by Luke Webster
Adjusting the dials, Callis was able to increase the heat output through the valves, letting the coils heat up further along the line. Red blisters formed along the fat man’s calves and forearms, while the tips of his fingers had grown from deep red to a cooked brown. The room was filling with a sweet scent as the flesh cooked, fat bubbling out and dripping from the end of the man’s fingers.
Gustus screamed over and again, this time praying to Ea-Manati. The roasting flesh continued as Callis manipulated the dials. Nielle continued to shovel coal into the furnace, keeping the fire running high. It was the best the boy could do to take his mind from the horror.
Even some of the most battle hardened veterans found the scene discomforting, only half still in attendance by the time the blisters were puckering over the priest’s thighs. Callis found humour in watching the penis, at one point hanging low from the heat, recoiling back inside itself to escape. The hairs around his groin singed, a pungent smoke burning off and mingling with the flavour of roasting meat.
Gustus’ shrieks had turned to moans, a weak attempt at prayer passing in and out of audibility. Up to his knees and elbows the flesh was black, raw blisters and medium cooked meat running the rest. As his penis swelled and split, spitting fat juice from the ruptured genitals, Callis turned down the dial, closing the valve. With a flurry of combinations on the panel, each coil retreated back into its holding pen at the base. Callis nodded to Nielle, who struggled to carry a bubbling pot of lead with iron tongs.
The mad inventor flourished a smile at his remaining audience before producing a rough spun rope. He tied it tight under Gustus’ shoulder, before dragging the knotted strand hard across. The skin peeled back, revealing cooked muscle and bone. Gustus awoke with the new pain, shrieking in horror at the sight. Nielle placed the pot of molten lead above the shoulder and tipped out the contents, letting it bubble down Gustus’ naked tissues.
Again they followed the procedure, pulling back the skin and flesh from the other arm and then the legs. Gustus stayed awake for the most part, each rending of flesh dragging him back to his tortured reality. By the end he was a steaming, cooked and shattered figure, limbs sealed tight in set lead.
“He is not dead,” Gaius Ipsum joked. “Perhaps he was innocent after all.”
Callis smiled at him.
“The ceremony is not finished yet.”
There was one pot left. With careful balance Nielle carried it over, while Callis held back the priest’s head with a second set of tongs, designed to go over the face and hold open the mouth.
“As a traditionalist,” Callis announced, “I believe in merging old with new. Hence forth I wish to end with the Quenching of Flagellation.”
Gustus’ eyes bulged as the boiling lead dripped, a final scene of agony as the terror liquid filled the mouth and burnt open the gullet, pooling in the stomach.
32
A single flickering bulb lit the holding cells, dark patches recessed in the furthest corners. An unlit fireplace stood adjacent to Dead’s cell. No guard bothered to descend into that frozen place to set the coals alight, leaving an icy sheen to develop on the stone walls.
Dead sat in a narrow cage just wide enough for two men to stand astride. Days passed without word of prosecution. No one had come to see him or to lay charge. Together with Ghost, they had stayed in a tight cell with no bed and only a bucket to defecate in. Dead had not used it, nor would he eat the stale bread passed through the bars twice a day. The original cell had been split by an extra set of bars, dividing the cell into two in order to fit more captives into each block. The iron work was sturdier than the last prison, the door resisting Dead’s considerable efforts to force it open.
Dead had ingratiated himself with a fellow inmate who shared the cell across from him, passing his ration through. The captive’s name was Hillard, locked up for striking a town watchman during a drunken brawl.
Over the days Hillard came to learn of Dead’s story as Ghost reiterated it. Hearing about Dead’s memory loss encouraged Hillard to repeat the same stories over again, much to the irritation of Ghost who had followed Dead into the cell unwittingly.
“I should have stayed outside,” he bemoaned as Hillard retold the story about the two noble ladies he’d shared in one night.
“How many times is he going to tell us this one?” Ghost cried. Dead ignored him, the tales were of mild interest to him and kept his mind occupied.
Ghost sprawled out on the grime-ridden floor, his eyes shut but still staring up at the damp brickwork ceiling. He was ethereal, shutting his eyes didn’t work, instead making everything blurry. Ghost did not handle imprisonment well, able to rant for hours if left unchecked, not that anyone listened.
Dead worried only for himself. Although he could not remember when the squirming sensation started, he was sure it was getting worse. There was a definite pressure inside his bowel that he could not stop thinking about.
“Lady Gemmand was beautiful,” stated Hillard. “Thick blonde hair and the most perfect smile.”
“She was a redhead last time I heard this story,” noted Ghost.
“Nicely plump too,” Hillard licked his lips. “But then you’d see Lady Reidbrook and even your heart would miss a beat Charlie.”
“I think it’d miss a lot,” quipped Ghost.
“Who’s Charlie,” Dead whispered.
“That’s the name I gave you. Had to tell the guards something.”
An understanding look swept Dead’s face and he nodded, not considering why he had been locked up.
“And these two beauties in the same room with lucky old me,” a faraway glaze came over Hillard.
“More the like ‘these two toothless miner’s daughters’ I’d expect,” sang out Ghost.
