Freezing smog swirled around his feet in shadowy grey spirals as he half-walked half-ran across the cobbles, his swift, graceless footsteps resonating and reverberating through the tight alleys between clusters of terraced houses. Putrid scents of growing industry blended with the sulphurous tang of gunpowder, creating a heady, invisible miasma that clouded his brain with every breath.

Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw nothing but the shifting smog. Panting hard, he leaned heavily against a nearby wall to catch his breath, hastily mopping his forehead - which had managed to sweat profusely despite the icy cold – with a handkerchief which he stuffed back into the top pocket of his black jacket as quickly as possible.

Taking one last gulp of putrid air, he started off again down the cobbles, eager to reach his destination. For what seemed like hours he darted through the mists like a spirit, slipping into the shadows at the sound of patrols, until at last the tall, foreboding spires of the great cathedral managed to pierce the gloom. It seemed to grow colder the closer he got, and more than once he misplaced a numb foot and was sent flying forwards, with only the claustrophobic warrens of the city to thank when he managed to find grip on a nearby wall. His fingertips were raw from gripping and scraping against rough brick and the chill in the air only made them hurt more.

Somewhere a clock struck the hour, but he was too busy to count the dull ‘bongs’. Time was immaterial when he was this close.

His limbs, powered only by the growing excitement as he neared his destination, powered him around the last corner, and he had to fight to hold haul himself back out of sight. The cathedral approach was a great, clear square, filled with stalls come market day and bustling activity come the daylight hours, but at night it was completely empty. However close he was, he couldn’t let himself become complacent; someone – anyone – could take a chance look out of their window and catch him lurking, even in the smog.

Carefully, he leaned outwards, casting an eye across the approach. Clear- wait. The smog shifted. A shadow flashed across the grey curtain; too big for a bird or urban animal. Fiddling with a case at his side, he withdrew a small spyglass and peered through it, hoping to sight the shape again. When it didn’t appear, he cautiously replaced the spyglass and started across the approach, keeping low and moving as silently as possible. Dull amber rays of candlelight clawed at the edge of some curtained windows, fighting back the mists and depriving him of vital shadows, but as far as he could tell he was utterly alone.

Before he knew it he was at the mighty iron fence that circled the cathedral. Tall, bulky, and ornate, the cathedral in sunlight was a sparkling glory; a masterful portrait of architecture and a wondrous beauty of design. In the darkness and whirling mists, however, it became a shadowy menace. Gothic arches formed gateways to eternal blackness, sharp ledges and sills were as blades, and heavy crenellations swathed in shadow lined this fortress of dark. Even the usually green, well-kept gardens were akin to haunted forests or shelters for evil creatures of the night. It was as if this bastion of faith and holiness dealt it out during the day, only to steal it back when the sun fell from the horizon.

A voice swept out from behind a hedge and he had to stifle a cry as he was shaken from his reverie. “Owen!” It came again, the hushed tone managing to convey an urgent volume.

Owen shook his head to clear his thoughts, “Paul, damnit man, don’t scare me like that.”

A squat figure in a large cloak detached itself from the shadows inside the grounds and hurried over to where Owen waited at the fence. “I’m the one taking the risks here,” Paul growled, “I’m entitled to something. Now stand back whilst I pull the bars down.

Owen grunted as he stepped back, watching Paul attend to a group of three bars in the fence. He had the strange feeling that they were being watched, but the surrounding windows were all curtained. He looked back up at the church, and gulped. The quicker this was over, the happier he would be.

A thump caused Owen to jump again, and he glared at Paul as the last bar was pulled down and thumped onto the grass. As he passed through, Owen glanced at the mechanism beneath each bar; a simple spring operated by a hidden button on the pole; ingenious. Studying the mechanism, he found himself calming; his mind once more in familiar territory. Paul quickly reset the bars with three discreet clicks and ushered Owen on towards a small door concealed by a group of trees. He rapped his knuckles lightly against the weather-worn wood and it opened a crack, allowing a sliver of light out into the night.

Whispered words passed between Paul and whoever opened the door and seconds later Owen found himself inside a small vestry which was as cold as it had been outside in spite of the four solid walls and roof. A wizened face entered his vision and he was suddenly looking into a pair of grey eyes that could have been chiselled from the same stone as the walls. An iron grip held his shoulders and he could feel the warm breath of the man before him upon his face,

“Did the raven shriek this night?” The old man asked, “Answer me, quickly!” He violently shook Owen as he asked.

