In Which Our Hero Does Battle With Foul Necromancers

January 27th, 1885

Tarant, United Kingdom

Our little weather beaten, disheveled trio had set a good, steady pace through the vastness of wilderness between the town of Shrouded Hills and the city of Tarant, which sat astride the Hadrian River like some ungainly colossus. While those weeks had been rife with ambushes by small raiding parties of kites, the occasional ferocious and starving wolf, and at least one bear that needed to be wrestled into submission by our good half-ogre, Sally Mead Mug, one thing that had remained consistent during the whole time was the boundless beauty of nature, the fine odor of the forest and the plains, the crisp chill of winter.

Contrast this with good and noble and magnificent Tarant, the largest city in the world, home to the many technological marvels that had rocked Arcanum to its core over the past seventy two years. The air above the sprawling metropolis was thick with the black fumes and coal smoke of thousands of factories. But there was also the intense stinks that were more ancient and made only terrible by their sheer numbers. Tarant, according to the beaten atlas purchased by Sally before we left Shrouded Hills, had a population of one and one half million souls. One and a half million souls, a mixture of human, gnome, half-ogre, half-orc, elf, halfling. All of them dumping their excrement into the sewers, and the sewers dumping into the Hadrian, and the Hadrian carrying the effluvia southwards, towards the sea.

“Well,” Virginia said. “You know what they say about cities?”

“No, what?” Sally asked.

“You get used to them,” Virginia said, then started to walk forward. Tarant herself was walled, but those walls were not as well maintained as they had been before. But why bother? A modern cannon could knock them down with ease. Tarant’s true might was seen in men in khaki uniform who patrolled those walls, bearing breech-loading rifles in the case of the conscript regulars, saber and revolver in the case of their officers. But nowhere did I see any sign of lassitude, laziness, or lack of training.

These men had all seen combat, and they eyed our party as we made our way to the nearest gates. The guards barely glanced our way, not seeming to mind us stepping through until one of them caught glimpse of Virginia’s face. He stepped forward, then said: “Miss, miss.”

Virginia turned to face the guard. “Yes?” she asked, her voice rather frosty.

“This here gate,” the guard said. “It leads through the Boil.”

“The Boil?” I asked, frowning as I looked past the gate and past the guard. The territory beyond looked rather entrenched. There was a narrow path of stone with wrought iron fences to either side, with guards standing near gates that ran off the side of the path. Beyond the fences, I could see what appeared to be a complete shambles of a city. Lean toos made of wood and corrugated metal, shacks and tents alike, all pitched near one another with nary a sign of central planning or long term plans. Half-orcs and half-ogres dominated the restive, furtive populations that glared sullenly at the guards. Dogs could be heard to bark, and children could be heard to laugh and chase one another ... but by far, the most overt sensation one got upon looking at the shanty was the same feeling one had while observing any caged beast.

“Aye, these are the slums of Tarant,” the guard said. “Your miss here wouldn’t last five minutes past the gates. So, you lot? You stay on the path and head right for Garillon bridge and get into the city proper.”

I wondered if he was being polite for Virginia’s sake, or if my fine suit jacket was having the effect I wished. The question was moot: we had our warning, and we made our way quickly through he path laid down through the Boil. Glowering faces, kept at bay by what seemed to be an entire platoon of Tarantian regulars. But at last, we came to the Garillon bridge ... and here, Virginia, Sally and I had to stop and simply marvel at what technology could do. The vision of a bridge nearly fifty yards wide and five hundred yards long, made of wrought iron and stone work, with brilliantly blazing electric lamps built into every support strut so that, even during the day time, the bridge seemed to glow with power made a terrible juxtaposition to the terrible squalor we had just passed through.

Tarant, it seemed, could easily pay for this bridge and its army. It could less easily pay to feed and clothe its, shall we say, greener inhabitants. This thought kept me in a profound distemper until we reached the far side of the Garillon and I was struck from it by the alarming arrival of almost fifty souls from a stairwell. I stepped back as the crowd of men in suit jackets and top hats and women in their gowns and broad hats emerged from the stairs, which were set into the sidewalk and headed down at an angle that made it clear they did not connect to any of the buildings that were set on the side of the road.

