Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  “So, what’s the solution?” Dead asked.

  “I’m the solution,” he quipped. “Read enough books and you come across these things. I’ve got a brilliant memory and I know the right path.”

  “So what is it?”

  The old man snorted.

  “If I gave up that sort of information I’d want to be getting out myself. Those tunnels are filled with water so if you’re planning an escape then you must have some ideas about getting through.”

  “We don’t,” Dead lied.

  “I call bullshit on that one,” the old man cursed. “Either take me with you or don’t go, it’s that simple.”

  Dead looked to Ghost for help.

  “Agree to it for now,” Ghost decided. Dead acquiesced to Marcus’ wish.

  “Did I mention they’ve stationed a guard near there too? Some half-mad killer,” Marcus continued.

  They passed the remains of the lapdog, the head removed in a crude surgery.

  “You weren’t joking,” Marcus stated, impressed.

  “How far now?” asked Dead.

  “Not very. I used to come down here a fair bit before him,” Marcus said pointing to the corpse. “I remember this chamber, not so grisly of course.”

  A sound reverberated through the air as of distant generators powering down, the lights blinking then fading out.

  “What’s this?” asked Dead.

  “This? This is how the wardens deal with riots. First they turn off the lights, then they storm the building. You can expect half a hundred well-armed and armoured troops to be storming the lobby about now, zapping and bludgeoning anyone they find.”

  “Lockdown,” Ghost whispered. “We’d better hurry.”

  “They can see in the dark?” quizzed Dead, ignoring his friend.

  “No,” cackled the old man. “They carry torches.”

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” ordered Ghost, sick of stupid questions.

  “We can’t see,” Dead complained. “How are we meant to go on?”

  “You can feel with your hands,” Marcus offered. “It should be round the next bend and through a door on the right.”

  Marcus led, his hands put to good use. Dead tried to feel his way but the nerves in his fingers were unresponsive. He walked past the turnoff, calling for Marcus to stay on track.

  They stumbled slow, finding the door and forcing it open, the steel grate screaming on the stone floor. It stuck then tore at the hinges, the metal gate crashing to one side. Ghost panicked, hoping no one heard.

  “In the centre of this room you’ll find a well with a grate. I did mention the grate didn’t I?”

  “It’s no problem,” Dead called through the darkness.

  “Good. Now, how do we plan to get past all this water?”

  “This will be interesting,” Ghost hummed.

  “Well,” Dead offered. “Tell me the right combination and I’ll let you know.”

  “No deal friend. You said you’d take me.”

  “Actually, we said we’d only bring him this far. Dead, you need to find out what path to take.”

  “I was planning on holding my breath,” Dead said in the darkness, directing his voice to where he thought Marcus stood.

  “What?” spat the old man. “This is your great plan? Talk about half-arsed. You sure as hell ain’t learning the route from me.” Marcus crossed his arms in defiance, a gesture lost in the unlit room.

  “Tell me, or you will die slow,” growled Dead. There was no answer.

  “Grab him,” ordered Ghost. “He’s going to escape.”

  Dead acted fast, charging to the spot he thought the old man was, grasping at air. The skulking man had manoeuvered away in the darkness.

  “Block off the door,” Ghost commanded.

  Dead backtracked, using his bulk to prevent escape, and waited. The three stayed in the room, trying to outsmart each other.

  Ghost paced the room, listening for any faint sounds that would betray the old man.

  “They weren’t joking,” came a distant voice, echoing through the hallways. “Someone finally got him.”

  “We’d better check the well,” came another, faint but audible.

  “Damn it Dead, we’re going to get caught.” Ghost paced around the room, straining ears. He thought he heard something. Moving closer he picked up on a light snoring. Marcus had fallen asleep hiding from Dead.

  “Quick, he’s just here,” shouted Ghost.

  “Who is?” Dead asked. They had been lying in wait for so long that Dead had forgotten why they were there.

