by M. Walsh
Her vision clearing, she looked over and saw Scifer Olc crouched beside her. “You got some brass, girl.”
“Solid steel,” she choked. “What..? What … are you doing here..?”
“I would’ve thought that was obvious,” he said. “I’m saving you.”
“But … but …”
“I was actually going to dig you out,” he said, sounding amiable. “But I heard you scratching around, so I decided to wait and see if you could dig yourself out.” He grinned and gave her a look as though she was a dog that did an impressive trick. “Well done.”
Whatever is was that gave Katrina the will to endure and survive in spite of everything—the edge, as Jagger called it, or the hate, according to Scifer—it also gave her the strength to get to her feet and punch him in the face.
With that done, she collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and passed out. The last thing she heard was Scifer muttering, “You’re welcome.”
48
The rain came as the darkened sky promised. The clouds above were black, and the summer afternoon looked almost like night. The downpour did little to stave off the heat, which added fuel to the thunder and lightning. It came through the shattered roof of the Synclaire home and left a filthy river flowing down from the second floor and out the front door.
For some reason he wasn’t sure of, it made Lock think of the model boats he used to make. From a time that felt like centuries ago.
After Deck left, he and Seria packed some belongings and headed for the cemetery. Without thinking, he went to Aries’s stall. It was then it truly sank in he might never see his house again. Even if they all got out of this mess alive and safe, he doubted they would return to the Aster estate. After everything that happened, he couldn’t picture himself, Deck, Cassie, Troa, and Seria carrying on as they had before.
Coming to Graylands had indeed changed everything for everyone.
As they made their way to the cemetery, Lock overheard people on the street talking of something horrible discovered that morning. He guessed the bodies of the Sheriff and his men had been discovered. Part of him wondered if people would connect it to his family after they left. Would their disappearance and the condition of their house make people think they were also victims? Or would they be blamed?
The air was colder when they reached the cemetery. The place was still in shambles from the fight between Deck, Troa, and the warlocks. The ground was uprooted beside several graves, and the crumbled remains of corpses were littered everywhere. Lock couldn’t even imagine what the groundskeeper must have thought.
As they approached the church, he felt the familiar—for lack of a better word—darkness he associated with the Gauntlet. They dismounted outside and stared at the ruin. The rain continued to pour, but there was no wind. The thunder rumbled and lightning would flicker, but it was otherwise still and silent.
“It feels like walking into the cellar again,” he said.
“Worse,” said Seria.
He realized she was right—almost as if the wretchedness of the Gauntlet had grown since being left here.
“Screw it,” he said, drawing his sword. “Let’s get this over with.”
“What do you need that for?” Seria asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Makes me feel better.”
Troa had been the one to hide the Gauntlet, but that didn’t matter. Much like the cellar, both Lock and Seria could sense its evil presence. It almost seemed to be calling them, like it wanted to be found. For all Lock knew, it did.
The church was in a dire state. Part of the roof was gone, allowing waterfalls of rain to pour in. Even without the Gauntlet, the place had the stink of rotted wood and dust. Lock suspected it had been used more than once as a spot for animals to build nests, sleep, or relieve themselves. Maybe some drifters had, too.
Troa hid the Gauntlet beneath a pile of dead wood that might have once been a pew and placed the remains of some rusted holy symbol on top. Lock didn’t know if it did anything, but he thought he heard a hissing sigh when he removed the symbol—as if something somewhere was relieved to have it taken away.
Picking up the Gauntlet made his skin crawl. He threw it in a leather satchel and, without thinking or really knowing why, put a small Shining Shield of the Silver in the bag with it.
He looked at Seria. Her hair was dripping wet, and her tanned, orange skin was pale. Her violet eyes were sad and tired, which more than anything, struck him. He’d never seen her look like that, and he didn’t like it.
“Let’s go find your brother,” he said.
She gave a slight nod, and he worried she believed he was already dead. Imagining the worst—that Troa was dead and that Deck would fail and get both himself and Cassie killed—inspired a potent anger in him. He hated the thing in his satchel. His family had been ruined and uprooted because of it. It seemed absurd to hate an inanimate object, and yet the wretched thing certainly felt alive.
In fact, he thought, it felt so alive it seemed like it was calling out to something. Or something was calling out to it..?
“Lock, look out!” Seria shrieked, shoving him aside as they left the church.
With a mad cackle, the Jackal dropped from the roof, claws drawn. Lock hit the dirt, and his injured side flared in pain. The Jackal landed on top of Seria—plunging his claws into her shoulder. She was pinned to the ground beneath his weight and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Upon hearing her, Lock dropped the satchel holding the Gauntlet and swung his sword at the Jackal’s head with a roar. The Jackal grinned and blocked the attack with his claws.
“Oh ho!” he said, backing away. “Now you want to fight, eh?”
Lock stepped between Seria and the Jackal and held up his sword. He had known, before his family even thought of moving, that among the pilgrims, refugees, and drifters who ended up in Graylands, there were also pirates, thieves, murderers, and worse. But he never expected he might find himself face to face with any of them—much less, one such as the Jackal.
