Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  The bottle rocked as the two men danced around the table, tripping over each other. Two glasses had made the men lose their composure, the strange drink mixing with the Hardweed to give an undesired effect. Peter hummed as he danced, pretending to float around the dining area.

  “You know what? I feel completely pissed,” Terrance laughed.

  Peter stopped, sweating from the effort.

  “You know what I love?”

  “What?”

  “That little thing in there,” he said, pointing to the main room.

  “Let’s go have a proper look,” Terrance said, producing the key and unlocking the door.

  Ammba’s body stiffened at the creaking sound of a door opening. A black hood covered her face, breathing difficult through the fabric.

  “I reckon she’s pretty,” Peter said.

  “You don’t know much, do you whelp? All noble ladies are ugly.”

  “What?”

  “I swear… bloody ugly.”

  “No shit, we’d better leave her hood on then.”

  “She’s got a cute body though,” Terrance noted, moving closer, his earlier silliness forgotten. Peter stepped in too, seeking a way to flush out the fire that the alcohol had lit in him.

  “What say it love? You feeling lonely, stuck in there?” Terrance’s hand felt out, groping a firm breast. “My god, you are tight.”

  Ammba’s scream muffled out, her body’s struggle prevented by tight ropes.

  Peter stepped in, taking the other breast in hand, squeezing it hard enough to make Ammba cry out in pain.

  “You know what else I’d love?” he slurred.

  “Shut up Pete and help me get her out of this chair. Don’t bruise her up.”

  Ammba breathed heavy in the closed blackness of the hood. Thick, hot air crowded her. She tried to struggle but was quickly held down by calloused hands, her legs spread out. She wept, trying to conjure up images of places elsewhere but failed when a stabbing pain punctuated her groin. The pain thrashed between her legs, keeping her firmly locked in reality. A girl’s whimpering reverberated through her head, intensifying the discomfort.

  The pounding stopped, withdrew, and was replaced by more stabbing monotony. If her assailants spoke she did not register, wrapped in her own misery.

  There was a single final push, and then nothing.

  “Oh god that was tight… Never felt anything like that before,” Peter said with a satisfied sigh. “It must have been even better for you going first, you lucky bastard.”

  Terrance didn’t speak, preferring to dragging Ammba’s limp body back to the chair and retying her. He leaned in to her hood, placing his mouth close.

  “Listen, you’d best do to forget about that. I don’t like killing girls.” The words did not even register, Ammba too torn between pain and distress, trapped in her own recurring thoughts of shame and horror. She was panting hard, her body twitching in uncontrollable heaves.

  The men left her, locking the door to the world.

  42

  “Ivan Steward was a dutiful man,” Pierce boasted, one hand resting on his speechpad. “A man birthed in the fires of steel and iron, forged into the shape of regent and protector.” Pierce was sweating, eyes struggling to focus on the words as a gentle sway urged him to and fro. He had spent the night drinking with Gehrig again, their revelry ending only hours before.

  To Pierce’s left was a steel palate with Ivan Steward resting on it, eyes sown shut. Close observation would have noted the scar that traced the neckline. Surgeons had removed the dead regent’s head and scooped out his brain, the procedure assuring that he would not reanimate before his burial. Whereas most corpses were given a fast cremation in the city to prevent reanimation, important figures of state were made exceptions of, trained practitioners employed to disassemble the body.

  “Lord Steward was born into the house of Steward in 1206, the youngest child of fifteen. His father was Charles Steward, his mother Daenna Longshore…” Pierce continued to read the life dictation of Ivan Steward, struggling on his feet. It was traditional to note all life events and achievements in a statehead’s eulogy, the speech itself spanning thirty pages of well packed script and running for near an hour.

  Pierce ended the speech with the details of Ivan’s final days, retelling the events of Harmond’s death and the lockdown of the citadel. Specifics of his murder were shared, including the manner of poison and time of death. Many of the crowd, bored by the long speech, passed time by placing bets on whether or not Pierce would collapse, higher stakes going to a chance that he might fall over the corpse.

