by Luke Webster
“What the hell are you doing?” Ghost hissed. “Don’t you think this is going to look a tad suspicious?”
Dead didn’t answer. The trapdoor cracked open, artificial light streaming through, stunning the vision of both escapees.
“Sadler, what do you think you’re doing?” came a gruff voice squinting down into the shaft. Dead’s hands clasped over the chute’s rim. The guard stepped back as the bloody, menacing visage of Dead’s face appeared in the light.
“Doctor Sadler?”
Dead stepped out, standing to his full length, a head over the guard. The man stood frozen in an unwashed grey and red uniform, unsure whether to run or question. He did neither.
Dead betrayed his ponderous speed by snapping out an arm and scruffing the stocky guard. He tried to shake off Dead but found the iron grip pressed him tight.
“What… what do you want?” The guard peeped, panic building.
“The doctor’s gone.” One hand clasped under the guard’s chin, pressure closing off the man’s airway. “You the one that threw me down there?”
Again the blood pounded in Dead’s ears, a raging torrent meeting on the top of his brain, any previous reason swallowed by a titanic madness. A tiny pinprick at the back of his mind was enough to turn his attention. It was Ghost, screaming in his ear, trying in vain to hit Dead, his arms bouncing off without impact. The killer turned, remembering his companion. The bubbling rage subsided, leaving a cool anger that persisted after, like a white-hot steel rod purged by fire.
Dead looked at his grey hands clasped around the guard’s stubbled head. The extreme pressure had morphed the top of his skull, ready to pop under further strain. The guard was a portrait of fear, eyes swollen outwards and both nostrils flared, blood bubbling out as he struggled to breathe.
“Let me repay you,” Dead grinded between teeth, releasing one hand and dragging him to the edge of the chute. With a single monster-like squeeze, Dead crushed the guard’s arm, leaving it to hang lifeless… then the other arm. Ghost screamed at Dead again but it was not a manic rage that fuelled Dead, rather the urge to see a hindrance gone. He pushed the guard backwards, the broken arms useless in slowing the fall as the victim slipped into the chute. The pair heard a sharp crack as he slammed into the tile floor many feet below, the basket no longer in its place to break the fall. Dead swung the trapdoor shut, Ghost staring on aghast.
“You’re an animal…” he gritted, eyes brimming.
“Were you going to explain why we crawled up the chute?” Dead sneered, traipsing past.
4
Ivan Steward listened to the conversation, weighing the opinions of his council. Four men and two women formed the regent’s aide. As lord it was his responsibility to deal with foreign issues pertaining to Ironwood. This was reflected in his council, half non-indigenous to the city. Ironwood relied on trade and external security to survive, its own army a weakling force in a land squeezed between an empire and a kingdom.
Ironwood was a capital city within itself, serving no greater country than the reaches of its mountainscape. It served as a neutral point between two great empires, one old and shrinking, the other an upstart. The Northane lords were aggressive, attacking Ironwood with diplomacy and spies. The Imperial Core was in counter to this, trying to keep up with the barbaric kingdom hungry for new lands. Ironwood had once been a province of the Imperial Core, shedding its weight over twelve hundred years ago and appointing the Patriarcht lord of the city, an emperor within himself.
“A Northane army destroys an Imperial one at our step, why should it concern us?” Ivan asked, tensing the muscles in his jaw.
“It’s of grave concern,” replied Maria Fervia, a native Imperial, her voice shaking with frustration. “This city was founded by the blood of the Empire, if we turn on her then we become nothing better than the barbarians.”
“I think what our imperial advisor is trying to say is ‘let’s side with the losing team’,” stated Damon Sterling, a long time opponent of Maria and friend of few. Snickers greeted this, most from Gerhig Yemoon, the Northane ex-ambassador and newest councilor.
“I will remind you, Sir Sterling, that the Imperial Moon has survived two thousand years of war and bloodshed. They are no barbarian horde come to power in the spate of a hundred years and will surely last the test of these invaders.”