A guard in dark khaki, with his rifle at his feet, stood at ramrod stiff attention near the Garillon’s exit. He seemed unphased by either the crowd or our approach. “Good sir,” I said.

“I am on duty, boy,” he said, his voice gruff, his eyes locked forward.

I frowned. “I am new in this city, I merely wished to know what that is.” I pointed at the stairs that the people had emerged from.

The guard lifted his chin and sneered. “That, boy, is the Pneumatic Steamrail Station for the Commercial District of Tarant.” His tone said: You damned greenskin savage better well be impressed. And ... damn his eyes, but I was. The concept of a pneumatic steamrail had been printed in several magazines and technical digests that I had read during my travels, but I had not heard that Tarant had built one. I started for the stairs, and Virginia and Sally followed, both looking curious. We came down the stairs and found ourselves in a gloriously well decorated ... well ... the only term I could use for it was a cross between a hotel’s lobby and a small dock.

First, the lobby. The floors were carpeted in red velvet and the ceiling had glittering crystalline chandeliers that provided more of that remarkable electrical illumination. A small waiting area was set in the corner, with comfortable chairs and seats, though many were currently occupied by several gnomish gentlemen who smoked their cigars and spoke in loud, boorish voices about the stock market. The center of the lobby, though, was where the ‘dock’ came into existence. There, upon a curved depression, sat a bullet shaped wooden carriage the size of a smallish house. Its nose was nuzzled up against a circular tunnel, and I saw that it was just as the designs had envisaged.

“What on Arcanum is that?” Virginia asked.

“It’s...” I shook my head. “See, the carriage there? That mechanical apparatus will wedge it into the wall. Then, the tube will be sealed shut and a pneumatic pressure will be made by those engines, there.” I pointed to another part of the machinery. “And quite literally, the carriage will be blown down the tube to its destination!”

Virginia frowned.

Sally stuck her finger into her ear and removed some earwax.

Neither seemed particularly impressed.

“It can carry dozens in style throughout the city at terrific speeds!” I said, excitedly, my hands becoming quite animate. “Why, I wager, we could spend a few coins and immediately reach...” I paused, biting my lip.

“University Park, in five minutes or less,” a jovial voice said.

We all turned and saw one of the gnomes had stubbed out his cigar and was smiling at us.

“Nearly ten miles! In five minutes! Truly, what a marvelous modern age we live in, eh?”

I nodded. “It is quite spectacular. How did they manage to direct it to various areas? Or can it only move between two locations?” I asked.

“Oh, no, the system is in a series of interlocking routes,” the gnomish gentleman said, nodding his jowly head eagerly. “If the first stop isn’t where you wish to go, you merely stay on.” As he spoke, a conductor announced that the time had come for boarding. More to do people were coming down the stairs and stepping up to the conductor, who took their fares. Seeing the coins jingle into his hands, I frowned and let my palm fall to my own purse, which was woefully empty. I sighed. Virginia, frowning, spoke up.

“Sir,” she said. “Do you know of any work to be had in this city?”

“Work? In Tarant?” the gnome laughed. “Oh, aye, there’s work aplenty to be found here.”

“You could send that brute to my factory,” one of his fellows said, puffing cigar smoke from his nose. “Hows that sound, boy? We pay half orcs three shillings an hour, on the hour, for honest work.”

Virginia looked ready to fly off at this fellow, but before she could, the more kindly gnome laughed. “Taft, you daft lunatic, can’t you see that this fine fellow is an upstanding, intellectual example of his race. Why, I’d wager you five hundred coins that if that doctor fellow at University examined his head, why, he’d have the cranium of a pure bred human.”

“I beg your pardon?” Virginia asked.

“Oh, phrenology,” the kindly gnome said, nodding as he did so. “It’s quite the cutting edge in scientific theories. The basic jist goes, and forgive me if I butcher this, but the idea is simple: That one can measure the inclination, slope, curve, and bulbosity of any individuals cranium and, by this, deduce certain important facts about their personage. It’s quite well known that the broad, sloping forehead of the average half-ogre, well, it denotes their certain lack of deep thought. No offense meant, my good...” He paused. “I say, are you a woman?”

