Rise of the Alchemist

Rise

of the

Alchemist

by

Craig Gallant

The Rise of the Alchemist

Cover from De Chemia Senioris, 1566

This edition published in 2021

Zmok Books is an imprint of

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Copyright © Zmok Books

ISBN 978-1-950423-61-3

Bibliographical References and Index

1. Fantasy. 2. Alternate History. 3. Dystopian

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Chapter 1

It is autumn, 1860 and my England is dying.

It has been over a decade since I first made that realization, and despite its hyperbolic flair, the phrase haunts my every thought. It has dogged my every step, it has skulked behind me in sunshine and in rain, and it has whispered tauntingly in my ear for hours on end as I have scoured every dust-laden library from Edinburgh to Cardiff.

The knowledge that my beloved homeland is dying has been a constant companion for nearly half my young life, now. And lately it has been accompanied by a thought, if possible, even worse.

There is nothing any of us can do to forestall England’s demise.

The blame, I suppose, could be placed upon the unlamented King George III and his coterie of advisors and confidantes and their ill-conceived handling of the troubles in the American colonies. Entire forests have fallen to provide the paper upon-which that story has been told and retold for almost a hundred years. Although there is obviously some truth to that, I choose to see our plight in far harsher and more realistic terms.

For it is the so-called Kingdom of Albion, the hated nation that arose from the ashes of the uprisings in the colonies, that now closes its mailed fist around England’s throat. It is the thrice cursed House of Arnold, built upon a foundation of two-fold betrayal and infernal luck, that drives an entire continent to howl for the death of my once-great nation.

England’s greatness is not so far lost in time that we have forgotten what once was ours. There was a time not so long ago that the sun would not, no, could not set upon the British Empire. Alas, that time is lost to us. The stranglehold of damnable Albion’s burgeoning fleets has sent too many brave English sailors to the bottom of the sea. We have lost our far-flung holdings and now cower upon our few, small islands like a beaten cur, waiting only for the ageless demon, King Benjamin of the House of Arnold, to decide the time has come to crush us once and for all.

I had decided that I, for one, would not stand idly by and await that day’s coming. There must be something that could be done. My early studies at Oxford and Cambridge gained me some small modicum of fame in academic circles for my work with the strange energy fields that surround living organisms and interact with their environment. In those early, heady days of my work I had dreams of taking my place beside the great natural philosophers such as Charles Darwin, whose work, before the English captains could no longer support his journeys, opened up entire conceptual worlds.

But Darwin languishes now in Down House, barely able to rouse himself to intellectual discourse, so disheartened as he become. And so many of his generation have followed him. Having been cut off from the wider world, they either turn their minds inward, ignoring the realities of England’s plight, or they founder, unable to come to grips with a world in which they are nothing more than shades, their ideas and theories no more esteemed than a lunatic uncle kept in the upstairs flat.

I will not be so easily silenced, however. I have tracked tantalizing snippets of folklore and legend from out of the esteemed libraries of our greatest universities and symposia and into the overgrown back trails of England, into the dark and forest-covered hinterlands and beyond, into the very mists of her earliest days.

I have poured through the ancient English tales. I have gone farther still, to Rome, Greece, and even Mesopotamia and Egypt, finding tantalizing similarities, parallel structures, and hidden scraps of hope in those primeval accounts. Coupled with my own researches, I can only conclude that there is more to these stories than has been assumed for hundreds of years. In these tales of heroes and legends, could it be that some of the more fantastical elements, dismissed as metaphor and hyperbole for all the history of modern academic study, actually contain some grain of truth?

And if such truth might exist, if there is some veracity to these legends, might there not be some hope, as well, for England’s current plight? Might there not be some sling stone hidden in the mists of time with which our fiendish Goliath might be felled?

As ever, when my thoughts raced along these familiar paths, my hand slipped into my pocket to touch the cloth-wrapped object I always kept there. Ever since I plucked it unceremoniously from that dusty old museum cottage in Britany, having skulked through half of the Kingdom of France and out again, I have never allowed it to leave my person. The French had no interest in it, certainly, and as I first gazed upon it, opaque with dust and grime on its spider-infested shelf, I despaired. There was no sense of power or awe about the stone, and certainly nothing that cried out to me concerning one of the most powerful legendary figures of our shared history.

The object my papers referred to as Merlin’s stone.

But after I got the stone home to Bromley St. Peter and St. Paul and cleaned it up, I will admit that its beauty captivated me. There is still no sense of power or majesty about it. It is inert in every way I could conceive to test. But there is an undeniable beauty to the thing’s dark inner core and the almost oil-like sheen of blue over that onyx heart. Even in my pocket, I can feel the unnatural weight of the thing. It defies explanation, but the drive it set in my heart was enough to push me from my comfortable position at Cambridge, from the arms of my loving fiancé Felicity, and onto this God forsaken monstrosity of a steamship, the Ett Hjerte out of Oslo.

As if the constant looming shadow of England’s fall was not enough, the very boards beneath my feet, vibrating to the thrum of the ancient steam engines deep below, were a constant reminder that I was forced to seek passage on a Norwegian ship to cross the Atlantic. What English captains remain categorically refuse to brave the cold expanse, knowing that the huge behemoths of the Albian fleet scour it night and day for the fading hope of adding another British ship to the list of the dead.

Captain Larsen had been polite during the crossing, as I would expect, given how much gold weighed down his own pocket on my behalf. His crew has been another story, however. There is little respect remaining among the common folk of Europe for the shade that England has become. And in few places is this most obvious as among those who make their living on the sea.

Only one man, Jan, a young sailor from Oksval, had given me any attention at all. Jan was fascinated with his people’s folklore and was homesick on his first voyage onto the ocean. Many of the fears that plagued my own sleep troubled him as well, and we would often talk, sometimes for hours when he was off duty, about our homes, and the tales of our people, to avoid thinking about the Albians, the Haitians, and the myriad other dangers of the Atlantic.

A certain amount of trepidation would be expected in any case as we plied the Atlantic, making ready to thread the needle between the string of islands that make up the Haitian Empire and the peninsular Papal State of Canaan thrusting southward from the bulk of the continent. If the threat of Albion warships was not enough, the reputation of the Haitian pirate fleet carried with it an entirely deeper level of dread, especially for crews whose flesh carries the pallor of Europe.

But I needed to continue my research, and I had exhausted the resources of the more ‘advanced’ cultures of the Old World. I needed to find a people more closely allied to their mythic past, a nation that still walked with their gods and spirits, so to speak, and beg them to take me along. I had researched the manifold native tribes and clans of the Americas, and believed they were my best hope for unlocking the mysteries of my ancient stone, and perhaps guiding me towards the weapon I seek. And even I, locked in my ivory tower half a world away, was able to glean from what word leaked back to England from our former holdings, that the Empire of the Summer Moon, deep in the heart of that strange and alien continent, held my best, indeed quite possibly my only hope.

Most European travelers seeking to venture to the vast prairie nation might take a comfortable ship from any of a number of ports on a short crossing to the Albian port cities of Dare, Portsmouth, or Boston, and thence overland threw the kingdom to their Western Marches and beyond.

But that path was closed to an Englishman. The very crime of English blood was enough to cost a man his life in Albion. Nearly a century of fomented resentment and demagoguery had riled the subjects of the House of Arnold into a froth of fury and indignation that might well see an Englishman hanged from the nearest tree before a constable was even called.

And so, if an Englishman were to seek to meet with the Five Bands of the Comanche who rule the Empire of the Summer Moon, he needed to seek a ship carrying the flag of one of the neutral nations, hold his breath as he crosses the chopping Atlantic, thread the Caribbean needle, and cross the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans, the capital of the free French republic of Liberté. From there, one might hope to travel overland by steamship, horse, foot, or even airship north to the Comanche territories.

