Chapter 12: Battle on the Docklands (part 2 of 3)

  The Barghest charged toward the girl, and John Rockford pushed her aside to step into its path. He then lowered his shoulders and ran toward it in turn. It jumped and raised its claws but before it could bring them down, Rockford rammed into its midsection, driving his whole weight into the impact. The beast let out a gravelly yelp and flew back several yards but stayed on its feet, immediately squaring up to the larger target.

  Barghests were an intelligent Malady, black harbingers of death that stalked the forests of Brittania, though it was rare to see one this far south—and surely unprecedented to see one transformed out of a pet dog. Deeming Rockford to be a formidable opponent worthy of caution and application, the Barghest shifted itself into a lower stance and spread out the countless undulating tendrils of its tail, thus readying its Maladous Magic.

  I need a weapon. Rockford edged his way toward the perimeter of the improvised ring, never taking his eyes off the Barghest. There was a time when he would wield a sword and buckler to help take down beasts such as these but that had been another life, one he had tried his damnedest to forget. Then he had met the Griffin sisters and let it get into his head that he had something to offer to these young girls navigating the gutters of Thameside as he once had—that he could attain a small measure of atonement.

  Faced with an adversary from a bygone time, he needed to call on his old instincts. As the blacksmith backed up toward the stacks of containers, Carmichael's minions began to clear way, wary of the Malady that tracked Rockford's every move. One of them was slower to react; he stumbled and fell behind the rest of the entourage. Rockford reached out and grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked. The henchman was himself larger and stronger than most but he looked a mere puppet within Rockford's grasp. He yelled in alarm and flailed his arms in the air, swinging a baton in one hand. Rockford caught this baton mid-swing and plucked it out of the man's hand before tossing him toward his mates.

  A baton was no replacement for a sword but it would have to do for now. Instead of the correct way to hold it, Rockford wrapped his right hand around the short end of the baton, handling it like the hilt of a shortsword. He then approached the Barghest with his left arm and fist held in front of his face, elbow bent and knuckles facing out. In the absence of a buckler, his thick and hardened bare arm would have to be the next best thing.

  Rockford closed the distance with powerful strides and swung down with the baton. The Barghest jumped back to avoid the hit and—in the same motion—spun in place. Its tail, a mess of sinewy hair cloaked in a black smog of Maladous energy, whipped through the air, aimed directly at the blacksmith's head. Rockford instinctively thrust out his buckler arm to parry the attack, remembering too late that—on the this occasion—it was just that, his arm.

  The tail coiled itself around the trunk-like arm. Rockford dug his heels into the ground in anticipation for what was to come. Then an immense force tugged against his arm, threatening to rip the whole thing out of its socket if he didn't let himself be dragged toward the Barghest and certain death. Dropping the baton to free his sword hand, Rockford grabbed hold of a handful of the tendrils and pulled his two arms apart with all his strength. He felt a give as parts of the tail ripped apart; the rest fell away as the Barghest backed off once again. The blacksmith immediately bent down to pick up the baton and go back into his stance—or tried to. His left arm dangled uselessly by his side, much of the flesh scorched and blistering. Only then did he become aware of the intense burning sensation on the injured arm as well as the sword hand with which he had grasped the Barghest tail.

  The Malady gave him no time to reassess his options. Sensing an opportunity for the kill, it began to gyrate its caudal tendrils at speed, emitting more smoke as it did. Soon, its whole body was obscured in a black smog that brooked no light. This was the Barghest in its truest form, a dark shadow that blended into the night and left no witness to its hunt. The black cloud barrelled toward Rockford, and he had no way of knowing how to judge its next attack. Before he could react, two sets of glistening claws emerged from the amorphous void and shot straight toward his chest.

  Rockford tumbled to the ground with a heavy thud, pushed to the edge of the river bank. He had managed to wedge the baton between himself and the Maladous claws in the last second, but he was still at the Barghest's mercy. The black smoke parted for a split moment and Rockford found himself looking straight into the demonoid face—fangs bared, wretched red eyes bulging in anguish.

  The Malady raised a paw to strike again, and John Rockford understood that he had failed. Once, as a Paladin Prefect of the East India Company and an overseer of their Khiimori program, he led unsuspecting young men and women—so full of hope and promise—to ruination or death. Tonight, he had tried to achieve a modicum of expiation, had tried to help along this family of impoverished yet spirited children on their journey. And he had failed them. Would that he had these aspirations before his Consumption, when he had been younger and stronger, when he had been the most revered Aqua attuner in the city. Would that he had used his former power and influence to save rather than destroy...

