by James Maxey
When Bigsby remained in his fetal ball, the hunchback turned to the giant and said, “Carry him.”
Patch stretched his long arm through the doorway and scooped the dwarf up in his enormous grasp, cradling him to his chest like an infant. The tall man’s eyes were dead and lifeless. His mouth hung in a limp gape that gave no hint of expression. His lips and gray tongue were bone dry; he didn’t look as if he were breathing.
Patch started to rise, placing his free hand on the railing of the porch to steady himself. Suddenly, Infidel dropped from the sky, straight down, as if she’d been hanging from the moon. An aura of water droplets enveloped her as she drove her boots into the back of the giant’s neck. The brute dropped Bigsby, who bounced inside the doorway, as the porch collapsed beneath the giant’s weight.
The hunchback slowly shook his head as he looked at the empty doorway where his monster had just stood. He grumbled, “One must admire her persistence.”
From below, there was a rapid series of loud, wet smacks, the sound that a sledgehammer makes when it hits a cow between the eyes.
With the hunchback’s attention focused elsewhere, I felt free to move again. I peered down onto the docks, where Infidel was raining blow after blow onto the giant’s gut. The huge man didn’t seem to feel it. He rose to one knee, his dead eyes gazing in her approximate direction. His right fist pumped out like a piston and Infidel flew off as if she’d been shot from a bow, smacking into the thick pilings that supported the nearby pier. The logs cracked, but halted Infidel’s flight. Her arms flailed like a rag-doll as she dropped face first into the tar-black mud that covered this area at ebb tide.
“Infidel!” I screamed as I stared down into the muck.
The hunchback winced. I was shouting only inches from his ear.
“You can hear me,” I said.
He glared at me. Then, he turned, hobbling across the room, his staff clacking on the wooden floor. He reached the knife. My vaporous fingers failed to halt his wrist as he snatched it up. He studied the knife for a long moment. I could definitely see that his eyes weren’t human. They looked more like the eyes of a snake, with vertical slits. What skin I could see around the eyes was dark red and scaly.
“It is not the role of the dead to be inquisitive,” he scolded. He lifted his crooked fingers to the blade, and drew the bandages that covered them along the thin remnant of blood. My ghost body faded once more. He tilted his head to where I’d last stood. “But it may be that I can find other uses for you.”
He tucked the knife into a pocket hidden in the folds of his cloak, then walked back to the door. Suddenly, the whole room shuddered. The pots and pans in the kitchen next door clattered as they fell from their ceiling hooks. The hunchback was nearly thrown from his feet, staggering until he reached the wall, where he regained his balance. He peered once more out the open door.
Infidel was tricky to see in the darkness, as she was now black as ink, the twin specks of her eyes the only clean spots left on her. She was perched in the center of the giant’s shoulders, pounding his head with rapid-fire blows. The sewn-together scalp had come apart, revealing bones held together with thick copper wires. The beast groped around, awkwardly fumbling, until he found her leg. He snatched her free and slammed her into the dock with his full strength. The building shuddered from the shockwave. The giant tried to pick Infidel up again, but she grabbed the edge of the dock with her iron grasp and his fingers slipped from her mud-slicked leg.
She spun around, eyes narrowed as he tried once more to grab her, this time aiming for her head. As his arm closed in on her face, she clamped his wrist with both hands, then kicked both legs into the pit of his arm. She stretched out, her body straight as a board. With a sound like a branch breaking, the arm snapped free of the shoulder and she fell back to the deck with the severed limb. The giant stumbled backwards, off balance. No blood came from his wound.
Infidel rolled, rising to her knees, shaking her head slowly. Her body shuddered as she took a deep breath. She seemed not to notice that the patchwork man had regained his footing. He lumbered toward her, his remaining hand outstretched.
At the last second, she sprung up with a growl, swinging his liberated arm back over her head, two-handed, like an axe. Her growl turned into a grunt as she swung the limb, smashing it directly into his face. The blow knocked Patch from his feet and he fell to the dock on his back. Infidel sneered as she stomped down on his left ankle, pulverizing the bones.
