by Luke Webster
They entered the rounded dungeon, lit by several bulbs stationed around the walls. Naked bodies hung from shackles welded to the ceiling, pieces of flesh and organs removed. Ghost did not speak, the horrors of before did not match. A hemp sack hung from one anchor, a steady beat of gore dripping out. Around the room there were bodies impaled on poles embedded in the cracked stone floor, the figures contorted as they writhed.
The fear that Ghost felt came from the energy in the room, he was in tune with it to an extent. As the spirits had passed over in anguish and despair they left an aftertaste, like bitter fruit, that Ghost could taste in the back of his mind. Dead sensed something too, unsure of his own emotions. The mutilated corpses and rotting meat tempting memories inside his own brain.
A steady rasping followed them as a figure stepped from the darkness behind them, a blade dragging along rusted pipes.
“You don’t like it, do you?” came a sadistic voice.
Both turned. Before them stood a naked, bloated man covered in filth. Dried blood congealed over his genitals and thighs with streaks slashing his chest. His right arm was a stump at the elbow, the limb replaced with a spike, its end sharpened to a crude blade.
“You Louise?” asked Dead in his expressionless tone.
The fat man laughed, spitting phlegm.
“So, the crippled king sent you,” he wiped his chin with his remaining backhand. “There is no Louise I’m afraid.”
“Shit,” cursed Ghost.
“Who are you then?” Dead asked, finding a strange interest in the man.
“People don’t ask me my name, and I don’t tell them,” he admitted.
He stepped forward, frustrated by the lack of emotion.
“I’m the king’s lapdog, so to speak. He likes to send me scraps. That’d be you.”
Another step.
“You can’t kill me,” Dead told him, “I don’t live.”
The dog laughed, a bellow that wept with more spittle.
“I know,” he grinned, “no one does.”
He moved with unexpected speed, the spike thrusting forward, its sharp point burying deep into Dead’s round belly. There was a gush, yellow liquid erupting from the wound and spewing forth in a jet. Dead felt instant release as the bile emptied from him, a colony of maggots leaving their host. It came out strong, blinding the assailant whose single hand tried to shield the rotting stream.
“Kill him,” Ghost ordered, snapping Dead from his second of relief.
Dead complied, barreling into the man and pinning him down. There was a struggle as they fought to kill each other. Dead stood, grabbing the spike in stern hands, his foot pressed on the other man’s chest. The dog’s shrill cry broke the chamber as the weapon wrenched away, sucking out flesh and bone that had formed to the metal.
Dead hovered over the cowering man, his remaining arm pressed to the stump to slow the gush of blood. Dead wanted to say something cruel or witty, to mark his final moment with torment befitting the man, an honour to a psychopath. But there was nothing. His mind had failed again. Frustrated by his own inability, Dead roared, ramming the spike down onto the dog’s skull. It struck the forehead, scraping along the bone and down the side of his head, pinning the ear to the stone floor.
“Do it properly,” the dog growled, assigned to death, a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dead did, the spear didn’t bounce twice. The metal pierced skull and then brain, causing wild convulsions that knocked Dead over. He watched the twitching from the ground, still seeping fluid and maggots himself.
“Dead, open yourself up,” Ghost ordered. Dead held his standard idiot glare, confused again. “You’re rotting from the inside. I thought it was happening before, now I’m sure. Your body isn’t using its organs so they’re rotting. They need to be removed.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Dead didn’t like the idea. The scars from the last surgery still unhealed.
“Use that pole you planted in that crazy bastard’s head.”
Dead tried to remove the spike, held in by suction, the brain holding to it. He put weight on the spear but the head moved with it. Next he pulled the whole head back then slammed it down, trying to crack open the skull. Three times he was unsuccessful.
“Hold his head still with your foot,” Ghost suggested, feeling strange to give advice on weapon removal from a corpse. Dead followed the advice, planting a foot over a gaping chin and trying to force the weapon free. It still held. He forced his foot hard up against the metal and leant down on the spike, using his foot as a leverage point. Veins bulged in his neck as he rested his body on it. There was a crack and the spike flew out along with fragments of skull.
“That was harder than it looked,” Ghost admitted.
Dead snarled at him as if to point out that he had done all the work.
“Time to open yourself up,” Ghost continued, oblivious.
Dead struggled with the spike, holding it with wet hands as he tried to saw himself open. Starting with the pre-made hole he cut upwards, his arms heavy from fatigue. Dead had opened a hole large enough to place two hands in. Ghost ordered him into the light and peered inside, fighting nausea.
“You need to take everything out,” he gasped, returning upright.
“Everything?”
“Yeah, it’s all rotted, lungs, guts, heart. You’re a maggot farm. Remove it all.”
Dead looked worried but paid faith in his companion. With clumsy hands he worked on tearing out his innards, the rotting organs coming away with enough force. They collected in a heap, at home in the chamber of remains.
52
It was chilled in the sparse apartment as Locke awoke, distant dreams scurrying from his mind. He crumpled deeper into the blankets, hoping for some last scent of warmth, when Maria entered.
“Come back to bed,” he called.