  “Not now.”

  Dead’s voice had stirred the old man, the snoring stopped.

  “Just charge at my voice and feel in the darkness, you should grab someone.”

  Dead accepted the blind order, running through the darkness at Ghost’s voice. His foot knocked over some discarded pipes and he fell, reaching out with groping hands. Something caught in them, a thin leg, Dead’s fingers locked to it.

  “Help,” came the scream, plunging through the bowels of Ashmore.

  Distant footsteps sloshing through water came fast.

  “Get the combination off him,” screamed Ghost, unable to keep still.

  Lights bounced off the walls outside as the guards raced to them.

  “What’s the combination?” Dead yelled.

  “Help me,” came the frantic reply.

  “Hurt him,” Ghost screamed.

  Dead took hold of the frail man’s hand, crushing it in his own. Bones snapped and an earth rending shriek doused them.

  “The combination,” Dead repeated, unaware of what he was asking for.

  “Alright, I’ll tell you,” Marcus sobbed.

  Torchlight flooded the room, scorching everyone’s eyes. Two men stood in the corridor, one carried a shock prod, the other a cudgel and shield.

  “Let him go,” ordered one stocky guard.

  “The combination,” Dead growled again, squeezing the shattered hand.

  “Left at the third and fifth joint… that’s it.”

  Dead didn’t understand, he squeezed the hand again, prevailing the room with another yelp.

  “It’s alright Dead, I’ve got it,” Ghost told him. “You need to rip out that well grate and get in before the guards can stop you though,” Ghost continued, pointing at the now visible well in the centre of the room.

  Dead sized up the two guards, advancing on them, holding Marcus as a shield.

  “Dead,” Ghost yelled from the well. “Don’t let that shock stick get you or you won’t recover.”

  Dead rushed the guard with the shock prod, throwing Marcus onto him. There was a piercing crack as the weapon discharged into the old man, hurtling him back into Dead. The guard swore, removing the burnt out battery on his weapon. Dead ran to the well. A light grate wrenching free as he ripped it up, throwing it with strength at the other guard. A shield caught the impact, stunning the man for a half second.

  “Get in,” Ghost yelled, anxiety fuelling him. “Two rights, a left, a right and then a left. Anything after that just keep going right.”

  Dead didn’t understand, choosing to dive in rather than seek clarification.

  The well was tight, as predicted, Dead’s shoulders almost too broad to pass. Ghost dove in after him, his presence unaffected by the water. With no buoyancy Ghost sank fast resting against Dead’s feet.

  One guard reached through Ghost, grabbing at Dead’s leg, swearing as fingers burnt from icy water. Dead shook free, his whole body convulsing as it slithered down the tunnel like a desperate worm.

  The guard surrendered his hand numb with pain. The other guard, frustrated by the failure, dipped his freshly charged shock prod into the water, discharging it into the well. Ghost felt the energy throb around him and noticed Dead’s stillness. They weren’t deep enough, he realised, the guards would be able to slip a noose down and drag up Dead’s corpse.

  They didn’t, satisfied with killing the escapee, uncaring of a polluted
well.

  Dead woke, confused and panicked. He could talk but water distorted his vocals. Ghost spoke from behind, the spirit’s voice clear through the water.

  “You’re awake,” Ghost pronounced. “Good. You’ve got to make your way down this tunnel. When you come to an intersection stop and ask me which way to go.”

  Dead relaxed, if Ghost knew what they were doing then he needn’t worry. He started the slow process of descending the tunnel, rolling his body over and again to make progress, trying to feel the way with nerveless fingers. Twice they came to a joint, both times relying on Marcus’ information. The tunnel gave no room for mistake, no where to turn around in the cold, black depths.

  They took a left turn at the third intersection as required. Ghost wondered how long they had sunk for, to him it felt like days. Dead entertained no such thoughts, he had a command and was following it like a machine, overriding his memory and removing the necessity to think.