Infidel lighted on the center of his chest, digging her fingers into the folds of sewn together flesh, ripping it open. She made short work of his rib cage, bones and wires flying into the night. The creature possessed no internal organs. Where his heart should have been, there was only a small golden box secured by silver rods. The giant’s remaining hand grabbed her by the hair as she reached into his chest cavity and tore the box free. She popped it between her fingers, the lid flying open. It was difficult to see clearly, but what looked like a large, white mosquito buzzed up from the open container. It was at least two inches long, and glowed with an internal fire. It shot upward, like a shooting star in reverse, and vanished among its brethren in the sparkling firmament.
The giant no longer moved. Infidel made certain it never would again, as she snapped every bone and dried up muscle that she touched, tossing the fragments out into the bay. In a matter of minutes, the beast was completely disassembled; all that remained were the shredded remnants of his impossibly large pants.
She turned her face toward the doorway, twenty feet above. The hunchback met her gaze. Without warning, she leapt.
The hunchback calmly stepped aside as she flew into the room. She nearly tripped over Bigsby, who was still curled up on the floor, whimpering. Skidding to a halt in her muddy boots, Infidel whipped around. A trail of black mud splattered the walls like paint, stinking of dead fish and rotten eggs. She quickly spotted the hunchback, who held an open palm toward her.
“You seek the map,” he said. “It’s not here. Calm yourself, and I will tell you all you wish to know.”
Infidel straightened up from her fighting crouch. She was still seething. The hunchback held his ground as she moved toward him. I was certain the creature had misplayed his hand. She paused before him, reaching out to grab his cloak. But, instead of yanking the hunchback off his feet, she wiped her muddy face, using the gray tatters of his cape like a towel. Ordinarily, these dingy rags were the last thing anyone would use for cleaning, but after you’ve rolled in Commonground muck, pretty much everything is more sanitary than you are.
I was heartbroken when she dropped the edge of the cloak. She was bleeding, her own blood this time. Her right eyebrow sported a gash at least an inch long. There was a knot just above this big as a hen’s egg. Her nose was bleeding from both nostrils. When she spoke, I could see blood pooling around her gums.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Bigsby sold the map to a man named Ivory Blade. You know him.”
Infidel nodded. “He’s King Brightmoon’s top spy.”
“Correct. The king was quick to recognize the importance of the map. Even now, a ship of his warriors is under sail, heading for the Isle of Fire.”
I suddenly put two and two together. I knew why the Black Swan hadn’t been free to give Infidel the Three Goons.
The hunchback continued: “Blade has been recruiting local talent to aid in the quest. I intended to offer the services of Patch. Now, I intend to offer you.”
“I’m not yours to offer,” said Infidel.
“You need not play coy,” said the hunchback. “We share a mutual goal. We each have our reasons for wanting to reach Greatshadow’s lair. The simplest path forward is to assist the king’s team. He’s assembled the finest warriors at his command, masters of both physical and spiritual warfare. Earlier this evening, you sought to hire the Three Goons. You’ll still be able to fight by their side; you just won’t have to pay their wages.”
Infidel shook her head as
she walked away from the hunchback. “I’m not really a team player. I could get along with the Goons for a couple of weeks, but put me together with a bunch of knights and priests and I kill someone.”
“Indeed,” said the hunchback. “You’re perfectly suited to such a task.”
Infidel toed around the shattered slivers of barrel that littered the floor.
“You see a knife around here?” she asked. I saw she’d also lost my saber; it was probably out in the middle of the bay.
The hunchback produced the blade from his pocket and held it toward her.
“This knife belonged to your friend,” he said. “You think of it as your last link to him.”
She scowled as she snatched the knife from his grasp. “What are you, some kind of mind-reader?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your thoughts are not a secret from me, Infidel. I could deceive you and not reveal this fact. But, I want you to know that I am not without my talents. If we form a partnership, we each have something to gain.”