“N-no. I heard no raven.” Owen managed, fighting in vain against the grip of the old man.

“Liar!” Declared the man, shaking him again.

Paul pulled at the man’s shoulder, “The raven is just a superstition – the exact thing this night will help abolish. Leave him alone.”

“The raven never lies. It cries this night and our lives are forfeit! This man will be the death of us all!”

“Father Byron, leave him! He said he didn’t hear a raven and I believe him. I was out there for half the night and I too heard nothing.”

Father Byron held Owen’s fearful gaze for another few seconds before letting him go, although the man had left finger-shaped bruises on Owen’s shoulders. “So be it.” He muttered, and started for the door leading further into the cathedral, “We have all sacrificed a lot for this meeting. If it is as important as you say, then I trust your word. Blindfold the liar and bring him to the meeting place.”

“Blindfold? Why?” Owen spat, “It’s just a cathedral; I’ve walked between its pews for years!” Against his better judgement, he allowed Paul to cover his eyes with a strip of dark, opaque cloth. “I’m also not a liar!”

“That may be so in the future,” He heard Father Byron reply, “But not now. Right now, you are a liar.”

Owen bit back a retort and allowed Paul to help him up and guide him. The cold stone of the vestry soon gave way to the plush carpeted hallways of the inner cathedral, expelling the chill a little. His vision lost, his other senses grew sharper, and he could hear Father Byron shuffling ahead of them muttering incomprehensible words and phrases in prayer. He could hear Paul’s shallow breaths and the murmur of voices behind various doors when they passed them. The warmth of candles caressed his cheeks at regular intervals, and the dizzying aroma of incense hung in the air and clung to every surface it could.

As quickly as the carpet had come, it vanished once again, and the icy cold crept back in as they reached a staircase that took them lower, deeper into the belly of the cathedral. Carefully reaching out, Owen’s fingers brushed against damp stone. Gone were the fragrances of incense, too, replaced by stagnating water and rot. It was unlikely that anyone walked this far down very often given its perceived state.

A door creaked below them, and words were exchanged. The last few steps disappeared and a short flat path led to a wall of warmth and the crackle and snap of a fireplace, as well as the faint scent of wine. Pushing onwards, Owen heard the door creak closed behind him, and the blindfold was pulled away.

Before him stood a plethora of people, but none that he recognised, and it quickly became clear that they were all staring at him over a wide, thick wooden table that stood in the middle of the room. Atop it was a bulky form – heavy, too, by the look of the table – covered by a dusty cloth. Owen could sense that whatever was under there was the reason for his presence, and his heart began to race. If it was what he thought it might be… the possibilities were endless. His mouth had gone dry, and he wet his lips in nervous anticipation, whatever cold his extremities had been subject to was wearing off as adrenaline heated his blood and his limbs began shaking with excitement.

Father Byron stepped forward, blocking sight to the table as he slid between it and Owen,

“You know why you are gathered here.” Father Byron began, “The war has taken a heavy toll, and we are running out of options.” Those around the table nodded, some more out of foreknowledge and irritation at the unnecessary introduction than out of general agreement. “Our enemies have technology that puts ours to shame, in spite of the fact that we are the largest manufacturing power on Thardia. Their ships are faster; their guns, more accurate. We cannot beat them at their own game.”

“Then why, pray tell,” One of the people, dressed in dusty clothes he’d no doubt found at the back of a wardrobe, started, “are we here? To be told that we have no hope? That we cannot beat our foes? That which we all know already? With all respect, Father, the army is demoralised as it is without even the church preaching our doom.”

Father Byron nodded, showing not a flicker of rage at the outburst but seeming acceptance, “A valid question, Captain, and easily answerable.” He drew a long breath, “We cannot beat their advances, but we do not have to; we simply need to be able to weather whatever they can throw at us, and better ourselves at one or two things as opposed to a wide range.” He held up a finger to halt dissent, “We are stuck trying to match the Klunick Federation in every respect, not just arms but trade, production, textiles; we must simply beat them at arms, and here we have the very tools to do so in this room.”

Eyes inspected everyone present – mainly Owen – before focussing on the table.

“And that?” Another man asked, gesturing at the object on the table.

Owen was ready to burst with anticipation as Father Byron took hold of the cloth. “Gentlemen, I give you the means to victory!” He swept the cloth backwards with a single movement, and a collective gasp escaped the mouths of all present.

