by Luke Webster
She halted, seeing the tombs of her brothers Felix and Kalim, taking a moment of reflection before pressing on. Ivan’s tomb came next, sealed tight with iron bolts. A simple engraving of a stag gilded the crest piece.
“The family emblem,” Georgia sighed.
“I am sorry,” Gehrig remarked. “For your loss.”
“He played his role. His death was necessary, one could say, for Ironwood’s future.”
Gehrig seemed taken back by her coldness.
“Did you have him killed?”
She laughed again, this time mocking, and turned.
“You know my servant girls swear that all barbarian men are hung like beasts. Is it true?”
“What do you mean?” Gehrig asked, thinking that he had misinterpreted her.
“Your cock,” she pressed closer, placing one hand under his crotch and squeezing it. “I think they were right,” she smiled, pressing her body against him.
Gehrig did not rebuke, enjoying the feel of her body rubbing against him.
“Your husband is wrong,” Gehrig slurred, slipping a hand under her coat and taking a breast. “You’re not fat.”
Georgia smiled at him, kneeling down and pulling apart his leggings.
“You barbarians struggle with our language only when it is convenient,” she chided, placing his growing cock in her mouth.
Gehrig relaxed as she worked, enjoying the skill that the Steward woman exhibited. As the pressure grew he sunk into an animal-like state, pulling her up to him and wrenching back her clothes. She did not resist as he rubbed calloused fingers across her swollen genitals, pulling back the lips and sliding two fingers in.
“Fuck me,” she breathed hard, leaning back across her brother’s tomb as the barbarian guided himself into her, rocking her body across the engraved crest piece.
57
Locke puffed through red cheeks as he dragged feet through ankle-high snow, throwing down a rucksack laden with supplies. Even through double-rimmed elk skin boots his feet were numb. Resting in a squat he peered over the ridge of the Pointed Hawk and down at Ritcave Prison. It was set deep in the Notorious Clefts, further south than Ironwood and at a higher altitude. Locke had sequestered a single carriage steam train, designed to transport light goods and important people, to make his way into the ranges, following the double railed tracks that cobwebbed the mining routes.
Through his informant Locke had learnt the routes leading close to Ritcave, able to abandon the single carriage train unbothered at a mine, the workers heading into the city for winter. If he stayed on the tracks his route would have taken him around the Pointed Hawk and back into its belly, awaiting the first of two checkpoints leading into Ritcave itself.
Locke chose to avoid the confrontation, following rough goat tracks and traversing the Hawk. He sat watching from afar, seeing little activity outside the black walls of Ritcave. The mountain once belonged to the Geral family, the center of an unsuccessful mining operation. Little more than granite existed in the jagged stones and the Geral’s, forced into bankruptcy, had given up the land title to the state. After that, the mountain lay quiet for decades, until high crime within the city and full gaols required an external plot for criminals. As it was, Ritcave was formed. A single black gate house covering the hard tunnels that spidered back into the mountain.
Locke had not found any information on where Fredrick would be housed within the complex. He knew though that the close tunnels would make avoiding others difficult. Locke hoped that night would bring a skeleton crew of guards, giving him the opportunity to slip in unknown.
He shifted in and out of a light slumber, the only recession from the biting cold. Locke prized himself on the ability to sleep in any situation, finding an opportunity on the peak of the Hawk, his back pressed to a cold boulder, squatting to keep off the snow. Night came in such way, through flittering dreams and frozen breath.
Locke slipped out of his fitful sleep at times to check the height of the moon. He waited for the deep night, where even heavy drinkers and alert guards would wane in their duties. It was time, he knew, and his fur coated winter suit cracked as he peeled away from his stone rest.
A quarter moon lit Locke’s path as he slipped down the side of the mountain, high falls broken by the snow as he clambered over cliffs, his rucksack beating his back. Locke knew that another way would need to be sought to return, that the boy would not be capable of rappelling the cliffs up to the Hawk’s peak.
