Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech

by Werner, C. L.

  Their escort, a dark-headed Thurian who looked as though the word “unsavory” had been coined expressly for him, stopped and scratched his head. “Nah, the boss was scared when Kilbride took over from Karsento. He thought it meant his neck too.” He shrugged. “Nothin’s happened yet, though.”

  Scratching his head again, he looked past the two mercenaries at the immense warjack following behind. “Don’t know what the boss wants with that thing.”

  Rutger smirked. “Maybe he wants some engaging conversation.”

  The Thurian thug laughed, a nasally braying sound. “Never heard of a talkin’ ’jack!”

  “If that’s the smartest of the bunch, Vulger has staffing problems,” Taryn hissed under her breath.

  “No wonder Vulger was so eager to hire us,” Rutger whispered back.

  The doors that opened into Vulger’s mansion were solid bronze. A small barred window allowed a sentry inside the house to observe the situation outside the doors before opening them. Today, however, the gangsters didn’t need such precaution. Rutger and Taryn were expected, and even if the guards in the watchtowers had failed to inform them about the mercenaries’ arrival, there was small chance the sentries had failed to hear Rex’s thunderous advance or the roar of its steam engine.

  Inside, Vulger’s mansion was lavishly appointed. Rich carpets graced marble-floored hallways, rare paintings stared from walls paneled in exotic wood, crystal chandeliers with alchemical illuminators hung between the open skylights in the ceiling. Immaculately dressed servants rushed ahead of the mercenaries, hastily removing delicate rugs and fragile furnishings before the ponderous advance of their warjack. Another gang of servants threw down padded mats in an effort to cushion the impact of Rex’s feet on the stone floors. Other servants followed behind the ’jack with a canvas sheet and a large broom, striving to remove the soot expelled by Rex’s smokestack. An automated bellows groaned away in one corner of the hall, trying to suck the smoke from the air and propel it through the skylight.

  “Wrecks strikes again,” Taryn said. “Our new employer’s going to need quite a cleanup crew before we leave.”

  “He’s a scared man,” Rutger said, “so scared he doesn’t care if his treasures get ruined.”

  The hallway opened into a sprawling parlor. A clutch of armed guards surrounded an antique chair that might once have stood within one of the royal courts of Tordor. Now a far less noble personage reposed in the seat. Vulger Volkenrath was well into middle age, his stocky body descending into fat, his hair rapidly deserting his scalp. There was a haggard, weary quality about the gangster’s face, but when he saw the two mercenaries and the massive ’jack following them, an excited gleam shone in his piggish eyes and a delighted smile spread across his features.

  “There they are!” Vulger laughed, striding across the parlor. “The heroes of the Scrapyard! Words cannot express how delighted I am you accepted my invitation.”

  “But money can.” Taryn smiled back at the gangster.

  Vulger wagged his finger at her as though berating a naughty child. “I couldn’t have put it better. As my father always told me, never trust anyone you can’t buy.” Vulger gestured toward Rex. “Except a ’jack, of course! They’re happy with a little coal!” The guards laughed at this, encouraged by the gangster’s glare.

  Rutger glanced about the room, studying the layout. It seemed Vulger had chosen a parlor with as many entrances and exits as he could find.

  “I don’t know, Vulger,” said a voice from above. “I’ve always found that loyalty is best earned.”

  The speaker was a lean, rakishly built man. The rubies set into his sharkskin boots twinkled as he descended the iron stairway that spiraled down from an upper landing into the parlor. He turned a disapproving stare at the mercenaries. “We have our own people. You don’t need to bring strangers into your house.”

  The portly gangster turned toward the stairway and shook his fist. “You weren’t there!” he snarled. “You didn’t see! If it wasn’t for them, nobody would have gotten out of there alive!” Vulger spun around, pointing an accusing finger at each of his guards. “Have you ever fought Cryx? You ever seen their rotten creations climbing after you? Trying to eat you while you’re still alive?” He walked back toward Rutger and Taryn. “They have! They’ve fought them! Fought and stood their ground!”