All of which went a long way to explain the crew’s ambivalence toward me, without my having to look too deeply at the fallen nature of England’s name on the world stage.

But it did little to ease my own resentment and feelings of inadequacy.

The Ett Hjerte had been at sea for almost a week, traveling south by south west across the Atlantic, and we had blessedly seen no sign of Albion or the Haitians. Truth to tell, we in England knew little of the power of Albion, as most English who face their ships never come home to tell of it. And as for the Haitians, we know almost nothing. They still use sailing ships, but other than that? We have only vague rumor and tall tales.

What that says about their own efficacy, I didn’t like to think about with a deck pitching beneath my feet.

Captain Larsen had been polite at meals, and would occasionally approach me for conversation on deck, but his responses were often perfunctory, and I had the feeling he wasn’t really listening. As the sun began to touch the waves off to our right on our seventh night at sea, I watched an answering darkness that had been building to our south all day; I could only reflect, again, on the loneliness of my chosen path.

Mr. Hawke, I trust your day has been pleasant? Anders Larsen was an older man, probably in his 50s at least. He kept his blue uniform pristine despite the cramped quarters aboard the snarling Ett Hjerte, and I had to admire the man for his commitment to regular shaving aboard a ship that lacked any internal plumbing to speak of. I wondered, not for the first time, how many of his men contributed to the morning ablutions that resulted in such well-kept sideburns.

Captain. I nodded, easing one elbow onto the railing and looking out over the bow of the ship to the building darkness. Looks like the good weather is abandoning us.

Larsen cast a glance toward the lowering clouds and shrugged. We’ve had more than we should expect, this time of year. We were bound to hit weather sooner or later. He peered longer at the distant clouds with a frown. Although, I’d have to tell you, it does look to to get interesting for us.

As was his usual wont, he asked a few vague questions about my research, quirking one white eyebrow up, as always when I tried to explain to him the connection, I theorized between the energy field I could easily prove to him surrounded each man on the ship, and the ancient stories that attributed fantastical powers to the heroes of the distant past.

Eventually, as he often did, he simply shook his head. I often forget how close to madness Albion has driven you English, Mr. Hawke. I should travel with your countrymen more often, as a reminder.

That stung as much as it had the first time, he’d said it, with that half-smile nestled between his muttonchops, the dark twinkle in his eyes. This time, I didn’t try to hide my annoyance.

It only added to my frustration when he smiled even wider.

Mr. Hawke, you’ll have to forgive me if it’s a little hard to hear a man of science, as you describe yourself, talking about magic and fairies.

The familiar anger flared, my vision tinged a dangerous red, but I did everything I could to temper my breathing. Captain, I speak of neither magic nor fairies, but of possible flaws in our own understanding of—

He put up one gnarled hand. I meant no disrespect, sir. But I don’t understand it, and if you’ll forgive me a little observation of my own, you often seem more than a little confused yourself. I have seen more than one man turned from the light of day by anger or jealousy or resentment. It’s all well and good to question current understanding, of course. It is how we push every boundary mankind has ever faced. But would you not admit, at least, that the vast majority of challenges to current understand prove, eventually, that current understanding is understood for a reason?

The anger continued to build, despite my best efforts, and I am honest enough with myself to admit, this usually means it’s because I’ve heard a grain of unpalatable truth.

And yet, push we must, yes? I looked out over the ocean again, knowing that somewhere off to the right was the enormous kingdom that has sought to bring England low for so long. Even if it makes no sense, surely there is a nobility in struggling for the sake of the fight?

Larsen looked at me for a moment, and I had no idea what he was thinking. Then he nodded and looked away. There is always nobility in a righteous battle, Mr. Hawke. I won’t deny you that.

The silence between us stretched into uncomfortable minutes before, with a grunt about duties, he pushed himself away from the railing and made his way toward the forward wheelhouse.

For a very long time I stayed there, staring out to sea, my eyes shifting from the darkening horizon to the impenetrable wall of cloud to the south. It was dark enough now; I thought I could make out flashes of lightning flaring from within the churning storm. It was going to be a rough night.

