by M. Walsh
Curious.
I removed the gag in her mouth and asked, “And you are..?”
“Ce-Cecilia Westen..!” she said. “Please—please, don’t hurt me..!”
I like to think myself a sharp individual, but I’m ashamed to admit it took me a moment to deduce what was happening. Finally, I recalled hero-boy referring to someone named Westen and concluded Burke must have kidnapped this young woman. And therefore, I guess, hero-boy was on some sort of mission to save her.
Here I was, engaging in a little casual murder, and I find myself a rescuer.
“Erm,” I said. “I—uh—I am here to ... rescue you..?”
“You,” she said, hope surging in her eyes. “You are..?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I am.”
I cut her loose, and she immediately locked me a death-grip I assume she thought was a hug. She began sobbing, “Thank you,” over and over again, babbling about how she wouldn’t stop believing someone would save her, and went on and on.
All well and good, but I kept looking back at Burke and wanted to get on with the important business. Unfortunately, I used my only sedative dart, so I was forced to take a more direct approach with Ceseel ... Cemsen ... whatever her name was. So I sucker-punched her in the face.
Not my finest hour, I admit.
With what’s-her-face taken care of, I returned to work. I secured the legs of Burke’s cot so he wouldn’t be able to sway and tied him down. With everything in place, and my pretty little scene set, I put on my smock and work gloves and prepared my tools. Given his nickname, I decided it would be best to begin with my own cleaver and hacksaw.
I admired their glint in the firelight, anticipating when they’d be dripping with the lovely, lovely reds. I could feel the night come to life around me. My senses were alive, and I felt an intangible energy in the air. All the colors of the world heightened and sharpened. It’s as though there’s this buffer between me and the rest of the world, dulling the colors and muting everything.
But when it’s that special time and that Special Moment—when it’s just me, my chosen project, and my precious blades—the blinds fade away, and I see the world for what it is.
It’s only then does everything feel ... real.
Not a moment too soon, I heard Burke stirring back to consciousness. He groaned and shook his head before realizing he was tied down. Almost instantly, his senses came back to him.
“What is this?” he snarled, thrashing about and trying to break free. “What the hell is going on?!”
I stepped forward and greeted him with a cordial smile. “Hi, guy.”
“Who the hell are you? Why am I tied up?”
“Guess.”
He didn’t reply, instead thrashing about some more in a vain effort to get loose. Seeming to realize that wasn’t going to happen, he scowled at me and said, “I get it. You’re here for the Westen girl. Look, just take her and get the hell out of here!”
“The what?” I asked, already forgetting about what’s-her-name. “Oh, yeah. Her. What’s her name?”
He stared at me for a long while. “What are you? Some kind of mercenary or something..?”
“Not exactly,” I said, revealing the cleaver and hacksaw. Behind me, he saw the leather satchel containing the rest of my tools. When I saw the color drain from his face, I knew the pieces had come together in his head.
“What,” he said. “What—no! No, you can’t do this!”
“Can. Am. Will.”
He resumed struggling as I approached with my toys. Veins bulged from his thick neck, and a shine formed on his skin. His eyes flamed with a combination of horror and outrage.
“No!” he screamed. “You can’t do this to me! I’m Burke Zell! I’m Burke the Butcher! I’m a warrior! I can’t die like this!” I stood over him and prepared to make the first incision. He squirmed and quivered, but he glared at me with hate. “I was meant for more than this! I’m better than this! I was going to be a legend ...”
“Well, things don’t always turn out the way we want.”
“Wait!” he squealed as the blade’s edge slit into his skin. “Wait a minute! Come on, man! We can work something out! Why don’t—why—how ‘bout we work together?”
I had to chuckle on that one.
“Seriously!” he continued. “Hey, look, I get it. You like carving people up. I do, too. Why don’t we, you know, team up..?”
