[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

“H-Hessler’s townhouse,” he stammered. “Old City. Below the tanner’s.”

  Verstohlen listened carefully, judging whether he was being told the truth. The man was clearly afraid. He pressed the knife into his neck further, feeling the point penetrate the flesh. “Think carefully, friend. I’m coming with you. Give me the wrong information and I’ll make sure your death is unpleasant.”

  “I’m telling the truth!” he spluttered. He was near tears. He was young, not much more than a boy. Clearly they hadn’t found a reliable replacement for Fromgar yet. “The barred door near the base of the loading platform.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Wenenlich.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The knife pressed harder.

  “I don’t know! Some place up the river, I think. It’s just a word. That’ll get you in.”

  “That’ll get us both in. Take me there now. Try to escape and the blade will find a resting place between your ribs. Do what I say and you’ll live to do this again. If you can bear it.”

  Verstohlen pushed the lad roughly forward. His feet dragging slightly, the smuggler kept walking. He was still scared. Verstohlen could feel the sweat on his neck, despite the cool night air. That was good. Every so often, he pressed the knife a little more firmly against his skin. It didn’t hurt to be reminded. Well, not very much.

  Helpfully, the dark obscured their halting passage up from the quayside and back into the inhabited areas of the town. There was almost no one around. Houses were boarded up, thick shutters locked shut. Even the rival gangs seemed to have gone to ground. Anyone who was still creeping through the echoing streets would have no doubt seen them as two drunks, supporting each other after a long night out.

  “Wenenlich,” whispered Verstohlen to himself. The name was familiar, though he couldn’t recall why. It sounded like a place, or possibly a name. Maybe nothing turned on it.

  They continued their strange, limping journey. After a few minutes of shuffling down the dark, winding alleyways they reached their destination. The smuggler came to a halt before a nondescript door at the base of a silent townhouse. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the others in the street. There were no lights, no sounds. The district was reasonably smart, but not too exclusive.

  A good choice.

  “What happens here?” he hissed.

  The boy was getting scared again. This time, it wasn’t Verstohlen making him anxious. “Knock on the door six times. The grille will open. Say the password and he’ll open the door.”

  Verstohlen grinned in the dark.

  “Nice try. You’ll be doing the talking. Remember, the blade’ll be at your back. You know what you have to do.” The lad took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. He was trying hard to hold things together. He knew his life depended on it. That tended to concentrate the mind. “Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The smuggler went forward nervously. Verstohlen stayed at his shoulder. The package was stowed under his coat. It felt heavy. The roots must have been tightly packed.

  The boy knocked six times on the door. The sound was flat. Verstohlen suddenly realised the significance of the six. So that was the nature of the organisation here.

  An iron grille in the centre of the door suddenly slid back. The grate of metal against metal made Verstohlen jump, and the point of the knife pricked into the boy’s back. That was sloppy. The tension was getting to him. Commendably, the boy didn’t move.

  “Password,” came a rasping voice from the other side. It was thick and unnatural sounding, more like a dog than a man. His voice trembling, the lad gave the answer. The grille slammed shut.

  “Stand back,” warned Verstohlen. A light had appeared in the cracks at the door’s edge. He wondered if the boy had done this before, or if he was simply acting on instructions. Either way, this was the risky part.

  The door opened inwards. A sweet smell rushed out of the open portal and into the night air. It contrasted strangely with the dank stench of the street. The light within was dim and vaguely tinged with purple. A bulky figure emerged, his face still in shadow.

  Verstohlen pushed the smuggler out of the way. The lad sprawled in the dirt and scampered off into the dark. Verstohlen ignored him and went for the doorkeeper. His knife flashed, aiming for the eyes. It connected with yielding flesh. He pressed forward, using his other hand to stifle a scream. His fingers closed on something clammy and tooth-filled. It felt like no human mouth.

  Gurgling in agony, the doorkeeper slumped to the ground. Verstohlen withdrew the knife quickly and stabbed him in the neck and the heart. Each time, the blade plunged beneath the skin with almost no resistance. If the man had been wearing armour, that might have made things more interesting.

