by Luke Webster
“He’s got to be foreign,” Manderley continued.
“Then why didn’t he have a fucking accent?” The question was slurred, spit touching Manderley’s cheek across the table.
“Then someone’s hiding him. Ironwood’s not that big, people can’t just disappear.”
“Big enough for some,” O’ryan huffed.
From across their table the two off-duty guards eyed them, O’ryan’s loud voice an unpleasant distraction.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” O’ryan cursed, gripping the table with tight knuckles.
Even off-duty it was hard for the insult to be ignored. The closer man, a thick middle-aged Neanderthal with short cropped hair, stepped towards the table.
“Great,” Manderley muttered. “Let me handle this.”
O’ryan ignored him, standing upright in a flash and striking out two quick punches. The aging guard stepped back, a crumpled nose plastered to his face. The second guard, now standing with a stubby dagger, advanced.
“You want to die as well?” O’ryan barked, vaulting onto the table and lashing out a steel-tipped boot.
There was a gurgle of pain as the guard retreated, one hand holding back his teeth. O’ryan jumped to the floor and charged, grabbing the dagger arm and sending a hard cross into the man’s jaw, pulverizing the already bloody mess. The first guard stepped back, cradling a broken nose and ready to sound the watch.
From the bar strode a man with a black patch on one eye, a navy blue vest over chain mail. He stopped the guard, whispering into his ear. There was a hint of dissatisfaction before the caveman backed down. The intruder approached the second guard, still circling with O’ryan, and interrupted him.
“Get out of the way,” the guard tried to order him, instead large fountains of blood poured forth.
“End the fight. That’s an order.”
“No Patriarchtsman… orders the watch,” was managed through shattered teeth.
“You’re off duty, and about to kill one of Puello DeYemond’s men.”
Surprise filtered through the bloody gob, then fear. The dagger disappeared and then its wielder, leaving shamed but thankful of a missed tragedy.
“What do you want?” O’ryan fumed, returning to his seat and taking Manderley’s drink.
“You keep interesting company these days Serra.”
“You know me,” Manderley shrugged, sitting upright from a slight cowering position. “Always business.”
“What do you want Killan?” O’ryan probed, pumping his right fist, noting a swelling.
“Is it broken? If so I know a good medicinist nearby.”
“I don’t take charity from Patriarchtsman.”
“Excuse my companion’s demeanor, we’ve had a hard run of it of late,” Manderley admitted.
“So I hear. My birds tell me that Manderley Serravia has been running around town with one of DeYemond’s henchmen breaking all sorts of noses. I’m keen interested.”
“You two know each other then,” O’ryan noted.
“Just like you, we in the Patriarcht’s fold require reliable street word.”
“I’m surprised that old fool has the sense to keep up with the street.”
Killan’s eyes blackened.
“Old acquaintances will soon count for nothing if you continue that line,” he threatened.
O’ryan backed off and for a second Manderley swore he saw a hint of fear creeping through his aggressive companion.
“How do you two know each other?” Manderley quizzed.
“It would be unwell of me to lavish the inner details of our Patriarcht’s workings. Let me just note that he likes to hire men of O’ryan’s disposition for unusual work. Suffice it to say that O’ryan was less than satisfying in his performance. I suggest you remember that if you continue running your business venture.”
“I wouldn’t listen to any word that one of these liemongers tells you,” O’ryan bit back, any sense of caution now lost.
Manderley kept his mouth closed, aware that he was in the company of dangerous men, his own temperament lending to a more civilised bearing.
“Nevertheless,” Killan continued, “when you tread on a lot of toes eventually you make a wrong step. You may think that because you enjoy the protection of DeYemond that you are safe but there is nothing stopping an anonymous sliver from ending your business.”
“We’re being hunted?” Manderley asked, his brow digging low.
“No… not yet that I’m aware. There is a shift in the city. If you listen carefully you’ll hear it. Some powers will grow strong, others will wither. All exchanges lead to disorder though.”
“This is why I left your service,” O’ryan interrupted. “You struggle to say the simplest thing.”
“These are not simple times. When you tie yourself to a power you suffer its consequence. If DeYemond takes a wrong step he will take you down with him. Is that plainer for you?”
“I hear you… but,” he didn’t finish, O’ryan’s drunken slur trailing away.
“So what did you want of us?” Manderley continued, his back turned to his companion.
“I’m interested in the man you are seeking. The descriptions I receive from your victims tend towards the unusual.”
“What have you heard?”
“A nameless man, without memory, wanted for multiple homicides. Tell me Serra, how many men has O’ryan murdered in the search for this murderer?”
“None yet… That I know of.”
“Fine, and the description of your chase?”
“We want him for questioning over three deaths.”
“Were they violent?” Killan’s eyes seemed alight, as if a morbid flame flickered within.
“The first? No. The others… Why would a Patriarchtsman be so interested in such a thing?”
“The physical description of the man, as I’ve heard it, matches someone I once knew. I would like to see his sketch.”
Manderley stared hard at Killan, weighing up what the motives could be. When first hired he had expected the chase to lead to a rival crime family, his own neutrality serving some element of safety. He realised now that if the Patriarcht were involved then no benefit could be sought from finding the killer. If there were a link to the murders from this end he did not want involvement in any way.