Chapter 2

I was in the cramped little hold the captain graciously called a cabin, going over the small collection of books that represented nearly all my research from the last few years, when the shouting on deck took on a higher, more jagged tone. Over the constant creaking of the hull and the distant chugging of the steam engines, I thought I could also detect a strange, deep, buzzing sound that put me ill at ease, although I could not have said why.

I made my way, as hastily as I could, given the constant lurching motion of the floor beneath my feet, above decks, meaning to seek out Captain Anders in the forward wheelhouse. But as I came out of the small stair-shed into a warm, biting rain, I could see Anders was already out on deck, standing at the Ett Hjerte’s bow, staring back, up over the wheelhouse.

I turned without thinking, shielding my upturned eyes from the rain with one hand, and felt a chill race down my spine despite the thick, tepid water running over my skin.

A light was stabbing out of the sky, down toward the ship. It swept from the bow, where Anders was standing with several of his officers, aft, passed over me without pausing, and then illuminated a small clump of sailors standing at the stern, all frozen as they looked straight up into the light.

The buzzing I had half-heard belowdecks was much more pronounced here, and although I had never encountered anything like this before, that spear of light could only mean one thing: An Albian airship was approaching.

I looked back into the darkness of the stairwell. The desire to dive back down into the murk was almost overwhelming. According to the dictates of the Albian throne, it was a capital crime for an Englishman to be found crossing either ocean to the New World.

Suddenly, my decision to run off after these last threads of my research seemed the utter height of foolishness. Was I going to die here, in the middle of the ocean, never to see England, or Felicity, or my parents or friends again? Would they just dump my body into the water and that would be that?

But hiding belowdecks was hardly the action of an innocent man. And I had been instructed on how to dress by Captain Larsen. I was wearing drab work clothes, the same muted blues of the rest of the crew. If I could make my way into a huddled group, and trust them not to give me away, I might be okay. This could be nothing more than a routine customs inspection, in which case we might even be headed south again soon enough.

I kept repeating this to myself as I eased my way aft toward a knot of seamen who had been working with a pump and hose snaking down through a drain in the deck.

I was nearly into the group, most looking up, but one or two casting odd glances in my direction, when a sharp crack echoed across the deck.

It was just bad luck on my part that I was staring at the man . I was looking directly into his blue eyes when his head was flung violently downward, the rest of his body clumsily following. My little group shattered like thin glass, the men running in all directions.

No! No! We are a licensed vessel out of Oslo! Larsen had a speaking tube to his mouth and was screaming himself hoarse, but it didn’t seem to matter. More cracks, gunshots, I realized now, were ringing out. As I cowered behind a gray cowling, watching the men around me die, I experienced a thought I had never entertained before.

I was going to die.

Maybe not in that moment, although that seemed likely; but this realization was more profound. Even if I escaped the massacre aboard the Ett Hjerte there would come a day, soon or late, when my life would end. And I had voluntarily placed myself upon a path that would see that day, in all likelihood, would come more soon than late.

More shots rang out, and more men died. There were also additional spears of light slashing down now, and I could see the weapons fire, brief snaps of brilliant white like lightning in the darkness behind the beams. They seemed to be coming from several firing positions hovering above us. Judging by the dispersion of the muzzle flashes, I thought the airship’s gondola might be about half the size of the Ett Hjerte. That would make it a large airship indeed.

My curious mathematics were cut short when the constant snap of rifle fire was drowned out by a deep-throated roar. The forward wheelhouse shattered in a bright orange fireball that sent splinters of wood and jagged bits of metal spinning in an expanding ball of heat and light.

Larsen and his officers, huddled now by a winch in the bow, shielded themselves with upraised arms. At least one man was down, I saw, his body still and lifeless on the pitching deck. The wood there, already slick with rain, was running pink with the blood of the dying crew.

