Wicked Ways: An Iron Kingdoms Chronicles Anthology

by Douglas Seacat

  “Don’t be rude,” Leto said to Nemo, though his tone was light. “We don’t need to use this specific room, while they clearly do. Let’s be off.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Nemo said. He reached out and took the book from Lestingway’s hands and flipped it over to squint at its spine. He read in an incredulous voice, “Migratory Trends in Scharde Islands Seabirds? That’s why you’re here?”

  With a strained smile, Abigail said, “Just one of several volumes of interest…”

  Nemo stepped over and held out a hand to Kincaid, who sheepishly handed him the thin volume in his hands. Nemo read its title aloud. “A Critique on the Caspian Royal Academy: Corruption in Academia, Volume Three.” He squinted at Kincaid, then back to Abigail, who refused to meet his eyes. At that moment he must have noticed the pin on Lestingway’s collar. “Ah. I see. The Strangelight Workshop. That explains it. What in blazes are you people doing here?”

  His voice suggested he knew about their organization and was not likely to donate to their cause anytime soon. For his part, Leto seemed relaxed and amused by the general’s interrogation.

  Kincaid said, “We’re guests of Orin Midwinter, sir. We don’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  “Midwinter.” Nemo said the name in a withering tone. “Of course. What’s that scoundrel up to?”

  Leto asked, “Does this have anything to do with the rumors of strange phenomena in the castle? I’ve heard of your organization. Isn’t that what you investigate? Hauntings and curses and such?”

  Kincaid looked at Lestingway. The older man said slowly, “We’re working on a special research project. I’m very sorry, but we aren’t at liberty to discuss details. Even with such illustrious figures as yourself. We’re under strict orders. You’ll have to ask the arcane administrator if you want to know more.”

  “Oh, I will,” the warcaster said ominously.

  “Come on, Nemo, stop terrifying them.” Leto smiled at the others. “Good luck on your work. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I know this library quite well. Many of the rarer volumes are on the second floor.”

  Grimes pulled back from the railing as Leto glanced up to his level.

  He stayed out of sight and listened as the former king and general left the chamber. They waited tensely a few minutes after the doors closed to be sure they were gone, then the team regrouped on the main floor.

  “That was unexpected,” Abigail said, swallowing. “This room is a bust. I thought I saw something like a gremlin in the reflection of one of the lanterns before we were interrupted, but it was just my imagination. I can’t find any sign of tampering. Let’s go to the next one on our list.”

  “I found something interesting,” Mel declared, holding a large leather-bound book sealed with metal clasps in both hands. “This will be of interest back at HQ. A rare work detailing the founding of the Kingdom of Morrdh. Fairly sure this one’s on the List.”

  Elliot hissed, “What are you doing? Put that back, Mel.”

  Grimes growled at her. “We’re not stealing a book from the Raelthorne private library.”

  “There are a lot of books here,” Kincaid said with a shrug. “I doubt anyone would notice one missing.”

  Mel beamed at him, glad to have an ally.

  Abigail sighed, picked up Artis then said, “Leave it. We have a lot of work to do. I’d rather not risk getting thrown into the dungeons.”

  “Yes, let’s avoid that,” Kincaid said, suddenly gone pale.

  “Fine.” Mel reluctantly set the tome down on a nearby end table.

  Grimes said sardonically, “There’s every chance we’ll still wind up in the dungeons before the day is over.” Kincaid gave him a sour look.

  As they left the chamber and rejoined an anxious Sergeant Webster, Grimes saw out of the corner of his eye that the ogrun Takal had lingered behind them. She was in the room alone several seconds before the doors opened again, and she hastened to catch up, sharing a look with Dungot and adjusting the pack she carried. Grimes grimaced but said nothing. She wasn’t one of his people. It wasn’t on his head.