Sally blinked, and Virginia hastily moved to keep her from feeling her own chest to confirm this observation. I quickly stepped forward and said: “This is quite fascinating, and I would dearly love to hear more, but ... I’m afraid the crass demands of coin must press on all of us, yes?” I smiled.

The kindly gnome nodded, slowly. “Aye. Well ... I just so happen to have a nephew in need of a favor. And, unlike Taft there...” He smiled. “My nephew won’t pay by the shilling.”

As we trooped through the sprawling city streets of Tarant, Virginia stepped lively to keep her robes from sliding about in the muck that gathered in the gutters of the sidewalks. The reason why she had to worry about the muck was that she seemed disinclined to walk either behind or in-front of me, and the sidewalks were far too crowded with a press of people for her make way on the walk. I was about to step down off the sidewalk, to off her my place, when she said: “Sir, might I ask why exactly we’re doing this?”

“What? Finding a job?” I asked.

“We’re here to find this P. Schuyler and Sons place and the owner of that ring,” she said. “And get the telegram from Johanna.”

“Both will require coin,” I said. “And more, I’m nearly out of bullets for the repeating rifle. Our shoes are in need of resoling, I think Sally should maybe one day have apparel more protective than a burlap sack, and I want to purchase some of those...” I waved my hands. “Blue ... potion things that mages seem to imbibe so often.”

“Fatigue potions,” Virginia said, rubbing her chin. “That would be helpful.”

“And all require funds, funds that we, tragically, lack,” I said as we came to a corner.

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” A voice bellowed near us. We turned and saw a smudge faced, ill-kempt human child of maybe eleven or twelve years of age. He was standing beside a stack of newspapers, with an open box before him, glittering with coins. “Physician Found Brutally Murdered! Read all about it only in The Tarantian!”

“Now, that’s a way to make some coin,” I muttered.

“What?” Sally asked, leaning forward to breathe her slightly flammable breath on me and Virginia. “Murdering – hic – sawbones?”

“No, selling our story to the Tarantian,” I said, grinning. “Ogres flying heavier than air machines, the IFS Zephyr being shot down, a mysterious band of assassins dogging our every step.”

“Hm, yes, and then every assassin who reads that paper will come out of the woodwork for you,” Virginia said, skeptically.

“I would like the newspaper,” I said, quietly, as a rather well to do elf stepped up. He placed several shillings in the box and took his copy of the Tarantian. I rubbed my palms together, then started to follow after. The elf was going in roughly the same direction as we, and Virginia soon divined my plan. She tapped her nose and smiled at me with a slightly roguish air – and I grinned back at her. Our time traveling cross country had been spent in good companionship, but by unspoken agreement, neither of us had mentioned the close moment that we had nearly shared upon leaving Shrouded Hills. She seemed too intimidated, and I ... well...

I did not often travel with the fairer sex. I bedded them and waved goodbye – knowing that a permanent relationship with a half-orc was the last any respectable (or even less respectable) woman would want. Momentary connections was all that could be hoped; and considering the plight of many green skinned gentlemen in the world, I was not exactly about to grow melancholic over the lost romance.

And so, to be quite frank ... I did not wish to harm our friendship by ... well...

The elf we had been subtly following did as I and Virginia had expected. He tossed the finished up Tarantian into one of the many waste bins that were helpfully placed near every sidewalk. I quickly darted forward and snatched up the paper. Sally and Virginia leaned over it as I unfurled the crinkly paper. In bold text, the headline read: PHYSICIAN FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED; SUSPECT STILL AT LARGE! And beneath, the text continued in smaller print.

Doctor Theo. Wilford, Tarant’s most highly respected physician, was found last night in his office, apparently the victim of a Brutal Murder. The authorities have informed us that Mr. Wilford’s life was extinguished in the most Gruesome Manner when he was stabbed through the back with his own writing quill. Those in charge of the investigation feel that the murderer is certainty a person highly skilled in the anatomy of the human form, as the killing instrument was precisely placed in the correct position to cause Death. As many of our readers are aware, Mr. Wilford has recently taken on a partner, Doctor Edmund Craig, to assist with his heavy patient load. [Continued on Page 5]

I frowned, then fiddled with the paper and each of us read on, quite captivated.