  Taryn glanced over at Rutger, seeing by his expression that the same thought had occurred to him. Vulger didn’t look or sound like the sort of villain who’d work with Cryx. Either he was a lot more subtle and clever than he appeared, or he was a genuine victim of some deeper intrigue.

  The man on the stairs shook his head. “You don’t need them. This is Bellicose, not Hospice. You’re safe here. With your own people.”

  Vulger glared up at his henchman. “I want them here!”

  “You’re the boss,” the other gangster said, reaching the bottom step. “Just remember what happens when you bring a viper into the fold.” He stalked off down one of the hallways.

  “Don’t mind him,” Vulger said. “He gets like that.” The gangster laughed bitterly. “Lorca’s suspicious of everybody.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Rutger inspected the massive coal hopper fitted to Rex’s back, checking its level again to see how much fuel the huge warjack had consumed. Previous experience had taught him that it was wise to exhibit a bit of caution when switching to a different grade of coal. The blue anthracite Volkenrath had provided was supposedly an exceedingly fine grade. Rutger had seen for himself, however, that some furnaces would burn through a better grade of coal much faster than poorer quality fuel. It was one of the caprices of mechanika, he supposed, that a machine became more erratic, its operation more unique according to its level of complexity.

  So far, however, Rex’s furnace was behaving quite nicely. It helped that the warjack was stood idle, not exerting itself and burning through extra fuel. Since the smoke from Rex’s exhaust wasn’t exactly healthful for the rich furnishings and appointments of Volkenrath’s mansion, and given that the ’jack’s great weight had a tendency to crack the tile floor, the mercenaries had been bivouacked in a music room just off the main hall and adjoining the parlor where the gangster conducted most of his business. The padded mats covering the floor dulled the impact of Rex’s footsteps. The central location was ideal, and with the steam organ and other musical instruments now withdrawn, Rutger was suitably impressed with the chamber’s size. If an attack did come, Rex would have the space to maneuver here, something he couldn’t say for much of the mansion. The tall windows were another bonus, a rarity in the fortress-like home. Designed to admit extra sunlight and make the music room more pleasant for guests, they also allowed a way to disperse Rex’s smoke.

  “Not satisfied with the job Junkers Zahn did on your toy?” Taryn was lounging on a velvet-backed couch, her body stretched out in a lazy, cat-like sprawl. The attitude, however, was more than a little deceptive. Her arms lay crossed against her body, each hand resting just above the grips of her magelocks. Rutger had witnessed the amazing speed with which she could draw her weapons from such a position.

  He shrugged and walked away from Rex. “Everything looks all right, but after what he went through down in the Scrapyard, I’d really like the chance to open him up and check the internal components. Even a tiny gear seizing up could lock an arm or leg.”

  Taryn raised her head from the nest of cushions propping her up. “Rex is fine,” she assured him. “Junkers did a good job. He knows he’d have more than a refund to worry about if he didn’t.” She let the import of that statement hang in the air between them. Given their location, it was best not to mention Captain Parvolo and the watch, much less the tangle of violations and fines they had used to threaten work out of the gobber mechanik.

  Rutger smiled at the gun mage. “You know me, always the worrier.” He paced across the room, inspecting one of the tapestries Volkenrath’s servants had neglected to remove.

  “It’s the
waiting that’s getting to you,” Taryn said. “You’re too eager to see that monster of yours smash something. Relax. Vulger’s enemies will either make a move on him or they won’t. Either way, we’re getting paid.” She laughed and nodded her chin at the heavy columns and pillars supporting the ceiling. “This place is built like a fort,” she reminded him. “Nobody gets in. It doesn’t matter who they’re looking for.”

  It was a jest, to be certain. Rutger suspected it had occurred to Taryn the moment they were escorted onto Volkenrath’s estate that the defenses protecting the gangster would now protect them as well. He wondered if the same idea had occurred to Captain Parvolo. The watch captain had impressed Rutger as a cagey and careful man. He couldn’t imagine Parvolo had made such a grievous oversight. He’d sent them here to get evidence that Volkenrath was connected in some way with the Cryxian incursion on Hospice. He was willing to bet that Parvolo wasn’t simply relying on the honor of two mercenaries to get him what he wanted.

