Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  As they passed close to the train, a figure caught Locke’s eye. At first the thief thought it a corpse, kneeling in the snow, back turned to them, but he realised that any corpse would be fast buried in snow. Creeping past, Locke lifted Fredrick into the cabin.

  “Start shoveling coal in. Once full, light it.” Locke whispered to the weak child, handing him a flintbox. Fredrick complied as best he could, using his hands to fill the firebox rather than the heavy shovel.

  Curiosity was dangerous for a thief, yet so was a mystery, Locke thought. He crept past stranded boxes, hoping to see the figure from a better angle. With its head down and long straggled hair shielding its face Locke strained to see. He stepped closer, dagger clenched hard, trying to gauge why someone would be stranded in the mountains during the ‘off’ season while a steam carriage sat idle in its dock. At ten paces the figure tensed, as if hearing the catlike footsteps of the thief. It rose, standing full height and turned, looking into the thief’s shocked face.

  Before Locke stood a man, tall and fair, eyes glazed in a red sheen. Maggot-like parasites clung to the orifice that was once his mouth, now a cracked and swollen mess of a wound, blisters spreading from its point.

  “Stop,” Locke called, as the diseased man closed in with a stuttered gait. If the creature heard, it took no heed, lunging forth at Locke as best it could. Locke sidestepped, lifting his dagger up to meet the charge. The blade did little, scraping along the haunches without effect. The creature turned, spitting more parasites from its mouth. It reeled back for a moment, taking stock, before lurching forward with a violent convulsion. A stream of maggot creatures vomited from the monster, showering Locke.

  The bugs wriggled on Locke who struck at his own body in revulsion, trying to free himself of them. From the corner of his eye he registered the lunging monster, this time not agile enough to escape. They bowled over in the snow, the beast man on top, pinning the exhausted thief to the ground. The maggot-like creatures sought out the pores on Locke’s exposed skin, burrowing into the flesh there. More parasites tried to force themselves into Locke’s mouth while others sought to enter through the nose.

  Throughout a hard life of violence, pain and struggle, Locke had never experienced such agony. He wanted to scream, but the creatures working at his lips held him back. Within a moment the pain vanished, as the last parasites sought refuge within Locke. The creature on top of him stood, trundling away into a nearby mineshaft.

  Locke lay in the snow, afraid to move. The agony of before had vanished and even memories of the pain seemed lacking. Yet the image was strong and haunting. Without knowing what had happened Locke struggled back to the train, noting Fredrick’s concern when he approached.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Locke lied.

  “Your face. It’s bleeding.”

  The thief touched his cheek, his gloved hand coming away stained. Too many concerns were building in his head. Locke only wanted to survive.

  “I had to kill someone,” he uttered.

  63

  “Where are you going boy?” Pierce called, strutting through the stone courtyard. Damian peered over his shoulder, swearing to himself. He turned from his mare, her untied bridle coming loose.

  “For a ride,” Damian answered, noting the scowled looks on the two guards that flanked Pierce.

  “I forbid it. For now you need to stay in the castle.” Pierce was red faced, the brisk walk leaving him breathless.

  Damian grimaced. He was expected to meet with Fredrick and Locke, their secret rendezvous point set outside Ironwood’s walls.

  “I won’t be long,” he lied, tugging at his ear in nervousness.

  “You won’t,” Pierce agreed, ordering one of his men to restable the horse.

  Damian stared down the large man, arms crossed and angry. Pierce had not drunk since the night before, his body sweating in the chill autumn morning.

  “You can’t order me about,” Damian spat. “You’re not my father.”

  Pierce smiled at him with cruel lips, stepping closer.

  “Your father is rotting in the crypts… probably walking around down there. Did you want to join him?”

  A twitch caught Damian’s top lip as he struggled to restrain himself.

  “That is enough Lord Pierce,” Bryce called, returning from the stable, a second horse abandoned for the moment.

  “What did you say?” Pierce growled.

  “I said that is enough. You were not given this position to bully these children. Your duty is to serve them.”

  Pierce stood to his fullest height, breathing in hard.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “Settle down Bryce,” Damian yelled, rushing to stand before him.

  “This fat bastard needs to learn humility my lord. Your father would never have stood for his mannerisms.”

  “I’m going to rip you in two,” choked Pierce, struggling to pull his longsword from its frost sheath.

  “Stop,” Damian yelled.

  “Stay out of the way my lord,” Bryce admonished, his own blade in hand sliding free, the oiled weapon the sign of a dutiful soldier.

  Bryce was smaller than the regent, more athletic and lean. Damian stood his ground. With a crack Pierce wrenched his sword out, his guards doing likewise. The big man frothed an order for them to stay put, before turning to advance on the pair. He closed the gap, pulling his weapon back. Bryce reacted fast, shouldering the boy out of harm’s way just in time to catch the heavier blade with his own.

