The Rot of Koschei

[Ataraxis]

“You’d better have a terrible excuse for this,” Lillian warned, her admonition more fear than anger as she watched the distant line of trees shift to the west like a never-ending black snake. “You developed a phobia of paper, or you contracted allergies to ink,” the girl began in a hopeful tone, but it was quick to collapse. “Your messenger bird was shot in a hunting accident…” The more farfetched the reason, the more furious she would get, but at least fury was an emotion she could cope with; anything else only invited worry, sorrow... bereavement.

‘Don't jump to conclusions until you find out what really happened, Lily,’ she advised herself, keeping the negativity at bay. Her vivid imagination was simply preparing for the worst; it did not mean that this illest of scenarios would come to pass. Then, there was also the matter of her trust in the illustrious biologist’s abilities to survive, his unwonted penchant for being chosen as some beast’s midday brunch having become quite a conversational piece among his fellow scholars. It was legendary to the point that scientists expected each of his published works to include a compelling narration of an exciting brush with death.

“After all, they do call him the Terracan,” Lillian said at last, sketching the faintest beginnings of a smile. "If he died, he’d bring shame to cockroaches all over the world.” Besides a chuckle, this also brought her new resolve.

The time was nearing; within an hour, the river would open on a vast sea, with its great ice floes, pale towers darting from fields of white, and shelves of compact snow that had calved from the mainland so long ago. There she would find Vogstock, find the answer to her questions and, hopefully, find Andreï himself, alive and well.

The boat’s steam horns whistled as one, a long brassy bellow that was, to Lillian’s surprise, soon answered by three sharper blows. Making for the prow, she lurched over the railing and stared out, seeing three large vessels patrol the canal along its width to form a blockade. Though she saw no cannons, the craft of these ships allowed no misunderstanding as to their function. They were of Salvar’s nascent naval force, and their presence did not bode well for what lay ahead.

The passengers waited in tense silence, a lull during which the captain was in communication with the other ships by way of straight keys, a new communications technology borrowed from the Aleraran sky-ships. The door to the bridge clicked open and a closely-shaven man with a stern gaze and sagging eyes stood before them all, a slip of paper drooping limply in his callous hand.

“The... the bridges to Vogstok have been destroyed,” the captain said at last in a grating Salvic, his voice harsh yet quavering. “All of her citizens are to be considered dead. We are returning to Vongolovska, and will then shut down the ferry service until further notice.”

In the brusqueness of that moment, the blood in her veins had run cold and solid. Lillian could not count the beats her heart had skipped.