  The safe bet prevailed, Pierce finished his speech and stepped down, letting a representative of El-Manati engage the crowd. The priest was gaunt, skeleton fingers leafing through an ancient manual on the rights of departure. He spoke in a rambling tone, taking time to pronounce each word as they rolled from his tongue. Even distraught Damian found his attention waning, his mind drifting elsewhere. He was thinking of Fredrick.

  Pierce and the council had severed all ties to the foreigner, refusing to launch any sort of appeal. The death of the regent had sated many of the families involved, the only notables still seeking Fredrick’s execution were those directly related to the incident. Despite this the council, under Pierce’s command, saw no advantage in arguing on the issue. Pierce had pointed out that he was a noble himself and that if Fredrick had not been stolen away then he would have likely given up the child.

  Damian looked over at the large man with scorn. Pierce was pale and shaking, his forehead covered in a sheen reflecting the sun that speared through half shut windows. He did not look fit to carry a slop bucket let alone run matters of state.

  Damian’s thoughts shifted to Ammba. There had been no clear word on her abductors even though a team of investigators had been working on the case. Damian wondered if she even knew of their father’s death… if she were alive. The council were delaying talks concerning the regent’s successor until her whereabouts were discovered, preferring to focus on channelling resources into the search. A child servant from the house of Geiland had been questioned over the matter, the young boy accused of taking a bribe for letting several cloaked men into the compound through a maintenance gate. Under extended interrogations it had been found that the child was paid by one of the crime families, though he was ignorant to which one and why. The child had succumbed to the pressure of seeing his own organs displayed, a final cruel act before his death.

  News of the child’s death reached the citadel as dawn rose over the city through the gift of a severed head, a present that Damian found little comfort in. Pierce had the head staked to the front gate of the citadel so that visiting mourners had to pass the hollow-eyed remains. It had proven an interesting talking-point for many of the guests waiting for the ceremony to begin.

  The priest continued his dirge, his voice seeming even more laborious now to Damian’s ear. He was inflecting on the Old Readings, a traditional text that spoke of death coming before life.

  “Life was born from the same death. Rheagnar, shining in his golden wings that shadowed the earth became struck down under the scourge of Ea-Mertain, forebear of Ea-Manati. From the rancid droplets that split from his wounds came the roots of all animals and man, sprung from the same fruit. From that we are born, we must continue. All death creates a newborn… the greater deaths will lead to the creation of many. This is the way of the beginning, it will not end until the last drop of blood dries from the veins of all and only dust clots in our hearts.” It was a brutal philosophy that clung to the church, justifying them through murderous strategies, suggesting a celebration in war and plague.

  Despite the rich history of the church philosophies, Damian remained ignorant to them all. Like his father he had little to do with the influential organization, preferring to keep his distance from the fanatics and only swear allegiance at official events and when the church demanded it.

  As the priest wound up with a series of praye
rs, Pierce took the pulpit again. This time he needed only one page to read from, declaring that Ivan Steward be anointed to the annals of Ex-Victorial Kin, the ancient book that recorded the reigns of kings and regents alike. Pierce announced that the funeral had finished, inviting the guests into the banquet hall to dine with him. The audience were glad of the break, a steady pouring of feet leading the way. Haylee sought to comfort her grieving mother, leaving Damian alone with the body of his father. A cloaked figure approached unseen.

  43

  “I come on behalf of Jacobmann,” the mysterious man announced. Damian jumped at the approach, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the empty hall, aware of the lack of guards. “My name is not important.”

  “What do you want?” Damian peeped.

  “Information. Your benefactor is paying a lot of money so that I rescue your friend.”

  “Fredrick,” Damian agreed, brightening. “But what information could I provide?”

  “I am not in the business of stealing things that I’m ignorant of. I want you to relate everything you can about Fredrick. Tell me about his personality, his likes and fears.”

