floor of the railcar.

“Lord LeFel.” A murmur from the far end of the carriage. Mr. Shunt had been no more than a shadow lingering, but now he took a step into the lantern light. “You have a guest come to call.”

LeFel leaned back from setting the lock on the chest, dropping the key into his pocket and picking at the lace of his cuff. “Who?”

“The storekeeper’s daughter, Rose Small.”

LeFel frowned. He had not met the daughter, though he had dealings with her parents. Owners of the mercantile, the Smalls were rich and set to benefit most by the rail’s completion. Still, they offered to sell him their land to drive the rail straight through town, straight through the mercantile, the mill, and the church. He had agreed to see their terms, though he would have taken their land whether they offered it or not.