The Golem City (Complete)

Chapter Six

Dusk was settling in. Dorothea huddled beneath the one window in her room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She felt despair, not just for herself but for Turner. She kept picturing him crumpled in the dirt, on the tunnel floor, blood seeping from his skull. They had forced her to accompany them, to leave him behind, injured and alone. Tears spilled a warm path down her cheeks. He could be dead for all she knew. And for reasons she could not fathom. Somehow it was all her fault.

She had been taken to an immense island fortress resembling a castle and imprisoned in one of the many stone towers that guarded its spacious courtyard of polished cobblestone and manicured grass. A nest of cannons occupied much of the surrounding land, barrels pointing towards the sea in every direction, like eyes gawking through rusty brown domes. Windows fashioned like crucifixes covered the castle's angular walls and men in army uniforms patrolled its lengthy battlements, walking between distant posts with rifles resting on their shoulders, the wind tugging at their emerald coattails.

The stronghold extended over twin islands, connected by a half-mile-long bridge supported by arched piers of cement and stone. From her lofty quarters, Dorothea could see the opposite isle, drably clad in a vast concrete flat dotted with watch towers, an airfield, a radio array, and massive hangars of ribbed steel, several of which stood open. She could make out tanks and planes parked within the iron dens.

Surrounding both islands were slanted ramparts where the sea churned, making them nearly impossible to approach, let alone scale. The only conceivable ways into the castle were by plane or the massive shipyard that had been carved out of the castle's granite foundations. It was into the shipyard that Dorothea had been delivered before being hustled to the tower. The accommodations were comfortable, certainly an improvement over the cramped ship's quarters, but she chafed at the idea of the locked door, all the while fearing what lay beyond it. The walls were cold grey stone, the furnishings a dark wood, almost black, elaborately carved. Her bed was dressed in ornate sheets, the duvet covered in ivory silk. Across from the bed sat a small open fireplace, before which a table and two chairs were situated. On the table sat the roast dinner they had brought her hours earlier. It sat untouched.

Her captors had presented her with a much-needed change of clothes. She looked down at the cropped tea-stained jacket, cotton drawstring skirt, and red-laced black leather boots.

The sound of a key in the door lock caught her attention, but she remained where she was. Kritzinger entered. He glanced at the meal that sat on the table, fat congealing. Even the water had not been touched.

"Stubborn as ever, I see."

Dorothea watched him warily but didn't reply.

"Are you cold? Shall I have the fire tended?"

Dorothea continued to stare at him in silence. Pulling a chair out from the table, Kritzinger rested his cane on the back of it and sat. Glancing down, he brushed some dirt from his pants leg. Seated, he appeared much less intimidating.

"I understand you are upset," he said, his voice even, his expression inscrutable. "It was never our intention to hurt you. Everything we have done since we first approached you has been to keep you safe."

"Approached? You mean stolen!" Dorothea snapped. "You took me from my home!"

"I suspected others may have cottoned on to your importance and felt it necessary to ensure your safety above all else. Although I was right to act, I regret I lacked sufficient time to explain beforehand."

"Why was I in danger?" she demanded. "What's so important about me?"

Kritzinger leaned forward.