Infidel kicked most of the muck off her leg, then slid the knife back into her boot. Dark sludge bubbled up around the hilt as it sank into the sheath. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not looking for any new friends.”
“I’m not offering friendship, Infidel. Only an alliance.”
She stared at him. “It seems unfair that you know my name, while you get to remain a mystery. Who the hell are you?”
The hunchback chuckled. “Who indeed? As difficult as it may be to believe, I’ve lived my life without a name. I was cast out to die at birth.”
“How tragic. But you still must have a name.” Infidel said. “A relic like you can’t have made it this far without someone calling you something.”
“And yet, it is so.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day. From now on, you’ll be called ‘Lumpy.’”
The hunchback cocked his head, unsure if she was joking. I was pretty sure she wasn’t. Infidel didn’t like her own nickname much, and compensated by sticking others with bad ones. After her debut at the Black Swan, people called her Ripper and she liked it. Then, a month later, she’d been sitting at the bar when a wild-eyed man in a black robe burst through the door, shouted, “Infidel!” then broke his knife stabbing her in the back. The name might not have stuck, except the scene repeated itself about nine times over the next year. Everyone at the bar started calling her Infidel, and eventually I made the switch as well. She’s never volunteered what she did to piss off the fanatics, and I’ve never asked. The rule is, what happens outside Commonground, stays outside Commonground.
The hunchback rubbed his chin as he contemplated his need for a sobriquet. “You called me a relic. This will suffice.”
“Relic?” she said with a smirk. She thought it was a lousy name.
The hunchback nodded.
“Well, Relic, it’s nice meeting you, but it’s been a long day, and I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I believe you,” said Relic. “I feel your pain.”
“Whatever,” she said, heading toward the door with a dismissive wave. “Have fun on your dragon hunt.”
“Lord Tower is leading the quest,” said Relic.
Infidel froze in her tracks. Her eyes widened. I wasn’t surprised she knew who Lord Tower was; he was easily the most famous knight in the Shining Lands. Still, what did that matter to her?
Relic said, “He’s carrying a weapon that can actually slay Greatshadow.”
“Which one?” she asked, not looking back. “The Gloryhammer?”
“Something much, much more dangerous.”
Infidel pondered this, shook her head, then kept walking.
“After Tower slays the dragon, your job will be to kill the knight.”
Infidel spun on her heels. She eyed Bigsby, who’d uncurled sufficiently from his fetal ball to stare at her. “Go fix me a tub of boiling water,” she said. “And find me soap. Lots and lots of soap.”
Bigsby nodded as he stood, then scampered off.
Infidel leaned against the wall. She spat a gob of pink spittle into the middle of the floor.
“I’m not promising anything,” she said. “But let’s hear your plan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GOONS
For the third time since I croaked, I watched Infidel strip off her ruined clothes, dropping the tar-black rags into a growing pile of goop. The candle-lit tub of steaming water before her filled the air with a pale haze. I was intrigued that Bigsby had such fancy private quarters. The fishmonger may not have flashed his wealth around in public, but his bathroom was opulent to the point of stupidity. Did a bath brush with a gilded handle scrub his back better than a plain wooden one? Even his toothbrush was studded with gems. And why did he need all these bejeweled bottles of perfumes and ointments? As Infidel moved around the room, my consciousness floated through a black lacquer cabinet decorated with inlaid mother of pearl. Even though it was dark in there, I thought I spotted an ivory wig stand sporting a curly blonde wig. What a very odd thing for a bachelor like Bigsby to have spent money on.
I did, however, admire his bathtub, a long, deep vessel carved from a single block of polished black marble. It was large enough that I, with my lanky frame, could have stretched out comfortably. Bigsby must be able to swim in it. Infidel sank beneath the surface, resting there a moment as the muck that still clung to her hands, face, and hair began to dissolve. She reached for a bar of bright white lye soap and the bath brush. The steamy air grew foul with the low-tide stench, cut through with the burning fumes of the lye. The bathwater quickly turned dark gray; I could no longer see her clearly through the haze.
