by Luke Webster
“Well, what now?” Ghost cried.
“You got nothing?”
“No, I’m following you.”
Dead looked at him.
“Why?”
“I’m Ghost remember? I’ve been following you around since you awoke. I thought you at least remembered that”
“I do.”
Although he could not explain why, Dead did not forget Ghost. He couldn’t remember their conversations or deeds, only that they were supposed to be together.
“I meant, why aren’t you trying to find out your identity?”
“I have no dormant memories like you seem to have,” Ghost sighed. “It’s like the only reason I exist at all is to help you.”
Dead had no answer, nor could he give comfort.
“We’d better find an alley or something to sit in,” Dead decided.
“What, till tomorrow morning?” Ghost asked. “That’s hours away.”
“It’s alright, I don’t mind. Remember?” Dead bellowed, a thunderous laugh that served to bury Ghost deeper into his depressed state.
After walking for some time Ghost redirected his forgetful companion to a nearby pub, The Drunken Smithy. There was no argument from Dead as he was led into the fine establishment. The furniture was wrought iron but the quality of the build surpassed what they had seen in the Ilky Den.
A piano tinkered near the front of the pub, a quiet tune held together by the swaying fingers of an aging gentleman. The melody sought out the ears of street wanderers. Occasionally the song would falter as the player heaved a coughing fit into one hand, trying without much luck to maintain the tune with the other.
The long room was split in the middle by three steps, so that the far end of the inn was a full foot lower than the street entrance. A decent crowd had gathered for the night, their chorus rising over the pianoman’s chords.
There were less people at the back of the bar, attracting Dead towards it. He choose an empty booth and sat, ordering an ale when pressed by the plain serving maid. He nursed it for hours while Ghost spent much of the night wandering aimlessly and trying to catch some snippet of information. There was not much of interest but it served to wear down the time and gave him something to do other than chatting with his dense friend.
Ghost returned after several hours of skimming around the bar. Dead had found it difficult to sit still, squirming in his seat.
“What’s the matter?” Ghost asked
“I don’t know… I feel odd.”
“Odd? Aside from typical zombie feelings here?”
“No, I just feel weird. Like there’s something moving inside me or something.”
“Does it hurt,” Ghost asked, eyes hopeful.
“No,” Dead shifted his weight onto his other buttock. “Just odd, like I said.”
Ghost examined him closer. There was a slight sheen over Dead’s flesh, only subtle, but enough to replace the leathery tone that he usually had.
“You know, for a dead guy you don’t look so good.”
“Piss off,” Dead growled, swatting a backhand through the phantom. He was in no mood for jibes.
“Watch it,” Ghost yelled. “You know how that makes me feel?”
“Do I care?”
“Well, I hope they’re maggots you can feel squirming around. Nice big black ones eating you inside-out.”
Dead tried to ignore him, and the strange feeling. He focused his attention on his arms.
“Here you go again,” spat Ghost. “Staring at your arms. Great plan you’ve got there.”
“What’s your problem,” yelled Dead, slapping his mug aside. By now most eyes in the bar were focused on the scene. Three large bouncers approached, arms crisscrossed by scars and faded tattoos.
“Time for you to leave,” said the biggest, razor bald and overweight.
“This isn’t your business,” Dead snarled.
Ghost stood back from the confrontation.
“That’s the way Dead, don’t let these arseholes order you around.” Ghost wanted retribution for the backhand.
“Now,” ordered the bald man, reaching a thick hand around Dead’s shirt. Dead didn’t speak, grabbing the hand with his own, using his zombie strength to crush the bones. With an audible crunch the fat man cried out, plopping to one knee in agony. Dead slammed a fist into his face, snapping the head back at speed. Twice more Dead slammed his knuckles into the bloody skull before releasing his own grasp. The man fell back, blood streaming and an eye hanging loose by his crushed cheek.
The other two thugs, looking on in morbid apathy, came to and brandished steel pipes. They flayed into Dead’s head and body, pounding his head back at an unnatural angle and sprawling him out on top of the fallen man. Dead was off balance, the blows making it hard to find equilibrium. He pushed himself forward enough to envelope one assailant’s legs with his arms, using his foe to balance. Dead managed to stand, still holding on, and pulled himself up face to face. With an open mouth he bit off the man’s nose, his teeth forcing through cartilage and flesh. The man reeled, keeping hands pressed against the fresh hole.
Another blow to the back of his skull jarred Dead and he swallowed the nose. Uncaring, he bull-rushed the final man and they tumbled over a blood-soaked table. The pair struggled on the ground before Dead used his strength to push out. Standing, he wrenched the pipe off the larger man and struck out with it.
Dead hammered the pipe in rage. The weapon crushed the bouncer’s skull over again, each time tearing away fresh chunks of bone and brain. Fascination mixed with horror for Ghost as he watched the fragments spreading across the bar. Spectators stepped away, unwilling to be a part of the grisly spectacle. Some were screaming. Ghost saw why.