Descent ended at a rail line, settled with snow. Locke followed the path towards the prison, no light or guard marking the entrance. The thief passed the main gates, relying on his informant’s advice regarding a service door set to the side.
Most information in Ironwood could be purchased at a price. A retired warden saw little wrong in selling a rough drawn map for coin. Nor were there complaints when Locke had pressed for information regarding patrol routes, times, services and all manner of menial information that the thief had insisted on learning. It all came readily, with a price attached, and Locke had parted with much of Jacobmann’s coin in fulfilling his inquest.
The informant’s advice was worth the toll. Locke found the mentioned door and worked on the lock, slipping a pick through the iron keyhole. It was a simple mechanism, proving little trial to the man who had practiced on similar locks since a child. With the expected ‘click’ Locke pressed into the prison.
A change in temperature struck Locke as he stepped further inside, heat rising through the complex from a furnace deep in the system. Locke paused a moment, reveling in the warmth and taking time to hide the heavy bag of supplies near the escape door and shirking his coats. With a lighter load he pressed into the prison, passing through a dark stone kitchen, its fires exhausted hours earlier.
The halls and rooms of Ritcave were quiet in the staff quarters, most of the watch sleeping unaware of the intruder in their midst. Locke weaved through the barrack rooms, avoiding the main passage that led deeper into the prison for the moment. He sought the prison keeper’s office, advice suggesting that he could find Fredrick’s whereabouts within a ledger.
As he snaked through the complex he heard a sharp intake of air and stopped dead. A boy had left his room, half asleep and dressed no better than a bucket boy, ready for his pre-dawn duties of cleaning the staff latrines. He stared at the thief, unsure whether to raise the alarm or pretend ignorance. Locke unfroze, taking out his blackjack and rushing the child, cracking him on the top of the head. The boy fell and Locke scooped him over one shoulder, pressing towards the keeper’s office.
Several coal torches burnt along the main staff hall and Locke worked with frantic fingers on the office lock, unconscious body beside him, hoping that no one else would stumble his way. Locke’s fingers were unresponsive and the usually cool thief found himself in a different state. Luck had almost upset his plans and Locke felt the urge to forfeit the mission. As his pick worked its job Locke tried to breathe calm, dragging the child into the office and lighting a weak coal lamp.
With most of his supplies sitting at the prison entrance Locke searched the room for something to tie up the child, eyes eventually settling on a tapestry. Locke tore a stretch off the piece and used the frayed material to bind the child as best he could, placing more of the tapestry over the boy’s mouth. Unused to tying knots for the intention of holding people Locke hoped it was enough to hold the child.
Locke’s hands felt around in the keeper’s desk drawers, searching for the ledger. A book, leather-bound and heavy, caught his hands and he dragged it out into the light, flipping through the ledger to find Fredrick’s location within the complex. It was an easy find, the foreign child a late delivery to the mountainous prison, the entry sitting at the last page.
Locke scanned through the text. It stated that Fredrick had arrived in poor health and received medical attention, being confined to a cell in the infirmary. It was a blessing, Locke saw, and he thanked the gods that he would not have to delve into the deepest
parts of the mountain where Ironwood’s worst criminals sat behind black walls. Locke checked the unconscious child once more, ensuring that the bonds held tight, before locking the office door on his exit.
“Fredrick,” Locke whispered, shaking a shoulder.
A faint groan emitted from a bruised face.
“My name’s Locke. Your friend Damian sent me.”
“No,” Fredrick moaned. “No.”
“What is it?” Locke asked, aware that the infirmary was not far from the staff quarters, removing his set of picks.
“I know who you are. You’ve come for me.”
“That’s right.”
“The Goldshores. You work for the Goldshores.”
“Excuse me?”
Fredrick tried to sit, restrained by a chain coupled to a ring at his chest.
“I know you. You aren’t from my father. You’re a Goldshore agent.”
“Keep your voice down. You were taken by the nobles. Do you not remember?”
Fredrick tried to shake his head clear, heavy sedation and stress causing his thoughts to overlap.