“No,” she chided. “It’s half the hour to noon. You sleep too long.”
“I can’t help it. I spent half the night turning.”
“I know,” she scowled down, the look lost through bleary eyes.
“How would you, through that snoring?” he smiled
With one cruel motion she wrested the blankets away, leaving Locke to curl into a naked ball.
“What’s with you lately?” She probed, sitting on the bed and pulling on a thigh long boot. “Work?”
“I think I should move in with you,” he avoided, curling an arm around her waist and pulling himself closer.
“I don’t. It wouldn’t do to live with a thief.”
“You think I’d hurt your reputation?”
“No. But I don’t want the watch kicking my door down when they finally catch up with you.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Obviously if your door is at risk then it would be out of the question. What if I retired?”
“From thieving?” She grinned. “And what would you do for coin?”
“Well, I could…” Locke fell silent. There was no other job he knew.
“Why are you keen on this anyway?” she demanded. “Has your landlord finally seen sense to throw you out?”
“No, not yet. I just think we work well together.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re in love?”
“I’ve always been in love with you,” he shrugged. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. We’re… compatible.”
“I don’t want to be in love with you,” she whispered to him, one hand combing his hair. “It makes things too complicated.”
“What if I retire with enough coin to support us both?”
“You don’t have any,” she reproached.
“I can get it. I’ve been approached for a major job.”
“What job?”
“Do you know of this matter with the foreign boy and the Goldshores?” She shrugged strong shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been hired to steal him.”
“From the Goldshores?”
“No, from the prison.”
“Ritcave? I’m speaking t
o a dead thief.”
“It can be done,” Locke corrected. “I’ve been information hunting. The place isn’t as watertight as rumour would have us believe.”
“It’s set in the Notorious Clefts, how do you expect to get there?”
“My employer has supplied a steam carriage. I can use that to gain access.”
“Locke, this is a fool’s errand.” she sighed, a genuine look of worry evident.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But without it I’ll just be another beggar hunting scraps on the street.”
“And the pay?”
“I’ve been promised three thousand.”
Maria whispered a soft coo, aware of the many years work such an amount represented.
“If you come back alive I promise I’ll love you.” She said with a kiss to his forehead, rising from the bed and leaving to spend another day drudging her body through the lone alleys of the city.
Locke watched her leave then leant over the bed, catching the blankets in hand and rewrapping himself in them.
53
Haylee awoke, groggy from a poor sleep. She had drifted away in the recliner next to her mother’s bed again, a habit since her father’s death. She felt as though the people she could once rely on for support were all leaving her. There had still been no word on Ammba, Master Freeman had been expelled from the citadel and even her brother seemed distant to her in the past weeks. The only person she now felt comfortable with was her mother, and she was dying.
The room was covered in an impenetrable darkness. She reached over and felt in the dark, tracing her fingers along her mother’s arm and up to her cheek. She could still feel a slight breath whispering out of tired lips. It was cold in the room, the main fireplace extinguished, the only warmth coming from a small heating element set near the bed. There was no temperature control to affect its output and Haylee wrapped herself in a thick elk skin coat. She could not sleep in the cold, choosing to light a coal burner and step out for a walk.
The halls of Greenstone Keep were cast in shadow and frost, visited at times by patrolling guards or late night servants but otherwise empty. She wound her way through the carpeted halls, trying to air the clog of thoughts that struggled in her mind. She had not slept well since her father’s death and sister’s kidnap, late night walks common for her. She tended to sleep late too, tossing in bed till the sun was high up. No teacher had been employed after the sacking of Freeman, either Pierce did not expect her to study so soon after her father’s death or he did not care, she was unsure. She had seen very little of the man since he had been granted guardianship. Her servant Silvia had mentioned stories of Pierce’s late night binges and extreme moods. Silvia was the one person in the house that she spent any time with now, the middle-aged woman bringing her meals and helping with the care of her mother. She worked late nights in the kitchen, Haylee hoped to find her there.
Haylee passed through the banquet hall, not expecting to meet anyone bar servants cleaning from the night before. She was surprised to see James Pierce still up, drinking with a sour faced Gehrig and several men that Haylee did not know. They were all leaning hard, as if the night was taking its toll on their posture. Pierce was listening to a joke, waiting for his cup to be filled, when he saw Haylee enter the hall. He gestured for her to approach.
“What are you doing up young lady?” he slurred.
“I could not sleep. I came to visit Silvia.” Pierce nodded, his head bouncing around as if it were not attached properly.
“Do me a favour if you’re going back there, fill this up.”
He held his cup out in a crooked way waiting for her to take it. Haylee silently obeyed the request, leaving the man.
“Good girl,” he called with a smile plastered to his face.
Haylee found Silvia in the kitchen at work on another servant’s face.
“Sit still and stop squirming,” she berated, trying to force the man’s nose back into place. He jerked away, giving out a yelp.
“What happened?” Haylee asked, worried by the sight of the blood. Silvia turned from her patient, concerned to see Haylee about so late.
“This foolish boy wanted to retire for the night and thought it proper to ask our lord. You can see the result. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she sighed. “I had that dream again.”
