The imp vanished in a tiny burp of fire, leaving behind a puff of smoke and a whiff of brimstone. Horace glanced around the pub to ensure that the infernal messenger had gone unnoticed, then grimaced as he unfurled the bit of parchment it had handed him. His frown deepened as he quickly scanned the short message, then he closed his eyes.
Looks like we're out of other options.
He heaved a sigh and pushed back from the table, brushing the imp's ashes into the tray on the table. Grabbing his coat and hat from the back of the chair, he dropped some bills on the table and stepped out into the night. A sharp, bitterly cold wind immediately stung his face as he turned, snow crunching underfoot as he trudged down the street towards the entrance of the alley that led behind the pub. Once in the alley the wind died down a bit, but the drifts had accumulated and he slipped several times as he carefully made his way behind the building.
Light spilled from the rear windows of the building in several stripes across the road, but the end of the alley was deeply shadowed. Horace stepped into the darkened area, then raised his left hand and muttered briefly. A small globe of red light floated up out of his hand, revealing several trash bins half-buried in snow. Perfect.
Horace rubbed his hands together to warm them a bit, then began setting out several items from his pockets. Two candles went on top of the trash bins, and five bones went on the ground in a rough circle. He stepped back, considered the arrangement, briefly checked the parchment, and then made a couple of small adjustments. Satisfied, he drew a broad bladed knife from beneath his coat. Steeling himself, he sliced the palm of his right hand and reached out to dribble the blood in the middle of the circle, the drops staining the snow black in the werelight. Then he spoke in a commanding voice that echoed weirdly against the brick walls.
"Maledictus Unus, forti et aeterna, det nobis vires et potestatem. Aperi ostium quinque sex tres!"
As he finished the incantation, a tiny dot of light appeared in the middle of the circle. It quickly expanded into a nearly blinding blast of sunlight and warm, heavy air that became a swirl of glittering ice as it poured into the alley. Horace stepped back for a moment to let it dissipate and quickly wrapped his hand in a white handkerchief. As the ice cleared, a bare room with whitewashed walls became visible on the other side of a flat disc floating in the air. Horace peered through the portal and listened for a moment, examining the other side from all angles. Then he stepped through, carefully avoiding the edges of the disc.
It was oppressively hot on the other side, and his skin immediately prickled with sweat. After he made sure he was clear of the portal, Horace looked around. The room was completely empty, but a large open window looked north over a broad expanse of water dotted with ships. Stone buildings rose in the background on the left, and the smell of dead fish and coal smoke washed over him. Rough Spanish and the sounds of a busy port wafted up from the wharves below. It was late afternoon and the masts of the ships cast long shadows across the water.
Horace shucked off his greatcoat and hung it on the windowsill, then fished out a small set of binoculars from under his vest. He scanned slowly across the bay until he spotted a squat, bulky ship with a white-painted hull and a dark grey superstructure. A massive armored turret with two stubby gun barrels sat on the starboard side forward, partially hidden behind a tall prow.
Horace grunted and let the binoculars hang. Unwrapping the cloth around his hand, he dipped his finger in the still-oozing blood and began to draw a complex figure on the wall below the window. It took a couple of minutes and he had to squeeze out more blood twice, wincing at the pain. Then he stepped back, examining the sigil. Satisfied, he placed his still bloody thumb in the center and began to chant in a low voice.
An odd sideways pressure began to build in the room. Condensation fogging the air around the still-open portal began to ripple like a pool of water. As the chanting continued, the ripples grew larger and slower. Sweat stung Horace's eyes, but he kept his eyes on the sigil and focused on keeping the chant even. Finally he stopped, gathered a breath, and threw out his bloody hand towards the distant warship.
"Ignis!"
At first, nothing appeared to happen. Then a blinding flash lit the darkening sky and a visible shockwave swept across the moored ships, sending them rocking and bouncing against their anchors. A deafening CRACK echoed across the bay followed by the pressure wave which blasted trash and leaves through the window and almost knocked Horace off his feet. Ears ringing, Horace staggered back to the window, fumbling the binoculars back up so he could get a look at the target.
The entire bow of the ship was a tangle of smoking, blackened wreckage and she was rapidly settling into the water. He couldn't see the forward turret anywhere. Thick black smoke poured from the amidships superstructure and portholes and mushroomed into a towering pillar that cast a shadow over the city in the setting sun.
Horace glanced around again, then re-bandaged his hand and gathered up his coat. The sigil by the window was now a blackened, illegible mess. After one more look at the devastation in the bay, he carefully stepped back through the portal. A few seconds later there was a pop like a bubble and the portal vanished, leaving behind a puddle of slowly drying condensation on the rough wooden floor.