  Verstohlen dragged the man inside and closed the door. He was in a narrow antechamber constructed of ordinary-looking stone. The light was coming from below. On the other side of the chamber, a stairwell led down steeply. There were no other openings. The place was silent. There was no sign of movement.

  He pulled the body to the side of the door and leant it against the wall. The man’s face looked horribly distorted. His jowls were longer than any normal human’s, and long scars ran from the corner of his mouth up to his ears. They looked like they’d been made by sutures. One of the incisions had come open where Verstohlen’s knife had plunged in. The flesh underneath was pale and glistening, like roast pork.

  Verstohlen shuddered and turned away, wiping his blade. Despite his long service, something about the house was beginning to have an effect. He felt the first beads of sweat on his palms. Nothing wholesome had a guard like that. Whatever the secret of the joyroot was, there was some part of it hidden here.

  He pondered what to do with the package in his hands. It had served its purpose in getting him in, and carrying it with him further seemed pointless. There was nowhere to hide it, though, so he kept hold of it for the moment.

  Verstohlen crept forward, making sure his soft leather boots made no noise on the stone. The stairs ran steeply down. Torches had been placed in the walls, the source of the unusual light. Some substance had been placed in them that gave the flames a lilac edge. The aroma came from them too. The smell was an elusive cross between cinnamon and jasmine. Just on the edge of sensation, there was something else too. It might have been putrefaction. Or maybe that was his imagination.

  As the base of the stairs there was a corridor running from right to left, as well as a double doorway leading straight on. From beyond the doors, there were noises. They were too dim to make out clearly, but they might have been voices.

  Verstohlen could feel his heart pumping heavily. He was alone, vulnerable. Perhaps he ought to withdraw. Now that he knew the location, he could commandeer help from Tochfel. A raid could be organised in the morning, when the sun was up and men’s hearts were stouter. Much as he loathed them, this was witch hunter work.

  It was tempting, but it was the fear talking. He was after information, not to destroy the cartel. Blundering in now would undo all he’d worked to discover. He’d do as he always did, go silently and invisibly.

  He made the sign of the scales over his chest. “Merciful Verena, ward all harm.” His voice shook as he breathed the words.

  Then he went on. Ignoring the doors, he crept along the corridor leading to the right. After a while, it curved round. It looked like he was tracing a route around a central circular chamber, one into which the double doors must have opened. The light was still dim, but enough to see by. It was near-silent. He began to hear his own breathing echoing in his head.

  Ninety degrees around the circle from his starting position, a narrow stair ran up the outer wall. Beyond it, the corridor continued onwards. The doorway at the top of the stair was open. The ascent to the next storey. Verstohlen paused, looking back. Nothing.

  He climbed the stair carefully, keeping his blade loose in his hands. As he went, his eyes scoured the
gloom. The chamber at the top was small and empty, but it was well lit. The light wasn’t coming from inside, but from an archway which opened up in the interior wall of the circle. Clearly this was some balcony above the central chamber. There were others of the same kind leading off in either direction. Like the boxes in a Tilean opera house, the antechambers overlooked whatever was in the centre of the building. That was where the murmuring voices came from. That was where the light came from. That was the heart of it all.

  Verstohlen crouched down low, placing the package down carefully in a shadowed alcove and creeping to the edge of the antechamber. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest and he had to wipe the sweat from his knife-hand. Something was definitely happening. Beyond the railing of the antechamber, there were voices rising. The smell of jasmine was powerful. He looked over the edge.

  The chamber was bathed in a lilac glow. It was circular, just as the external walls had suggested. Iron-framed braziers had been placed around the edges. They gave off light, heat and the strange, cloying aroma. Within the dark metal frames, flames writhed like snakes. The floor was a dark, polished stone. In the centre, a dais had been raised. The light reflected from the surface dully.