Facing them was an inhuman being, painted in blood and holding a bone-clad weapon. One man was dead, two scarred for life, and the victor wore a twisted grin, eyes aflame with a bloodlust of maniacal proportions. The smile faded when four men entered the bar in haste. They were dressed in the uniform of the watch and carrying shock prods in insulated gloves, a heavy battery attached to the humming weapon.
“Drop the weapon,” one ordered in a puffed voice.
“Do it,” Ghost hissed.
Dead refused, standing his ground. The watchmen surrounded him, careful not to slip on the floor. As Dead raised his iron pipe in defence the guards flocked in, striking with their weapons. A series of charged bursts shot through Dead’s body and he was knocked back through the air, his body contracting on itself. In a stunned state Dead was unable to control the spasms of his limbs, paralyzed while his mind raced. The watchmen shackled his hands.
24
“Haylee’s with mum,” Ammba told her father as he scanned the living area. It was a spacious carpeted room with two fireplaces set either side. Only one burnt, fuelled by Tar Pine, the thick scent wafting through the room. A guard stood at each of the three doorways.
“Haylee should be careful what she tells your mother,” Ivan spoke in a soft tone. “She doesn’t need to be stressed.”
“Should we be?” asked Ammba.
Ivan shook his head. “I don’t think so. The noble’s are just blowing their horns. I’d expect them to stand down once the matter has settled.” It was a partial truth, Ivan only half believing his own words. “We’re going to be on tight security for a day or two, better to be safe.”
“Will Freddy be okay?” Damian asked, looking up from the fire.
“I expect. Even though it was not a legal duel, if what you say is true, there should be a case for defence.”
“Master Freeman said that it depends on whether he is tried under regent or noble law,” Damian said.
“That’s correct,” Ivan sighed. “As a foreigner placed under regency supervision, young Fredrick has that right, no matter what the nobles are complaining of.”
“But if the nobles take up arms?”
“They won’t,” Ivan felt like he was in council again. “Do you think anyone would be crazy to dive a nation back
into civil war over the death of one silly noble’s son?”
“Master Freeman thinks so.”
“And what do you think?” Ivan countered. Damian bit his lip – the boy had no idea.
“I wanted to visit Victoria tomorrow,” Ammba huffed. Before she could complain further the main door opened.
Haylee entered the living room, a guard escort in tow, hugging her father on sight. He soothed her with promises that there was nothing to fear from the nobles, kissing her forehead and forcing a smile.
Ivan left the children, seeking the company of his sick wife. The halls were quiet, the typical buzz of servants absent. He had sent most non-residential staff home, leaving only a skeleton crew of the most trusted to remain.
The bedchamber was filled with Ashline incense, the heavy burning scent achieving little in cloaking the smell of death. Kayla looked dead, a motionless waif laid out on the bed.
Ivan coughed once in courtesy, a sudden surge of panic waylaid only after a slow response from Kayla. She turned, offering a faint smile at his approach. It was a rare thing for him to visit anymore. Ivan placed his hand over hers, looking like a giant’s in comparison.
“How do you feel?” he asked, regretting it at once, groping for the appropriate words.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. Despite the clammy hands and sweat her eyes were still vibrant, shining with the light from the oil lamp.
“You look good,” he lied. She did not answer, embracing him with another weak smile. “I told the children not to worry… and I don’t think you should either.”
“It’s hard not to… when I lay here all day.”
“You need to rest…”
“I’m numb,” Kayla whispered. Ivan looked at the medical paraphernalia that decked the far desk. The doctor’s were at a loss to her illness, preparing theories that were not backed up by the medicine administered. “Will Fredrick lose his life?”
“I can’t say yet. It’s a possibility.”
“Damian adores him…” The boys had grown fast friends under the walls of the citadel.
“It would be a shame for anymore children to die,” Ivan conceded. “The nobles don’t see that in their grasping for power.”
“Send him away… back home.”
It was unacceptable, Ivan felt, to disregard the law in such fashion.
“I can’t. I would stand to lose too much. The boy will receive full support from the citadel… I am determined not to have him fall prey to the noble’s vicious court system.”
She did not reply, lying still with a slight opening to her lips. She struggled to breathe, the visit draining her. Ivan sat, contemplating his future and the past they had shared, quiet.
25
Damian entered the citadel cells. They were a small part of the castle, designed to handle only a few prisoners of important standing at a time. Thick carpet and heated elements kept the level from freezing. Fredrick’s chamber was guarded by a solitary figure, an older guard that knew the family well. He opened the steel slab door and stood aside on Damian’s approach, only blocking access to the bodyguard that accompanied the child.
Fredrick pounced off his bed when he saw Damian, thick blankets dropping to the floor. The boys locked in a hug of friendship and fear.
“What’s going to happen?” Fredrick asked first.
“No one knows yet,” Damian admitted, producing a large strap of duck jerky and chunk of spotted cheese. Fredrick placed them on his bedside table. There was no lack of food in the prison.
“Will there be a trial?” Fredrick asked.
“Father thinks so. He wants to have you tried here in the citadel where you will get off easily.”
“What of that ringleader?”
“Thomas? What of him?”
“He was the instigator. In my country anyone charged with starting a fight illegally is considered just as guilty as the accused.”
“I don’t think that happens here,” Damian guessed.
