by Luke Webster
Ghost looked at Dead’s bulge, they needed to be fast.
49
“How is your new friend,” Callis asked, his eyes flitting shut. He sat in his throne, one hand curled around a cup of Prytrian wine.
“He’s worse than useless,” Nielle sneered, polishing his master’s boot.
“I thought you were going to teach him duties,” Callis responded after a long minute, staving off sleep.
“I try. One might as well be teaching a statue.”
“A statue?” Callis asked.
“Well, something stupid.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Callis quipped, shutting his eyes again. “As long as he keeps his mouth shut there won’t be a problem. If it makes you feel better you have my permission to beat him. You are higher ranked than he is after all.”
“Maybe I should feed him to Islemann,” Nielle offered.
The master opened his eyes, peering at the boy for the first time.
“I recommend that Islemann is kept secret from Wurt.”
“Why is Islemann so dangerous?” Nielle asked, remembering the mission that Pilus had forced on him.
“What should I tell you of him,” Callis mused, sipping at his dark brew. “He is not of Iron stock, nor does he come from an Imperial or Northane background. Islemann comes from a tribe set far south in the mountains, past the reach of Ironwood’s mining grip and the speckling of other tribes that you may be familiar with.”
“He doesn’t look that different,” Nielle mentioned, abandoning his chores and focusing on the master, still waiting for his question to be answered.
“You’ve only seen him in one skin,” Callis’ smile brimmed.
Nielle looked confused for a moment before realising that the strong alcohol was turning the priest mirthful.
“He has more than one?”
The question received a barking laugh. “I’m sure he likes to collect them. My word says that he’s had his eye on yours for some time now. Just because he is not currently in the tower do not think that he is any less to be feared. Thank yourself lucky that I see some value in your continued service.”
“What makes him more dangerous than you or I?” Nielle pressed.
“That is something that you do not need to know… at least not for now. Unlike you, Islemann does not work for me. He only makes himself visible to those he wants. In your case this may not be such a good thing.”
“I’m just curious.”
“And I’m drunk. Help me to my room.”
Nielle pressed himself to the master, supporting the sodden weight. With much struggle and side stepping they navigated to the master chambers, Callis laying down on a simple mattress and slipping into a drunk’s sleep.
Nielle stepped back, turning to leave. It was rare moment that he found himself in the master’s room. While the furnishings were fine wood, there was nothing extravagant. One desk contained an assortment of well-filed documents and the fire’s mantel was clear of all ornamentation.
As if out of sorts with the rest of the tidy room, Callis’ keys sat to one side of his desk. In a perfectly filed room they screamed out at Nielle. The boy took note of his master’s snoring heap, reaching out a trembling hand to the set.
In his mind Nielle feared Pilus more - the master he did not know. Since his station within the high priest’s quarters Nielle’s abuse had always come from Callis’ counterpart. First Gustus’ cane, now Pilus’ strike. It was a rare thing for Callis himself to punish the boy and with that thought the child pocketed the keys. Nielle tiptoed through the chambers, seeking out the Beastmen’s dungeon and the locked doors within.
Despite the event having long passed, the death chamber of Aea-Baeni still held a faint aroma of Gustus Esum’s cooked flesh. The clean up from that bloody night had reviled Nielle, flashing memories of the dead man’s meat succulently peeling from the bone coming back to the child. It had fallen to Nielle to carry the corpse to the furnaces for a final cremation, a task done piecemeal as the child had been forced to dissect the fat man himself. It was a deed that Callis had insisted the child take care of personally. In his mind, Nielle wondered if his master wanted to turn him into another Islemann.
Past the death chamber stood a foreboding iron door, unpassed before by Nielle. For a moment he considered the possibility that Islemann could be waiting behind the door for him. Callis had confided in him that the killer was out on a duty however and Nielle raised the keys, shaking fingers rattling them forth as he struggled to fit one to the lock.
Before him was a deep black chamber. The child took a nearby coal lamp sitting in a recess and struck it with a flint stick. Shadows danced down the eerie hall, looking like black ravens chasing the frightened child as he stumbled in half darkness. One black door marked the end of the hall, unlocked and awaiting. Nielle stepped through.
Many candles lit the chamber, sputtering shadows crisscrossing black walls. It was cold within the iron tomb, despite the many tiny flames, and condensation touched everything not alight. Silver and dark red beasts corniced the ceiling, black tongues and blue eyes menacing down with sadistic smiles. At the far end of the room stood a shrine, a two-headed twisted wolf beast with razor teeth snarling in suspended rage. A stone pallet lay by its feet.
Despite the cruel imagery that haunted the room Nielle was infinitely more terrified by the two figures standing before him, eyes boring down.
“A disappointment,” Callis hissed, showing no sign of intoxication.
“For you… yes,” Islemann croaked, smiling pointed teeth.
“I…” Nielle wanted to explain.
“Do not bother with excuses,” Callis berated. “I know that Pilus sent you. It’s what I would have done. You chose the wrong side to play the pawn.”
“Please…”
“He’s entered my chamber,” Islemann cackled. “You know the rule.”
