Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval. Christopher Byford

in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents.

      The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting.

      Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept.

      Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather.

      Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid.

      * * *

      As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence.

      How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do.

      Vehicles littered the yard too.

      Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.

      All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years.

      ‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound.

      Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds.

      The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled.

      ‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be.

      ‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’

      ‘Except me.’

      Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’

      ‘We’ve been here for ever.’

      ‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted.

      Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’

      The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog.

      ‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’

      Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around.

      Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside.

      Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior.

      Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame.

      ‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders.

      ‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze.

      ‘It’s a wreck.’

      ‘That’s all it is to you?’

      ‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact.

      ‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring.

      ‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’

      ‘It pulled ore?’

      ‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’

      He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed.

      ‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean,