The Last Benediction in Steel

by Wright, Kevin

  …the disappearances and killings have begun once more.

  —Journal of King Gaston II.

  Chapter 53.

  I SHOULD’VE KNOWN it the instant our eyes met. Destiny. Kismet. Betrayal. But I was focused on other things.

  The sun had set long before Karl and I trudged back through Husk’s vaunted gates. And by vaunted, I meant shitty. So very, very shitty. It was a ghost town as per usual. No folk slogging about in the claustrophobic alleyways. No lights glowing behind shuttered window. No dogs barking off in the distance. Karl peeled off with a grunt and headed south for the leper-house. I made for the house behind the Half-King for our rendezvous with Lady Mary’d and Ruth and the kids.

  But they weren’t there.

  And they weren’t at the docks.

  So I headed back, waited behind the tavern, closing my eyes and hoping, breathing, shivering, seeing things I didn’t want to see and feeling … thirsty. And as luck would have it, a tavern stood just within throwing distance. So I did what I had to. Or didn’t, but I did it anyways.

  “I’ll have a push and a shove,” I announced down the bar.

  In honor of Sir Alaric. From somewhere up in heaven, he’d smile down beatifically, taking a well-deserved break from boning his gorgeous dead wife. Or someone else’s. If that’s how heaven works. And it most certainly ain’t. But it was a nice thought, and I was short on nice thoughts. Cause every time I closed my eyes I saw that damned thing, that shambling, awful crippled mess of a thing squealing as I hacked it to pieces. And the squealing hadn’t stopped as it burned. Then the burning thing morphed into the Nazarene, huffing out yellow fumes as lepers screamed and groped and pawed from all around. And then Rudiger and his teeth, followed by the Grey-Lady, charring to a crisp as she begged for mercy.

  “Eh?” Sweet Billie raised her craggy head, offering a dead stare followed by a blink. Like waking from a fog. Or seeing a ghost. “Sure thing … Sir Luther.” Her hand buried in a mug. “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks.” I should’ve seen it. Smelled it. Something’ed it. But like I said, I was focused on quenching my unrequited thirst, quelling my demons, blurring my inner vision.

  Sweet Billie forced a lined smile, showing no teeth, and poured. “Heard King Eckhardt’s, ah … passed on, they say.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunate.” More or less. Less taking the dominant position.

  “Well…” she slid the tankard across the bar, “here you go.”

  “Where’s Wenelda?” I asked as something caught my eye.

  It was the portrait Sir Alaric had laid a kissed hand upon that first night we’d arrived. Tankard in hand, I meandered over. A painting of Lady Catherine. Absolutely beautiful, much like the one from Sir Alaric’s room but painted from a different perspective, from behind, her looking back and over her right shoulder, standing before a field of gold, the trees behind the blaze of autumn flame.

  Jesus—

  Something in my mind struck, clicking into place like clockwork.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The first fucker stepped from the kitchen. Gideon Felmarsh. A dumb look plastered across his wart-mangled mug. But he wasn’t stupid. Had a loaded Genoese crossbow in those ham-strangler paws. Finely crafted. Aimed at yours truly. Naturally. Brother Miles was the second. Two-fisting that studded mace of his. White knuckled.

  I eyeballed it. Funny thing about maces. Men of the cloth can wield them. But not axes or swords. Church gave the say-so cause they’re blunt and won’t draw blood. Theoretically. It was small comfort.

  “Did Jesus use a flanged mace?” I asked.

  Brother Miles opened his mouth but fell shy of wowing me with diatribe. He just looked guilty. Not guilty enough to stop what he was doing, but guilty nonetheless.

  “Hypocrisy, life’s blood of the church,” I said.

  “Grab some ceiling, you shit-fuck.” Felmarsh stepped into the light. He was shorter than me, and even with the flurry of love-bites gracing my mug, I topped him for looks, too.

  “Mind if I finish my drink?” I took a sip. “You should try doing something that distracts from your face. Grow out your hair. A mustache. Wear a mask. Might help you with the ladies.”

  “Ain’t got no problem with the ladies.”

  I backed up. “Bet they have with you.”

  “Huh?”

  Another pair of figures slid from the kitchen. One was King Eventine. The other that shit, von Madbury. King Eventine looked haggard, beat as a dog while von Madbury bore a manic gleam in his one eye.