  • • •

  THE NEXT ROOM PRESENTED A MORE difficult challenge in terms of keeping the team together. It was a sizable dining chamber, currently unoccupied as the hour was late and the last meal had been hours before. It was a large, open room at the convergence of several major hallways used regularly by castle staff. Given no meal was being served, it would have looked decidedly peculiar if all of them were gathered around its table and chairs. They particularly didn’t want to be noticed by their suspect, should he be among the wait staff.

  Sergeant Webster suggested most of them cool their heels in an adjacent pantry, which was lined with cabinets filled with fancy dishes, silverware, and cooking utensils. Abigail and Lestingway took on the task of actually inspecting the dining room in detail while the rest of them waited for either the all-clear or the sound of trouble. The pantry was crowded with all of them there, especially with Takal taking up so much space.

  Grimes was closest to the door, which he was glad for when he heard shouting outside from a deeper voice, followed by Abigail’s indignant protest. It seemed despite their efforts, the investigators had drawn attention anyhow. Something in the tenor of the voices alarmed him. It did not sound like an ordinary indignant query. He opened the door and rushed out, followed quickly by the others. He knew Abigail could handle herself and he might be acting prematurely, but he acted on instinct.

  Abigail was on the opposite side of the room, past the large dining table, backing away from a brown-haired man in his twenties attired as a household servant. Behind her one of the paintings from the wall had been taken down to reveal spidery glyphs painted where it had been hanging. The glyphs were red and showed dripped streaks, likely drawn in blood. It looked as though a footman had interrupted the investigators shortly after she’d removed the painting. Closer to Lestingway, a section of the carpet under the long dining table had also been pulled back. Grimes could see small holes in the floor there. The footman had circled around the central table and was advancing on Abigail, his posture suggesting imminent violence.

  Any thought that this was an innocent misunderstanding by a member of the staff angry about vandals vanished when Grimes saw the man’s eyes suddenly gleam with a red glow. Artis had backed into the corner nearest Abigail and hissed at him, the fur on her back standing on end. Even as Grimes rushed around the other side of the table to get between the man and Abigail, the footman pulled a long knife from behind his back.

  Lestingway shouted while Abigail scrambled to draw her pistol, before realizing it wasn’t on her person at the moment. Kincaid proved he was a quick thinker and was already opening and leaning over the crate into which they had secured weapons, but it would take precious time to recover and distribute them. Grimes’ gauntlets were on top and Kincaid threw them to him without word or hesitation.

  Grimes caught them and pulled them on with familiar ease, even as Abigail fell back and narrowly evaded a swipe of the knife. Then, Grimes grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him so he could confront the possessed footman. He activated the voltaic capacitors on his right gauntlet, which sparked angrily. He swatted the knife aside even as the man lunged toward him, delivering a painful jolt of electrical energy and sending the knife flying to stick point-first into a painting still on the wall.

  He had a moment to think that might be the end of it. The footman wasn’t giving up yet, however. He backed away to recover the knife, his expression strangely twisted. He began to hiss unfamiliar and guttural words under his breath. The man was almost certainly possessed.

  Takal caught the mace Kincaid tossed to her and began circling the table from the other side. Mel and Kincaid hastily pulled other items from their crate. Dungot was also approaching the table, hands raised and brow furrowed, likely working on some sort of magic. Elliot was wisely staying back by the door.

  “Get your gun,” Grimes hissed at Abigail, jerking h
is head toward Kincaid. He cautiously stepped closer to the knife-wielding servant, who was alternating his attention between the approaching jammer and the ogrun. He couldn’t confront both at the same time. Grimes said sternly to him, “This isn’t you! Fight it off, if you can. Push that monster out of your head and drop the knife!”

  Abigail didn’t listen, making no move to get the gun Kincaid was extending toward her. Instead she had raised and was activating her lumitype, sending its violet glow across the table and opposite wall. She had at least backed away from the table so the possessed man had no direct route get to her.

  She’d clearly rather take spectragraphs than use her pistol to protect herself, Grimes thought. Typical. Though in these close quarters it might not have been the wrong move. If they had to tackle the man to disarm him, firing a pistol into the middle of it would be as likely to hit one of them as their adversary.