“My name is Locke,” the thief repeated as he lowered a shackle to the floor, moving to a second. “You were tried by the nobles and sent to Ritcave prison… here. I was hired on Damian’s behalf to retrieve you and take you home.”
“To Ironwood?”
“No, the Capital.”
Locke placed one arm under the child’s and helped him upright on the medical palette. Fredrick’s head swooned on its neck and slipped backwards before Fredrick could stop it.
“You’re not going to be able to walk out of here,” Locke grimaced, laying the child back down and scanning the jars that lined the medical chamber. For a moment Fredrick felt a jab in his arm before his tenuous grip on consciousness was torn away with the aide of sedatives.
Alarmed voices chased up and down the corridors as Locke hid in a dark corner with his loot flung over shoulder. The assaulted bucket boy had awoken and slipped his bonds, the thin limbs of the child too limber for makeshift rope. Sleepy guards struggled to arm themselves as a siren wailed through the prison. Deep in the bowels of the prison captives were exploding in violent jubilation, thrashing in their cells and hoping for a breakout.
Two heavy set guards flashed past Locke’s hiding place, muskets in grip, lunging to block off all escape points from the gaol. There was little chance of escape through the way he had come, Locke knew, preventing outbreaks was a well-rehearsed drill among prison staff. Locke cursed himself for the soft fool, contemplating that a single jab of the blade could have preempted his predicament.
Locke backtracked, ducking between thin shadows, hindered by the child. Before any guard took the presence of mind to check Ritcave’s newest inmate Locke returned his prize, laying the heavily sedated child on the table and replacing the chains over Fredrick’s chest so that a glance would think they still held. With one burden lifted for the moment, Locke checked his path, returning to the main hall’s shadows.
The guards were still out of sorts, many still bumbling around half-dressed, others trying to find the cause of the commotion. It was growing apparent to them that they weren’t experiencing a breakout and some took the opportunity to leave their posts. Locke used this to slip deeper into the complex, where the shadows deepened and he grew more at home.
As a former mine the prison was characterized by a series of interconnecting chambers. Locke followed his memorized map to the deepest point, where the worst criminals were held. Cheers filled the chamber, a two-story plan with cells beneath and wardens patrolling a top balcony. Locke snuck by, making for the balcony where a series of levers rested at a control panel. Two guards walked the balcony in opposite directions, passing one another in route. Locke stood in shadow with his dagger pressed hard in hand, his blackjack useless against a helmeted foe.
The patrol passed each other, their backs turned. If the maniacs below saw the flash of a blade they did not announce it. Locke stalked the other guard, aware of the flintlock pistol carried by the nervous man. A second stroke fell from behind and Locke rued that he had broken a no-kill record of close to ten years.
The levers all fell into place and stunned maniacs stepped out, silent for once. They looked up to see Locke, two stolen pistols in hand.
“Breakout,” Locke shouted down at them, tossing the pistols to the inmates.
Realization cracked in their faces as the chance to revisit their keepers with bloody retribution dawned. Locke pointed down a chamber, ordering them to free the others, while he made his own way back up.
Word spread fast in the complex that the breakout was on, many guards rushing to reposition themselves. Some cracked under the pressure, firing their muskets into shadows, destroying nothing but stonewall. Locke pressed onward as fast as he dare, aware of the throng of approaching violence. Cracks of gunfire echoed back and forth in the mines of Ritcave and by the time Locke reached the infirmary he was panting hard. Scooping Fredrick up, he hid away in a nearby storeroom, hoping that the breakout would reach its way into the open.
For a long time Locke heard the back and forth shots of bullets exchanged through the gaol chambers. For each inmate killed a dozen hands sought the fallen weapon, smothering the remaining guards. Shearing metal echoed as locked doors were shot from the hinges and a heavy throng of celebratory cries hammered Locke’s ears. Pressed to one corner in the tight cupboard Fredrick flinched but remained unaware.