  They delved further, Ghost waiting for the fourth joint. It did not come. The tunnel ended in a harsh wall, blocking all access.

  “What now?” Dead burbled.

  “We’re stuck,” Ghost cried, his worst fears coming to fruition. “Can you go backwards?”

  Dead tried without result, travelling down was hard enough, the other way an impossibility.

  “Well?” asked Dead.

  “Well nothing,” Ghost mourned. “We’re stuck.”

  They were quiet for a long time, alone with their thoughts. Marcus had won his fight. Trapped in the pit there was nothing. Dead closed his eyes and dreamt.

  59

  Ammba sat in the Imperial recliner, knees tight around her chest, clasping a worn novel in one hand. Each time she started to read her mind would wander, the words mixing up on the page so that she spent more time finding her place than she did reading. A roaring Pine Tar fire cracked behind a mantelpiece. Thomas lay sprawled in front of it, a quiet snore reaching her ears. As her personal guard he had accompanied Ammba everywhere, doting on her and playing the good knight. She tired of his act, attempts at goading him into letting his guard down so that they might hold a prolonged conversation failing. It was clear now that he was incapable of the sort, preferring dumb action to sophisticated speech. Watching him twitch in a dream state, she wondered how the boy could have been borne of the father.

  Ammba had found better company in Senior Longshore, inclining to spend her nights sipping wine with him by the master fire and talking of events past and those to come. Thomas fell asleep most nights in the same place, bored by their repetitive tones and struggling to pay attention. The lord had left the estate on an errand two nights past, assigning his personal servant to act as Ammba’s in his absence, aware of the lack of conversation exhibited by his son.

  Estella returned from a break, taking the recliner next to Ammba’s and nursing a drink. She was older than Ammba by ten years, long black hair and olive skin inherited from her deep Imperial ancestry. She had come to Ironwood as a merchant’s slave, Senior seeing the value in the girl and purchasing her. Under his care she had grown to favouritism, incurring the displeasure of Senior’s wife. The jealous matriarch chose to spend her days entertaining young servant boys in their holiday villa rather than bear a harsh city and uncaring husband. Senior had paid no mind, preferring the company of his serving girls to his wife, and he would not question her motives as long as she remained discrete.

  Now Estella was Ammba’s, to entertain and serve. She was smarter than Ammba, the young lady soon realised, and Ammba enjoyed the many stories the servant told of the Imperial Capital and its provinces. She fast grew to cherish their company, finding companionship in the woman and relying on her gentle care to seek self-healing in herself. She had not spoken of the rape, keeping the horrors locked away in her mind, always threatening to bubble forth.

  Ammba had tried to suppress the memories, to pretend they had not happened, a battle that she could never win. She struggled with many tasks, the simple act of reading a novel too challenging for her. Even her favourite stories left her empty, the romantic quests of heroes rescuing ladies and dying in their arms too unreal and stupid in her new reality. The true horrors of captivity had been worked on her over and again during her bondage. The books never mentioned that. They were full of honourable villains that remained chaste, more like monks than criminals.

  Hence she sat in her recliner, unable to connect the words of her novel into a coherent sentence. Estella sat apart from her, reading through a transcript and making notes on a papyrus scroll with an inked feather. Ammba lowered her book, sighing in frustration. It caught the servant’s attention, hazel eyes looking up with a casual smile.

  “Not a good book?” Estella quizzed in a deep voice, thick with accent.

  Ammba crossed legs, pursing her lips together.

  “I couldn’t tell you. I can’t read it.”

  “Then it isn’t one.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “This? This is just a transcript on traded ores from the mines. If you’ve want to be truly bored then I suggest you read it.”

  “You seem to be okay with it”

  “Lord Longshore has asked me to check all daily accounts for him while he’s away. It should fall to his eldest, but…” She didn’t finish, watching the young man’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm.

  “Is he a good man?” Ammba asked.