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  He felt a drop of liquid land on his cheek. The next moment, the Barghest's sweeping claws along with the rest of its body were engulfed in a torrent of water. The torrent washed away the cloud of black smoke in an instant and pushed the beast into the air, forcing it to land in a wet soggy heap several yards away. The water then flooded back and washed over the blacksmith's body before receding into the Thames.

  Aquatic amplification? Rockford scrambled to his knees, coughing up and spitting out river water while trying to make sense of what had transpired. Had his powers come back to him? It couldn't be... his Magic had been dry as a bone for decades, and besides, he had not felt himself Reduct. How could another Aqua attuner—indeed one of considerable talent as evident from the powerful surge that had driven the Barghest off of him—have come to his rescue? Unless...

  There was someone here, somone who had hidden her Magic from her family, who had shown the same aversion to alcohol as he had, and who had guzzled tea like a madwoman after a night of overexerting herself.

  Aoife Griffin stood beside him, her hands frozen in the air in a thrusting motion, her eyes wide and staring disbelievingly at the Barghest she had just hit with a deluge of Aquatic Magic. Before the girl and the blacksmith had a chance to share in their mutual astonishment, their quarry stirred, readying its next desperate attack.

  ***

  Unbeknownst even to herself, Clodagh Griffin was an angry young woman.

  For much of her everyday life, she was content to let louder voices and stronger wills dictate how she should behave. Aoife had often been the voice and the will in one person. As a little girl, she used to chase after her older sister on all of her mischief and ill-advised gambits. That was until Da passed, then Aoife quickly learned caution, restraint, and obligation. Even then, Clodagh had readily accommodated her sister by falling in line and helping to watch over Ma and their younger siblings. Aoife often relied on her to be a foil—the cheery mood-maker to Aoife's solemn taskmaster. For the most part, the role had come to her easily and naturally.

  But whenever she had stepped out of line and made her own decisions in life, they were often out of anger. Anger at the family's senseless loss and desolation had once driven her to set sight on adventuring as her calling, as it seemed the most obvious avenue by which to punch above her weight. Anger at her own fears and insecurities—brought on by the sight of the Dragoon and his trophies at the Testimony—had reaffirmed her determination to stay the course; though on that occasion, Aoife had also been a rather loud voice in her ear. And anger at the injustice of having that very goal ripped away from her—by events beyond her knowledge or control—had cemented the plans she had at the start of the night.

  Her mind had been made up; she would jump off the boat as soon as it had disembarked with her family safely aboard. She never pretended it was a good plan—and she could see many holes in it now; after all, the plan had been forged in anger.

  But none of it mattered now. The plan had changed. She had left the boat and now walked at pace away from the pier but her steps carried her toward the bend in the Thames where their carriages had been accosted—back to Aoife. It had been anger again that gave way to the change of plans, but about what or at whom, she couldn't say with any certainty.

  But when she heard the ghastly howl of some savage beast, when she followed it to a commotion by the river, and when she saw a red-eyed monster with black smoke instead of a tail rearing to charge at her sister... Clodagh suddenly knew the reason for her anger with perfect clarity. And, unbeknownst even to herself, she Reducted.

  There you are again. When the whole family is hungry and grieving and Ma is a shell of herself, there's Aoife, putting on a brave face and being the strong one. Even though all you want to do is crumple into a heap with the rest of us. When your sisters and brothers go about their days, with school to attend and food on the table, there's Aoife, sneaking off at night to mess around with criminals. Even though if you had just asked us, we'd have told you. That we'd all rather go hungry than have you risking your neck for us.

  And now, even when the secrets have unravelled, even after all we've been through together, there's Aoife, sending your family ahead so you could risk your life on another twisted misadventure. Alone.

  Why won't you trust me? Why won't you let me carry some of the burden? Why do you have to take everything on by your lonesome, as if any of us ever asked you to do that? I'm as much our father's daughter as you are, and I can damn well do my part if my sister is in trouble.

  Breaking into a full sprint, her mind blank save for one notion and one notion only, Clodagh Griffin rushes toward the monster that threatens her sister...