“Harmond wouldn’t have died if it wasn’t for the other boys. Do you remember them teasing him?”
Damian nodded, recalling the taunts that were echoed throughout the fight.
“His father was arrested, accused my father of seeking to betray the nation.”
Fredrick looked at his feet. He felt sorry for the man, considering how his own father would feel if news returned that he had been killed in an illegal duel.
“He was probably angry,” Fredrick suggested.
“So?” Damian did not like the challenge. “He should have shown respect. Nobles cannot accuse the statehead of crimes in public like that.”
Fredrick did not respond, returning to his bed to sit at its edge.
“My father has hired lawyers to support your case. They’re good, three of them.”
“And how long do they think I’ll be locked up for?”
“No one knows.” Damian sat next to the accused. “If I were regent then I would say ‘to hell’ with the nobles and free you under my own authority… but my father is not like that.”
“He is a wise man,” Fredrick admitted. He had spent the past three years under his watch and grown to know the man as a second father. “Lord Steward would not do anything rash.”
“Kings should be able to do what they like,” Damian huffed.
“He isn’t a king though.”
“That’s not what my teacher says…”
26
“Do you know the true meaning of the Beast?” Callis asked.
Nielle paused in his duty of scrubbing at the ash and dirt caked under the knight’s toenails. The child shook his head, keeping eyes pressed down. Nielle was not a member of the faction, he was a servant to the church, assigned to Callis as a Golden Fledgling. He would not be required to choose a faction until his inauguration from a Meakling Priest or Wandering Knight.
“When the Patriarcht founded Ironwood twelve hundred years past, a mountain tribe lived in this valley. They were a religious people, fearful of a plague that possessed members of their tribe, causing bloody convulsions, extreme rage and power. The tribesman had worshipped a god, named Julkett, who they believed could shield them from this possession.
“The Patriarcht was obsessed with these people: tall, fair and hardy, at odds with the shorter citizens of the Empire. He sought to create a new race of man, divided between the strength of the mountain people and the wisdom of the Imperials. The eventual interbreeding led to the descendants of Ironwood, holding ties to the Empire but differing from them. The two people formed into one and over time their religions blurred. At first Julkett was adopted in its original form, co-existing with those that chose to worship the Imperial gods. Centuries passed and the religions merged into one. After that it was claimed he took on human form, growing into the guise of the creatures he most cherished. Julkett forgot his bestial ties and became Ea-Manati, the god of many faces. It was a new god that found popularity with the kings, enforcing its worship and outlawing the pagan roots of the city. As the centuries folded on, memories of the ancient gods were forgotten to all bar academics and members of the Beast.”
“Aea-Baeni? But I thought that was ‘the Bestial Manati’?” Nielle had stopped scrubbing.
“Its literal translation means ‘worship of the beast’. Ea-Manati is legendary in lore for his battle with the gods, what many say was his triumph over Julkett and the other gods of the savage people. Their interpretation is wrong, the history points to the evolution of Ironwood’s religious keystones. Aea-Baeni represents an age past and forgotten lore. The weakling leaders of our faction’s past have allowed it to become misused, so that most now interpret it akin to the Wrathmen but without the strength of that sect.”
Nielle resumed his work, picking off dead skin from dried calluses.
“Will you change this?”
Callis watched the boy, weighing up how much to tell him. As a Golden Fledgling he was sworn to secrecy, the punishment for breaking an oath – a torturous death. Yet Callis was a
n untrusting man, never sure where to place his secrets.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “Tell me Nielle, are you a child of the beast?”
“In as much as I am yours… yes.”
“And after that?”
Nielle looked up again, unsure how to answer. It was something that he had not paid a lot of thought to. By tradition many fledglings flocked to the sect they were raised in, many of their links already formed and set. Weaker factions experienced less of this retainership though and saw many migrate to the more powerful during the inauguration. “I guess it depends,” Nielle concluded.
“On?” Callis asked. Nielle did not answer, a tight lip covered by a purple bruise. “Wealth?.. Security?.. Promotion?..”
“Promotion,” Nielle agreed. “I would aspire to higher ranks as you have done.”
“And you will chose your faction based on this?” Callis smiled. “My child, you are more a follower of the Beast than you might believe.”
Callis reached out and snatched away the scrubbing brush.
“Stand up,” he ordered. “I want you to run an errand.”
Dervon and Nielle were friends. They were of similar age and same rank. Whereas Nielle ascended the servanthood through family history, Dervon had aspired through superior intelligence and effectiveness, able to run figures and manage books that many adults struggled with. While their masters had spent many nights fighting, the two boys had sought community among themselves, spending their study time together in the libraries.
They had spent time speaking on the differences in their masters. Whereas Callis sought power and promotion, Gustus sought to consolidate the remnants of Aea-Baeni and flee from risk. The conflict had interested the boys from the beginning, though as the furor grew and assault reined upon them, they sought to be free of it.
They returned from the evening meal, pressing the many steps that rounded the Grand Tower. It was a spiral set that shot upwards, many rooms and studies branching off the external wall. As servants they could not access the steam powered elevator set in the middle of the tower, running its length.