  “Y’know?” I glared at the King, “Your family’s curse might just be warranted.”

  King Eventine paled and said nothing. I hadn’t expected him to.

  The front door thudded open and another pair of blackguards waded in.

  “Fuck your mother.” Von Madbury gripped his curved tulwar.

  “You talking to me?” I nodded to the King. “Or him?”

  King Eventine blinked, stammered, frowned.

  “Too bad you weren’t born a mime,” I said. “You’d’ve been aces.”

  “Said to grab some ceiling.” Felmarsh trudged forward, shouldering the barkeep aside. “Cunt.”

  “Apologies.” I cocked my head toward von Madbury. “Thought you were talking to him.”

  The King had the good graces to avert his gaze, “Sir Luther, I don’t believe—”

  “Shut it,” von Madbury shouldered past him, adding after the sad fact, “Your Majesty.”

  “Wenelda available?” I called to Sweet Billie, but she was gone, out the back. Smart. I did my damnedest to ignore Felmarsh. His crossbow, though? Not so easy. I took a long deep breath. There were worse ways to go than a stick to the chest.

  “Hands up.” Felmarsh jabbed with the crossbow. “And away from the pig-sticker.”

  “Ah… Apologies. Grab some ceiling.” I raised my hands. Slowly. Finally. There were six of them all told. Five if you didn’t count the King, which I didn’t. “Didn’t grasp the reference. But then, I can be obtuse. You wouldn’t understand. Not a sharp fella like you.” I turned to the King. “Where’s Lady Mary?”

  “Where she belongs.” King Eventine gave von Madbury a sidelong look. “Ahem… She’s to be my bride.”

  “Bet she’s through the roof,” I deadpanned. “And the others?”

  The King stiffened. “I—”

  “Shut it,” von Madbury growled.

  “You have them killed?” I said. “Huh, Your Highness? A madwoman and two kids? Jesus.”

  Von Madbury hissed something in the King’s ear and he stiffened, paled, nodded.

  I fixed King Eventine my best glare, even though I knew it was too late, knew he’d lost control, knew he’d never had it to begin with. “You know what you’re dealing with, yeah?”

  “We know who we’re not,” von Madbury answered.

  “Wasn’t talking to you, you sad, limp prick,” I said calmly. “This’ll end poorly for all involved, Your Highness. Mark my words.”

  “You were going to take her,” King Eventine sniveled.

  “No. She was gonna leave with me. There’s a difference.”

  “She’s safe. She’s where she needs to be.” King Eventine drew himself up. “What happened down there? In the tunnel?”

  “You ran,” I sneered. “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, well…” the King licked his pallid lips, “it seemed the prudent thing to do.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there.” And I hucked my tankard sidearm at Felmarsh, cracking off his shoulder in a spider-webbing arc of ale.

  “Shoot him!”

  Wincing through the spray, Felmarsh shot, Thwock! I struck a table, ducked and hurled a chair aside, Brother Miles lurching after.

  I slipped a glancing mace blow, booted him in the knee, sweeping his leg out from under him, stalling von Madbury, and turned tail. The two fuckers at the door stayed put, hunters to the hound, ready and waiting while Brother Miles and von Madbury untangled and gave chase, but there was n
o chase to give. Not in a tavern half the size of an outhouse.

  Felmarsh cursed, reloading.

  I hurdled through the room and dove, busting through a shuttered window, landing, rolling across the wet ground, coming up to my feet and running like my life depended on it, which is most assuredly did.

  “Kill him!”

  A bolt zipped past.

  Down an alley, I scrambled through trash and matter and darkness, blood pounding in my ears, a hot burn flooding my chest, my lungs, my legs. But I staggered on, collapsing to a knee against a tilted picket fence. My arms … so heavy all of a sudden. Legs, too. Jesus. Waterlogged lead. The fence creaked as I leaned into it. The hot burning was a warmth now, running down my side, my leg, pooling beneath me.

  Brother Miles had struck me good. But as I closed my eyes, I realized Brother Miles had missed. Felt the swish of air past my face.

  “Fuck.” I felt at my side, probing, wincing, gasping, grunting.