“Yes,” Callis agreed. “The rule. Nielle, you are no longer in my service. I give you to Islemann to do with as he sees fit.”
Callis pushed past the wide-eyed child, pulling shut the door. Nielle turned to follow, an unmarked wall where a door once was. Islemann stepped closer, his swollen eye seeming to flush, the pock scars in his face pulsating. Nielle grasped for the Ihn’s dagger at his belt.
“Do not bother with that toy,” Islemann remarked, advancing on the boy.
Nielle ignored his voice, taking the blade and stabbing out. There was some resistance as the blade cut into Islemann, entering at the belly. The child looked up in his frightened gaze, to see a smiling glare confront him.
“You fail to listen again child,” Islemann mused, taking one hand and lifting back his cloak. Nielle choked at the sight. Dried serpent-like muscles gripped the blade and held it in place. A thin yellow slime smeared the blade and turned it a ruddy brown as it sought the hilt.
Islemann reached one hand out, clasping the back of Nielle’s head and held his stare.
“I knew when I saw you that you would come to me.”
Nielle struggled, the scent of Islemann’s musty scent too much to bear.
“Let me show you the true beast.”
In one violent action Nielle was enveloped by a crescendo of contortion.
50
Rafpheal Tyme-Lal tried to focus his mind away from the itch. He sat in a soft elk hide seat, dressed in silk. He was aging fast, at thirty his hair had thinned, a receding line appearing a few years previous. His father had been Opfer Tyme-Lal, father to the Greenskin crime family. With his father’s disappearance four years past Rafpheal had taken on the lead, assuming control of the family.
He was not a large man, though suffered from the gait of one who spends too much time in conversation. His distinguished feature was the horrible cracked skin that covered his body and face. He had spent many years as a child tied down to prevent scratching, the frenzied acts ending with gouged flesh. As an adult he still slept bound, his state of control failing during the night.
As he sat, waiting for the visitor
to arrive, he found the itching worse. He began rubbing his back into the chair, sighing in relief, before becoming aware of his actions and stopping. Doctors and herbalists could achieve little with him, the severe skin disorder too much for any drug. The best they had given were narcotics, numbing his body and mind to the point where he forgot his pain. He had refused the drug this morning, preparing himself for the guest.
The far door opened without fanfare, a simple servant leading with James Pierce in tow. He wore a thick plate and unkempt hair, striding on heavy legs. Rafpheal was at first impressed by the man’s size, only noting the heavy gut and fat face as he came into view. He stood, relieved from the touch of the chair, shaking hands with the giant.
“Lord Pierce,” Rafpheal nodded, offering a cup of strong Brandish wine.
“Sir Tyme,” he replied, taking the cup with thirsty lips.
“I must admit to surprise when your agent contacted me. I am not accustomed to dealing with royalty.”
Pierce did not correct the slip.
“I thank you for the hospitality. It is my understanding that your father had some hand in the play of the city.”
“He was a secretive man. He shared little.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Pierce tasted the wine, signing his approval.
“Four years leaves behind a lot of grieving. I assume you are here on business matters.”
“Aye,” Pierce agreed, relieved to be free from small talk. “I seek your sponsorship.”
“Sponsorship? You mean money.”
“That too. I am regent, as you are aware, to a pack of baying nobles intent on draining the blood of the ruler.” Rafpheal watched emotionless, expecting the point. “They do not support the regent as they should, leaving him to the cold. I am a man of military, I can see the pitiful offerings that they mask as station. Without their full support I am vulnerable to outside attack.”
“What do you want?”
“I have men but not material. The citadel is a toy castle, ready to collapse under light assault.”
“You see me as a soldier?”
“As a commander. The castle is weak.”
“It looks strong to my eyes.”
“Thirty years ago perhaps. Now it could be torn apart with enough thapenithine.”
“As could any fortress I assume.”
“Any fortress of stone. I wish to build an iron citadel.”
“Iron? That would cost more than any family has.”
“No. I need iron, with it I can have plates forged to reinforce the walls.”
“You would need…”
“A mountain of iron,” Pierce finished.
“And you think I can afford this?”
“Of course not. I never planned for you to. Your territories broach the Western Runs. Tell me how many live in the Stony Moorlands?”
“Who’s to know,” Rafpheal shrugged, wondering where the talk was leading. “Only the old and stupid would choose to stay there.”
“Yet many of the houses were built during the Iron era, set on metal foundings only to have stone built on top. The land is yours if you can bring me that iron.”
“What use would I have of it?” he asked, frowning. The land was desolate for a reason, the sprawl of slums generating no wealth and distant from the capital.
“You would have no use of a title either?” Pierce asked. Rafpheal barked a laugh, his tight mouth folding open.
“Lord of a wasteland?”
“It will not always be a wasteland. Once cleared you will have leave to redevelop the area, building a city of your own.”
“And this would be with my infinite wealth?”
“When I am king there will be changes in the city. The Petruvian Way clogs under heavy spring and summer traffic. I have been presented with an intriguing proposal to build a new road, sweeping around Cragscleft Mountain and into the Simmonian Plain, a direct link into the Kingdom.” Rafpheal eyed him, trying to ascertain how much was false.