He stared at this lunatic and knew he was out of his league. Seria had called him a natural from the way he handled the warlocks, but he didn’t feel like one. The Jackal had a murderous glint in his yellow eyes, and Lock understood he was facing a monster.
“Shall we begin?” the Jackal said, hitting his blades together with a metallic clank.
He slashed with his claws—the crazed grin never leaving his face. Lock played defense, focused on leading the fight away from Seria. They fought among the gravestones, and Lock hoped the setting might work to his advantage in some way. Mostly, he was buying time, as it was clear his opponent was a superior fighter.
“Not bad,” the Jackal said. “Potential. But you’re soft. You’re no warrior.”
Lock remained silent. He felt flushed and hot, even with the chilled rain, and swallowed with an audible click. He held his sword, ignoring the pain in his side, and prepared for the next attack.
“But you think you are, don’t you?” the Jackal continued, cackling. “Why else would you be screwing around with the Gauntlet? Someone thinks he’s a hero.”
“I’m no hero.”
“I know you’re not. You’re just a good boy, and those are worse.”
Lock frowned.
“Heroes get other people killed. Good boys just get themselves killed.”
“What do you want?”
The Jackal laughed. It was a mocking cackle that angered him more and more. “They usually ask why,” he said. “Not that it’s relevant. I do as I please—that is all that matters to the likes of you.”
Coldness swept through Lock. His fear dulled, and focus came to him like it did when facing the warlocks.
“What matters is,” the Jackal said. “When I get the Gauntlet … oh, the blood. There will be such glorious blood.”
The madman cackled again, and Lock’s fear faded even more. In its place was disgust. “Are you listening to yourself?” he said. “You think you sound scary talking l
ike that? You’re a coward.”
The Jackal stopped laughing.
“You’re a spineless, weak coward,” he continued. “I don’t need to ask why because I can already tell.”
“That a fact..? What the hell do you know about anything, rich boy?”
“You think you’re some terrifying enigma that can’t be comprehended. You think you’re a reflection of a cruel and sadistic world. But guess what … you’re not. You’re a sad, pathetic waste of life who can only justify himself by tearing others down.”
The Jackal said nothing.
“I’m no warrior, but I know exactly what you are. ‘The world’s a terrible place, so that allows me to act like a reprehensible scumbag.’ You’re no better than a pissy teenager who just discovered life isn’t fair. Congratulations.”
The Jackal frowned. His eyes darkened and turned cold. “When I kill you,” he said, the mockery in his voice gone. “As I leave you bleeding on the ground, I want you to think about what I’m going to do to your Eldér pet.”
Lock gripped his sword tighter.
“And know this,” he added. “There are few finer pleasures in this world than soiling an Eldér cunt.”
Lock attacked with a rage he didn’t know he was capable of. His apprehension about fighting disappeared, and in its place came a determination to cut the Jackal’s head from his shoulders.
It wasn’t simply the threats—he knew they were meant to get a rise out of him. It wasn’t just the anger that had been building since he found the Gauntlet. It was the very idea of this man. This foul bastard who treated the lives of others like a joke. Who would violate a woman just to mock. Who desecrated anything sacred just for the sake of it and thought it made him strong.
Lock understood then he was facing evil. Not mythical creatures or demonic orcs or dark sorcerers. True, human evil—in all its arrogance and cruelty—and he refused to give in to it. More than that, he wanted to fight it, put it down, and destroy it. For the first time in his life, he understood Deck’s drive to fight.
He was still in his rage when he felt the blades sink into his gut.
A bolt of pain made him drop his sword, and for a moment, he didn’t understand what happened. Then reality came crashing in as he felt the Jackal’s claws cutting his flesh. Agony he’d never known came upon him, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
He heard the Jackal laugh as he collapsed to the ground. He felt the rain on his face, and he heard Seria screaming from somewhere that sounded far away. He clutched his wounded stomach, and when he looked, his hands were red.
The Jackal stood over him, blood dripping from his claws. “See..?” he said. “Just a good boy.”
Then he was gone, and Lock was left there, lying in the rain and bleeding. Summer was over.
He felt cold.
Part V
The Burning City
49
If not for the scraps of food occasionally thrown into his cell, Krutch would’ve thought he’d been forgotten.
It turned out leaving his pistol behind was a wise decision. Aside from preventing it from falling into the hands of Sebastian Clock, when the Wraiths arresting him realized he no longer had the weapon on him, they had no choice but to take him to Clock’s tower alive rather than kill him in the street.
They asked where the gun was, what he did with it, and some other questions on the same subject. He didn’t answer, and although he suffered a few blows to the head, the guards were reluctant to proceed until they received more orders. So Krutch was thrown in a dismal, windowless cell in the bowels of the tower and left there until Clock decided what to do with him.
That was a few days ago. Maybe more—it was hard to tell how much time had passed in his cell.