  And found it…

  The sharp end of Felmarsh’s crossbow bolt, snapped off in the side of my chest, its sliver-thin end poking free. I picked at it, grimacing, wet fingers slipping on its ephemeral point. Come on. Couldn’t get a grip. Come on, you fucker! And if I could? What then? It was deep. I coughed wet red, hacked up a mouthful of pink spume. Wiped my chin. Coughed again, slumping ponderous to the ground. Everything was suddenly so dense. So thick. So slow.

  I blinked.

  All I could do.

  Footsteps crunching through the grit. Somewhere. Somewhere near. Finally laughter. Sharp, nasty laughter. Closer now. But I didn’t give a shit, couldn’t give a shit cause I was headed beyond…

  …at odds finding the requisite bodies and souls to satiate my sire’s monstrous appetite…

  —Journal of King Gaston II

  Chapter 54.

  ALL WAS DARKNESS. Darkness and chanting, a slow rhythmic hum suffusing the air with an echo of desecration and infinite possibility. But I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could barely think. Something sat on my chest. Crushing me. Inch by inch, ribs yielding to the constant pressure of some torturer’s device constricting by increment.

  “Fuck him!” A voice snarled. A voice so familiar. “Let him die. Let him die like all the rest. Like all the ones he done killed. Our brothers!”

  “JESUS—!” Someone laid the boots into my side and I stiffened, gasped, posturing across the ground like a dying fish.

  Dirt and grit bit into the back of my head, my neck, as I tried to cover, tried to flail, tried to anything but failed.

  “Beg off, brother,” a deep hollow voice sounded. Did it come from beneath the earth? The sky? From the very ether?

  Bare feet flapped off to the grumble of curses and fell views of my nature and parentage.

  “Brother,” the hollow voice sounded closer, louder, deeper, “now is not your time.”

  Why…? I wanted to ask. Could feel my lips moving, but nothing coming out. I was so tired. So god-damned dense and tired and ready and willing to just lay down and embrace the soft expanse of sweet annihilation.

  “Because we say so,” the hollow voice said.

  Aaaahhh!

  I screamed, in my mind at least, as someone grabbed me by the arm and yanked me off the ground, feet dangling, side burning, something wooden lodged unmoving through my chest.

  “Come back to me, brother,” the voice said.

  The fuck—?

  The pain was nigh on unbearable as a red-hot poker twice the width of my fist slid burning into my side, melting through in a searing hiss, that poker, a hand, probing through, gliding along slick wet ribs, fingers palpating, feeling so wrong, so strange, so awful. Wet and warm. Every inch of my body and soul straining, screaming. The fingers found something awry, and slid between my ribs, wedging them up and down, bowing them, joints bending, creaking, and me?

  Trembling. Kicking. Cursing. Screaming. Like a little fucking girl.

  Pink burst out from within, a hiss, a torrent, a gush, a waterfall of slop splashing matter across the earth. A quick twist and pull and the thick butcher’s hand slipped free. I dropped marionette-limp across the ground, fingers scrabbling at the earth, gasping, hacking, puking.

  But I could breathe again.

  “There, brother.” Something thunked into the ground by my face. “The seed of your demise cast into fallow earth.”

  “What have you done?” came that other voice, that sneering scything sniveling voice.

  I opened my eyes and rolled over, feeling at my chest, my sides, my vitals. Hacking up spume, a wobbling trail of it connecting to the ground. The head of Felmarsh’s crossbow bolt lay point down in the ground before me, crimson with steaming blood.

  “You’re alive—” It was a whisper. A hiss. From a grey blob. Grasping hands and hard metal.

  I lurched reflexively, pushing away, gasping, groping.

  “Lou—” A hand gripped me, arms encircling. “It’s me. Your brother. It’s Stephan!”

  I froze, whimpered, curled. “Stephan…?”

  The Blob gripped me, holding me close. “A miracle. Rose of Sharon, Lou, a miracle.”

  “What the … what happened?” I blinked, working the sight back into my eyes. All was still a blur. The waver of torches burning, tall gaunt mountains looming, no— Figures huddled round, waiting, watching. The stench of blood and iron. Unwashed body and churned earth. The low bass chanting that never stopped.

  “It’s alright,” the Grey Blob morphed into something approximating Stephan’s haggard face. He embraced me. “It’s alright, brother.”