“Must we be drawn into another word of wars over the empires again?” begged Stephen Dervon, the host of foreign treasurer. He was a stocky ex-soldier of the Imperial Army, his military days kept busy with counting coins and running logistics. He had sought the recluse of Ironwood to retire, away from battling hordes and sanctimonious senators. He had no love of the homeland.
“It does not bother you?” asked Gehrig.
“There is no profit in taking sides,” stated the ex-soldier, “this has been Ironwood’s policy since the Patriarcht came to power. Discussing this buys us nothing, the nobles would not allow it either way. We should be asking how to profit from these battles.”
“You’re the soldier, enlighten us,” came a soft female hum. Clarissa Tone was a regent’s spy. She held a knack for retrieving information from tight lips, her seductive dark features notorious for loosening even the tongues of Eld-Manati Priests. Ivan enjoyed her company most of all, enchanted by most everything she did. Her attraction was lost on the old soldier, more concerned with his own agenda.
“Encourage the war,” he stated in a bored voice. “For every suit of armour, shield or firearm that is produced is a dollar in our coffers. The nobles are in a power struggle with the merchants, let us benefit by enforcing a war tax on them, weakening them and strengthening us.”
“A war tax?” questioned Gehrig. “Even though we aren’t technically part of the war?” he laughed.
“Why not? The nobles will pass it through for us if they think it will tighten the noose on the merchants. Once set in law the traders will have no voice on the manner.”
“They will revolt,” stated Damon with a casual tone. “Not that that can’t be suppressed, I suppose.”
“What of you, Master Freeman, what do you say?” Ivan asked. The old man looked up at his regent, quiet. He was grey and wise, wearing the traditional sash of a king’s councilor, separating him from the others at table.
“The soldier is right,” he stated, referring to Stephen. “The merchants have too much wealth. They do not know their place within it, rather seeking to overcome it with expense and luxury, thieves and spies. Strangle the merchants if you must, the regency needs to be a force again.”
Ivan scanned the faces of his men and women, weighing up their worth. Some he trusted with his life, others he saw as threats. They were a mixed assortment of useful tools, not close friends and liable to betray him for the right cost.
“The nobles may not acquiesce so easily,” Ivan stated. “Wealth is not always power. If they fear the regency then they will stifle us.”
“The nobles spend more time arguing amongst themselves,” stated the barbarian, remembering his time spent in their company.
“Or worrying about the church,” conceded Maria.
“There are too many forces within Ironwood,” Ivan admitted, “but this has been the way of things. Let us tax the merchants then… under a war tax, and reap what we can.”
The council was dismissed, Master Freeman remaining behind to speak with the regent.
“What do you think?” the old man asked.
“It’s a tax,” Ivan shrugged, “the merchants will bitch about it but nothing more.”
“I meant your council… you have a new man.”
“Aye, the barbarian. He is connected, I like to hear news of the world.”
“Then seek a rumour merchant, don’t appoint one to your council,” snapped the frail man. Ivan had known the Master for many years, respectful of his age and wisdom. He would not rise to anger in his presence.
“What bothers you?”
There was a long sigh, a mottled hand running
through grey hair. “You beset yourself among strangers and hope to call them councilors. Not one wears the sash of masterhood.”
“They are not traditionalists,” Ivan admitted, “but a good mix of personalities I think.”
“Your brother Felix was trusting too, and he ended up skewered on an assassin’s knife.”
“Yes, and my brother Kalim was paranoid of all around him, where did that end him? He murdered half my siblings and didn’t end up any better than Felix. Need I remind you of his deeds?”
“There needs to be a balance,” Freeman struck back, “neither held that. Don’t think that just because you have a good mix of personalities you have a good council.”
“I don’t,” Ivan rebuked. “I don’t trust them. They are tools for the regency, to be respected and used.”
Freeman sunk into his leather recliner, “I have seen too many kings die in my time,” he admitted.
“We are not kings anymore. That is a dangerous term.”