Please, stop! Larsen had fumbled the speaking tube to his lips again, but in his position, huddled against the painted steal of the winch housing, shoulders hunched against the destruction of his dying ship, his words were incoherent.

It didn’t seem to matter in any case, as another roar boomed out overhead. This time I caught the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye. There was a cannon up there somewhere, as of course there would be. And the momentary flash of weapon fire illuminated a dark, boxy shape suspended beneath an enormous silvery shadow like a whale. The gondola was studded with firing ports and vision slits, with two large fins extending from the back, holding what looked like massive engines. Propellers were spinning slowly behind these, helping the ungainly-looking creation keep its station.

I felt a moment’s anger. England owned nothing remotely like this monstrous war machine. The most advanced lighter-than-air ships the United Kingdom could boast were the small two-man vessels that occasionally rose over London, more to prove a point than for any practical effect. But then, no one else on the planet really had anything like this terror either. Albion, alone, had managed to make weapons of the Montgolfier’s’ dream. Their mastery of ceramics and metallurgy were said to be at the heart of these warbirds, and they guarded their secrets most carefully.

The second cannon shot had torn out the aft of the Ett Hjerte, the deck bucking and breaking apart beneath my fingers. I heard another roar, thinking that the thing overhead was firing again, but this sound just went on and on, accompanied with a worrying gurgling sound. The ship was taking on water, probably through the wound that had just been torn into her stern, and the world began to tilt towards the terrible, splintered hole.

Several more rifle shots rang out, and then everything was silent save the buzzing of the airship’s engines, the soft sounds of the building rain, and the rushing of the ocean making its way deeper and deeper into the Ett Hjerte’s hull.

Unidentified vessel. The voice was peremptory, unconcerned with the death and carnage reigning below. Gather by the bow of your ship, hands raised over your heads, or I will finish this here and now.

I saw, at once, most of the crew were making their slow, stunned way toward the captain. Larsen was pulling himself to his feet, hands already over his head. Every eye was bent skyward, none of them giving me the slightest glance. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Albion was not at odds with Norway. There was no reason for this ship to have been attacked without provocation. I knew, even if the crew had not made the realization yet, that whatever had convinced the captain of the airship to attack, he wouldn’t be able to leave any survivors. They would come up with a pretense, and I thought I could guess what that pretense would be.

But the crew was too shocked to follow that tangled line of logic now, and as I made my way forward with all the rest, it looked as if none of them were giving me a second thought.

When the survivors of the attack were all gathered in the bow, the voice overhead spoke again.

Now, lest you think to make some ill-conceived move once we’ve come aboard—

Another gunshot rang out, and a sailor, seemingly chosen at random, spun onto the wet, canted deck in a sodden, bleeding heap.

The men around him moaned and whined as they pressed closer together. We all watched, half in horror half in awe, as ropes dropped out of the darkness. Several soldiers in dark uniforms slid down, immediately swinging short carbines around to point in our direction. The men wore black scarves bound around their lower faces against the wind and rain, their eyes shadowed by the brims of black knit caps. It made the event seem even more surreal. I noticed several men disappear belowdecks and figured they must have been sent to search for anything of value; something, perhaps, that might be used to justify their attack.

Or maybe they were just curious.

We were surrounded, tightly bunched up, with killers everywhere. and surrounded by killers. After what seemed like an eternity, the men who had disappeared below were back, gathered amidships behind the shattered wheelhouse, their plunder collected in a large, waxed canvas bag. I wondered if my books were in that bag or if they were already lost below, soaked in salt water, ink dissolving into clouds of useless color.

Another line was dropped, and I expected to watch them secure the bag to that, but instead, another figure dropped down from above. Two more landed lightly behind the newcomer, taking up positions off either shoulder in an unmistakable guarding posture.

Surely the captain of the beast above us wouldn’t come down in person?

The figure came closer, collar raised against the approaching storm, cap pulled low, and I was shocked to see that it was a woman. It was not unusual to find women in the military in England either, up and down the chain of command; but it had never crossed my mind that the architect of our bloody, unprovoked destruction might be a member of the fairer sex.