  The question made Estella smile.

  “As good as any man can be I guess,” she flicked a tendril of hair from her face. “I have met many worse than he by far.”

  “And many better?”

  “One or two,” she nodded. “Though they don’t last as such in the city.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. The city is a corrupting force. It breeds treachery and intrigue, stepping on the weak and vulnerable and destroying people’s dreams.”

  “Ironwood is hard,” Ammba agreed.

  “It’s not just Ironwood. The Capital is the same, as are all the cities I’ve visited. I doubt it is any different in the Northane Kingdom, or further past them. It’s human nature to benefit from the loss of others Ammba.”

  The younger girl was quiet for a moment, a sad inner voice agreeing with the woman’s summary.

  “You mentioned that there are cities past the Kingdom. Is that true?”

  Estella brightened at the change of subject.

  “I spoke to a barbarian merchant once who said he had travelled the length of the Kingdom, through the Dismal Forest and Weeded Wood. There are two main races in the Kingdom, the Northanes we are familiar with, those short, hairy men and women that struggle with manners. At the other end of their land is a similar but different race. They are darker haired but taller, speaking in another tongue. The merchant that I spoke of was a bastard of the two races, struggling to find identity in either.”

  Ammba’s book lay on the ground, her attention captivated by the picture of an alien world.

  “He told me that beyond the Kingdom lie more of this race, not yet subjected to the barbarian kings. They struggle under a warmer son, tilling the soil and growing strange crops that I’ve yet to taste. They’re a hardier race but argumentative, unable to unite under a single banner or consolidate their differences. Beyond these people he spoke of an even worse breed of race. Short black haired savages that attack with primitive spears and stones, scurrying away whenever a pistol would fire in their direction. They lived in tight mud cities, a thousand starving savages in each, he tells.”

  “This man must have been brave,” Ammba imagined, sighing with the dream of adventure.

  “Greedy more like. He set out with half a troupe just to kill some beasts for their tusks, leaving their slaughtered bodies to cook in the sun. From the way he talked of his time, it sounded like he wasted his fair share of hands dragging the heavy prizes back. It took him three years to return, the profits earned enough for any man to live wealthy until the end of their life. He always
talked of returning though, plotting a different line east to seek out cities that were supposed to be built from gold. Whether he did or not I have no idea.”

  “A city of gold?”

  “Yes. Men are driven to kill themselves by their own greed, and that of others. There would never be such thing as a gold city, the mineral only forms in small amounts. Even if you took every last ounce from the Crageft Alpt you’d probably not have enough for a simple house.”

  Ammba admired the servant, seeing past the fantastic daydreams of men to conclude a rationality that she would never exhibit. She watched the woman scribble notes for a while. Ammba struggled to explain the emotions she felt for the woman, an admiration and attraction that was new. Estella stood, taking the scroll to a shelf and filing it away. She returned to stare at Thomas, still snoring by the fire.

  “Our lord means well,” the servant whispered. “But he is more guard than lord.”

  Ammba smiled, rising herself.

  “Come, I will escort you to your room,” Estella said.

  “Should we wake him?”

  Estella chuckled.

  “Let him dream. It’s what men do best.”

  She locked arms with the young girl’s, strolling into the hallway.

  “It will be a cold night,” Estella noted, keeping to the carpeted stretch. “You can share with me tonight if you’d like.”

  Ammba looked at the woman, trying to assess her motives. They were lost in her dark features, looking everywhere but the girl.

  “I would,” Ammba answered.

  60

  “Pierce seems set to take on the nobles,” Pilus remarked, sitting sideways in his iron throne.

  “How so?” Callis asked, pulling himself away from a worn scroll on the histories of Ironwood.”

  “A contact of mine - an old associate, informs me that he has made contact with Rafpheal Tyme-Lal.”

  “In what regard?” Callis sat up interested.

  “It seems he has plans to promote certain criminal minds into the nobility.”