“Kings in everything but name. Tell me, if you wrest power back from the nobles and merchants will you re-establish the monarchy?”
“Have we not discussed this? A claim would be suicide.”
“Then pact with the church. Declare your intention to rule under the guise of El-Manati.”
“You know me,” stated the regent, referring to his dislike of the priesthood.
“It would be a strategic relationship, nothing more the church needs to know. They wield more power within the city than the nobles or the merchants. Use them and conquer.”
“The El-Manati don’t formulate with casual worshippers. They would not accept me.”
“Then have a reawakening of faith,” the old man demanded.
“Enough,” Ivan did not desire a kingship nor would he lie in the bed of the church to achieve it. He was a man of principles, set by a code of ethics he had learnt abroad studying the ways of the world. As the tenth child of fifteen it had never been expected of him to reach office or hold lands. Instead he had been sent out to train as one of the masters - a scholar and physician. He had spent twelve years travelling through the Empire and learning of unique cultures and ideals. He had returned as a wiser man, serving under his brother and regent, Felix Steward, continuing his studies within the citadel’s libraries.
On his brother’s death the church broached support for another male, Lord Kalim the second born, a decision that saw the Steward family persecuted and murdered. Ivan had ended his mad brother’s reign himself, the flash of a musket still lingering in his memory. Among his death ramblings the king had warned of another assassin within their lineage, their half-brother Hermatt, a crippled man resigned to a wheelchair. During the interrogation process the cripple had admitted to planning the assassination of at least two brothers and a stepsister. It had broken Ivan, despaired to admit that he was part of a murderous family. He had sent the guilty man to Ashmore Asylum, to spend his last days there.
Of his two surviving sisters, he knew only the whereabouts of the youngest, Geogia. She had married into the Reitlin noble line to an army commander named James Pierce, twenty years her senior. It was an ancient family with strong bonds to the royal line. During the induction of the regency, Ivan had been chosen by the church, taking the stand over her and his other sister Lakia who had disappeared after the vote.
The worries of Ivan were many, the fear of assassination too real. He felt insecure as it was and did not need the pressure of an old man telling him to risk more. While the church might support the reinstatement of a kingship there would not be enough support from the nobles. The monarchy could not be reclaimed without the threat of anarchy or war, two blights that the city had become accustomed to. The church had chosen Ivan over his sisters as he was a scholar and supposed man of peace, the prospect of easing the troubles that blistered the city enough for them to vote over his less trusted yet pious sister Geogia.
Ivan dismissed the Master, spending time staring at the piles of notes and scrolls bundled on the table. The regent’s main role within the city was to handle foreign policy and insure a healthy exchange rate for traded goods. Balancing books and running accounts was a small part, diplomacy and forming trade routes another. Grasping for a kingship was a symbolic move, one that would reaffirm the tyrannical politics of the old city. If a regent were to risk such a move then the next step would be to take over the internal policy of the city and to consolidate as ruler. Too many lives were wasted on such grasps, Ivan preferring to stay such a course of action.
With a pounding head he retired for the morning.
5
Ghost fumed, staring at the back of Dead’s head with venom. If the ghost had physical substance he would have picked up the nearest object to bash in his skull. Scanning the room they were in, he noted that the closest thing was a half eaten sandwich lying abandoned on a rough-hewn stone table.
“Where are we?” Dead grumbled. It snapped Ghost back to the issue, a good question. They were in a sparse stone room set with windowless walls and a heavy metal door.
“This place looks like part of a prison,” answered Ghost.
“I don’t see any prisoners.”
On the table next to the sandwich was a ledger. “What’s in it?” Ghost asked, pointing to the table. Dead walked over.
“Ham, I think. I don’t think you’d be able to eat it though. Did you want to try?”
“The book…” ‘you stupid corpse,’ Ghost wanted to finish.
Dead opened the book. The spine’s ribbon set to the last page, the final entry stating:
‘Anje Reinfield, 21/2/90. Executed for arson. No autopsy required.’