Perhaps I’ve never seen her clearly. The truth is, while I’ve known Infidel all these years, I know so little about her. I’ve kept few secrets from her. I’ve talked about growing up in the monastery, and about my convoluted family history. I’ve freely shared my innermost thoughts on politics, religion, and the human condition. She, in return, has revealed that her favorite color is black (despite my insistence that black isn’t a color), that she likes dogs more than cats, and that she hates carrots. Everything else I know about her, I’ve learned by observation. She’s obviously from the Silver City; her speech has become much rougher and more colloquial over the years, but she still has traces of the accent and a vocabulary that hints of good breeding. It’s not unusual to meet young men from wealthy families visiting Commonground, seeking vices they can’t find at home. But most women in Commonground are usually coming from the other end of the economic scale. It’s hard to imagine what she was looking for when she came here — or what she was running from.
After Infidel finished her bath, she spent time examining her wounds in the foggy mirror. It wasn’t just her face that had taken a beating from Patch; her whole body was mottled with dark blue bruises, fading to yellow. I wondered how long it would take her to heal. The few times I’d seen her injured, she recovered much faster than a normal person. Why? She made no secret she’d been enchanted, but by whom, and for what purpose? Why hadn’t I pried deeper about these things when I’d had the chance? I’d always hoped that, one day, she’d open up to me, and tell me of her life before Commonground.
“It’s not the role of the dead to be inquisitive,” Relic had said.
I felt like proving him wrong. I’d messed up my chance to learn Infidel’s secrets while I was alive. Perhaps, in death, I had a new opportunity to unravel her mysteries. It seemed unethical, perhaps, to spy on her unseen and unsuspected. On the other hand, did I even have a choice in the matter? I suspected that by being around her at all times, a lot more than her naked body was going to be revealed.
Bigsby had left a small pile of fresh clothes for Infidel. They were decidedly more feminine than anything I’d ever seen her wear. Lacy underwear, a short black leather skirt, a black silk blouse with a low neck. Again, it seemed strange he’d just had these lying around. Bigsby wasn’t married and I’d never seen him consort with whores. The clot
hes hung horribly on Infidel, both too big and too short, but would have fit a pot-bellied dwarf just fine.
I dropped the line of thought before I had a picture in my head I wouldn’t be able to get rid of.
When you’re up on the slopes of Tanakiki, (the central volcano, which translates from lava-pygmy as ‘the Farting Dragon’) you see that the Commonground bay must once have been a volcanic caldera. The water is almost a perfect circle three miles across, with a gap several hundred yards wide at the far end open to the sea. Twin arcs of land lead out to the gap. The southern arc is mostly low, rolling dunes surrounded by marshes. The northern arc is rockier, and the ocean beyond is unimaginably deep. There’s a place out near the tip called the Old Temple. It’s a long stretch of hexagonal basalt columns bunched tightly together; there’s some debate as to whether it’s a natural formation or man-made. I’ve poked around out there a time or two and don’t have a strong opinion, other than the place is damn spooky. The rock is black as coal, but etched with white rings of salt left by evaporating seawater. Nothing grows there, not even lichen. Pygmy lore says that Greatshadow once landed here to drink from the sea, then pissed on his rocky perch, poisoning the ground.
It was still a few hours before dawn when Relic led Infidel out to the Old Temple. Her skin was pink in the moonlight, raw from the lye soap and vigorous scrubbing. She looked ridiculous in the clothes Bigsby had provided. The outfit could have come from a whore’s wardrobe, but the scowl on Infidel’s face would likely discourage any customers. She was barefoot again. My knife was stuck into the waistband of her skirt.
Bigsby had been dispatched by Relic on an errand. I’d missed the specifics while Infidel was bathing, but apparently the dwarf was supposed to bring someone out to the Old Temple to meet with Infidel.
