Here, There Be Dragons

By daylight the streets and alleyways of London were a conundrum; at night, in the middle of a rainstorm, the maze became an impossible labyrinth to the four men running for their lives from a pack of hunters that could, apparently, pursue them by smell.

“What are they?” said Jack. “You called them ‘Wendigo.’”

“Our enemy’s huntsmen,” puffed Bert. “They are his bloodhounds, and if not the worst abominations under the sight of Heaven, they are easily contenders for the crown.”

“Are they men, or beasts?” asked Jack.
“Both, I’m afraid. When it’s required, they may comport themselves as men—but they become more lupine with every kill. Their bodies have been misshapen by the evil they do, and thus they have gained the senses of hounds, as well as their agility and speed.”
“How do they become this way?” asked John.
“By terrible means,” said Bert. “To begin with, they must be black-hearted men. But to become Wendigo, they must eat the flesh of another man.”
“Cannibals,” breathed John.

“The Indigo Dragon,” Bert said proudly. “My ship.”

“Yes,” said Bert, “but not just. It is rumored that to truly become Wendigo, the first flesh they taste must be that of their best friend or a loved one. After that, it doesn’t really matter.”

A horrified expression crossed John’s features as the implications of this settled in. “Do you think they…the professor’s body?”

“No,” said Bert. “I believe he was killed while they interrogated him as to the whereabouts of the Geographica. Killed, but not eaten. Wendigo…Wendigo like their meals alive.”

“Do you really think there’s a boat?” Jack said some minutes later, panting.
“I doubt it,” Charles replied, “but I’m not of a mind to stand around and debate it.”
“Shilling that there is,” said Jack.
“Done.”
The cobblestones were slick, and the companions had to measure their steps so as not to fall and risk twisting an ankle. Bert led the way. His admitted memory lapses of the geography of London streets seemed not to affect his pace—he moved from corner to corner under the gaslight with a speed and agility that belied his appearance.
“Almost there, lads,” Bert said. “You can smell it, can’t you?”
“Ew,” said Jack. “That’s really rank. What is it?”
“Fish and offal, offal and fish,” said Charles. “Commerce. You know—like the kind of work John doesn’t know if he wants to get into.”
“Clever,” said John as Bert disappeared around the corner ahead, whooping in triumph.
Turning the corner himself an instant later, John stopped in his tracks, which caused Charles and Jack to crash into him in turn.
Bert had spoken the truth. There was indeed a ship moored and floating in the harbor. A ship unlike any they had ever seen.
Jack held out his hand. “Shilling.”
“Drat,” said Charles, dropping a coin into Jack’s hand.
“The Indigo Dragon,” Bert said proudly. “My ship.”
“Is it a galleon?” asked Charles. “It seems Spanish, but—old.”
“Sixteenth century,” said Bert. “At least, the newer parts. I believe the oldest parts of the hull are Greek, but I can’t really be sure. There’s a little of everything in her, I think. But she gets the job done and always takes me safely to home port.”
“And where is home port, exactly?” asked Jack.
“Later, later,” said Bert, eyeing the shadows of their pursuers stretched tall in the gaslight behind them. “Let’s to safety first—there will be time to talk later.”
None of the companions paused to ask what Bert meant by “later,” or the broader insinuation that the dialogue was meant to continue after the danger had passed.
Bert broke into a trot and moved swiftly across the dock to the gangplank that connected to the ship. Standing at the fore of the gangplank was a young woman—tall, dressed like a pirate out of Stevenson, and displaying a commanding appearance that belied her obvious youth.
“Father, you’re late,” the woman scolded. “We were preparing a landing party to go in and retrieve you.”
“Not necessary, Aven,” said Bert. “As you can see, my young friends and I have everything running well according to plan.”
From the dock, a sleek Egyptian spear flew through the night air and pinned Bert’s cloak to the prow, narrowly missing his shoulder. “Oh, ah—well,” said Bert, slipping out of the garment and wincing. “That’s not to say that we shouldn’t, ah, accelerate our departure.”
As the companions scrambled aboard, Aven stood at the aft of the ship, arms crossed in defiance of the spears being flung at her by the huntsmen.
“Enough of this,” she said tersely. “Take us out.”
No oars were lowered into the water, and strangely, the sails were billowed in precisely the opposite direction of the wind—but the instant Aven gave the order, the ship pulled away from the dock and began to pick up speed.
A howl behind them scored the chill harbor air, and the young woman’s eyes widened. “Wendigo? He sent Wendigo after you?”
“Yes,” Bert nodded. “Stellan—the professor—was dead before anything could be done.”
“You had the Geographica,” said Aven, casting a wan glance at the companions. “He needn’t have waited, only to be killed.”
“His choice, Aven,” Bert admonished her. “I could just as easily blame myself, for having left it solely to him while I traveled….”
“Or Jamie,” she shot back. “If he hadn’t given it up just for that woman and her children…He’s even in London! Why aren’t the Wendigo chasing him?”
“They don’t want him,” said Bert. “They want this,” he finished, patting the Geographica. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why we came. And now, that’s why we have to leave.”
“Also,” said Charles, “we’re being chased by creatures that want to kill us—”
“—eat us,” interjected Jack.
“Kill us and eat us,” Charles corrected. “So, might I suggest we finish this discussion somewhere farther out of range?”