“Forbidden artefacts… so they do exist.” The one known as the Captain muttered.

“Of course they do!” Father Byron exclaimed, throwing his arms up.

“This is heresy! We’ll all be killed!” Another cried.

“Silence!” Father Byron spat, “We will not be discovered – if we do this right.”

“You are certain?”

Father Byron nodded, “The raven has not cried this night; our operation is not known.”

“The raven?” The Captain asked, “You stake our lives – and these artefacts – on baseless superstitions?”

“I know far more than is healthy about the darkness of this planet.” Father Byron said, his tone menacing and his eyes dark, “Would you I impart some knowledge upon you?”

“Ah, erm, no,” The Captain replied, unable to look the old man in the eye, “I’m quite alright, Father.”

Father Byron grunted his content and turned to Owen, “You have the gift.”

Owen’s heart skipped a beat. How could this man know? On second thoughts, would he like to know how? Owen slowly nodded.

“It wasn’t a question, boy, it was a statement of fact. You are as valuable – perhaps more – than the artefacts we have here. They are the lock, and you are the key. With you, their secrets shall be revealed and we shall have our victory at last.”

“I beg your pardon, Father,” A third man said, “But what ‘gift’ makes this boy, barely a year into his manhood, more valuable than any one of us?”

“Don’t worry, Jonas, I was not speaking monetarily – at least not directly.” Father Byron replied, “His gift is like my own power to read the darkness of this world, but then it also completely different. He can but touch a machine and instantly know everything about it; its parts, its mechanisms; how it works; what it is made out of. He can allow us to recreate these artefacts of a lost age, and they will dawn a new age.”

“What if they use resources we have not got?” It was a simple question, but one that cut through the excited atmosphere like a knife.

“Ah, that is one of the factors we have to take into account.” Father Byron admitted, “His gift does not extend to fabricating non-existent materiel. It does, however, provide us with enough information to perhaps find ways of using what we have got. Steel is as strong as any metal, and steam as powerful as anything for powering what we have. Through perseverance we find a way.”

“Fine, assuming his ‘gift’ works and we know what we need and that we have it, how do we go about getting it and making these… things?” Jonas asked.

“That is where you come in, Jonas. You are amongst the wealthiest – and also, therefore, amongst the most influential – people in the Empire. With your money and influence, we can fund the making.” Father Byron turned his gaze on the second man, “Benjamin, your factories span entire city districts and number everything from apple presses to refineries. They are where we make our weapons of victory.” He turned to the final two men; the captain and a well-dressed nobleman who looked entirely out of place in his blood red tunic with gold edges. “Captain, you can control who receives the weapons first, and keep them going to the most open-minded. Finally, Lord Coldrun, you have your lips forever against our beloved leader’s ear; you will keep him deaf of our work.”

Father Byron turned back to Owen, his lips in a wide smile, a completely different person from the man he met in the vestry. “Go on, Owen. Take an artefact; begin our march on victory.”

With sweaty, shuddering palms, Owen grabbed one of the objects, and knowledge flooded his mind. The gun – yes, it was a gun – was rugged, well made. It didn’t fire metal, no, it fired light – light! Ingenious! Power cells absorbed the sun’s rays and utilised them against the enemy as the ultimate weapon, with a completely renewable energy resource. How could anybody not think of it before? But then, the cell itself, and the connectors… they would be difficult, perhaps impossible? No, nothing was impossible, just difficult, very difficult; difficult, but doable with time, money, and the right equipment.

Euphoric, Owen withdrew his hand from the gun – the lasgun – and faced Father Byron once again. “I will need much, perhaps too much to ask of our current benefactors, but it can be done.”

Father Byron’s lips parted, showing crooked browning teeth through the smile, “Excellent. We have no time to waste. If we miss a step here, it’ll be more than our heads on the line. He glanced at Paul, who had stood forgotten in the shadows, “Did the raven cry this night, Paul?”

Paul shook his head, “No, Father.”

“Then all is well.”
-----------------------------------------------

Somewhere over the cathedral, a shadow cut through the smog and came to rest upon the shoulder of a figure standing before the cathedral gates. Behind him stood groups of armed soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, rifles in hand, shaking in the cold. The figure was still as stone as the shadow moved up to his ear and emitted a high-pitched ‘caw!’

With a content grunt, the figure nodded. “The dark has spoken,” He turned his head to address the soldiers behind him, “sack the cathedral, then raze it to the ground. Leave nothing intact, and nobody alive.”