  “What is your name?” Damian quizzed.

  “I don’t have one… tell me about Fredrick.”

  In the empty hall Damian tried as best he could to explain his friend to the thief. Before him lay his father, dressed in traditional funeral garb, eyes closed to the world.

  “Will you get him back for me?” Damian broke from his lecture.

  “If it’s possible. These things shouldn’t be rushed. If he is tried in noble court and pronounced guilty then their law states that he has four weeks grace to make an appeal. Once he is a prisoner of the state prepared for execution then he must be taken to Ritcave to serve out his sentence. I plan to pick him up along the way if I can.”

  “What if he isn’t taken to Ritcave?”

  “It’s a gamble, but the safe bet says so. The nobles want to be seen as acting within the scope of their laws on this issue.”

  “But Fredrick is a foreigner.”

  “Noble law is noble law. We have to play a waiting game.”

  Damian wanted to object, to rail against the thief, but he knew that the man’s purse was filled from another hand.

  “What do people call you?” Damian pressed.

  “Most call me Locke.”

  44

  Nielle’s temper was bearing thin as the deaf fledgling smiled crooked teeth. Wurt was not his real name, but it was all anyone knew him by. He was skinny and a full head shorter than Nielle, an idiot light flickering in his eyes.

  “Scrub the whole floor,” Nielle yelled at him, as if a loud enough voice could penetrate through his deafness. Nielle indicated with sweeping gestures, trying to express his meaning. Wurt smiled back, his top gums showing high over the teeth.

  It had fallen to Nielle to explain the duties of a fledgling. While at first Nielle had thought it would ease him off his workload, he now realised that the opposite was in fact true. So far the boy had made more mess, smearing wet ash across the pristine tiles of Aea-Baeni’s apartment.

  “You need to rinse first, like this,” Nielle dunked the mop then wringed it, scrubbing in one direction as opposed to the chaotic back and forth motions of Wurt. As a principal bucket boy Wurt had spent years carrying out the defecations of a thriving complex. It was a skill that he excelled at, able to carry four buckets by hand and a fifth balanced on his head. He had never learnt another skill, and smiled blank eyes at his teacher.

  “Nielle, come with me,” Pilus snapped, striding over the wet slate. Wurt was left to make do with the mop, reverting to his previous method.

  “What would you have of me master?” Nielle managed, keeping up with the hurried priest. There was no reply as they entered Pilus’ study, offset from the main atrium.

  “Callis confides in you,” Pilus stated, locking the door. “Tell me his plans for Aea-Baeni.”

  “What plans?”

  A fast hand shot forward, sprawling the child out.

  “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t know… honest.”

  A steel-toed boot landed in between his ribs, winding the buckled boy.

  “Don’t lie to me,” spoken in a frighteningly calm voice.

  “I… I… I…” Another boot, this time in Nielle’s side. “I’m not lying,” he coughed, blood in his spit.

  “Callis is not telling me everything. Tell me who Islemann works for.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only recently met him myself.”

  Pilus knelt down, wrapping an arm around a shirt collar.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to remove that little stump hanging between your legs.”

  As if to emphasis Pilus held out a short carving blade, the point pressed to Nielle’s thigh.

  “I swear… on Ea-Manati.”

  Pilus stared hard into the child’s wet eyes, calculating his response.

  “Then you will find out for me, and soon. I do not believe the stories that Callis feeds me. If you don’t come back with information then I will cut you loose from the house.”

  With a push Pilus stepped away, leaving Nielle to suck in hard fought air.

  “Get back out there,” he pointed. “And don’t mention this to Callis.”

  45

  Fredrick spooned the cold gruel, grimacing at the taste. He choked it back, letting the congealed liquid squirt down his throat, trying not to retch. All his meals were minimal affairs. His cell was cramped, just enough room for him to lie out on the bare stone. He was developing a harsh chest cough but with no one to complain to he had to bear it. His bowl was replaced once a day. A small drain hole in the centre of the room was his toilet, he had to squat to make use of it, hoisting his pants back over his unwiped arse.

