Free Ghosts of Engines Past by Sean McMullen

before striding down to the water's edge. The intruder had arrived at the very worst time possible, and Gerald had opened his mouth to say as much when he saw a little boat on the water. Curiosity smothered the knight's anger.
    The boat was half a yard long, and six short, thick candles were burning along its keel. Astride them was the metal rendering of a long, thin dog, its head facing backwards and its tail raised to display its bottom to wherever the boat might go.
    “Sir, do you know who I am?” asked Gerald, deciding to be polite because he was intrigued.
    “You are Sir Gerald of Ashdale,” replied a soft but commanding voice. “You sit here every morning and evening, seeking revenge.”
    “And who might you be?”
    “I am Tordral.”
    “The master armourer?”
    “None other. Look into my boat, what do you see?”
    Although inclined to tell Tordral to move on, Gerald looked.
    “I see a metal dog, and beneath it burn six candles. From its head protrudes a spigot... A sufflator! The brass dog is a sufflator. I have seen them used in France.”
    “Very good. Turn the spigot, and steam gushes from the jaws.”
    Suddenly Gerald remembered why he was there.
    “If you know me, you must know I am not to be disturbed,” he said sternly.
    “What use has a sufflator?” Tordral asked, ignoring the warning.
    “I—ah, they are vessels that are half filled with water and heated by a small fire until steam gushes from the mouth. They may be used as a bellows to make a fire blaze up, even in wet wood. “
    “True. Now watch.”
    Tordral turned the spigot in the dog's head. A jet of steam blasted from its mouth, so loudly and abruptly that Gerald sprang back and put an arrow to his bow in a single movement.
    “Be at ease, Sir Gerald,” said Tordral above the sharp hissing.
    The armourer aimed the boat into the middle of river, then released it. Amid clouds of steam, it drew away from the bank. Gerald crossed himself.
    “Had I not seen, I would not have believed,” he said fearfully.
    “As a child, I found that a rock flung from a boat's stern will propel it forward a trifle.”
    “But your boat flings no rocks,” said Gerald.
    “My boat is flinging steam.”
    Gerald stared after the boat. It was now moving at the pace of a walking man.
    “So, your toy can cross a river,” he said, again remembering that Tordral was intruding. “Am I meant to be impressed, or—It's gone!”
    “Observant of you.”
    “At the river's midpoint, it vanished. How? Where? It did not sink, I was watching.”
    “You know the lore of boundaries, Sir Gerald. This stretch of the Derwent River is special. It exists in both our world and another. The banks are a boundary between earth and water, the midpoint is a boundary between one half of the river and the other, but crossing between worlds involves more than just crossing a river. You can only do it where the boundaries exist in both worlds, and during the halflight boundary times, dusk or first light, that are neither night nor day. It must also be on a boundary day, and this day is the winter solstice.”
    “Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?”
    “It has left this world, I claim no more.”
    Gerald walked out onto the bridge and looked down into the water. There was no trace of the boat. Here was none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here was something extraordinary. He walked back to the east bank. Tordral was dressed in chainmail, but wore no surcoat or cloak, as warriors would. It was as if chainmail instead of cloth had been used to fashion a very ordinary tunic and trews. The helmet was an archaic type that left the lower half of the face visible, even when the visor was down.
    “Sir, what are your intentions?” Gerald asked.
    “I am an armourer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon.”
    “That toy, a weapon?”
    “Oh yes,” said Tordral. “It can reach your