“Still nothing, eh? Well, maybe you might know us by our second name, The Prince of Smoke—the killer who vanishes with the night, leaving no trace of himself behind, who has been likened to a monstrous combination of Houdini and Jack the Ripper.”
I squinted. “Yes, the last one, perhaps. I may have heard of you, once or twice. But even Jack the Ripper—or Houdini, for that matter—is no Jack Lantern or Dooley Hines. Or even, dare I say, the infamous Family Man.” The trio’s weakness was quite obvious, so I decided to toy with it.
The third sneered. “You think you’re a match for us, you shambling pile of mindless muscle? Why then, pray tell, have you fallen victim to us? Clearly, you’ve been oversold by the press.”
I shook my head, smiling. “I didn’t say you were my match. I implied you were my inferior. It would seem that in this case, three minds are not better than one.” The three men barely contained their rage. I had high hopes for how that anger might serve me.
The third clapped his hands, ushering in several mercenaries. “Well, I suppose at the end of the day, it makes little difference what a dead man thinks. Fortunately for me and my now frantic need to see you suffer, you needn’t be entirely whole for my clever plan to work. You’re going to wish you were nicer to us, you monstrous oaf.”
Within moments, I was hoisted from the stone floor by burly hired hands and placed cruciform upon a stone wall. My captors were careful to see that more chains were added to better secure my outstretched arms, once they realized that I had already—quite unconsciously—deformed some of the links of my original trappings. My strength was in no need of the Red Dream to be formidable.
All manner of petty torture followed—whippings, the plying of many red-hot objects to my body, the pouring of scalding-hot liquids over my skin, and on and on. All of it was quite painful, but none of it was sufficient to warrant even the slightest reaction from me, save perhaps for the occasional glare. However, my eyes were only reflecting the pain I felt from internal fires, rather than those paltry flames that had been laid upon my flesh. Of course, my reluctance to yield so much as a whimper gave no satisfaction to the triplets. This in turn only inspired them to concoct more elaborate but equally fruitless attempts to elicit screams from me.
My torture lasted for weeks, and as was predicted by my captors, many Wolves came for me—as well as the brothers. All of them, each in their grizzly turns, fell to the small army of hired killers assembled by the triplets. While I continued to burn from within, the efforts of the miserable trio finally began to take a toll, as my body became less and less a discernible thing. I had become a confusion of sores, blood, and exposed muscle and bone. I would scarcely be able to fight even if I did manage to break through my bonds, which out of paranoia and fear, the triplets had considerably augmented. My heart had never been host to fear, yet I did begin to wonder if I had finally reached the end of my dream.
I took my silence wherever I could find it—in between my captors’ words, even between their breaths. Between the brief spaces separating my thoughts, where reposed tiny sparks of quiet. Between the very din of shadows, as they glided close upon the heels of their casters. It was all that kept me together. The torments affected by my captors were growing less fanciful and more forceful—a typical and predictable escalation once the imagination fades. There wasn’t much imagination between the triplets, perhaps less than what one might hope to find blowing about within the most average of heads. No, the engine that powered this Prince of Smoke was little more than the combined powers of greed and glory—two vices that were as correlated as flesh and bone. Of course, as the Deadworld loves its petty ironies, their vainglory would most certainly be their unseating. I would see to it, loath though I was to do the Deadworld’s work.
There were always several of the hired guns milling about the room where I had been showcased. The triplets must have been wealthy, indeed. Given all the noise they made, I was left without a proper healing silence, so I made do with scraps. Unfortunately, whatever progress a night’s efforts of sipping at silence gave me was immediately stripped away the following day, as lash and hammer and knife saw to the lessening—and then some—of my night’s recovery.
On what night I cannot say, there came a quiet that stoked the coldest fire within me—I could no longer hear the lament of my poor sisters. Did they think their brother dead? Or worse, did they believe I had abandoned them? I would be free that very night, I swore it.
As had become routine for the closing of the evening, the thin men came to me, boasting of their most recent success at “cheating the Shepherd’s Game,” as they called it. I saw their technique as one of many perfectly valid strategies that could be used to win—I couldn’t fathom how one cheats at a cosmic game of mass murder.
“After that last fish, I’d say our worm isn’t long for the world, eh?” spoke the leader of the three. He was referencing the Wolf that had come for me the night prior. A killer known as the Baker’s Man had killed the first round of hired hands and managed to spend a minute or so trying to cut me from my chains—limb by limb—so as to “prepare some meat for the heat,” as the Wolf had put it. However, the killer’s desire to whisper said phrase into my ear had put him in range of my teeth. I don’t believe even a master chef could have prepared that man’s flesh to taste any less rancid. He was largely a yellow supper of flab soaked in sweat, clearly far too indulgent of his appetite. Perhaps he was a better cook than he was a meal—it was certainly difficult to imagine otherwise. But I hadn’t been allowed to eat since I’d arrived, and beggars undoubtedly cannot be choosers. By the time the second round of guards arrived, I had already dealt with my appetite. Normally, I would not stoop to cannibalism, but my sisters were at stake—I would need every bit of energy I could amass, however I could get it. I wondered what Black Molly Patience would have thought of me now.