Haylee was haunted by a reoccurring nightmare. In it she could see the dead face of her father, bloated with black eyes. He would turn to look at her, opening his mouth to speak, trails of saliva matted in his maw. In the dream he was trying to talk, to warn her of some impending doom, but every time he tried he would choke on his own tongue. The more he tried to speak to her the more panicked his eyes became, until he was looking around frantically, those black eyes swallowing her being. She would be drowned in them, the fear and horror overwhelming… and then she would wake up. It was the same dream each night. An oddity of the brain she had been told, with no meaning outside her personal fears of the future. Yet she could not shake the image from her nights.
“I am a slight busy now dear,” she said, trying to hold down the boy long enough to take a better grasp of his nose. “If you run to bed I will come up soon and mix you a sedative.”
Haylee nodded, walking over to a half empty wine cask and pouring it out. Silvia gave her a strange look but Haylee implied that it was for her guardian. She left to the sounds of a struggle, the boy yelping like a stung animal.
Haylee crossed the hall, offering a cup to the sodden man. Pierce looked up and leered, his beard ungroomed and needing a cut.
“Thank you young Haylee,” he smiled, taking the cup and sloshing half of it down his tunic. “Have you met our guests? This is Admiral Herot Fielding, a wonderful strategist. I spent many years training under him during my stint in the army.”
The admiral lifted his head out of a puddle of wine, took one look at Haylee and collapsed. “And this is Gihart Wurstheim, a merchant from Northane Proper. We have been discussing a new trade deal to start bringing in Kilnfrog meat from the forests up north.” Haylee curtsied to the drunken man, a nodding mad grin returned. “And of course you know Gehrig, our barbarian councilor.”
“Sir,” Haylee greeted, Gehrig offering a slow, staggered nod back, trying to give the impression that he was sober.
“Have you ever had Kilnfrog before Haylee?” The girl shook her head, wondering when she could leave. “It’s got a sweet taste to it. A bit chewy but the bloody beasts are so rampart up north that we could feed a house for a year on what it would cost for a typical month’s rations.”
“That’s interesting,” Haylee told him, obvious that it wasn’t.
“I guess,” Pierce shrugged his large shoulders. “Come sit, we have not spoken much at all since you were placed in my care.”
Pierce sat back and patted his lap, indicating that she should sit there. Haylee was hesitant, unsure of him. Without the words to excuse herself she gave in, sitting on the knee of his large left leg. She felt sick at the smell he gave off, a combination of sweat and heavy wine. He smiled at having her there.
“How are you coping with the change?” he asked her, bouncing her a little bit on his knee.
“It has been hard,” she whispered, feeling uncomfortable.
“I could only imagine,” he replied. “It was many years ago that I lost my own father. He was killed in a riding accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said in her soft tone.
“You speak too quietly girl,” he smiled. “Come closer.” With one arm scooped around her waist he lifted her up with ease, pulling her into the centre of his lap. “That’s better,” he chuckled.
Haylee wanted to scream, to tear free and ran away. She sought the help of the other men, their eyes planted to their cups or shut, not daring to intervene.
“I’d better go,” Haylee warned him.
Pierce snorted.
“You’re up now. You might as well stay and drink.”
“
I’m not of that age,” she told him in a sterner voice.
Pierce roared out in a laugh that half-deafened the girl.
“You’re twice the age I was when I started drinking. Here take some,” he shoved his wine cup in her hand.
Haylee looked into the golden cup, the remnants of the red brew swirling in the bottom.
“Drink it,” he urged.
Haylee hesitated once before bringing the goblet to her lips, the pungent wine dancing on her taste buds. She screwed up her nose as she swallowed, trying not to breathe any in.
“I was younger than you are when I started doing other things too,” Pierce whispered, bringing a hand up under her skirt and running his calloused fingers along her belly.
Haylee squirmed in his grasp, trying to break free.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, keeping one hand firmly on her arm. He brought his other hand up under her shirt top, pinching the nipple underneath, his large hand engulfing the small breast.
“Stop it,” Haylee hissed, shaking in his grasp.
She twisted back and forth, swinging one arm out and scratching at Pierce’s face. He let go of her, bringing a surprised hand up to his face. Haylee broke free and ran to her room, charging past guards, navigating the black halls of the keep. Haylee barred the door and jumped into bed, still clothed, crying under the blankets and waiting for the dawn.
54
Freeman rubbed the left side of his face, the swollen cheek still sore from where Pierce had struck him with a mailed fist. He had lost four teeth, while another four had been knocked out of shape. For days he had lain on a hard mattress in the home of Jacob Hornsberg, an old acquaintance and merchantman. The house sat in a less affluent area of Trader’s Loop, a humble two-story home set with coarse stone and plaster. Jacob made a living from exporting pieces of art and craft out to the Imperial Capital, managing two runs a year before the autumn snows and ice made the journey too risky. He was a pessimistic man, expecting the worse and preferring safety to risk. Freeman had sought his aide, looking for a place to stay free from the backstabbing and dramatics that many merchants fed off. He felt a type of safety in the Hornsberg home, enough for him to lie low and gather his thoughts without worry.
