Dawn Bringer Read online

  Dawn Bringer

  The Star Clock Chronicles, book 1

  E.J. Kitchens

  Copyright © 2020 by E.J. Kitchens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Scripture quotations are from The ESV Bible (The Holy English Standard Version), copyright 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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  Cover design by Elementi.Studio@99designs

  Scene break image by “Thanks for your Like - donations welcome” @ Pixabay

  Dawn Bringer (The Star Clock Chronicles, #1) / E.J. Kitchens —1st edition

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  The Adventure Continues

  A Free Novelette

  About the Author

  Of Magic Made

  THE MAGIC COLLECTORS

  Midnight for a Curse

  The Omnibus List

  A Page Away

  The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge.

  Psalm 19:1-2

  1

  No sun ever rose, no moon ever waxed or waned, no stars ever danced a rhythmic pattern across the night sky. Only faerie crystals brightening and dimming according to one man’s will signaled dawn and dusk, month and season. Long ago, the faerie queen Morgan Unseelie cast a veil between heaven and earth, obscuring all heaven’s lights, for the pleasure and power of a mortal man, who then fashioned himself the Rí Am, the Time King. From all other mortals, she took away knowledge of time and direction and skill of navigation. Man was dependent on the Rí Am’s automaton navigators and fell into the myth that it was the faerie queen, through the Rí Am’s intercession, who gave them the sky crystals in the veil for light and the automatons for travel and trade. For this, the queen was hailed as the Giver of Lights, a goddess. And that was a greater offense to some than the Rí Am’s cruelty. Those few who kept the true faith—belief in the celestial lights and their Maker—called themselves Sky Keepers and refused to pay homage to the queen and her time king, often at great cost. Some Sky Keepers prayed for the faerie veil to fall, others merely for a way to circumvent the Rí Am’s control. But neither expected the storm of change approaching them.

  There were decided disadvantages to being dependent on the Rí Am’s automaton navigators, not the least of which was the automatons’ indifference to storms.

  “The storm’s too big, Captain. We can’t shift the airship out of it.”

  Captain Marianna Bowditch slid her gaze from her first mate to the automaton with its captain’s coat of fine blue cloth and rows of crystals decorating its chest like soldier’s medals. She was tempted to shake her fist at the lifeless navigator. Its impassive, doll-like face was an affront to the lives it endangered. “And the blasted automaton has its course and won’t alter it.” But her words were lost to the roaring wind. Or was that part of her beloved Dawn Bringer ripping away?

  Beyond the bridge’s myriad windows, the golden glint of brass pierced the churning clouds, a choking curtain spun by night and shadows and raging winds that only parted for slender fingers of blinding white. Was there no end to this storm?

  Another golden flash followed the white. The protective shield about the balloon?

  The ship lurched.

  Marianna yanked up the brass mouthpiece to the intercom system. “Everyone to the Escapers. Now!” Slamming the mouthpiece back into place with one hand, she yanked up her Nor’easter and McIntosh with the other. “Sawyers, have Bates put the Floaters on as much of the cargo as he can—he knows which to look after first. Tell him to set the cargo hold doors to Automatic Open if the fire sensors go off or the altitude drops erratically. I’m going to check the damage to the balloon.”

  Flinging the rain gear on as she went, she jogged out of the bridge, not bothering to try to run straight as the ship rocked, just letting it toss her and then compensating. Her first mate jogged up behind her as the wind did the work of opening the outer door for her. She grabbed hold of the rope safety line and stepped out in the lashing rain.

  “Escapers aren’t built to withstand storms like this, Captain,” Sawyers yelled as they ran across the wooden deck, slipping and sliding despite the rope guiding them.

  “No, but they’re less likely to explode.” She didn’t know what cargo the Rí Am’s Time Keepers had forced her to carry along with the paid cargo she’d taken on, but she suspected it wouldn’t sit well with fire. But then, few things did.

  “But they’ve no navigator automa—” Sawyers cried out as loose rigging, writhing and striking like a serpent, knocked him away from the line.

  She grabbed his hand and jerked him back to the rope. “We’ve no choice!” They were far enough out on the deck to see what she didn’t want to. She risked taking a hand off the line long enough to jab a finger at the bald spot on the balloon’s front. The brass shield was gone and the white canvas was rippling like a cloud about to split in two. “Let’s get to the hold!”

  They battled their way back to the bridge and down to the bottommost hold. Marianna saw all her crew fitted with parachutes and buckled into the Escapers, then released them into the storm one cylindrical, winged ship at a time, praying for their safety. Praying that, somehow, the desperately needed cargo they carried—the smuggled iron and legal food supplies—would get to their destination, Sheffield-on-the-Sea. She strapped herself into the last Escaper, took one final look around at her beloved airship, and hit the release. The floor underneath the Escaper slid away.

  The chief advantage of a storm, she thought wryly as she plunged into the wet assault, was that she couldn’t see the hated faerie crystals dishonoring the night sky. The second was that the wind could carry the Escapers for miles without guidance, for no conveyance could be guided by a human hand for more than three miles, thanks to the faerie curse. And they were considerably more than three miles from land.

