Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  “It depends on how much you can spend,” answered Bryce. “Setting up lights around the perimeter would make it difficult for anyone to approach without detection… or better still, a moat. That’s what they’ve put up over in the Grand Temple and it works.”

  “Except the church has money and we don’t,” Ivan mused. “I will have to consort with the nobles on the issue. If they see the value in it then they will be happy to pay for a security increase. Either way, I can’t make amendments to the citadel myself under their decree, my station is purely foreign.”

  “A crime in itself,” stated Freeman.

  Bryce raised an eyebrow at the comment. “These are not my concerns,” he admitted. “But if you cannot afford to spend what’s required then I cannot guarantee your security. There are things about this castle that should have been fixed years ago. A light perimeter might have saved at least one of your brothers’ deaths. I suggest you insist that your security budget be expanded my lord. It would be for the best.” The Guard Master left.

  “He has a point,” noted Freeman. “The nobles should have raised the security budget after the death of Felix.”

  “Well, they didn’t and there is little we can do about it tonight,” Ivan fumed. He looked at his son face puffed and congealed. “As for you, you’re lucky to be alive.” Damian raised his head and tried to apologise, his mouth opening and shutting without a word. “I thought I forbid you from entering that place. If I cannot appeal to your common sense then I will appeal to other ideals. You are not to leave the grounds with Fredrick until I am certain you can behave and start going to classes.” There was no complaint. “I have selected Master Freeman to be your new tutor, he will replace Goldstring.”

  Freeman was surprised. “My lord,” he began.

  “No need to thank me Master,” Interrupted Ivan. “I feel that you will do a better task in teaching my son than the previous man.”

  “But lord, the councillorship.”

  “You will still be a councilor, do not fret. I will continue to use you, if in a more personal manner.” The old man was not happy, teaching the children meant exclusion from council meetings.

  “How am I supposed to argue against my peers?” he begged.

  “Read the notes,” Ivan shrugged. The master was silent, unwilling to create a scene before the child.

  “As you wish my lord,” he conceded. “It will be an honour to mentor Damian, Ammba and Haylee.” A smile was forced. Ivan noted it and dismissed him, standing his son up and examining the mess on his face.

  “So, you fell?” Damian nodded, too frightened to speak lest he betray the lie. “You’re lucky. My father would have had Fredrick hung and quartered for that stunt.”

  “But Dad, Fredrick had nothing to do with it,” Damian pleaded. Ivan tilted his head sideways to say he knew.

  “Tomorrow you will restart your lessons. Master Freeman will be reporting to me weekly with your progress. If I am unhappy then I will mark Ammba my heir and send Fredrick home, is that understood?” Damian nodded. Ivan kissed Damian’s forehead, tasting the rancid poultice applied to it, sending him to bed. It would be a long day he decided, little comfort in returning to a cold bed for an hour of sleep. He wound himself in a thick greatcoat and sought the ramparts, watching a new dawn over Ironwood.

  11

  A solemn mood hung in the air at The Ilky Den. Many regulars had been turfed out for the night, sent to crawl through the rain soaked streets for another place to drown themselves. Those who remained were considered close friends of the old man and family. Some approached Dead to express their thanks while others were silent, going out back to pay respects then you in the share a quiet drink. News of Antony’s health had spread through the rumour network that existed to provide valuable information for the working criminals.

  Ghost wandered through the crowd trying to eavesdrop on the milling throng. The constant din of the bar found its way into Ghost’s head. Despite how hard he might concentrate the ghost found that he could not concentrate on a single conversation in the bar. Occasionally he would pick up the odd word or two jumping out from the unintelligible raucous but they came so disjointed and garbled that he felt overwhelmed by his own auditory senses.

  Dead spent the time nestled in a corner, nursing the same tankard of beer he had two hours before. As promised, Jim had supplied new clothes. They were plain pants and a shirt, the craftsmanship poor. Dead had washed himself from a makeshift shower in a back room that collected rainwater. He looked more presentable with the knots in his hair straightened and the stains removed but his skin still had a leather-like texture that hinted at his deceasment. Either people did not notice this or they were too polite to mention it to his face.

  “That fellow’s been staring at you for a while,” Ghost muttered, tired and frazzled, returning to his companion’s corner. He pointed across the bar, through a weaving heave of moving bodies, to a solitary figure with short, dyed black hair. Dead rose, weary of sitting still, the fibres in his legs twitching.

  “What are you doing?” Ghost hissed.

  Dead didn’t reply, he walked over to the man and looked down at him. “What do you want?” Dead demanded.

  The man peered up, slight bemusement on his face.

  “I have been studying you,” he admitted with a strong wooden voice. “I was unaware you were doing the same to me. Tell me your name.”

  “I don’t have one.” Dead stood with arms crossed.

  “Nor do I. People call me Locke so that will suffice. Sit.”

  Dead was unsure why he followed the command but the man held sway over him, as if there was an unforeseen connection between the two.

  “Do I look familiar?” Dead asked. Locke stared deep into his face, studying the hard skin and diluted eyes, the grey tone of his flesh betraying no warmth.

  “You don’t,” he conceded. “You have a remarkable face that I would not easily forget, though I wonder why you ask.”

  “Trying to put together a puzzle is all.”

  “Which puzzle is this?” Locke asked in that deep voice, a sincere interest in his voice.

  “Memory,” Dead gave after some consideration. “That is, my memory. I don’t have one.”

  “Memory? That’s in your head. You would need a brain surgeon for that I’d suggest. Not many of those around the quarter. I hear the church have a couple, though I doubt they operate on the living.”

  Dead considered a response to this. Wondering what Locke’s reaction would be if he brought him into the confidence that Dead himself was not part of the living.

  “Don’t do it,” Ghost spoke deep into Dead’s ear, hanging just behind his right shoulder and anticipating his companion’s response. Dead swatted out a hand as if an imaginary fly had flown too close. Ghost gave out a disheveled cry that was ignored by everyone as he fell back, unable to retaliate.

  “Why were you watching me?” Dead asked Locke, changing the subject.

  “You brought my father here,” Locked admitted with a terse sadness in his voice. His face had hardened.

  “Someone else was his son too,” Dead remembered, trying to recall a name over the scattered remains of his memory.

  “It was Jim,” Ghost noted, returning to Dead with a scowl, this time hanging back a little.

  “I’d have a lot of brothers… and sisters, if half the stories were true about that old man.” Locke told him. “Truth is I didn’t care much for him. He was a half decent thief ready to show his children the ropes but that didn’t make him a good man. In the end I guess you should say goodbye if the chance is there.” Locke trailed away with the thoughts of a man who was reminded of some deeper tragedy. Dead looked at him for a moment, thinking that the conversation was over. The noise in the bar increased, a steady stream of patrons arriving to show respects.

  Locke came back to the present and pressed Dead once more.

  “There’s a woman who lives in this quarter,” he said. “Oria Blumstone, an old woman who’s
pretty good with herbs and whatnot. Rumours say that she worked in the Patriarcht’s household once, before you or I were born. Anyway, she’s good at fixing the sick, maybe with luck she’d know something that could help your predicament.”

  “Where would I find this woman?” Dead asked without hope. It was slim, considering the severity of his loss, that any herbal remedy would help but Dead felt it a better option than watching the living mourn. Locke gave directions. The woman lived across the quarter.

  “She’ll be working now, or preparing some concoction. I doubt she ever sleeps,” Locke finished, holding out a hand as Dead stood. The zombie took the thief’s hand, looking like a child’s in comparison, and gave a couple of rough shakes before letting go.

  Dead and Ghost made their way to the exit, weaving through the swelling crowd of men, women and children. Some were crying, some laughing while others reminisced. Dead felt no connection with them, as if he were an emotionless rock. To him they were nothing more than casks, pulsating bundles of warm meat. Inside him there was a constant urge to snap and attack the nearest person, indiscriminate and violent. It was a feeling that pervaded each meeting he had had since waking in the morgue. Although subtle, Dead thought of this urge like a seed. The more he would feed it the more that urge would grow, until he became nothing more than the mindless thrashing monster that had attacked him in the morgue. Ghost was his anchor, though he would not admit it, and it was through this point of strength that he knew feeding the urge would only lead to his ultimate demise. They stepped outside.

  The rain was bitter cold against mortal skin. To a dead man’s flesh the weather was no discomfort, just a steady beat tapping on broad shoulders. Ghost didn’t appreciate the rain, it passed through him without pause, making him feel queasy.

  “Hurry up,” Ghost yelled over the violent din, the tin roofs that lined many of the poor houses making it near impossible to be heard. Occasional street lamps marked the walkways of Ironwood though few emitted light. Although it was late night and pouring rain the streets were not empty. Most people they passed wore heavy cloaks concealing their identity. Some sized up Dead though it was apparent that he carried nothing of wealth. Dead ignored them back.

  “God damn I hate this city,” bewailed Ghost. “It’s near pitch out here and we can’t see a thing.”

  “Did you say something?” Dead yelled, turning around.

  “Yeah. We should go back to the Den. Wait till day.” Dead turned back, looking into the vast blackness. The quarter was huge, made up of a myriad of slum blocks packed together. Ghost saw potential to get lost where Dead did not.

  “Stop whining,” called Dead. “Nothing bad will happen.”

  Ghost pouted, following Dead’s trudging husk. At times Dead would turn to get directions from Ghost who had memorized the route, though both wondered just how accurate they were.

  The long march continued. Ghost noted that within Poor Man’s Quarter there was an even poorer section. Whereas there were street lamps and tarred streets when they set out, they found themselves now walking on a sludged up slurry of oil, ash and gravel roads, the slippery mess making it difficult to walk upright..

  “This can’t be right.” Ghost shouted. Dead didn’t reply. “I think we should go this way,” once again ignored. “Dead… DEAD.” Ghost stepped out in front, waving his arms. He gasped. Dead’s eyes had rolled back and his mouth was hanging open. He looked like a true zombie. With no way of seeing, Dead was walking through the city unguided.

  “DEAD,” yelled Ghost again. It was no good, whatever force that was driving him would not be interrupted by a phantom. Dead was a zombie, without apparent aim or desire, stumbling through the rain. Ghost followed with the slow pace, trying to work out the cause of Dead’s mood.

  They trundled for a long time. The first touch of morning light peered through the steady rain. The bogged pathway turned back into tarred streets. Makeshift slum tin huts were replaced by stonewall slum houses. There was the occasional street lamp that tried to work, sputtering light out into a thick blanket of night. Dead still tranced.

  They came to a walled section with wrought iron gates hanging loose by the front. Thousands of bricks lined the walls and ground beyond. Some bricks were old and covered in moss, others new and clean. Each one held a name. Some mentioned loved ones, treasured moments or circumstances of death. Some were finely crafted and decorated, others plain.

  With sudden clarity Ghost understood that each brick symbolized someone’s death and that they stood in a cemetery. Corpses could not be buried in Ironwood due to the threat of reanimation, yet there was still a need for people to remember their loved ones. How Dead could know where his brick was didn’t enter Ghost’s mind, he just saw a single-minded determination to find it. Ghost looked around his feet at the wealth of stones. Maybe his was there too, though without a guiding instinct he knew he wouldn’t find it. There were tens of thousands and Ghost was unsure how long he had been deceased for.

  Dead didn’t survey the bricks, his eyes were still rolled to the back of his skull. Pure instinct and a faint scent of memory were guiding him with no trace of thought. As they wound through the maze of masonry Ghost noted that the bricks aged, more moss covered them and many were worn away to reveal blank stones.

  They came to a step, a new layer of bricks built over the top of old bricks. No wear or plant touched them. Dead lunged, a force tugging at him. He trod over the names of the deceased until he reached his target, crashing down on his knees.