  Verstohlen was barely twenty feet above the level of the chamber below. He kept as low as he could. For the first time, he could make an accurate assessment of the danger he was in.

  In the centre of the chamber a throne had been constructed. It was made of the same stone as the dais. The artistry was astonishing. Verstohlen found his eyes drawn to it. Once there, it was almost impossible to pull them away again. There were figures carved into the high back, writhing in and out of one another. It looked as if a crowd of lissom youths had been fused into one tangled mass. Each member of the cluster was achingly beautiful, but their faces were contorted into expressions of exquisite agony. It was a warped mind that had created such a thing, though a gifted one. Despite himself Verstohlen’s aesthetic sense was drawn to it.

  Then he noticed that slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bodies that made up the throne back were moving. This was no cunning sculpture. The limbs were real, as was the agony of their owners. His appreciation vanished. He chided himself silently for expecting anything else. He’d known what he’d find in the house. The nature of the enemy never changed.

  Around the edges of the chamber, more youths were scattered. They moved scarcely more than those trapped in the throne. Most were dressed in diaphanous robes that concealed little. All of them, men and women alike, seemed strangely listless. Their movements were miniscule, and ended almost as soon as they’d begun. With a spasm of distaste, Verstohlen saw that in place of eyes they had blank metal plates. The surface of the plates were polished, making it look as if they had mirrors sewn into their faces. One young girl seemed to be trying to crawl to the doorway. Every tiny shift of her body got her just fractions of an inch closer. Then it became clear that she had no idea where the door was. She started to head away from it. She was blind, aimless as the rest.

  The tortured youths weren’t the sole occupants of the chamber. The throne wasn’t empty. Perched elegantly on the seat was a woman Verstohlen recognised all too well. She wore a long, elegant gown, slit to the hip. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the lilac light. Even more so than she had been before, Natassja was flawless. Her beauty was so absorbing, so utterly captivating, that it couldn’t be anything other than unnatural. Nothing in the real world had a perfection of form like hers. Safe from the eyes of the world outside, here she was able to display herself in her full majesty.

  Verstohlen narrowed his eyes. Prostrate before her was a man. He wore the robes of a loremaster.

  Natassja regarded her devotee coolly.

  “You may get up now,” she said at length. Her voice rolled around the chamber like a soothing balm. It was at once lustrous and spare, arch and disdainful. Despite his fear, Verstohlen felt the hairs in his neck rise. He clasped the knife more tightly. This was dangerous. He should leave.

  He couldn’t leave.

  The man was Achendorfer. He slowly clambered to his knees. Lines of blood ran down the front of his robes. He’d been lying on a bed of wickedly curved spikes.

  “How do you feel?” asked Natassja, looking at the wounds with mild interest. Achendorfer was clearly in a lot of pain. His face was contorted with it, though somehow he managed to keep his voice reasonably steady.

  “To suffer for you is ecstasy, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. It didn’t look much like ecstasy from where Verstohlen was perched.

  Natassja didn’t appear impressed. She swept her eyes around the chamber.

  “Do you know what these young people are?” she asked. Achendorfer shook his head, still kneeling before her. “They’re my latest toys. Since Rufus has been so busy with the great project, I’ve had to amuse myself. They’re really coming on. I’m quite proud of these ones.”

  As she spoke, Verstohlen could see a cruel delight play across her magnificent features.

  “They’re from all over the place. Serving girls from Rufus’ estate. Street urchins. All beautiful of course, but poor enough not to be missed. Once we get them down here, we can get to work on them. Here’s the game. They know they have to escape. They hate it here, of course, as I’m so cruel to them. But you’ll notice we’ve taken their eyes away. So they’ve no idea where the way out is. And - this is the amusing part—their bones have been rearranged. Very carefully rearranged. You’ve no idea how hard that is to do without killing them. Every movement they make is agony. Excruciating agony. So they have to go very, very slowly. It might take them forever to get out. I can’t tell you how entertaining it is to watch them try.”