  There was no heating in the damp cell either, the nights frosted the cell and Fredrick had multiple chill burns where he slept on the stone floor, the thin blanket little comfort. There were no windows or books to chisel away the days, Fredrick relying on etching the walls to keep himself occupied. He used one of the shards of stone that littered the floor to cut into the brittle walls. So far he had covered much of the rear wall in his primitive drawings, covering topics from monsters and knights to cityscapes from his memories of the Imperial Capital.

  He was busy cutting out the leg of another warrior, caught up in some imaginary war, when the door to his cell opened. A large man with a face of stubble scowled at him, cracking his knuckles once before gesturing for Fredrick to follow. As Fredrick approached the large man cracked him in the ear with an open palm, sending a ringing thunder through the child’s head.

  “That’s a warning. Get any bright ideas and I’ll hit you hard. You stink.” The man hit Fredrick again around the ear, making the boy stumble. “My name is Oktave,” he spat, grabbing Fredrick by the arm to stop him from dropping. “You’re in my care until you look fit for court.”

  Oktave wrenched the boy from his feet, throwing him in the direction of the exit by one arm. Fredrick was marched through the manor’s dungeon, the occasional moan emitting from a cell but otherwise empty. They took the servant’s halls, keeping the filthy boy from contact with any of the house’s notables. Fredrick struggled to stay upright, incarceration and malnutrition leaving him weak.

  They came to the back of the manor, a bitter rain flooding the back lawns and swirling around their feet. Fredrick wore simple leather sandals, the water burned his feet, making him cry out. Octave replied by punching the boy in the back of his arm with one knuckle, deadening the muscle and bruising it. Fredrick tried to turn, to make some challenge but the large man scruffed him by the back of his unkempt hair and marched him into the stables.

  Oktave threw Fredrick to the ground, the dry straw clinging to his sodden body. He rubbed the back of his hair where it had been pulled, looking up at the angry man.

  “No foreign dog deserves the right to bathe among his superiors, mutt. You will do so here. Strip.” />
  Fredrick complied, knowing that only violence waited for refusal. He stood before the man, frail and thin, his body convulsing from a stifled cough. Oktave took no notice of the child’s tender bearing, pulling a collection bucket from a drain point and dousing him with it. Fredrick spasmed as the freezing water hit him full in the face, air rushing from his lungs. He started to shake out of control, trying to rub white fingers over his bruised arms. Octave took a second bucket, once again sloshing it out towards the boy. Fredrick saw it coming and jumped, avoiding the stream. Octave swore in rage, bowling into the child and pushing him to the ground.

  “You think you’re brave you little shit?” he exploded, spit spraying from his mouth. He swung a fist down, the heavy knuckles mashing into Fredrick’s face and splitting open the nearly healed scar that Harmond had inflicted up him. Blood started to weep from the fresh wound when Octave dropped a second fist, this time crushing the boy’s nose so that it scrunched up and out of shape. Fredrick tried to cry out but his chest was spasming with the large man on top of him and the fresh blood draining into the back of his throat caught his breath. A third punch fell, this time pounding into the side of his head, the blow breaking the skin around the eye. Fredrick lost his sight and consciousness as a fourth fist landed on his chin, causing a fracture in the jaw and sending the boy into a fitful dream.

  He awoke in the rain again, the freezing temperature drawing him back to reality. His face felt swollen and burning, his vision lost in his left eye. Octave had dragged him out into the swirling rush of water by one leg, rubbing the child’s body with rough hands to clean him. Most of the filth had been removed by this and when he was satisfied Octave picked the boy up under one arm and dragged him into the house.

  He was taken to a holding room. Miranda, a fat servant woman, waited by a heated element.

  “Here’s the boy,” Oktave told her, thumping him down on a rug at her feet.

  “Is he alive?” She asked, a worried tone drawing to her voice.