  Cynthia Bernhart,

  Mother of Phelicity and Victoria

  Sleep in sanctuary

  Within his mind Dead felt a rush of memories flooding him. He saw the face of a woman, beautiful yet plain. He could see the details of her face, slight lines and fine hair. It was perfect for a moment, but the image faded fast. Dead couldn’t hold onto it and it slipped through the gaps in his memory.

  Dead’s eyes rolled forward and he looked at the brick. A desperate howl was bounding in his head. It was a cry for familiarity, to seek out his history. Cynthia Bernhart was part of a puzzle, a single piece that itched his mind. Within the slow confines of his brain Dead knew that he must discover his own identity if he were to find peace.

  With a violent thrust Dead rammed his fingers down, pushing into the mortar that framed the stone. Tearing fingers worked hard around the brick until they took hold. With a strong, sustained heave the brick came out. Dead knelt with it in his lap, the rain bouncing off his bowed back.

  “Who was she?” Ghost asked, fascinated by the discovery.

  “I don’t know,” Dead replied with almost a hint of sadness, turning the brick over. “But I know she’s important to me.”

  Dead turned the brick over in his hands as if there might be some secret hidden on the underside of it. Aside from the etched names there was nothing remarkable about the brown thing. Dead returned to the name. Who was Cynthia Bernhart? A mother? Lover? A child?

  “How old am I?” Dead asked, turning up.

  “I don’t know,” Ghost answered, a confused smirk on his face. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “How old do I look then?” Dead repeated.

  “You’re not old.”

  “Do I look old enough to have grandchildren?”

  “I’d say so. Your face isn’t exactly in top condition but I would say you are at least thirty. Was this your daughter?” Ghost indicated to the brick.

  “I don’t know,” Dead admitted. “If my head wasn’t so full of clouds I might be able to remember. I can only guess who she was.”

  “You going to carry that brick around with us?” Ghost asked.

  “We’re going back to the bar… I remember tattoos.”

  Ghost nodded, he did too.

  12

  Ammba sat under a twisted apple tree, its fruit too bitter for most. In one hand she held a romance novel, enraptured by its story. The quiet walkway ran off the courtyard, sounds of training soldiers the only thing to mar the
tranquility in the small garden. Ammba did not see Thomas Longshore approach until he was upon her.

  “Another day spent training?” Ammba asked, placing her novel on her lap.

  Thomas nodded, sweat dripping down off his chin.

  “Everyday,” he admitted, sitting next to her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just thought I’d better acquaint myself.” His tone was weighed with arrogance.

  “You’re well enough acquainted,” she stabbed. “Plus you stink.”

  “Hard work brings that,” he smiled. “If you’d prefer I can go bathe then sit with you.”

  “That won’t be needed.”

  “I didn’t think it would bother you.”

  “It does, but I’m not interested in talking with you.”

  Thomas looked hurt.

  “Is there something wrong?” he probed with open palms.

  She stared him down, her delicate features furled up.

  “I’ve seen you Thomas Longshore, gallivanting around with those flower girls. You’re no gentleman.”

  “Hey… they’re no flower girls… they’re noble ladies, important… and stuff.”

  Ammba’s face lit up with venomous sarcasm.

  “And stuff? I see your tongue is decidedly slower than your sword arm. You do realise that swords are obsolete.”

  “They will never be obsolete,” Thomas stated, half-offended.

  “What can a sword do against gunpowder?” she asked, seeing a raw nerve.

  “Not much,” he admitted. “But firearms are illegal.”

  “Only for peasants. And I hear the crime fathers think otherwise.”

  “But there’s less chance of coming across one than all that. Commoners are still allowed to carry blades, if you were attacked I would have a much better chance at defending you.” He reached over and took an apple lying in the tough grass, biting into the acidic fruit.

  “I think I’ll rely on my musket thank you,” she said, producing a fine-crafted weapon from her purse.

  “One shot,” he declared. “That’s all you get… one shot.”