  Rutger turned toward Taryn. “What do you think?” Like mention of Parvolo and the watch, they felt it wasn’t too smart to be openly inquisitive about their employer. But Rutger’s tone conveyed which subject he wanted to discuss.

  “I don’t think it’s an act,” Taryn said. “We’re both good at spotting a fake.”

  “That was my feeling, too. Still, there has to be some link.” It was possible that Vulger had been dealing with Cryx beforehand and the attack on the Scrapyard was the result of some falling out between himself and the monsters.

  “To be sure,” Taryn said. “But I don’t think it’s so obvious. If it was, well, you’d expect to see a bit more preparation.” The gun mage nodded her chin at the padded mats on the floor, perfect evidence of how hurriedly Vulger had augmented his protection. A man who had taken such pains to defend himself against Kilbride would certainly have done far more in advance of any arrangement with the Nightmare Empire. Vulger did seem the paranoid type.

  “So we keep looking,” Rutger said.

  Taryn smiled. “At least the surroundings are nice.”

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Rutger said. “Even if we wanted to, there’s no saying how long Vulger will keep us around. That lieutenant of his doesn’t like us, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s a good thing for us that the decision isn’t his,” Taryn said, just a hint of a growl in her tone. She’d already had a few run-ins with Lorca over the past few days. He was an arrogant, smarmy man with a cocksure attitude and a condescending opinion of the capabilities of women. It had taken all of her self-control to keep from drawing her pistols and shooting the ears off the smug gangster the last time they’d crossed words. Rutger had cautioned her that the thug was deliberately trying to get under her skin, to get her angry enough that they’d leave Vulger’s service. The obviousness of such a ploy and how well it had worked on her only made the gun mage angrier.

  “We’ll have to leave here eventually,” Rutger repeated. He didn’t need to explain to Taryn the emotion behind the statement. She could read it in the faraway look in his eyes. Rutger was a wanderer, a man who had to see what was over the next horizon, had to know what was beyond the next mountain, across the next river. The dusty old books he’d read as a child had impressed a wanderlust upon him. He needed to see with his own eyes the places and things he’d read about. The prospect of staying in one place indefinitely filled him with a horror Taryn could recognize but knew she’d never understand.

  “Things will settle down,” she said.

  Rutger shook his head. “I’m worried about those posters.” His fear made him forget their agreement not to mention them. “With Kalder around . . .”

  “Don’t worry about Kalder,” Taryn said, lying back down and closing her eyes. “I ran into him in the Scrapyard just before the attack. The Cryx took care of any problems he could have made for us.”

  Rutger rushed toward the couch. “Kalder was there? He was at the Scrapyard waiting for me?”

  Taryn kept her eyes closed. She had a soldier’s knack for instantly dropping into a sound sleep, snatching a half hour here and there throughout the day. She knew the deception would convince Rutger. After a few more questions, he desisted. She heard him march back across the tile floor to inspect Rex.

  She felt guilty for ignoring him, but her own feelings were too confused to express. Taryn didn’t know how to tell her friend that the bounty hunter he feared so greatly hadn’t been after him at all, but instead had come to collect the price on her head. How could she tell him that Kalder had been ready to murder him simply because he was her friend? She cared about Rutger too much to do that to him. It was ironic, but after so much time needing and trusting no one but herself, she was afraid of losing the one person she could trust and depend on.

  Besides, Taryn thought as genuine sleep overcame her, Kalder was dead. It didn’t matter whom he’d been hunting.

  Night wrapped itself about the lofty slopes of the Terraces District. Gas lamps sputtered to life, creating tiny spots of brilliance. The lone figure that made its way through the blackness shunned those splotches of light, keeping to the shadows as it prowled the deserted streets. The horrors of Cryx might have struck in the squalor of distant Hospice Island, but fear of the undead abominations had spread throughout Five Fingers, even to the wealthy splendor of Bellicose. The normally vibrant nightlife of the city was subdued. The once extravagant parties hosted by rich merchants and Ordic nobility had been abandoned. Only the most desperate now braved the streets at night. The rest kept indoors until the clean light of day banished the terrors of the Nightmare Empire from heart and mind.