  2

  Bertram Orren was bone weary, but then so was everyone else on the island of Sheffield-on-the-Sea. After spending the wee hours going out in a rough sea as far as they could to salvage what they could of the crew and cargo of the airship Dawn Bringer, even the Time Keeper patrols were heading to bed for the few hours remaining until the sky crystals brightened for day.

  At least, that was what Bertram was counting on. The Time Keepers might not be mourning the loss of most of the ordered food supplies, but everyone on the island not on the Rí Am’s pay was. Something had to be done about the root cause of the impending food shortage, and it was his night to do so. The Rí Am’s fish quota was so high, the island of fishermen had to rely on crops—and it was easier to do something about the faeries who destroyed those crops than about the Rí Am.

  Hoisting his gunnysack over his shoulder, Bertram dragged himself over a low rock wall—a warning more than a barrier—and plodded up the forested hillside. About thirty feet in, he pulled a large ball of twine from his sack and tied one end of the twine to a rowan tree so the faeries couldn’t move it. He arranged the ball in its special holster on his belt so it could unwind with ease as he walked, then continued on, walking fast. He had to make it to an area he hadn’t already searched before his time and energy gave out.

  Not that
he would know his time was running short before it was too late. He depended on the Time Keepers to signal the start and end of each school day, and the loudest stomach among his students for the lunch hour. But for roaming forbidden, faerie-infested woods? When the sky crystals brightened. His jaw clenched. One day that would change. But as for knowing when his energy would give out…

  He stumbled over a fallen limb he’d missed during a prolonged blink and rubbed his eyes as encouragement for them to stay open. A sudden spike in heart rate did the trick, however.

  “Wait! Please!” A woman’s voice.

  Bertram froze.

  Further up the hill, a light held by a dark little figure dodged between trees on a path to the ruins at the summit.

  Bertram counted to ten, slowly. So the will-o’-the-wisps were trying the damsel-in-distress tactic now too, were they? Tired of pretending to be lost little children to lure you after them so they could lose you somewhere dangerous?

  When the light disappeared, followed by another pleading cry, he continued on, skirting more to the right than he’d originally planned. Would a will-o’-the-wisp be seen far or near to the faerie mound?

  About twenty feet later, his heart rate spiked again, this time thanks to the broken glass that nearly went through his boot sole. With a sense of foreboding, Bertram raised his lantern. Broken branches, shards of glass, a busted lantern, the twisted metal body and ripped fabric wings of an Escaper. No bodies.

  Stifling a curse, Bertram dashed back through the woods, his twine thankfully reeling itself back in, until he reached the spot where he’d heard the cry, then plunged up the hill.

  “Wait! Don’t follow that light!” he shouted.

  The trees thinned, replaced by jutting rocks as he hit the old path winding up to the ruins of an ancient tower. Was it bad of him to wish the woman wounded? Just enough so she wasn’t too far ahead of him. Rain began pelting him, the wind rising for another storm.

  He rounded a curve of the hill. About twenty feet ahead, a woman half jogged, half staggered after the faerie light. He winced as she stumbled next to a rocky precipice.

  “Stop! I’ll help you!” But his cries were drowned out by the crack of thunder.

  The will-o’-the-wisp’s light disappeared, as did the woman, but her scream lingered.

  “Lady!” he cried.

  Lightning flashed to his left. Bertram darted right. Into nothing.

  “Darn, darn, darn.” Bertram pushed into a seated position on the damp rock. This was not how he’d hoped to find a faerie mound. He didn’t have to look up to know the opening he’d fallen through was no longer there. It’d been created by a will-o’-the-wisp in solid rock and was now solid rock again.

  Blasted faeries. He wrinkled his nose. Even if he ever escaped, he’d probably never lose that sickeningly sweet, nectar-like odor the creatures favored. At least it was stale here. Not an active faerie mound then. Not what he needed to find, but it was a safer place to be.

  “You really must work on your vocabulary, sir.”

  Bertram startled and glanced around. About ten feet away, leaning against a tree stump that looked suspiciously as if it wanted to be believed a pile of ancient ruins, was the woman he’d failed to save from this fate. She was very pale, except where blood darkened her brow. Her hair, tangled and loose, was at odds with her dress: the smart, tailored skirt and jacket over a corset and blouse of an airship officer. Not surprisingly, a revolver and knife decorated her belt. Pain might currently be adding a few years to her age, but she looked about thirty. Either way, the age looked well on her. She held his lantern, miraculously still lit, close to her chest, seemingly as possessive of its warmth as its light.

  “You really must work on your hearing as well as your vocabulary, it seems.” She flinched as she shifted. He noted the flash of light against the metal of a PullLine gauntlet strapped about one arm, the one not cradled to her chest. So that was how she’d gotten his lantern—using the PullLine.

  Bertram’s heart twisted at her pain, but he didn’t think it best to express sympathy. He forced a surly tone. “Really, miss—”

  “It’s ‘Captain,’ and you should have said, ‘Ca-tas-tro-phe!’ It has more syllables in which to express your rage.”

  Bertram tamed a smile and pulled his gunnysack into his lap. Thank heavens he’d packed his medical kit. “The repetition stresses the idea just fine.”