  A forest of shorn legs surrounded me, huddled close, shifting from side to side. Pale, sweating, huffing, his eyes bloodshot mad, the Tome-Bearer leered, mounted atop his great burden, its spine cracked, laid out across the ground.

  I crushed tears from my eyes. “N-Nothing seems alright.”

  “You’re not dead,” Stephan whispered. “And you were close, brother. So very, very close.”

  “Th-The Nazarene…?” I glared up, blinded anew by the harsh blare of torchlight.

  “He’s here, too.”

  I shielded my face. “He gonna kill me?”

  “Brother, he saved you.” Stephan grasped me. “A miracle, Lou, like Lazarus.”

  “Yeah, but,” I rubbed my eyes, “but why?”

  The Nazarene knelt before me, slapping a massive paw on my shoulder, nearly shattering my spine. I flinched, trying to shrug free, but his fingers gripped in, just shy of crushing bone.

  “Stay.” His huge form loomed beneath a hooded cloak. Death incarnate. “I shan’t harm you, brother.”

  “Yeah?” I gasped. “Why the fuck not?”

  “Because it is what Jesus would do.”

  I lurched, winced. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Aye. That I am.” The hooded head nodded sagely.

  “Y’know?” I wiped my mouth. “Acting like a true Christian’s the surest way of getting crucified.”

  “Truth be told, I would welcome the release. But there is much work to accomplish and not overmuch time to accomplish it.”

  “You want something.” I rubbed my eyes. “That’s it. Isn’t it? What the hell is it?”

  “What I have always desired, brother.” The Nazarene rose, arms wide. “To aid the faithful. Heal the sick. Give succor to the indigent.” The Nazarene drew back his cowl, and it was fair evident that back at the leper-house, Karl hadn’t missed with that axe. Edges of jagged skull yawned empty as a spent eggshell. Charred bone. Black eyes crackling with mad vitality. “To scourge the earth of horror.”

  “You could start by pulling the hood back up,” I said.

  “Keep yer mouth shut!” Lazarus loomed above, behind, as ungainly as a pumpkin on a pike-head.

  “Quell your inner demons, brother.” The Nazarene raised a huge paw. “For we’ve greater at hand to combat this night.”

  “He tried to kill you!”

  “Aye.” The Nazarene nodded slowly, black ichor dribbling down
his neck. “For he believed me the source of the corruption. Yea, and he sought to cleanse this place. And despite his most abject of failures, I recognize the intent of the deed if not the deed itself, for he has seen the light.” His eyes narrowed to a stiletto point. “You have seen the light, brother?”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah. Sure. Absolutely!”

  “Aye. So. You believe now?” The Nazarene’s eyes bulged wide. “Nay… You have seen it in truth, brother. Yes!” He dropped to a knee, pawing me, gripping my shoulders. “I can smell its fell reek upon you. The death. The un-death, brother. The grave earth stink of decade and decay — wait.” He squeezed. “You’ve found its lair?”

  “Yeah.” I winced up as Karl forced his way through the circle. “Yeah. We found it.”

  “Tell me what happened,” the Nazarene gasped.

  “Sure…” Wincing, wobbling, I clambered to my feet, hugging myself against the cold wind freezing my bare flesh. A knot-sized squirm of gnarled scar lay slathered across my right side, weeping pink. “We found the fucking nightmare, the Half-King, the strigoi, and we killed it.”

  “Nay brother, that you have not.” The Nazarene straightened to his full and considerable height, his hollow skull sloshing as he gazed off north across Husk, to the Schloss von Haesken seated upon its sister hill. “You have only made it stronger.”

  …grates on a man’s nerves, continuously, and so I have decreed we abandon Haesken Keep, though it be my ancestral home, for I cannot abide such a fell abomination dwelling below our very…

  —Haesken Family Treatise: King Eckhardt Haesken III

  Chapter 55.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the walls of the Schloss stood before us, all sunken, sad, and sallow, that I heard it. The screaming. As one, we three froze in the lee of the skeleton of a church, halted amidst construction. “But do you believe him?” I asked.

  “The Nazarene?” Stephan craned his neck, looking out at the towers built along the Schloss’s southern wall. “Yes, brother, I do. I may not know why, but … he let us go, did he not? When he could have so easily done otherwise.”