I had a brief vision of myself, riding alongside Burke “the Butcher” Zell, and for some reason that sparked a fit of laughter in me. But I felt no real humor in it—only profound desire to kill him all the more. Slowly.
“You’re not in my league, Burke,” I said. “I don’t torment the weak. Any dumb bastard with a knife can bully barmaids and kids. There’s no pleasure in it.”
“Coward!” he snarled. “What makes you any better?”
“What’s that?”
“Yeah ... yeah, I did those things. I killed those people. And yeah, I did it because I could.” His expression strained, face turning red. “But who the hell are you?! How are you any different?!”
I placed the cleaver and hacksaw aside, looked Burke Zell in his goofy little face, and smiled.
“No, no, no. You don’t get it. You’re just a little boy playing villain. You’re no terror. You’re no monster. The real monsters are the ones you don’t see until they’ve already got you. Guys like you, Burke, who bop around the countryside, smashing and making all the noise to show how tough and mean you are—you don’t last. Guys like me—the real monsters—I get to kill you and be hailed a saint for it.”
His eyes widened, and a look of dawning comprehension and fear I found oh-so rewarding replaced any anger or misplaced machismo he had. And there it was: the special, Special Moment I live for. To watch someone who thinks they’re untouchable, who thinks they’re the Big Bad, suddenly realize if you’re going to play in the dark, sooner or later you stir a real dragon.
I picked up the cleaver and hacksaw, but paused to see if he had anything more to say. Instead, I saw all hope crumble in his eyes, and any noise died before it could reach his throat.
On the subject of dying ...
Bliss. Heavenly, gorgeous bliss. Despite favoring a butcher’s tools, I started small and methodical. I trimmed away limbs and sawed flesh. Burke tried to scream, but it only came out in strained groans and gurgling from the blood filling his mouth.
As much as I enjoyed the noises he was making, I stuffed a rag in his mouth that quickly turned to a deep, dark red from soaking the blood. Reds and pinks flowed in the firelight, and it was a lovely display to see. The world was alive with color. I was lost in a soothing ocean of ecstasy. His moans gave way to light whimpers before he went silent and still. By the time the life faded from his eyes, I was digging through his torso like I was rummaging for treasure.
I removed my gloves and smock, both drenched and dripping in red fluid and meat. I stepped outside and took a relaxing breath. In the east, the lovely dark sky began to give way to brightening blue dawn. With the thrill still flowing in my blood, I lit a cigarette and enjoyed the chill air before everything returned to normal—for alas, all good things must come to an end. The blinds returned, the world died down, and the colors subsided. Everything became a little duller and more mundane, as it always does.
Finishing my cigarette, I checked on what’s-her-name, and she was still out. After taking her outside, I cleaned my tools, packed up, and set the cabin on fire. Although I’m sure Burke Zell will not be missed—and there are many who might shake my hand and buy me a beer for ridding the world of his lot—I rather doubt those people would be approving of my ... methods.
And besides, cleanliness, I’m told, is right up there next to godliness.
It was dawn when I was done. As the cabin burned, I was greeted by a shining sun and gentle mist covering the land before me. When the girl finally came to, she moaned, “What—what happened..?”
“I’m afraid you passed out,
” I said. “But fear not. That monster won’t hurt you again.”
It took a moment for it all to come together, but once it did, she began tearing up and hugged me. “Thank you! Thank you, so much!”
“It was my pleasure.”
Part I
Refusal
1
Almost instantly, Katrina Lamont knew she woke up too early. With the dry, copper taste of a hangover in her mouth, she opened her eyes to find she’d been sleeping on the floor. With an effort, she turned over and saw the room’s bed above her. She was fully clothed, one of her boots only half off, and her overcoat lay crumpled beside her.
She attempted to sit up, but a wave of dizziness made her remain flat on the wooden floor. She instead inched over to her coat, using it as a make-shift pillow, and groaned upon feeling her stomach bubble inside her. She remained there a few minutes, contemplating passing out again, but her mouth was dry and sticky. Somewhere deep, the now-stale taste of liquor lingered, and upon thinking of it, her stomach lurched with a hint of bile licking the back of her throat.