The third thin man continued. “Tonight might be even messier, I think. This next killer dreamed some serious weirdness at us last night, and I’m pretty sure he’s making a beeline straight for us. But who knows, maybe you’ll last another night. I did after all double the guard. There might yet still be something wriggling on the hook come morning, but I seriously doubt it.” The leader took a long look at me, perhaps expecting me to speak. I did not. He slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Good luck though, big man, I really mean that.”
I was about to let them take their leave of me, but if a killer of unusually high caliber was coming for them and had even the slightest chance of prevailing, I would have my final words with them. “I sincerely hope you and your brothers survive this next killer, for I intend to hurt all of you quite badly before I kill you, for what you’ve done to my family. But whoever or whatever comes tonight, even if they prove to be the devil himself—if they should happen to kill you in the most horrible of ways, you should thank them on your way out of this world for saving you from my vengeance.”
The third’s face grew dark. “Well, thanks for that, then. I’ll have to make sure the boys work you especially hard tonight. That way, even if you do somehow escape, you’ll be in no shape to avenge yourself or anyone else.” Despite the bravado, I knew my words had done their job. I could see fear in the triplets, which I hoped would prove a valuable ally later on.
My muscles were already proving stronger than the chains that coiled about me, but I had remitted my efforts at the approach of the thin men, disallowing the straining iron a voice. Soon, I would be free.
A short time later, seven mercenaries entered the airy room into which I had been painfully reposed. They drew up to me with their hammers and blades, their fire and laughter. I took the pain they inflicted and smiled until I had no more teeth with which to do so—a wise precaution on their part, given what I had done the night before. I timed my efforts against my bonds with the laughter of my tormenters.
Suddenly, I smelled a terrible sweetness in the air. It rose upon a plume of screa
ms that blossomed into the contrived castle. The seven men turned to face the threat. The other killer had come, and I determined to send back my own greeting of screams.
My arms, filled with the coldest fire I’d ever cultivated, moved beyond their bonds. At that very moment, my chains exploded, a noise like thick ice shattering beneath the fury of a sledgehammer. I was free.
The seven men came at me, seeking the death I gave them. I crushed the screams from their throats, creating a song far sweeter than the fragrance of the newest Wolf. I supped upon the silence of the dead men, and I could feel my wounds knitting and the shattered studs of my teeth pushing up from my ruined gums.
I could hear the fiery munitions of the small army discharging wildly, desperately—sounds I had coaxed from the very same group only a short time ago. I kicked the tall medieval doors from my path and investigated the growing conflagration unfurling before me. There were only vague shapes, pent in so much smoke and fire, fleeing and fighting, but mostly just dying.
The thing rapidly shrinking the mercenary army appeared to be a monstrous undead child, dressed in powder blues and bright pinks and holding a giant lollipop—the sweetness I’d smelled earlier, no doubt. I believed the urban legends referred to the thing as the Missing Child—an elemental of murdered children. Regardless of the high pedigree of the interloper and my innate desire to seek it out, I would have the triplets as my first contest of the evening.
I descended the cracked stone stairs, revealing myself to the fleeing mercenaries, allowing them to see that certain death now surrounded them. I was curious to see who they would find more frightening—myself or the Missing Child. I felt quite insulted when the dying masses risked my fury by flooding past me, seeking the exit at my back. I resolved to meet the undead child whether he was on my list or not.
Yet I spied the Prince of Smoke—one version of him, at least—wrapped in thick darkness, standing high above the slaughter, grinning. He looked down from the ramparts of his fake castle, scoffing at both me and the murder-elemental.
The Missing Child made for the thin man and I stepped in front of the creature, signaling that on this day, we were going off-list. The thin men were mine. The shambling thing’s dead eyes fell upon me, and I could sense he mistook me for easy prey.
I felt the cold hands of the undead creature close upon my arms as the thing thought to tear me into pieces as one might a piece of paper. I was growing quite tired of my most recent opponents attempting to rid me of my limbs. My arms had just shrugged off the coils of heavy iron, they had lifted monstrous cannibals into the hollows of the underworld, and they were routinely called upon to heft the incalculable weight of my father’s rage—they would certainly endure beyond this creature’s grip.
I threw off the monster’s hold, and as it staggered backward, surprised no doubt that I had overcome it, I delivered my fist hard and fast across its perpetually grinning face. The thing tumbled to the floor, and the tides of fleeing killers reversed their course, realizing the elemental was clearly the lesser of the two presented threats. I was pleased, but the elemental and the army were peripheral to my course.
I could feel the Red Dream fill my body, thundering through the cracks of the mundane Deadworld, powering my efforts at negotiating the combat at hand. Now renewed and then some, I assumed the Prince of Smoke would be a fairly easy name to cross off my list. I was to learn otherwise.
Magic shares much in common with dreaming, in so much that it is an effect without explanation—a staple feature of any dream. And contrary to the more common assumptions about magic, it isn’t merely the defiance of reality, but is more specifically the annihilation of causality. This realization ran to the forefront of my mind when I saw the Prince appear from the choking smokes of unchecked fires, moving towards me with a grace borne from practiced lethality—an attitude that had no place within the spoiled spaces of any one of the triplets. Here was magic, surely.