“Tell me Charlie,” Hillard asked as he came back to reality. “What would you have done in that situation?”
“Tell him you would have butchered them and gone through their purses,” suggested Ghost.
Dead shrugged, the thought of being with a woman did not excite him. Since being dead he had lost those sexual urges that drive most people.
“A normal man would have had his fill and slept till dawn, leaving two kittens to play alone. Not old Hillard though,” he stood, as if it served to heighten the drama. “I pleased them twice over each, no small task for noble daughter’s. Then, once they slept enwrapped in each other, I took my leave of those ladies.” He clapped once with the excitement. “Imagine their embarrassment to awake the next day abandoned and missing their most precious jewels,” he laughed. “Not something they could run and explain to daddy now.” He smiled, sitting back down on the cold stones. “Oh to have a Lady Gemmand with me now.”
“Please let him be hanged,” Ghost wished. Hillard had a collection of two stories and Ghost had heard each a dozen times at least. “Dead, if you get the chance then I order you to kill that man. Do it like that poor bastard in the bar.”
Dead came back from his clogged thoughts.
“What poor bastard?”
“Hillard was boring a patron with one of his god awful stories,” he smirked. “You thought the most humane thing to do would be to cave the audience’s skull in. Of course the city watch took offence to this and dragged you and Hillard down here. You for murder, Hillard for violation of humanity.”
“Oh,” Dead said in a surprised voice, trying to picture the scene.
“So you’re down here for storytelling?” Dead called out.
“What? Me? No,” Hillard laughed. “But if you’d like I could tell you an interesting tale about the time I broke into Ironwood First Bank… Stop me if you’ve heard it.”
Ghost groaned in torment, Dead was silent, and so the story re-begun.
“Right oh, Hillard Steelten and Charles Longpin, come with me.” Dead looked at the man with an absent glaze.
“Look’s like it’s judgement time Charlie,” commented Hillard.
“Charlie?” Dead asked, confused.
“Don’t b
other,” Ghost ordered. “Just do whatever you’re told and act sorry. With any luck you’ll get out of this with a light whipping.”
The two men were ordered to place their hands outside a narrow slit in the door, shackled before leaving their confine.
“No funny business you two.” Their gaoler was a young man with a fresh face. Stocky enough to handle the more aggressive inmates but with little real command in his voice.
“No need to be rough friend,” complained Hillard as they were held tight to the arm and escorted up the narrow stone passage.
“It’s a simple procedure, being judged,” informed the young gaoler. “Stand up when they tell you, shut up unless asked to talk, and take your punishment without fuss.”
The trio marched up a series of damp and decayed stairs while Ghost trailed behind, relieved to be free of the cell and excited at the prospect of returning to the surface. Dead’s fate did not concern him much.
Several times they came to closed iron gates that required another guard to let them through. Ghost noted that even had they escaped from their cell they would not have made it outside. The gaols in Central Ironwood were a lot better manned than those in Poor Man’s Quarter. Ghost suspected the authorities would also show more respect for human life in the wealthier district.
The court room was large enough to sit a crowd, several rows of seats filled by angry families, witnesses and bored locals. The prisoners entered from the front, a tunnel connecting the cells. Ghost noted a few dark stares when Dead entered with Hillard and assumed they were family of the victim. Hillard was moved to the dock while Dead was ordered into a holding cell at the rear of the court. Ghost chose to stand outside the cage. The proceedings did not last long. The court heard a quick commentary of the events leading up to Hillard’s arrest. Ghost laughed when he heard that Hillard, drunk and half-naked in the Chef’s Statue, a reputable pub, had tried to seduce a watchguard on duty.
Hillard stared at his feet, blushing red, while some members of the audience sneered.
“I wonder if that was Lady Gemmand or Reidbrook,” Ghost pondered.
When the watchman had tried to apprehend Hillard, they heard, there was resistance and Hillard had to be taken in shackles. There was no mention of Hillard striking the guard as he suggested.
“For a charge of drunk and disorderly I sentence you to ten lashes,” stated the judge. “And for the charge of perverting the course of justice, fifty lashes.”
Ghost whistled to himself, a harsh punishment and potentially fatal. Hillard’s lip quivered, he stood, begging for clemency.
“Please your honour,” he pleaded in a well rehearsed tone. “Show mercy on this pathetic excuse for a man. I haven’t seen my children since being locked up and I dread to have them care for me wounded,” a tear and a sob came out. “Your honour, surely you are a caring man.”
The judge was not impressed.
“Hillard Steelten, I sentence you to an extra fifty lashes for contempt of court, bringing the total lashes to one hundred and ten.”
A bell tolled signaling the end of the hearing. Hillard was in shock, his mouth agape as a guard dragged him from the dock. Ghost knew that the accused had been handed a virtual death sentence and realised he felt sorry for the man. As he passed Dead’s cage Hillard cried out.
“Charlie, do something,” he cried. Dead watched him pass before turning to face Ghost.
“Who’s Charlie?” he asked in that semi-bored tone that Dead often took when moments of drama were occurring around them.