Once the room stopped swaying, she forced herself into a sitting-up position. She didn’t remember how she got back last night. For a moment, she wasn’t even sure what town she was in or how long she’d been there. She’d drifted in and out of so many places—wallowed in countless bars and taverns—they all blurred together.
Dictum, she remembered. I’m in Dictum. I got here the day before yesterday.
It took some effort, but she recalled entering town through its ramshackle gate—barely noticed by the guards posted there. Her flask had been almost empty, and she wasn’t as drunk as she wished to be, so she wandered to a bar before bothering to look for an inn. She might have passed out in the tavern had the bartender not yelled at her and told her to find a room.
Sitting with her back against the bed, fighting off her lightheadedness and the spots in front of her eyes, she pulled herself to her feet and limped to the stand across the room. Although there was a Pilgrim’s Stop in the town square, she settled for the cheaper inn around the corner from the bar. The room was a tiny wooden square, consisting of a single bed, nightstand with a filthy, cracked mirror, and narrow window.
On the nightstand was a large white bowl with nondescript blue design around the edge, filled with water. Stumbling to the bowl—by now, she was confident she was still drunk—she dunked her face.
The water was pleasantly cool, and she thanked herself for thinking far enough ahead yesterday to keep the bowl filled. This far south, one would be hard-pressed to find an inn with running water in the rooms. An outside water pump was the primary source of water, and Katrina knew the last thing she’d want to do with a bad hangover was walk outside, pump water, and return to her room.
While soaking her head, she opened her mouth and gently swallowed. It did little to remove the coppery taste in her mouth, but the water soothed her throat. She stood upright with a deep breath—her long hair flipping up and spraying water all over the wall and ceiling.
She looked at herself in the mirror and felt she was looking at the face of death. Her black hair—except for the white streak that grew from her right temple—hung in front of her face like dripping strings. Her blue eyes were sunken and bloodshot. Staring at her reflection, Katrina noted her complexion was less, smooth ivory, and more, pasty white.
Was someone talking to me last night?
The image sprang to her mind. Her memories of the previous night were a blur, but she could swear someone was asking her questions. She’d been sitting at a table in the corner, trying to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the bar as she often would. And then someone approached her ...
Her stomach lurched again, and she knelt there frozen, waiting to see if she would vomit or not. Someone approaching her was nothing out of the ordinary. Men often tried hitting on her—despite (sometimes, because of) her grim appearance—especially when she was knackered something fierce.
The important thing was she didn’t get into a fight. She checked her knuckles and found no signs of violence. The door to her room was closed and bolted, so she was coherent enough to walk back and lock the door behind her.
The threat of throwing up past, she yawned, coughed, shook her head, and backed to the bed, dropping across it. She was still tired, her head pounded, and her stomach churned, but at least she didn’t feel like she was dying anymore.
Early morning light trickled in through the window. It was gray and colorless, and Katrina could already tell it would be another cool and dreary day. There was little sound coming from outside, and she realized again it was too early to be awake. She dozed off, still trying to piece together the events of the previous night—a memory of someone approaching her at the bar lingering in her mind.
She was drifting somewhere between asleep and awake when she heard knocking at her room’s door. For a minute, she thought (hoped) she was just dreaming or the knocking was meant for some other room.
“Excuse me,” said a man’s voice coming from outside the door. “Ms. Rien..? Are you in..?”
She didn’t answer at first, hoping whoever it was would get the hint and leave. But the knocking persisted, as did the voice asking if she was in.
With a groan, she finally answered, “Go away.”
“Please, Ms. Rien, I need to speak with you.”
She took the pillow and covered her face with it, as if doing so would make the man leave.