  The footman’s rage melted from his face with unnatural abruptness. He stood ramrod straight, still chanting words in some foreign tongue. Then, with shocking suddenness, he dragged his knife’s sharp edge across his own throat. His head fell back and blood spilled from the ghastly wound to coat his livery even as his knees buckled. He fell. They gasped even as the gas-fed lanterns in the room flared and several exploded to send glass flying. The flame of the lantern above the revealed glyphs on the wall shot up nearly a foot and took on a green hue.

  There was a thrumming noise and a vibration underfoot, a sound like scrabbling termites. Something was coming. Grimes cranked two of the knobs on his chest to bring his suit to full inflation with charged air and set both his gauntlets to full lethal power. There was a rushing of wind and an inhuman rending noise followed by a smell like burning sulfur.

  A yawning sphere of darkness opened in the air between Grimes and Lestingway.

  The freshly spilled blood from the suicidal footman rose as droplets into the air, defying gravity, and soared in a looping whorl around the darkness even as a sinuous and horrifying shape emerged from its inky depths. Its strangely segmented length gave it the guise of an insectile serpent with skin that was corpselike in color and with numerous tentacle tendrils extending from its back and along its fanged mouth. Its mouth parts also more closely resembled an insect’s than a reptile. It did not slither on the ground but rather wriggled and twisted in the air.

  Grimes felt icy terror run through him. He could not move as it moved closer. It went to the fallen body first. There was a strange wet sound from the entity as long black tendrils from its mouth twitched and extended to embrace a rising glowing green orb of light that emerged from the fallen footman. This orb seemed to moan in fear and pain as the tendrils wrapped around it. Grimes had seen this before—it was the man’s immortal soul, torn from his dying body, made visible by Abigail’s Strangelight and the intensity of its unnatural anguish. The black tentacles drew this orb into the creature’s mouth and swallowed it like an obscene meal.

  Most of them were frozen in horror, but Lestingway was the first to act. He had recovered his own small pistol from Mel’s crate and raised it to fire. The sound of the gun seemed very loud in the room.

  The creature reacted so swiftly Grimes did not even see if the bullet hit. It streaked across the room, over the dining room table, and crashed headfirst into Lestingway. Its long tail—easily twice as long as a man was tall—wrapped around his body and squeezed, even as its mouth and hooked fangs descended to close over his entire face, biting closed with a crunch of bone and a spray of bloody gore. Grimes felt sick and had to look away.

  Sergeant Webster was next in motion, his blade drawn, rushing to cut the thing. As Takal began to react, Grimes shook off his own paralysis, advancing more cautiously. Runes of arcane power surrounded Dungot’s hand, and a shimmering haze of light appeared around Webster, perhaps some sort of protective spell. The infernal dropped Lestingway’s corpse and lashed its tail to sweep Webster’s legs at the knees, sending him flying. The spell saved his legs from being shattered, but the man was knocked off his feet and his head smacked into the table. His body flopped to the ground with limbs sprawling, clearly unconscious.

  Before it could close on him to repeat its killing bite, Takal intercepted, getting there just before Grimes. She swung her mace to hit the entity’s strangely shaped skull with a sharp cracking noise. There was a gout of black ichor. One of its mandibles broke under the impact of the ogrun’s next blow.

  This battery seemed not to hinder it much but drew its full attention. It lunged at Takal with snapping jaws, its black tentacles wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her well-muscled arm into reach for a horrific bite. She hit it again, but the angle didn’t allow much leverage. Grimes delivered the strongest left-handed uppercut he could directly into its alien face. Blue sparks sprayed from the gauntlet as he knocked it free from her before its tail could completely wrap around the ogrun’s thick torso. He followed this with a combination of punches, trying to drive it back.

  Its hide was unyielding, and its bones seemed as durable as steel, but he heard something give on the third punch. Kincaid was at his side, his short club in hand, and he struck the thing repeatedly, his expression filled with as much fear as anger. Grimes lost track of where he was and what was happening for several long seconds, just punching for all he was worth. At last he came back to himself, breathing hard. He realized the thing had stopped moving.