My amazement rapidly turned to pain. The Missing Child had already risen from my blow and was quick to put me into the stone and mortar of the false castle. Its attack was more than sufficient to send me flying through the wall and into the next room. Unsurprisingly, the creature failed to follow through with its bid to kill me, as it was clearly more focused on the Prince. I found it humorous to think of such an undead monstrosity as this carrying around a list of names, periodically perusing it for direction.
The fires from the initial meeting between the army and elemental continued to flood through the structure, spilling across wooden fixtures and climbing into the rafters. I certainly enjoyed the developing venue of this particular contest, even taking a few moments from my pursuit to approve of the seething ambience.
I was surprised when I saw the Missing Child draw up to the Prince—whited fist held high, exuding the howls of murdered children—and fail to land a decisive blow against his designated target. While the creature’s cold fist seemed to connect with the Prince, who seemed more than willing to receive the attack, the very moment of impact revealed the magician to be nothing but a wall of mirrored glass. Through the sound of it shattering and the roar of the fire, I could hear the high-pitched laughter of the Prince of Smoke mocking the goliath from the grave. At that moment, I may have discovered a bit of respect for the killer magician. Yet where were the other two brothers? Surely, they were part of the show as well.
As I began scanning the spaces around me for his cohorts, the magician appeared behind The Missing Child, emerging again from the smoke as if he were truly a hierarch of flames. The Prince silently slapped an explosive device to the back of the elemental and shrank into cloud.
The undead giant disappeared into a storm of fire and fury. I was stunned by the cleverness and efficiency of my opponent. I never guessed the killer to be anything but a financier of murder—certainly not the demon of smoke and mirrors he now revealed himself to be. Where I had only discovered a bit of respect for the Prince of Smoke, I now found admiration.
The shockwave from the explosion rippled through the bones of the copycat castle, and the Prince’s apparent victory over the Missing Child sent a fresh gust of courage surging into the sails of the remaining army. They cheered their employer as they trained their attention and weapons back on me.
The Red Dream was doing its job well enough, but the stark reality of so many bullets washing over me began to buckle my powers. My hands instinctively went to the space where once dwelt my father, finding only air. Having no apparent route to victory, I sought out the silence beneath the fire and guns and smoke. I felt the soft cold of the hidden quiet splash over my broken body, repairing me, if only slightly.
I breeched the darkness within a large cluster of soldiers. Disappointingly, the circumstances allowed little opportunity for art, so I dispatched the armed assemblage with little gusto, replacing flourish with brutal minimalism. It was a quick piece, but it had the desired effect upon my intended audience—a renewed fear.
Before I could exploit the fruits of my labor, the Prince was upon me. Where he came from I cannot say, but his blade turned crimson cartwheels in my guts. Had it not been for the timely intervention of a brick I’d pulled from the wall, I might have been emptied there on the spot. The magician reeled from the blast of my crude weapon, but did not fall—he seemed to melt into the piles of bodies that lay all around me, as if matter were no more restrictive to him than mist.
I speculated that the brothers were dressed alike, attacking at different times from different directions. After all, they had bragged to me about how they all shared a single identity. Publicly, they played at being the illusionist—David Shadowes. Privately, they assumed the mantle of the deadly Prince of Smoke. And while I could not speak to the persona of David Shadowes, the Prince of Smoke seemed more like a complete entity, replete with a cultivated skill for killing, and not simply a single trick played by three brothers. I had paid careful attention to the brothers over the c
ourse of my stay in their castle, and never did I detect anything that might have passed for even the slightest sign of a killing grace. Something wicked and truly wonderful was afoot with them.
I was about to submerge myself back into the darkness when I heard the sound of tiny gliding feet. It was an altogether different sound than the relentless clunking of the mercenaries, and it came from the spot where the Missing Child had been blown from the world. Within moments, I was treated to a wonderful sight.
Out of the still-lingering smoke of the murder elemental’s demise, there spilled a multitude of pale children, all of whom moved swiftly despite appearing quite dead. At least fifty of the little things darted into the shadows as quickly as hummingbirds. When they had all been thoroughly absorbed into the smoke and fire and darkness, I could hear the screams of the troops rip through the smoky air. I was delighted to see that the Prince of Smoke wasn’t the only creature capable of magic tricks—it seemed that the Missing Child was a master mystifier, on par with the best magic makers.
My amusement at the proceedings died quickly and horribly, when from behind me there came a chorus of familiar voices. I turned around to find a gang of dead children standing upon a pile of rubble, glaring at me. I knew each one of their names.
All save one fell silent. Her name was Lilly. “Look, it’s little Vincent, all grown up! We all had such a good time playing that day in the park, didn’t we, Vincent? That is, until you turned us over to that awful father of yours. He put us in cages for months. He used our blood to make his paints, Vincent. Did you know what he’d do to us? Did it make you happy to see us slowly killed? Why didn’t you try to stop him? Why didn’t you let us out of our cages, Vincent? Why did you let us die?”
The Red Son Page 24