The pair waited for a time after, Locke choosing to depart long after the final gunshot had faded into memory. No freed inmate stayed within the complex, piling high on the steam engines stationed outside and riding the lines. Locke did not know how many had made it out, though shattered bodies of both parties sprawled the corridor of the gaol. With Fredrick over one shoulder Locke sought his stashed rucksack and thick coat. From within the bag he produced a second winter suit, dressing Fredrick in the life saving outfit.
They left the deserted prison, a bitter scowl of wind biting at their flesh. Fredrick squirmed over Locke’s shoulder, mumbling in a half-awake state. The thief ignored the child’s discomfort, concerned more with their flight. The steep descent that Locke had traversed to reach the gaol could not be retraced with Fredrick. The prison trains were gone and Locke did not wish to follow that path either way, aware that once word of the breakout reached the city guards would be flooding the line searching out escapees.
Locke turned his back to the rail system, choosing the long way around the Hawk. The gradient was less steep, but the path much further and did not guarantee a hook up with the main line. From his information scouting Locke knew that to the southeast of the prison were several small mining operations of little worth. Most mines kept a spare steam carriage in case of failure to prevent strandings. If Locke could not traverse the Hawk then he saw slim hope in other options. He trudged on, Fredrick bouncing across the thief’s back as fresh snow dropped.
58
Marcus Ambriery’s cell was located well off the main corridor in a dark corner. ‘1E34’ was etched over the entrance, the lettering difficult to see through the poor light. There was no door attached to the frame. Dead found the old man asleep, wrapped in a series of worn rags. Ghost ordered Dead, reminding him of the man’s name and their objective.
“Marcus Ambriery?” Dead asked.
There was a slight titter under the rags but no other response.
Dead called again, louder, and the man peered out. He was older than Ghost had expected, a high cheek structure emphasizing the hanging jowls that stretched downwards. His thin skin was speckled purple and wrinkled.
“What?” he croaked. His white hair pointed in all directions.
“A word tells me that you know something about getting out of here.”
“Ask me later,” he moaned in a honking voice. “I’m sleeping.”
Marcus buried his head into the rags. Dead approached.
“Be gentle,” Ghost chided.
Dead tried
, shaking where he thought the man’s shoulder should be under the covers. Eyes reappeared, grumpy.
“It’s urgent,” he assured.
“What? Is the place falling down?” Marcus asked, ripe with sarcasm.
“Yes… well, just about. Everyone’s dying.”
The old man sat up, looking closer at Dead, noting the gaping belly hole.
“Look’s like you are too,” he rattled.
Dead didn’t reply, instead providing a strong arm, letting the frail man stand.
“Ask him about the tunnels,” Ghost ordered Dead, who submitted.
“Those?” Marcus replied. “No one believes me about those. Well let me tell you, before I came here to retire,” he smiled, “I worked in the Great Inglet Library as a cleric. Of course, the officials didn’t appreciate me burning certain scrolls and thought I’d do better to stay here.”
“Get to the point,” Ghost sighed to himself.
“Get to the point,” Dead parroted.
“Don’t repeat that, you idiot,” Ghost yelped.
The old man’s eyes grew thin, bushy white eyebrows furled.
“You know, they don’t put you in maximum lockdown for burning books. Killed myself some smartarse wise aleck like you to get in here.”
“Apologise Dead,” Ghost demanded.
Dead scowled at Ghost, feeling the victim.
“I’m sorry,” he released. “But I’ve got an annoying voice that tried to get me into trouble.”
“Me too,” the old man smiled. “Ain’t it a bitch?”
Marcus Ambriery confided his story regarding the underground tunnels. They once acted as a well, connecting to a reservoir that ran into the back of the mountain. There was a main tunnel that dropped into the pool, other branching tunnels hewn out later to prevent possible escape through winter when the water would freeze.
“There is a problem,” Marcus continued. “There’s little room in one of those tunnels and they drop almost straight down, forking out at points,” he motioned with his fingers, pointing them to the ground as if to emphasise. “You go down the wrong tunnel and you won’t be able to get out. No room to turn around.”