The recent scandalous discovery of Doctor Craig’s orcish lineage rocked the city, and the authorities are unable to locate him for questioning. Any information as to his whereabouts-

I closed the newspaper, my fascination quite suddenly abated.

Before I could toss the paper away, Virginia took it from me. She tore a page free with businesslike jerk of her hand, then tossed the rest of the paper in the bin. I looked at her in some confusion – had she seen some story she thought would be of interest? Then she held up the paper and ruffled it until it was laying flat once more and I saw that she had taken the classified ads. She smiled at me and I took the page, seeing that there were calls for everything from moving sofas to delving into the sewers of Tarant.

“Nicely spotted, old girl,” I said. “But first, we have a gnome to speak too.”

Virginia beamed. But I did take note of one more thing: A transcript at the bottom of the white broadsheet. Beneath the small cog-wheel of Tarant’s Industrial Council was very small print that stated that the Tarantian’s editorial offices were located on 44 Polton Cross, in the Commercial District of Tarant.

A perfect place to sell a story – and I had quite the story to offer.

The nephew of Mr. Tallview Plough, the kindly gnome from the pneumatic steamrail station, was quite young as gnomes went and quite nervous as young men went. He stood before a warehouse that was situated near the northern end of the Warehouse District, and was dabbing at his broad, ruddy red nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. I stepped up to him, holding up my hand with a cheerful smile. “Mr. Plough?” I asked.

“Oh, uh, yes?” he asked, something a touch distracted. “Who, who, who are you?”

“My name is Rayburn Cog,” I said. “This is Virginia, and this is Sally Mead Mug. We were told by your uncle, one Tallview Plough, that you needed some assistance?”

The young gnome practically deflated with relief. “Oh thank Kerlin. And Shakar, I suppose.” He beamed at me, and I chose to not tell him I preferred not to worship the orcish god of war. And Virginia herself was looking fair miffed – I supposed the idea of the reincarnation of Nasrudin worshiping a pagan god was less than appealing. But before either of us could say or not say anything, the young Plough continued: “My name is Simon, Simon Plough! Which you ... you knew. And, well, my father died recently. It was a terrible affair, you know?” He shook his head. “He got into a screaming row with the Don of our family, and our Don sent him from the home without a bodyguard or shirtsleeve. He was found in the Boil two days later.” He shuddered.

“My condolences,” I said.

Simon shook his head. “No, no, don’t speak of it, my father and I were not close. He was never the easiest man to get along with.” He sighed. “And not exactly the best of all businessmen ... which ... leads me to my current state of discomfort.”

I nodded. “I believe I am getting the picture,” I said, my hands clasped before my belt buckle.

“Yes,” Simon said. “He left me not a single gold coin, and this warehouse of his is filled to the brim with rats.”

I blinked. Then slowly, I clenched my jaw. “He won’t pay you in shillings, eh?” I muttered.

“What was that?” Simon asked.

“I said rats?” I asked. “What kind of rats?”

“Prodigious vermin,” Simon said. “Big as – no, bigger than me!” He shook his head. “This plot of real-estate would be quite valuable, if it was cleared out of rats. And so, I ... uh ... I wish you to go in and kill or drive off the beasts. Then you can take whatever you find inside. I have no head for selling the material within. But I do think I can sell the warehouse to several prospective buyers.”

“Not all at once, I hope,” I said.

Simon chuckled. “Oh. No. Not all at once.” He held up a key. “Here you are. And good luck!”

We three stepped into the warehouse. I fiddled with the small switch by the door and was pleased to see the wonder of electrical light was taken so for granted in Tarant that it could be spared even for a warehouse. Lights whirred and then flared, the electrical currents roaring through the filament cables suspended with glass spheres. I watched those filaments glow, and stroked my mustache. Electricity was quite a marvel. Some thoughts were beginning to percolate in my head about the potential applications of electricity. Didn’t a natural philosopher state that he believed electrical energies could be used to invigorate and even enhance musculature?

Hmm.

I tore my eyes from the electrical lights, looking at the many dusty wooden crates that were stacked haphazardly in the warehouse. I wiped some dust from one and saw that it had been shipped by boat from Dernholm, though some wag had etched the word Thanos over the original address. Though, picturing Arcaunm’s geography, I supposed that a ship sailing from Dernholm to the mouth of the Hadrian river would have to pass by the savage island of Thanos.