  Years of indulgence had damned Pierce, his impressive physique replaced by a lumbering hulk. He fought with pure anger, thrashing down and around hard with his sword, not giving the other man a chance to form an offence. They continued in a battle of endurance, Pierce resorting to a single overhead sweep, striking at the same point in the neck. Bryce was forced back, mindful not to lose his footing on the icy stones.

  Both men tired fast in the cold, one blocking, and the other striking. Damian yelled at Pierce’s guard to stop the fight, summoning all his rights as lord for them to obey. They did not, backing the plan of their master. One tried to grab Damian, to stop him from interfering. The boy saw it and sunk back, creating distance. With his riding boots on he found better grip on the stone than those wearing iron boots, able to slip past the guard. Damian ran, leaving the fight behind.

  Pierce’s face had turned bright red, his blows coming slower. Bryce was tired too, the struggle of keeping his blade up waning. They sought respite, Pierce backing away to rest his arms. He did not fight again, signaling over his shoulder for his guard to advance. Bryce watched with worry as the men came on, their blades ready. He was no match for two fresh men and offered a resolution.

  Pierce barked a laugh through gasps, smiling as two blades struck down. Bryce jumped to evade, one blade missing him, the other cracking a steel shoulder pad, crunching the bone below. He fell, sliding on the ice, and tried to raise his sword with one hand. The swords fell heavy, ringing out as they cut through parts of armour, hacking through chain.

  Bryce did not scream, either too exhausted or proud, when they removed his sword arm, a series of gashes where the armour had hindered the blades. Pierce approached.

  “A brave knight dies with a sword in his hand,” he announced, kicking Bryce in the face, causing his head to buck back. “You will die like a coward.”

  Bryce did not look up, blinded by the force of the steel boot.

  “Take him to the square. Let’s put on a little show for our lord’s son.”

  Bryce’s limp body was dragged around the gardens to the courtyard, a series of practicing guards stepping aside for the spectacle. Bryce’s plate was removed with pliers, the chain slipped over his lolling head. The cold had helped stem some blood from his arm so that only a light seep washed out.

  “Damian Steward,” Pierce cried out, his voice filling the courtyard. “Here lies your man, dropped and shamed, will you not come out and vouch for his life?”<
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  Some guards smiled, others looked around without remark.

  “Damian Steward, this man lies ready to die. Will you not stand out for him?”

  Again a silent chill. Pierce let his impatience rule. Retaking his blade he stood behind Bryce, running the sword into the bare back. It cut in deep, running through the lung and leaving the other side. Bryce gurgled, choking on the surge of blood that entered his throat. Pierce kicked him in the spine, the two guards letting go, leaving the man to fall face down as the sword left the body.

  “This is what you get for being a coward Steward,” Pierce thundered. “Come out now or your mother will be next.”

  Pierce was set in rage, a fury of paranoia ticking over. He knew of the boy’s schemes, his agents reporting secret meetings between the child and criminal minds. Pierce wanted Damian locked away, to be kept under strict control.

  No answer came to the threat. Pierce cleaned his blade on a guard’s cloak, storming into the citadel. He took three steps at a time, coming to Kayla’s room, followed by a swarm of curious men. The door was unlocked, Pierce seeing to smash it open anyway. Haylee lurched when she saw the blood spattered man enter, a murderous stare in his eyes.

  “Where’s the boy?” He roared, deafening the girl.

  She did not answer, trying to cower in the corner. Pierce kicked over a table riddled with medicines, the bottles cracking to the floor. He passed through the room, smashing open the balcony doors and yelling into the morning.

  “Steward, come out here you little maggot.” Men looked up from the courtyard floors below, still stunned by the events. Pierce re-entered the room, returning to the balcony with the frail Kayla draped in his arms.

  “Last chance Steward, come out.”

  He was met only by the sobbing of Haylee inside the room, her pitiful cry lost in the sea of rage bubbling in his head. He swung around, generating momentum, before releasing the sick woman out into the courtyard. She travelled for a moment before falling hard, her thin body shattered by the stone below. No one rushed to her, leaving Kayla to lie in a twisted death pose.

  Pierce returned to the room, ordering his men to lock down the citadel and search for the boy. He ordered Haylee into confinement, setting two guards to accompany her. When Silvia tried to intervene Pierce punched the woman in the stomach, his big mailed fist doubling her over. Haylee was dragged off, distraught and struggling, trying to fight off the tight hands that squeezed her. Pierce turned to his personal guards, issuing orders.

  “Organise the council to meet immediately,” he ordered one before turning to the other. “Lock down the citadel. No one comes in or out. When that’s done round up those guards most loyal to the Stewards. Place them under arrest for now. They will be dealt with in turn.”

  Pierce sought the council chambers.