“My name is Rasul Kader,” said the voice at the door. “We spoke last night, but you were ... you probably don’t remember our discussion.”
Katrina sighed, suddenly wishing there had been violence last night. “Go away,” she repeated.
“Please,” said Kader. “It is an urgent matter.”
Pressing her palms into her eyes, she snarled and said, more in the interest of making him leave than anything else, “Come back later! Find me during lunch or something! Too early!”
There was a pause, and Kader replied, “Very well, Ms. Rien. I’ll try to find you this afternoon.” There was another pause, and he said, “It is of the utmost importance you hear what I have to say.”
She stuck out her tongue and made a gagging noise as she heard his footsteps walk down the hall. She was too tired and hung-over to pay much mind to it at the time, but in the back of her memory, she remembered the last time someone had something “urgent” to tell her. She shivered involuntarily and drifted into an uneasy but dreamless sleep.
* * *
Deacon Marcus was close to drowsing on his horse when he finally saw Dictum’s town wall appear through the morning mist. It stood close to twenty feet, made from thick stone, but it was clear all effort ended with its construction. Once upon a time, it might have been painted, but whatever color it had been was long faded and chipped. Riddled with pot marks, dirt, and graffiti, it looked more like a decayed relic than the perimeter wall of a village.
He recalled it looked no better the first time he saw it, back when he was a Private. He was a Captain now and guessed the wall hadn’t been cleaned or repaired once since. Although he’d seen towns with worse defenses, he doubted Dictum would last long against even a semi-competent raid.
The two guards standing at the entrance did little to dissuade that notion. The one on the right was a thick man in his forties, and he appeared to be letting his weight catch up to him. But he did have the harsh look of someone who had at least seen his share of bar brawls—which was more than could be said of his younger partner, who looked like he’d never seen a real fight in his life.
“Morning,” said the older guard. “You Sentry Elite..?”
“Yes,” replied Marcus. “I am Captain Deacon Marcus, and these are my partners, Privates Janis Brooks and Adam Nelson.”
He leaned forward, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the badge branded into his arm confirming he was a Sentry Elite. Typical for a Sentry, Marcus was a tall and strapping man with an athletic physique. His square jaw was always covered with stu
bble, despite his shaving every morning. He kept his long, light-brown hair tied in a tail, and he had a small, diagonal scar on his forehead. Even without his Sentry Elite uniform—consisting of dark blue clothing under red and bronze armor—he was easily identified as a soldier and warrior.
“Name’s Tanner,” said the guard. “So what brings the Sentry Elite ‘round these parts?”
“Just tracking some pirates,” he said, yawning. He was eager to get moving and find an inn, but figured he might as well ask some questions while there. “You guys see anyone suspicious come through recently?”
“Not pirates,” Tanner said, scratching his chin. “Least none that I can tell.”
“It’s them cult freaks I’d be worried about,” the younger guard said, slouching against the wall.
“Cult freaks..?” Brooks repeated.
“Just spooks,” Tanner said. “Old priests, bums, and pilgrims wandering in and out, talking a lot about the Devil’s Moon and some great evil waking.”
“Yeah, we’ve been running into those, too,” said Marcus, rubbing the back of his neck. The craving for a cigarette came suddenly, but he ignored it. “Just fanatics,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Anyway, is Dunham still Sheriff here?”
“Yeah, he’s still kicking,” Tanner said, letting out a humorless cackle. “You’ll probably find his fatness eating in his office. I guess you been through here before, so you know the way, yeah?”
Marcus nodded and thanked the two guards before leading his unit into Dictum proper. It was not the smallest or dingiest of towns one would find in the south of Graylands, but it was not the place for permanent settlement. Almost no building reached higher than two stories, and most of the roads were dirt. The southern border was steep hills piled on top of one another, and the north consisted of some wooded area before Haley’s Gorge. In addition to lackluster security and proximity to the Dark Lands, farming and mining were said to be virtually nonexistent.