She looked us over with disdain, then singled Larsen out of the crowd. She tilted her head to the side and spoke, her eyes never leaving the captain’s pale face, and one of her bodyguards moved forward, grabbing Larsen by his lapel and dragging him out of our huddled group.

Captain? Her voice was crisp and low, carrying over the sounds of storm and fire like a pistol shot.

Larsen tried to nod but it was as if had lost control of his neck; his head just wobbled aimlessly for a moment before he gave up trying.

Again, the woman leaned over to one side and said something to her companions. The man who had fetched Larsen from the bosom of his crew reached out lazily and slapped the man, almost idly, across the face.

Larsen shook himself, as a man coming out of a nightmare, and tried to stand a little straighter.

Captain, would you like to declare what contraband you were carrying, to expedite this process so my people and I can get on with our evening before that storm begins in earnest?

The woman’s accent was not entirely unfamiliar. She did not sound British, but neither did she sound strange to my Anglophilic ear. She tapped one booted foot, waiting for a reply, while Larsen’s mouth opened and closely foolishly.

This time she didn’t speak: she just nodded, and this time the guard’s blow was not a slap, but a sharp strike that sent the captain to the tilting deck.

You might want to think about answering my questions before your ship sinks beneath you. She looked down at the inoffensive little man, and I was struck by the sheer hatred in her eyes.

Captain Peyton. Another soldier stepped forward, pulling a dark bandana away from his mouth and pointing upward. Lieutenant Alistair is signaling. We need to get off the ship. The wall of the storm is very nearly upon us.

The woman nodded; eyes still locked on the sniveling Norwegian that had been kind to me. I will ask one last time, Captain, and if you are unable to answer, I will consign this wreck and your surviving crew to the depths without a second thought.

But you’re going to kill us all, anyway. I very nearly said the words, knowing they would be the end of me as my accent would have given me away. But my jaw was so clenched with fury and fear that I barely made a whimper, thank God.

Please… Larsen pushed himself up to his hands and knees. We have nothing.

I knew what she was looking for: an excuse. Any excuse to kill us all that would fit onto a brief report so she could go on her way. Could the airship rise above the bad weather? Could those enormous propellers push the ship fast enough to escape?

Again, I was reminded of the vast gulf between my home and this realm I had set out to destroy.

And how soon was that ridiculous dream crushed by the juggernaut of reality?

We have nothing. Please. Larsen shook his head again, trying to rise without success.

Peyton nodded, and this time her guard slid a long, heavy-looking revolver from a holster under his coat, raised it, cocked it, and fired in one fluid motion. Larsen was thrown down to the deck again, this time still as a stone, contributing his own blood to the pink foam sloshing across the splintered wood.

We’ve got an English! The words were harshly accented, but I turned, and I couldn’t even conjure a look of hurt. These men were grasping at straws in a whirlwind. They had no idea what was about to happen to us all. I understood completely what had led to this new betrayal, and I could not condemn the man for it. Even if we had spent countless hours during the voyage talking about the folklore of Norway. Jan’s terrified, round eyes now had nothing of the soft nostalgia of homesickness they had carried throughout those pleasant conversations.

Captain Peyton’s head turned sharply at the words; one dark eyebrow raised almost to the brim of her peaked cap. Excuse me?

And the damn burst. They might have been willing to let me stay amongst them; many may have even forgotten I was there. But between Larsen’s murder and the young man’s sudden declaration, there was no other way things could have gone. I found myself pushed out of the group, toward the Albian captain and her cohort. Every gun on the ship swung around to cover me, and I stopped as soon as I could on the slick deck, my hands straight up over my head.

No. The woman sounded amused. She took two steps toward me, her guards maintaining station off her shoulders, and tilted her head just a little to get a better glimpse of my face. "An Englishman?"

I had had several moments to acclimate myself to the idea of death, and perhaps that gave me a little courage. I had known death was inevitable the moment they shattered