  Such circumstance suited the prowler who stalked the forsaken streets. His progress through the district was rapid, speeded by an obscene alchemy of avarice and wounded pride. He’d been made a fool of, and that was a debt he never left unpaid.

  The stalker reached the thick walls of Volkenrath’s estate. Crouching down at the base of the wall, he removed a curious object from the leather satchel hanging from his belt. It was a long cylinder of steel with a bronze reel fitted beneath it and a cluster of gears and cog wheels bulging from its side. The prowler removed a second object—the splayed, claw-like foot of an iron grapnel. He tugged the end of the wire fastened to the bronze wheel, allowing enough slack so that he could tie it to the end of the grapnel.

  Bracing himself against the ground, setting one knee against the back of the steel cylinder, the stalker dropped the grapnel down the tube. Gears shuddered into animation. With a soft huff, the grapnel was hurled upward, flying over the top of the wall. Even as the hooks clattered against the far side of the obstruction, the reel was spinning, retracting the wire that had been played out. When there was no more slack in the line and the claws of the grapnel had caught and secured themselves, the reel fell idle. The prowler unhooked the spool of wire from the reel, securing it to a steel spike he deftly pounded into the ground.

  Returning the steel cylinder to his satchel, the man busied himself fitting a set of iron spikes to the soles of his boots. He scuffed the soles against the ground to ensure they were strapped tightly, then strode to the wall. Taking hold of the wire and using the spikes to assist him, the prowler made a rapid ascent. A cold smile flitted across his face when he saw the jagged glass embedded in the top of the wall. He removed a thick blanket from his satchel and flung it over the glass slivers before finishing his climb. He nodded in appreciation when he saw the gap between the first wall and the second. He tugged the grapnel free. Then, with some effort, he freed the wire from the stake at the base of the wall.

  Recovering both items, he withdrew the tiny knee mortar from his bag and began to repeat the procedure by which he had conquered the first wall. The second would be trickier. He’d have to secure the line so it ran horizontal instead of vertical. That took a bit more finesse, but he was an old hand at such intricacies.

  The intruder soon bypassed the other defenses of Volkenrath’s estate. He had to wait for a time in the
garden until one of the patrols came past where he lay hidden among the flowers. By day there wasn’t a chance in a million that they could have missed him, but in the dark he blended perfectly with the black blotch of the flowerbed. Now he watched as the two gangsters came marching past his position. He took note of the long coat and broad-brimmed hat one of the men wore. Just the sort of thing he needed. When he sprang up from concealment, his knife opened the throat of one guard before the man knew what was happening. He left the dying guard to thrash and bleed and pounced upon his comrade in the long coat. With one hand clamped across the man’s mouth, the stalker punched his knife into the base of the guard’s skull.

  The prowler rose and scanned the darkness, every sense alert for the slightest indication that someone had noticed the struggle. After a moment, satisfied that he was still undetected, he bent down and stripped away the floppy hat and long coat the man had worn. In this guise, the intruder ran toward Volkenrath’s manor, gesticulating wildly and making anguished sounds. Lights winked on throughout the mansion, and excited guards appeared on the roofs. Briefly they aimed at the stalker, but the sight of the familiar hat and coat were enough to deceive them in the dark. Training their guns on the garden beyond, they let their supposed comrade run to the main doorway.

  The portal was just opening. Gangsters came boiling out in every state of undress. Though many had forsaken robes, not a man among them had failed to bring pistol, blade, or bludgeon. The intruder, bundled in his stolen coat, feigned a weakened wave of his hand, indicating the garden, then slumped against the open doorway. Most of the thugs rushed off to pursue a phantom enemy.

  One lingered behind. He stared at the man slumped against the door. His brows knitted in confusion; it took him a moment to register what was wrong. As the realization struck him, so did the slim blade of a knife. Thrusting upward, the intruder plunged his steel deep into the thug’s vitals and shoved the dying man over the threshold. Then he rushed inside and slammed the heavy door shut. As he slid the bar into place, he heard alarmed gangsters rushing back across the garden.