“Where are these prodigious vermin?” Virginia asked, her magical blade already in her hand. Sally kicked at an abandoned pail, sending it clattering and clinking away.

I turned to face Virginia, holstering my revolver. I had barely noticed drawing it, so distracted was I by the modern marvel of electrical lights. “Rodents the size of a gnome? I find it highly dubious.”

A large, gnome-sized mass of fur and muscle chose that moment to strike the side of my head.

“Sir,” the shopkeep said, looking at the crates that Sally had set down before his counter. “I am going to have to-”

I slammed the hastily scrawled upon permit that I had gotten from Simon Plough. My eyebrow twitched as I glared at the shopkeep, who was himself trying hard to both read the paper while also gape at my many bandages. As he did so, Virginia tenderly tried to place her palms on my head, muttering softly under her breath. “Sir, if you’d let me ... I could heal them, I swear!”

“Virginia, the last time you tried to heal me, you nearly keeled-” I started.

Virginia focused, her palms flaring. A blue-white light exploded from her palm and a holy chime rang through the air and I felt wounds on my cheek, jaw, forehead, nose and neck start to fade. The dull throbbing that had been my companion all the way from the Warehouse district to the general store that seemed most likely to take the various and sundry goods that we had salvaged from the warehouse. Several pounds of sugars, tanks of ammonia, boxes of migraine cures (I had been tempted to try several, to be quite honest), a container full of revolver replacements, and a crate of pure, honest to goodness dwarven ore.

That would fetch a pretty penny, if we had a dwarf to forge them.

The shopkeep clapped his hands. “Oi!” He pointed at a sign that was hung over the far window that read in clear written text: NO DOGS, NO MAGES. “I have several clocks in here and a brand new shipment of Telsation electrical hand lamps and I don’t want some mage to turn the whole stock off.”

“Well, I’d prefer the Living One not die of sepsis and gangrene, which I think is a high side more important than your d-” Virginia muttered, but I shushed her before she could continue. Her cheeks flushed, but she contrived to look mulish and grumpy, even as the shopkeeper crossed his arms over his chest.

“No mages. No dogs. And! You!” he pointed at Sally. “Put that down unless you’re going to pay for it!”

Sally had already pulled the stopper off the lime green bottle of Barney’s Bramblewine Ale that she had picked up. With her teeth. She spat the stopper away, where it ricocheted around the corner of the store. “Huh?”

Maybe I should have taken those migraine cures.

In the end, the sale of the warehouse’s contents netted us enough gold to feel more comfortable in the city. We took our funds, first, to the Tarantian telegram office. The building was situated between a shop selling technological odds and ends and a small tavern called, simply enough, Grant’s Tavern. Stepping in through the front door, I saw that the telegraph operator was a skinny man with a graying mustache and a green-billed hat that he had set low over his head. A half-ogre guard stood in the corner of the room, looking rather bored, while the far wall had what Tarant seemed to enjoy placing on all of its public buildings: a large, grotesquely patriotic painting done in a vivid, realistic style. In this case it was that hideous Last Charge of the Dragon Knights by William Simpson, which showed heroic Tarantian regulars in their khaki uniforms, firing their cannon and their rifles at the black steeds and black armor of the Cumbrian Dragon Knights. The scene was painted without a single bullet having struck, but mentally, I winced.

“Cannon to the left of them, cannon to the right...” I muttered, quietly.

“Sir?” Virginia asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, shaking my head as I walked up to the telegraph operator.

“What do you want, boy?” the telegraph operator asked after glancing at my face for enough time to determine my skin tone. He then looked back to his machine, which clicked quietly in the soft office. I cracked my knuckles slowly and leaned forward, feeling quite at my patience end. The telegraph operator looked up and, now, saw the fine suit I wore. With shiny buttons. It was quite imposing, even if I was glad that the dim light of the office hid the tears in my sleeve, and even if I was now missing one top hat.

Damn rats.

“H-How can I help you, good sir?” the operator asked, clearly deciding I was some kind of wealthy half-orc. And while one can say many things about Tarantians, at least they knew that wealth had a power all to its own.

“I’m here for a telegraph,” I said. “For Virginia.”