“A new road? It would take too long to get around, no one would choose to use it.”
“They would when they feel the burden of a new toll on The Petruvian Way.”
“If this is so easy then you should pull down these houses yourself.”
“If you knew the nobles then you would understand. The regent has no right to construct in the city. If they find out then I will be fast challenged.”
“I can understand why.”
“You are hesitant?”
“Yes… and no. You make great promise though I find myself doubting your words.”
Pierce breathed deep, trying to control his frustration. “Great kings are borne of promise. You have a choice: stay here as crime lord, feared by commoners and ignored by greater society; or seek the nobility yourself. A single task is all I require. Surely your people can handle it?”
“I have the people,” Rafpheal conceded. “A noble title you say?”
“Not just that - holding a city title. You would be bounded into the highest ranks of the noble court.”
Greed bred fast in the plagued man. He lost himself to thought, picking at the irritated skin on his arm. Pierce watched, fascinated by the man’s complexion.
“Regents cannot make nobles,” he recalled. “That’s the job of the king.”
“I am aware of that,” Pierce told him in a stern voice, a silent understanding formed between them.
“It’s tempting. How will you hide the work from the nobles?”
“That is the hard part,” he granted. “I will be sending my most trusted men into the Stony Moorland. They will forge the plates there and ship them only when ready. I have already started to set up workstations in the area and coal should start coming in within the next few days.”
“You’ve secured enough coal for the job?”
“I’ve struck a similar deal with father DeYemond. Your families will be working together on the job. Don’t worry though, he has been offered mountain title, leaving the city title to you.”
“The families do not work well together,” Rafpheal scowled.
“For a greater good. Puello DeYemond has assured me that he will honour any truce during the program. When you are nobles then feel free to bicker till your throats chafe.”
“The coal will be stolen then?”
“Filtered,” Pierce corrected. “It won’t be missed.”
Rafpheal poured another drink, the constant itch forgotten for the moment. He was skeptical to a point but knew that the Tyme family would be nothing without risk. If the fat regent was right he could drag his children from the criminal world and jump the ranks of social hierarchy.
They clinked glasses, sealing the deal.
51
A lack of signage hid the basement from casual wanderers. It took much hunting and questions for the two companions to discover it. Dead had to wind his way through the mazelike rooms that beset the keep, minding his step past crazed lunatics and threatening dead eyed starers.
They found a guard standing before a heavy chained door, a constant grin on his face.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a high-pitched chortle.
“I’m on a mission from the king.”
“Then you must know the password,” tittered the guard. Ghost took a closer look at the man, there was an odd light in his eyes, too wide and unstill. He leaned on a rusty bar that doubled as a weapon. The most disturbing feature was the stump at his groin where a penis once hung.
“He’s not wearing a cloak,” Ghost realised. “He mustn’t be part of the king’s guard.”
“Tell me who has the key, before I splinter your skull,” Dead demanded.
The crazed man’s lips rose in a deprived smile. He leaned forward. “Then splinter it,” he whispered with a chuckle.
Dead didn’t object, slamming a wide fist into the man’s skull, sending him sprawling through the mould-addled ground. The guard lay unmoving.
“That was quick,” Ghost noted, unable to take his eyes from
the withered stump that prodded outwards. “Though you didn’t find out about the key.”
His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of snapping metal, Dead tearing the chains from the door with little effort.
“You can be efficient when you need to be.”
The basement was dark, a rare bulb still existing to hum out its last light. Dead stumbled in the darkness, knocking over discarded waste. He was sloshing through puddles with each step. The basement echoed in silence, the screams and ravings of the main keep left behind, only the ominous drip of pipes and the occasional scrape of metal to be heard.
“This has to be a joke,” Ghost whispered. “We’re not going to find anyone alive down here.”
Dead wanted to agree with him. He was experiencing an odd feeling, not of fear, but a discomfort.
“This is a place where dead people come to die,” he stated.
“Let’s turn back then.”
Dead shook his head, he needed to press on, as if his promise meant something. He had sworn to fulfill the oath and that did not slip from his memory like so many thoughts. It was an anchor in his mind, something to retain when all else was forgotten. He knew he could not abandon the pledge.
They spent a long time sludging through the pit, hopping from one light source to the next distant one, missing rooms and corridors that hid in the dark recesses between them. They were being led, unknowing, to their fate.
The scrape of metal became louder as they pressed forward, the shriek cutting through the silence and echoing past them. Ghost wanted to retreat, to forget about the mission, but he was chained to Dead. For someone that had already passed over he was displaying an impressive amount of fear.
Dead fell, his feet caught in a metal chain discarded at one stage. He looked at it though the dimness, noting the heavy shackles at each end. The pair looked at each other without answer.
A rounded corner saw a strong light ahead. They progressed, each minding their step. The scrape came again, near on top of them. The light ahead coaxed them forward. More shackles hung overhead along the corridor, their chains brushing Dead’s knotted hair as he passed.