Reaching one hand under the table he struggled within his rucksack. He was watched, not only by Killan, but also O’ryan now, the drunk’s interest piqued by the possible new lead. Manderley sat up, a rolled parchment clenched in stressed fingers.
“There,” he muttered, pushing the portrait across the table.
Killan stared at the image, silent for a long time.
“Do you know him?” O’ryan broke.
“Yes, I know him,” Killan nodded, handing the portrait back. “I murdered him.”
48
The train continued its treacherous route along mountains devoid of habitation. It bounced along a single rail line that snaked around jagged rock faces and clung to a precarious foundation. The rail itself butted out from the rocks, a common design with Ironwood Rail aimed at preventing snow from clotting the line. Since his awakening Ghost had not experienced so much fear as now. Looking through the iron grate of his carriage floor he was presented with a monstrous drop.
“How are you feeling?” he asked Dead, trying to occupy himself.
“Strange,” Dead confessed. “It’s in my guts.”
Ghost nodded.
“You’ve been complaining of that a fair bit.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I’ve got an idea, but it’s not much good telling you here. We need to wait till we’ve got a better chance to escape.”
“We can’t get out here?” he asked.
“Not unless you feel like jumping down.” Ghost said. “Wait till we’re in the asylum. If you can escape without attracting attention then that’d be best. That means no killing people.”
The cage jarred as it wound rou
nd a bend.
“No killing, got it.”
Crenulated walls and arrow slits came into view of their narrow window as the train continued its trek. Ashmore Asylum had once been a fortress, built into the side of Grimbold mountain nearly a thousand years before, created by the Patriarcht as a place of fortitude for his lordling sons.
It had been abandoned out of a want of convenience not long after its inception, the lords of Ironwood seeking a more accessible home closer to the city. It had stood empty for eight centuries before King Asis had reclaimed it as a second prison, prized for its isolation. Under the regents it had become the asylum. Escape would not be easy.
The rail crossed a bridge and passed through the black walls of Ashmore, stopping at a waypoint. The guards stepped off the platform, one leaving to request extra assistance with the potentially violent arrival. Two more guards arrived, dressed in red vests instead of the green that the city watch wore. On their chests they bore a castle cracked down the middle.
“That bring back anymore memories?” Ghost asked, gesturing to the symbol. Dead shrugged.
The four guards flanked Dead as he stepped out of the carriage. Each carried their prods in hand, ready for an assault. The metal rods emitted a cracking sound as electricity surged through the metal pole attached to a hefty battery, ready to discharge on contact. Ghost noted that the men wore special gloves with a strange lining on the hands that held the prod.
They reached the courtyard, a slate square thing that had worn away over time. A thick barred cage now engulfed the yard, breaking off at points to lead into the low security wing and children’s wing. A series of gallows hung above the length of the yard. Bodies, ripened from exposure, swung from ropes, left to decay. Ghost noted the assortment of victims, ranging from old women to children and everything between, and blanched. Many corpses, left for so long, were unrecognizable with only a few muscle tissues holding the corpses in place.
The procession of men stuck to the main path, leading to maximum security and what would have once been the castle keep. They passed another checkpoint before coming to an empty room. Dead was ordered to remove his torn clothes. When it looked like he would resist Ghost ordered him otherwise.
Stark naked, Dead was marched down a long corridor to ‘level one containment’. The final checkpoint was a cage. Dead passed through and was locked out on the other side, alone with Ghost.
“Meals are twice a day in the canteen – level four, you’ll hear the bell. Miss them and miss out. If we call you out then come back here to be collected. There are informants inside so if you think about taking off, or you go around killing people, we’ll know.” The gruff voiced guard had to speak loud over the cries coming down the hall. “Charles Longpin, enjoy the next ten years in Ashmore.”
The guards turned their backs and locked the far cage, leaving a solitary figure to keep watch. Ghost looked at Dead, his naked body scarred and toughened. Fluid was seeping from between the stitches in his chest and Ghost noted a swollen belly. As Dead had refused food and drink since awaking Ghost dreaded what was causing the bulge. Dead walked off to explore their new home with Ghost following.
“This place is disgusting,” Ghost riled as they passed through the dim corridor smeared in human remains. The stone walls had been covered in cheap plaster years past but had cracked and worn away in many places to reveal the founding stone beneath. Blood and feces decorated several sections of wall, either in delirium or art, Ghost was unsure. Fingernail scrapings ran the length of the corridors, their manic tears crisscrossing the plaster and stone.
“You will fit right in,” Ghost decided.
Rooms broke away from the main corridor at regular intervals. Some contained rags with naked bodies sleeping in fits, others bore the wrath of a raving inmate, venting their insanities into the building. Every inhabitant was a naked mess, covered in grime and unkempt hair.
The corridor turned into the lobby, a dilapidated stairwell the main feature. The once carpeted steps worn down to smooth stone. Over the din of moaning that filled the air came a semi-rational voice.