“Our little Anje was an arsonist,” declared Ghost. He didn’t think that Dead could read. Scanning through the book he could see many names. Of the seven bodies listed for the current date, none stirred any dormant memories in Ghost that might jaunt his memory.
“Let’s have a look at that foot of yours again.” For a second Dead did not understand, Ghost pointing towards his foot and the markings scrawled underneath. The shoe came off and Dead lifted it as high as he could.
“You won’t believe this,” Ghost sighed.
“What?”
“It reads, ‘Unknown, unknown, unknown, AR.’
“What?” Dead asked again, this time in disbelief.
“I’m serious. They haven’t listed anything about you.” Ghost looked back at the ledger. There was a blank line where a record should have been. “Well, I guess we can rule out execution. If they don’t know your date of death then maybe you were picked up on the street. That doesn’t explain what sort of building we’re in though. It mustn’t be a prison.”
Dead was irritated and angry. Slipping his shoe back on he headed for the door.
“Let’s find out.”
Whatever the building’s original purpose, Ghost thought, it had a confused identity now. No natural light came through the barred windows, instead they opened out either onto worn stone walls or were blocked by rubble.
“This place is no better than the morgue,” spat Dead. Ghost was inclined to agree. The corridors were littered with waste and dried blood. They heard a moan echoing down the corridor and moved in its direction. Ghost tiptoed behind, peering over his companion’s shoulder. Dead looked back and sneered, wondering why a ghost would bother hiding.
After a turn in the corridor they heard the moan again. Creeping forward they found the source emitting from behind a heavy metal slab with groaning hinges. Dead pushed hard and it gave in, grating the concrete floor and sending out a warning shriek.
“Is it time Gary?” came a croak. Across the dark, stone room sat an old man in a steel cage. He was shackled to a bench with a rag thrown over his thin shoulders.
“I’m not Gary,” announced Dead, walking towards the cage. The prisoner tried to stand, only to hunch with the shackles bound to his neck.
“Well then, my name’s Antony. Master thief and pickpocket.”
“You don’t loo
k too much like a master thief,” Ghost said. Antony didn’t hear and for a moment there was silence.
“I’m sorry,” continued the prisoner, “and you are?”
Dead looked at Ghost who shrugged.
“I’m not sure,” he turned back. “You can call me Dead.”
“Dead?” asked Ghost laughing, “I’m glad you didn’t leave your originality on the table.”
“Well it’s better than ‘Unknown’… Ghost.”
“Let me guess”, the prisoner said, looking bemused. “You’re ex-asylum.”
“He can’t see me remember, I’m a ghost.”
“Ahh, not exactly,” Dead replied. “What is this place?”
Antony’s rag heaved in as he stifled a laugh. “It’s the corpse depository. Nasty business and all. Used to be an old prison, at least this level did. Now they just use this section as a holding pen for executionees.”
“A corpse depository?” Dead and Ghost asked together.
“Yeah. You know, where they get rid off all the bodies that pop up around town. Each quarter has at least half a dozen stations. Can’t be too careful with corpses you know.”
“Why’s that?”
“You aren’t from around here are you?”
“I’m just having a hard time remembering things.”
“Yeah, well, apparently it has something to do with the dead getting up and walking about. Doesn’t happen very often… or so I hear, but when it does those corpses have a tendency to be real aggressive like.”
Ghost stepped up to the cage and waved a hand. Antony stared through it, confirming what the spirit had already thought, that the living could not see him.
“Ask him how to get out of here,” Ghost told Dead. Dead relayed the question, not bothering to explain that he hadn’t thought of it himself.
“Well, that’s an easy thing for a master thief, not so for you. Tell you what, get me out of this cage and I’ll lead you up and out.”
“Up and out?” asked Dead.
“Shit, you really don’t know anything do you. Out of the hole we’re in, you know, underground? Not the nicest place to be in old Ironwood, much rather have the wind and rain in my face.”