  His fists and his suit were covered in a foul oily ichor, what passed for the creature’s blood. His lips pulled down as he looked at its alien corpse, which even in death made his skin crawl. The top of its skull looked like shiny green chitin, and he realized it was translucent—he could see a pulsing, veiny mass beneath that resembled a human brain. Kincaid had stepped back from it as well, frowning as he wiped his club on his slacks.

  The body of the creature began to disintegrate before his eyes. Its flesh was blackening and then turning ashen before becoming wisps like smoke.

  Abigail had extracted the metal plate from her previous exposure and was loading another. For a moment, Grimes felt resentment at this, though he knew she was just doing her job. They each had responsibilities. His was to keep things like this from people like Lestingway, and he had failed. A hand fell on his shoulder—he looked back to see Elliot.

  “Are you all right?” He asked. He hadn’t put on his hood, perhaps fearing what had happened last time.

  “I’m fine. I didn’t get hit. How’s Takal?” The ogrun was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, breathing hard and holding her arm where the infernal had bitten her. It sounded like her breathing was labored as well, and she looked to be in pain. Dungot was beside her, trying to persuade her to let him tend her wounds.

  There was a sob from Mel, and Grimes turned to see her leaning down to check on Lestingway. She turned away, drawing a deep breath. “He’s dead. His face is gone.”

  She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  “Elliot,” Abigail said sharply. He was staring at the ruin of Lestingway’s face, his own drained of color. She had to say his name again before he turned to her. “Use the coin, on the… whatever that is before it’s all gone. Mel, help me get a sample. Quickly. The body is discorporating. Use the stabilization solution.”

  “Right,” Mel said, wiping at her cheeks. Her tone became more like her old self as she opened one of the larger pouches on her left hip and extracted a stoppered glass vial. “Same techniques we use on discorporating ghosts should work on these, I think. It’s all basically ectoplasm.”

  She poured some of the liquid on the rapidly vanishing creature’s body, and where the liquid hit, a rubbery substance was left behind. Abigail had a different empty glass tube ready to collect a piece for later study.

  “That wasn’t an umbral reaver,” Dungot said almost distractedly while he tore off strips of cloth to bind Takal’s arm. “The infernal. It was a soul stalker. Those are what they use to collect marked souls. I’d always thought they were smaller than that. Messenge
r pigeons of the infernal world.”

  He gave a humorless laugh and shuddered to himself.

  Grimes realized no one had checked Webster. He turned off his gauntlets and went to the sergeant, turning him over to find he was still breathing, which was a relief. The man would be bruised and battered, but he seemed to have gotten the least of it compared to the others, perhaps thanks to whatever magic Dungot had used to shield him. If only they could have done that for Lestingway, he thought. But it had all happened very fast. He was well aware of the fact that he himself had completely frozen.

  Grimes tried to make Webster as comfortable as he could, though in the process the soldier began to waken with a groan. Having seen others endure such a ringing blow, Grimes expected the sergeant would be groggy for at least another day.

  He looked up to see Elliot hesitantly extending the coin to touch the bubbling flesh of what little was left of the infernal’s rapidly vanishing and shapeless corpse. After touching it, he quickly pulled back and gripped the coin in his hand. He waited for a moment. Finally, he said, “Nothing. It’s not doing anything.”

  “Maybe the coin doesn’t work,” Grimes said.

  “More likely it’s because the summoner cut his own throat,” Dungot said over his shoulder.

  Kincaid said, “At least we got them both.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the mutilated body of Lestingway. He finally stepped over, took off his greatcoat, and draped it over the man. Elliot said a quick prayer to Morrow.

  “We don’t have our man,” Dungot said. “That fellow may have been in on the conspiracy, willing or otherwise, but he isn’t an infernalist, given the way he died. He was a sacrificial pawn, not the mastermind playing the game.”

  Abigail said, “We should check his quarters. There might be clues.”