“Hey, you there,” pointed a man with long greasy hair, wearing a light smock. He approached Dead, taking care not to step in a puddle of blood. “You’re new here, the name’s Malcolm,” he protruded an open hand which Dead ignored. “Got a name?” he queried.
“You might as well be honest,” shrugged Ghost. “You’ve finally made it to the loon’s hut.”
“It’s Dead,” he growled, staring at the thin man with animal eyes.
“Hey, calm down friend, I’m just trying to greet you. All new bloods need to go to the top,” he said, pointing a bony finger up the stairwell. “You’ll find the king up there, he runs the show. Anything that goes on around here has to go through him.”
“Ask him who the king is,” suggested Ghost. There was no reply. “Dead?”
Dead couldn’t tear his eyes from the man’s face, there was a hint of a memory etched into it that he couldn’t place.
“Why are you here?” Dead barked.
“Me? I’m Malcolm Enricho, I’m sure you heard of me. I worked in the Patriarcht’s household for a while, carrying out his cutting operations. That’s basically corpse disposal. Anyway, to cut a long one short, they said I was cutting up the wrong bodies. What if some noble’s bitch went missing from time to time, eh?”
“Oh you’re definitely going to fit in here,” Ghost snorted.
Dead nodded.
“Do I look familiar to you?” he asked.
“Can’t say that you do. My memory’s not what it used to be though,” Malcolm frowned.
“Know the feeling,” Dead agreed.
“Look, if you want to trade stories then hunt me down after you’ve spoken to the king.”
The stairwell ascended five levels, each flight similar to the previous. The final floor was guarded by two stocky men, one bent over due to a bone deformity that twisted his limbs and swelled his skull, the other tall and thick.
“What’ya want?” sneered the tall man, sizing Dead up.
“I’m here to see the king.”
“He don’t want to see you,” bubbled the deformed man struggling to spit out his words.
“Wonderful,” Ghost declared.
“I’m going to pass, and you’ll be going for a long drop if you don’t get out of my way,” Dead warned.
The men were surprised. They were used to visitors being intimidated by their appearance.
“It’s okay,” the tall man laughed. “We’re just playing with you. I’m Scotty and this is Mutt. You are?”
“Dead,” he confirmed.
“Ah yeah, whatever. Listen the king’s kind of got this thing about new bloods. Either you play his games or you’ll find yourself confined pretty quick. The basement levels are resigned for guests that don’t play. I don’t think you live long down there. Just a warning.”
Scott nodded Dead through, granting access.
They stumbled into a well-lit room, each humming bulb powered and working. Men and women sat around the chamber, clothed in plain smocks. At the far end of the room sat a man in a wheelchair rocking back and forth, his fat figure covered by a robe. Tufts of black stubble struggled on his chin, his hairline a receding coward. Two men holding iron rods stood either side.
The king noticed the entrance and motioned for Dead to approach.
“Welcome to my sanctum,” the invalid rasped with heavy breath. “I am King Joanne III, eighth son and fifteenth child of King Hermatt II. How can I acquaint you?”
Dead looked lost and needed urging from Ghost.
“My name is Dead.”
“Fitting for this place, where important men are sent to die, I assure you.” Each word was a struggle, tiny sweat beads gathered across his brow as he ventured on. “Of fifteen children, I am the fourth last surviving, driven here by my treacherous siblings. I chose to be stronger than the mortal coils of flesh though and have created my own kingdom, one built from the misery
bestowed on the inhabitants and forged ready to help retake my throne,” King Joanne puffed.
“Oh no,” Ghost whimpered.
“What do you want?” asked Dead.
“What do I want?” the crippled man replied, amazed. “I want to taste my brother’s last breath on my cheek, to hear him shudder as I clutch at his life strings and rend them agape… in time this will come to pass. You, Dead, must choose. Whose side will you ride with in this war?”
“Take his side, and sound like you mean it,” Ghost hissed.
Dead gave a subtle nod.
“For your majesty.” He dropped to one knee.
The king smiled, showing brown teeth.
“A worthy subject - arise Sir Dead.”
Dead stood, his scarred corpse overshadowing the king.
“I have a mission for you. Perform it well and I will bestow the royal garb upon you.” He waved a stubby finger across the room, highlighting the smocks that his entourage wore, the tips of his fingers dark blue.
“What would my king have me do?” Dead asked.
Ghost was surprised at the fluency with which Dead was able to speak all of a sudden, at sorts with the grumbling short sentences his deceased companion preferred.
“Sir Dead, a man walks amongst us… a man of the enemy. Inciting words against me and stirring strong emotions. He hides in the sub-level, where my men fear to tread. We have waited for the coming of a strong knight, someone of your temperament, to plunge those depths and remove the offendant. The man you seek is known as Louise Rambler, a sly-tongued deviant known for hiding in shadows. Bring me his head and I will bestow you with many gifts.”
“Oh yeah, I can see this king overthrowing the current royal line in Ironwood with this vast army,” Ghost said grinning, “Ask him for a weapon.”
“I have nothing to spare I fear,” grieved the cripple after listening to the request.
“Medical supplies then.”
“That I may have. Bring me the cancerous head and you shall receive.”
