Serial Saturday: Nightmare Engine of Doom Part 11 – An Encounter With Xavier
For the second time in an hour, I found myself regaining consciousness while lying on the ground while a great deal of shouting went on around me. This time I felt decidedly singed but as I sat up and saw the scorched wreckage of the steam taxi I realized I’d been lucky. It had been blown into multiple pieces by the explosion of the boiler, which had all gone skidding off in different directions. I appeared to have been thrown clear with only minor injuries, and I wondered if Enzo had been so lucky.
“This’ll help that Jack Scamarack ploy of yours,” he said from just behind my ear, causing me to jump. “No one’ll believe we’re alive now, what with one explosion or another. Free to move against the French steamcar racers, now, that’s us.”
It occurred to me that Jack Scamarack had, in fact, faked his death in a steamcar explosion in Pistons of Death, as well as in Race of Peril, but I was in no mood for Enzo’s mockery, so I didn’t answer, instead looking around. I realized that we had, in fact, nearly made it to the train station–it was only a few hundred feet off.
“Hey,” Enzo said, slapping me heavily on the shoulder, “and you won’t need to pay the cabbie his fifty bucks, either, him being all blown up and everything. Everything really worked out nicely, in the end.” He strode past me, and not knowing what else to do I eventually picked myself up, located my bag, and followed him.
The train station was all abuzz with talk of the nearby explosion and crash, but no one seemed to connect it to Enzo or me to it, despite the fact that we both had smoke still drifting off of our clothing.
In a trice, we had purchased tickets for the express to Saskatoon, and settled in to wait. I was a bit apprehensive that one of our pursuers would appear in the station before the train arrived, but it seemed that anyone still after us had been thrown off our trail by the horrific explosion.
“You see,” I told Enzo after he’d returned to the bench where I sat following an unsuccessful search for a bar, “the tactics of Jack Scamarack which you malign so have worked quite nicely. We’ll be on the Countess before she even knows we’re coming.”
“Wonderful,” Enzo muttered, made even more sullen than usual by the lack of alcohol. “You can keep an eye out ahead of the train during the trip–it’s a cinch there’ll be some damsel tied to the tracks in front of us sooner or later. You can run on ahead and deal with it.”
I decided Enzo deserved a cutting retort to this, but by the time I’d come up with it, the train had arrived and Enzo stood to lead the way aboard. Despite what I’d said, I had still been quite nervous about being discovered, and the sensation of the train beginning to move took a great weight off my shoulders. Even if someone from the crew of the Spirit of Omaha divined that we’d left on the train, and this seemed unlikely, we’d be able to lose ourselves in Saskatoon, and focus on hunting down the Countess as she continued her machinations, all unaware.
Enzo wandered off to the club car, and I leaned back in my seat and relaxed. We had the car to ourselves, thanks to the pungent odor of smoke clinging to Enzo and me I thought, and after a few moments I had nearly drifted off.
I came back fully awake at the realization that someone else had entered the compartment, and looked up blearily.
“Pardon me, do you know-” the man began, in a thick Belgian accent, then broke off, staring at me. I was staring at him, as well. He was a tall, lean man, with an eye patch partially covering a ugly scar, which in turn carved its way through a black, pencil-thin mustache.
He knew me, of course, as I knew him, thanks to our several battles with sword, thaumaturgy, and trained weasels–Pierre LaFort, one of the Countess’ most trusted henchmen.
After a few moments of mutual staring, he turned and raced from the compartment.
For the second time in an hour, I found myself regaining consciousness while lying on the ground while a great deal of shouting went on around me. This time I felt decidedly singed but as I sat up and saw the scorched wreckage of the steam taxi I realized I’d been lucky. It had been blown into multiple pieces by the explosion of the boiler, which had all gone skidding off in different directions. I appeared to have been thrown clear with only minor injuries, and I wondered if Enzo had been so lucky.
“This’ll help that Jack Scamarack ploy of yours,” he said from just behind my ear, causing me to jump. “No one’ll believe we’re alive now, what with one explosion or another. Free to move against the French steamcar racers, now, that’s us.”
It occurred to me that Jack Scamarack had, in fact, faked his death in a steamcar explosion in Pistons of Death, as well as in Race of Peril, but I was in no mood for Enzo’s mockery, so I didn’t answer, instead looking around. I realized that we had, in fact, nearly made it to the train station–it was only a few hundred feet off.
“Hey,” Enzo said, slapping me heavily on the shoulder, “and you won’t need to pay the cabbie his fifty bucks, either, him being all blown up and everything. Everything really worked out nicely, in the end.” He strode past me, and not knowing what else to do I eventually picked myself up, located my bag, and followed him.
The train station was all abuzz with talk of the nearby explosion and crash, but no one seemed to connect it to Enzo or me to it, despite the fact that we both had smoke still drifting off of our clothing.
In a trice, we had purchased tickets for the express to Saskatoon, and settled in to wait. I was a bit apprehensive that one of our pursuers would appear in the station before the train arrived, but it seemed that anyone still after us had been thrown off our trail by the horrific explosion.
“You see,” I told Enzo after he’d returned to the bench where I sat following an unsuccessful search for a bar, “the tactics of Jack Scamarack which you malign so have worked quite nicely. We’ll be on the Countess before she even knows we’re coming.”
“Wonderful,” Enzo muttered, made even more sullen than usual by the lack of alcohol. “You can keep an eye out ahead of the train during the trip–it’s a cinch there’ll be some damsel tied to the tracks in front of us sooner or later. You can run on ahead and deal with it.”
I decided Enzo deserved a cutting retort to this, but by the time I’d come up with it, the train had arrived and Enzo stood to lead the way aboard. Despite what I’d said, I had still been quite nervous about being discovered, and the sensation of the train beginning to move took a great weight off my shoulders. Even if someone from the crew of the Spirit of Omaha divined that we’d left on the train, and this seemed unlikely, we’d be able to lose ourselves in Saskatoon, and focus on hunting down the Countess as she continued her machinations, all unaware.
Enzo wandered off to the club car, and I leaned back in my seat and relaxed. We had the car to ourselves, thanks to the pungent odor of smoke clinging to Enzo and me I thought, and after a few moments I had nearly drifted off.
I came back fully awake at the realization that someone else had entered the compartment, and looked up blearily.
“Pardon me, do you know-” the man began, in a thick Belgian accent, then broke off, staring at me. I was staring at him, as well. He was a tall, lean man, with an eye patch partially covering a ugly scar, which in turn carved its way through a black, pencil-thin mustache.
He knew me, of course, as I knew him, thanks to our several battles with sword, thaumaturgy, and trained weasels–Jean-Marc Xavier, one of the Countess’ most trusted henchmen.
After a few moments of mutual staring, he turned and raced from the compartment.
Copyright © 2011 SM Williams