“Virginia who?” the operator asked.

Virginia coughed. “Sir,” she said, then stepped forward. Then, hemming, she put her hands together. Then took them apart. She fidgeted with her robes. Finally, she said. “S-Sir, might you ... give me a moment?”

I inclined my head. Sally and I stood near the opposite wall, ‘admiring’ the artwork. I tried to not overhead the name Virginia gave – but my ears weren’t simply physically sharp. I did not hear precisely what she said ... but I definitely heard that none of the syllables of Virginia in either her surname or her forename. The operator stood and checked some kind of directory. Only a short time later, he had retrieved the telegraph and the three of us stepped into the bright light of the day to read what Virginia’s mistress had left for us.

I have discovered something interesting concerning our “friends” with the strange amulets. STOP. I am off to investigate my theories regarding them, please accept my humblest apologies on my inability to meet with you in Tarant. STOP. I understand all of this must be a bit disconcerting, for both of you. If you have questions concerning the Panarii religion, stop by any temple and speak with a priest. STOP I believe there is one in Tarant on the northern end of Lion’s Head Circle. STOP When you have the means, travel to the village of Stillwater. STOP I will leave word with the innkeeper of the Bleeding Rose Inn as to where you can find me. STOP Johanna. STOP.

I lifted my eyebrows. Virginia’s response was far more prosaic: She crumpled the telegraph up, then tore it into pieces, then let the pieces fall to the sidewalk.

I clapped my hand to her shoulder. “Virginia-”

“I know, I know,” she said, sighing. “I shouldn’t be so furious. But ... but ... she said she’d be waiting here! I’m not even supposed to still be by your side, sir! By now, Johanna should have been here. She can protect you, she can keep you safe.”

I smiled, slightly. “I don’t need protection, Virginia. I can take care of myself.”

Virginia snorted, without humor. “Oh bloody wonderful! I’ll pop off to a pub then and play some poker while some bastard jams a knife into your ribs.”

I made a face. “It wouldn’t be that easy, Virginia.”

She sighed. “I know.” She put her hand over her face. “I just ... I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t see any way out of this mess we’re in.”

My hand tightened on her shoulder. “Lets focus on what we can do. We can find the owner of the ring, and we can head to Stillwater once we have the funds and the supplies.”

Virginia sighed, slowly. “I suppose.”

“And think of it like this,” I said. “If more people continue to try and slit my throat, maybe there is something to this whole Living One business.” I shrugged. “A technologist doesn’t ignore evidence just because it’s disquieting.”

“So we’re both mad, then?” Virginia asked. Then, chuckling, she smiled at me. “Even if you’re not. Him. I mean.” She blushed. “You have my loyalty, sir.” She placed her hand on her magickal blade, her fingers caressing the well worn hilt. “And my blade.”

I bowed to her.

“Hah!” Sally, who had been placidly drinking her bottle of ale, stepped forward, swinging one meaty arm around my shoulders, another around Virginia. She hugged us both, mashing my face against one breast and Virginia against the other. From the way Virginia’s arms cartwheeled and flailed, I was fairly certain that she had failed to keep her nose and mouth free and was currently smothering. Sally did not seem to notice or care. Instead, with the amiable cheer of a drunkard (and a half-ogre), she said: “Friends to the – hic – end, innit!?”

Retrieving a ring from the sewers. Transporting a letter across the whole of Tarant. Delivering a message to an older gnomish lady. All of these things consumed time even as they provided money, and the sun began to diminish over the horizon, casting deep dark shadows despite the best efforts of Tarant’s many astounding electric lamps. As strange as it may sound, my feet were more tired and ached more intensely than they had after a day of marching through wilderness. I believe it was because this day had been spent marching continually through the bustling streets of Tarant. I was ready to find a place to sit ... and by chance, we came upon one that looked quite promising.

The Wellington Gentleman’s Club sat on the corner of Vermillion Street, only a stones throw from the huge and ornate rail station that marked the nexus of the great transarcanum railroad network that made the United Kingdom such a powerful entity on the world stage. The term was a mite misleading – it went down to Black Root in the south and across the broad Morbihan plains to the city of Ashbury, on the east coast. But I did not wish to marvel at the train.