Ghost did not respond.
Dead was brought to the front of the chamber, several sneers following his wake. A court appointed cleric read out the details of the watch report. It contained witness testimonials and forensic evidence. The court was informed of Dead’s demeanour before the fight, that although only having one drink over several hours he was acting strange, talking to himself and knocking things over. The court then heard details of the fight, of how Dead had mutilated two men and murdered a third. All the time the judge remained passive until the report had finished.
“Mr. Longpin, do you have anything you wish to add?” he asked when the report was over.
“Tell him you acted in self defence,” Ghost suggested.
Dead followed prompt, arguing that he had not intended to murder anyone. He looked uncomfortable in the dock though, squirming from side to side and occasionally twitching.
“Your case is worrying,” the judge concluded. “While there is some argument of self defence, your behaviour does not speak of a rational man. I think it would be a dangerous choice if I were to allow your release. Therefore for the charge of manslaughter I will set fifty lashes to you. On top of this you will serve a period of no less than ten years in Ashmore Asylum under maximum security.”
Several mouths from the crowd voiced their discontent at the perceived light sentence. One man stood, yelling for a death sentence and a guard was forced to intervene.
“Enough,” bellowed the judge, striking his bell three times to signal the court was dismissed.
Dead was led outside by two guards. The light of day stung the eyes and he tried to shield them.
“Cut it out,” ordered a guard.
“Go easy Dead,” offered Ghost. “Take your lashes and worry about getting out of this mess later.” Ghost knew that a sentence for Dead was also a sentence for him. Dead tried to relax but found it difficult when he was yanked around. The audience had followed the prisoner with the expectation of seeing part of the punishment carried out. They came to a cobbled clearing surrounded by people, the lash of the whip coherent over their chants.
“Sixty one.”
The lash tolled, a low moan following. The guards pushed through the mob with Dead in tow. Ghost risked discomfort as he snuck through the ranks, hoping not to be crushed.
“Sixty two.”
Another moan.
“Use the hooks,” cried out one man. The crowd tired of the current spectacle.
“Useless git ran out of steam after ten lashes,” muttered one dirty haired onlooker to another. The cry for a harsher whip was taken up around the circle as more people bayed for blood. The whip bearer looked over to his superior who gave a firm nod. The softer leather lash was placed aside and swapped for a six-tailed whip with razor steel hooks attached.
“That’ll kill him,” Ghost uttered to Dead. Dead shrugged.
“So what?”
“So what?” Ghost repeated, upset. “That’s Hillard. Damn you Dead, you have no compassion.”
“I don’t need compassion,” Dead growled back, keeping his voice lower than the stir of the crowd. “Compassion won’t get me what I want”
“And what do you want?” Ghost was probing, hoping to find the cause of Dead’s urges.
Dead trembled, jerked and then turned back to watch Hillard, leaving Ghost without answer.
“Sixty three,” came the count.
This time Hillard erupted with a shrill scream as giblets of flesh were raked from his naked back.
“Sixty four,” again a scream, this time unstopping.
Over again Hillard continued to shriek as the whip opened his back.
“This is more like it,” approved the dirty haired onlooker.
Each time the lash came away more pieces of flesh were removed from Hillard’s back, some splaying across the crowd as they squirmed in excitement, a throbbing mass of dark desires. Other pieces of meat needed manual removal from the hooks, slowing down the process of Hillard’s demise. The shriek cry had turned into a low hum.
“Eighty two,” came the toll.
Hillard’s body jerked as muscle tore from the back but was otherwise unresponsive. The supervising watchman stepped in, checked for life signs then faced the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Hillard Steelten; assigned to one hundred and ten lashes for the crime of drunk and disorderly, perverting the course of justice and contempt of court, has succumbed to his crimes after eighty two lashes.”
Several crowd members cheered, others looked disappointed that he had not gone the full distance.
Ghost wept. After days locked up together Ghost realised that Hillard was the closest human contact that he and Dead had experienced since escaping the morgue. He had driven Ghost crazy with his bumbling stories but had also kept him sane. Locked up with only Dead for company would have been a worse fate. Dead took note of Ghost’s distress.
“Did you know him?” asked Dead.
Ghost shook his head.
“Nevermind.”
Hillard’s raw body was dragged from the stones, leaving a red trail behind. The chief watchman made a new announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for the crime of manslaughter Charles Longpin has been assigned fifty lashes.” There were several boos from the crowd.
“Should have been one hundred and fifty,” yelled one angry onlooker clutching a distressed woman. There was a rumbling of agreement. Ghost assumed they were relatives of the dead man.
“Dead, you should probably feign some pain or this crowd’s going to explode.”
“What’s going on? Am I getting whipped?” asked Dead
The guards looked surprised at the question.
“No, we just want to tie you up over here for a minute. No whipping, I promise,” one smiled a toothless gape. They dragged Dead out to the centre, Ghost followed.
“Pretend you’re in a lot of pain.” Ghost warned him.
The guards tied Dead up, his shirt ripped open to reveal a mottled back.
“One,” the leather lash cracked down and bounced harmlessly off his back.