  “Mayhap, but it’s pretentious of a poacher to use such mild exclamations.”

  “I am not a poacher.” Bertram pulled out his water canteen and the medical kit and staggered up, wincing. Bruised but not broken, as the saying went.

  “Oh really?” She gave his sack a significant look as he handed her the canteen.

  “If you’re angling for a brace of pheasants, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” Helping her lean forward, he draped his jacket about her shoulders. “I don’t share.” He knelt beside her and doused a cloth with antiseptic.

  “I suspected a selfish nature.” She hissed as Bertram gently wiped the blood from her temple.

  “Which hurt needs attention, do you think?” he asked.

  She indicated her head and arm, and he gently worked her torn, bloodied jacket down her arms and off.

  “There’s nothing to do about the ribs but wait it out, I fancy,” she said as he slid his jacket back over her shoulders.

  Agreeing, he quickly cleaned the gashes on her head and arm, noting that her arm was going to need more work than her head: a tight bandage for a sprained wrist and stitching for a gash on her forearm.

  He retrieved the needle and thread from the medical kit but paused before sterilizing them, studying the woman’s dreadfully pale face and closed eyes. He’d have to approach this delicately. “Catastrophe, catastrophe, ca-tas-tro-phe!”

  She cracked one eye open, noted the implements in his hand, then shut her eye again, her mouth forming a hard line. “I’m impressed, sir. You’re a fast learner.”

  “There’s no one like a hardened smuggler to teach one foul language.”

  The woman’s eyes opened wide in alarm, her gaze raking over his outfit. Searching for the Time Keeper insignia, no doubt. He gave her a roguish grin, and she relaxed back against the ruins with a tired smile. The smile quickly flattened as he handed her a flask of brandy and a packet of pounded wild lettuce seed for pain relief. He indicated he was about to begin stitching her arm.

  “Marianna Bowditch, captain of the Dawn Bringer, I presume?”

  “At your service.” She sipped the brandy. “You’re a receiver of smuggled goods then? Almost as nefarious as a poacher.” She gritted her teeth but held still as he worked. He had to give her credit for toughness. Not that he should be surprised. The Bowditch captains weren’t known for softness. They weren’t real smugglers, in truth, but honest captains brave enough to ferry goods for the Sky Keepers, those fighting in big and small ways against the Rí Am and his Time Keepers. Many, but not all, of the Sky Keepers still believed in the Maker and his Word, believed in a sun, moon, and stars beyond the Star Veil that formed their sky.

  “Bertram Orren,” he answered, “local schoolmaster and unofficial doc … and nephew to the first mate of your brother Davy’s airship.” And because of his relationship to one of the Bowditch crew, he helped arrange for the smuggling of needed goods the Time Keepers didn’t want them to have, as well as the transport of legal goods.

  “I thought I noticed a resemblance in bedside manner. Good old Philip. He’s stitched up and played nanny to all of us, my brothers and me and most of our crews.” She hissed again and was quiet for a time. “So we made it to Sheffield-on-the-Sea, after all. I’m sorry about your iron. It’s probably at the bottom of the sea now, rusting away. … And your winter food supplies. … Did any of my crew make it?”

  “From what one of the airmen said, all but two of the Escapers are accounted for, yours and another.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze when she bowed her head. “Most of the crew aren’t any wo
rse off than you, thank the Maker.”

  “Yes,” she said sincerely but quietly.

  “No sign of your airship,” he continued. “It must have gone down farther out than we could safely reach. We were able to salvage some of the cargo that floated in. Some sank beyond the reefs. We’ll have to choose the divers for those carefully; otherwise, we’ll all be in trouble with the faerie-loving Time Keepers if they discover the iron.”

  “What was the iron for?” she asked, though her voice held more sadness than interest. “Philip mentioned something about it and food, but iron is a tad harsh for my sensitive palate. I don’t know about you Sheffielders though.”

  “Oh, we can eat anything with the right sauce.”

  Marianna gave a weak laugh and leaned her head back again. She kept her eyes tight shut as he worked the stitches closely together to minimize the scarring. “Pray tell,” she said, “which sauce is the proper one for iron? A sauce from red wine, perhaps?”

  “Crystal skies, Captain Bowditch! What a suggestion. It could only be a creamy white sauce. No wine-based one would do. That would almost be as bad as a vinegar-based sauce.” With a tsk, he paused to flex his fingers.

  “A white sauce? My mother’s chef would never approve—he never approves of any other chefs—but it sounds reasonable to me.”

  Bertram bent back over her arm. “Since you’re reasonable enough to agree with me over a chef—what do they know anyway?—I’ll let you in on a Sheffield-on-the-Sea secret: we’ve a private war going on against the local faeries. In a bold defensive move, the bravest and noblest of us have vowed to take turns hunting for the entrance to the active faerie mound. I know, I know,” he added quickly at her look of censure, “night’s not the best time to be in a faerie wood, but the Time Keepers are just as troublesome in the day. Anyway, we figured if we found the mound entrance, putting an iron fence reinforced with rowan saplings around it would deter the faeries from interfering with our crops for a while.”