  Achendorfer looked grimly at the slowly moving bodies. He had the look of a man who’d stumbled into a nightmare but couldn’t free himself of it. Verstohlen suddenly realised why his skin had always been so pallid.

  “An ingenious entertainment, my lady,” he said, doing his best to sound enthused. “Have any of them made it yet?”

  “Not yet. When they do, I’ll have to think of some other gift for them. Some kind of reward. I suspect I’ll have plenty of time to ponder what that will be.”

  Achendorfer looked nauseous. “An excellent plan.”

  Natassja gave him a contemptuous glare. “I hope you mean that, loremaster. If I detect a lessening of your enthusiasm again, you know what awaits.”

  He glanced at the rack of spikes and a shudder visibly passed through his body.

  “Yes, my lady,” he mumbled.

  “Enough entertainment. Are you making progress?”

  “Yes, my lady. He’s left the city. He’s at the end of his strength. Your influence is having its effect. He lasted longer than I’d expected, but it’s turning his mind. The dreams have driven out his sleep. And there’s the root. The air’s full of it. He’s finished.”

  “Don’t be sure. He will resist until he cracks. Does he have the numbers to defeat the greenskins?”

  Achendorfer gave a nervous laugh. “He could defeat them on his own. He’s got days of frustration locked in him. I’ve seen to that.”

  Natassja didn’t smile. What amused her and what didn’t seemed arbitrary.

  “Good. That gives us the opening we need. Go back to the Averburg. Continue your work. The time has come for my husband and I to make our move. I’ll send word to him and we’ll make the final preparations together. When the moment comes, you will perform the final rite. Do not fail.”

  Achendorfer shuddered.

  “No, my lady.”

  Then Natassja suddenly paused. She cocked her head to one side, as if listening for something. Verstohlen tensed and drew back from the railing.

  “Oh, how delightful,” Natassja mused. “I think my games have just got even better.”

  Achendorfer looked around the chamber, confused. The youths still crept around in their agonised state. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s someone in the building,” she said, licki
ng her lips. “A new companion for my pets, perhaps. We’ll see.”

  Verstohlen felt his heart jump. He had to get out of the chamber. Suddenly, something kept him frozen in place. A heavy reluctance to leave came over him. He gripped the railing of the balcony, heart hammering.

  “Free yourselves, children,” said Natassja indulgently, looking at the miserable wretches crawling on the floor around her. “Just for the moment, I’ll let you go. But you know what you have to do. You know the rules. Stand!”

  As one, the mirror-eyed youths stood up. Their limbs seemed to snap into action, though the movements were strangely jerky. It was as if a puppet master had suddenly picked up the strings.

  Their mirrors went dark. Then, one by one, a purple light kindled in them. The youths started to smile. Their lips pulled round in ugly, tooth-filled grins. It stretched their faces horribly. Verstohlen guessed it wasn’t really them smiling.

  That sight helped break the spell. He pulled his hands from the railing and drew back from the edge. He left the package where it lay, going as quietly as he could. His fear was mounting. He had to keep under control. Every muscle in his body was screaming to run.

  “Bring him to me!” cried Natassja. From below, her slaves started hissing, and there was the sound of doors slamming open.

  Verstohlen felt panic overtake him. He gave up on stealth and turned to speed. He burst from the antechamber and careered down the stairs. The sound of the oncoming slaves echoed along the corridor. They were coming for him. The double doors had slammed open. His route back was blocked.

  Hoping there was a way out somewhere at the rear of the townhouse, Verstohlen turned to his right, back into the depths of the building and broke into a sprint. From behind, he could hear the noise of his pursuers. They’d lost their immobility. They were able to move. Like spiders.

  He gritted his teeth, tried to quell the panic within him. He tore down the curving corridor. As he went, he pulled the flintlock from its holster. His fingers felt clumsy. He cocked the hammer, feeling the cool metal respond instantly. Two shots, then he’d be back to knife-work. The blade in his favoured left hand, pistol in his right, he ploughed on.