Since then, he had little to do except think and anticipate his inevitable doom. No doubt Clock would have him tortured until he revealed where he hid the pistol. Krutch liked to think he’d be able to withstand whatever was inflicted on him and heroically keep the weapon from Clock’s hands, but he wasn’t sure of his threshold for pain.
But what was taking so long? Did they already find the gun? Then why bother keeping him locked up in a cell? Wouldn’t Clock want to get right to it, one way or the other? Was he hoping to make Krutch sweat first? That didn’t seem his style.
Every few hours a plate of food was thrown in. He pissed in the corner, with no choice but to tolerate the smell, but decided to hold his bowels until necessary. It wasn’t a problem yet, but he wasn’t sure how long he could hold it. Maybe this was Clock’s torture, he wondered.
Sleep turned out to be the worst thing. When he last visited the tower, he felt a terrible presence in the air—some intangible darkness probably left by Roderick Bane. Whatever it was, it was worse in the dungeons. Every time Krutch dozed off, he would feel as though something was in the cell with him. If he dreamed, he saw a shapeless thing with glowing eyes and a laugh that could freeze water.
Bad dreams aside, he was there long enough for his fear to grow, reach its pinnacle, turn to confusion, become dread again, and taper off into boredom. Since coming to Seba, he’d been the center of a lot of people’s attention, whether he wanted it or not. Yet now, with everything coming to a head, it seemed no one wanted to speak to him.
He remained in his dungeon another day, until he finally heard someone unlock the cell door. It opened with a loud screech, and for a moment Krutch was blinded by what little light was outside. He felt a conflicting sense of fear his time to die had come, but also relief he wouldn’t be left in this cell to rot.
He couldn’t tell who was at the door—only seeing the dark shape of a person. “Time to talk, Leeroy,” said a gruff voice.
Without another word, he was dragged to his feet and brought outside. When his vision cleared, he realized he was being led along by Vident. Remembering Arkady, the impulse to attack the man came upon him. He knew he was no match, but it seemed he was a dead man either way.
Krutch didn’t get a chance to act on this before he was brought to the tower apex. Maybe he could make some kind of suicidal attempt to kill Clock instead? Provoking one of them to kill him right away would probably be the best option for him, he considered.
When he reached the top of the tower, he did not find Sebastian Clock with his usual pastel suits waiting for him. Instead, he found Harrison Elliot sitting at the stone slab of a desk. And unlike the collected Clock, Seba’s Magistrate looked apprehensive and worried—the look of a man dealing with bad news.
Vident threw Krutch into the chair in front of the desk and circled around to stand behind Elliot. Also unlike Clock, Elliot seemed uncomfortable having the large, armored bodyguard lurking behind him.
Whatever dread Krutch felt dissolved into confusion and curiosity. “What’s up..?”
Elliot fidgeted in Clock’s seat—looking too small and inadequate for it. Even he seemed aware of this. Clearing his throat and trying to sound authoritative, he said, “What have you done with Mr. Clock?”
“I wasn’t the one who killed her,” he replied.
“What?”
“Huh?”
“He thinks you mean Evelyn,” Vident said, sounding irritated.
“Not Mistress Clock,” said Elliot. He was sweating. “Mister Clock. What have you done with him?”
“Um … you guys arrested me, remember..?”
“Don’t play stupid!” Elliot hissed, slapping his hand on the desk. “Where is Sebastian Clock?!”
“I don’t know,” he replied, shrugging. “You tell me. I’ve been locked in a cell for … what day is this..?”
“Don’t play us for fools, Leeroy! We know you must have had one of your minions kidnap him! I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you must have..!”
“Clock’s been kidnapped? By who?”
Elliot was about to speak, but Vident silenced him by placing a hand on his shoulder. Without saying a word, he then approached Krutch with a grim scowl on his scarred face. All at once, Krutch got
a bad feeling … confirmed when Vident drew a dagger and plunged it into his thigh.
He let out a squeal, which was cut off by Vident back-handing him. He flew from his seat and hit the floor in a heap. He had a moment to regain his senses, when Vident stomped a heel into his kidney, sending tendrils of searing pain throughout his body.
“Where is Sebastian Clock?” Vident asked.
“I didn’t do anything to him!” he whined. “I’ve been in a cell! I’m not even supposed to be here!”
Vident responded by crushing his right hand with his foot. There was a crunch, and he bit his tongue. His eyes watered, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
“I’m telling you the truth!” he screamed. “I don’t know anything!”
“Magistrate Elliot!” Gojhi Olgorn called, rushing into the chamber. “Master! Vincent Dune has returned!”
* * *
Seba was as disgusting as ever. Not that Vincent Dune ever forgot what it was like, but a trip to the cooler and more scenic north highlighted it. There was beauty to be found in Graylands—and none of it was on this gods-forsaken plateau.
The lower levels of Sebastian Clock’s tower were an especially dismal place—as befitting a dungeon. No windows, bare stone, and a foul, musty atmosphere. Not even Dune was immune to the eerie dread that seemed built into the very foundation. The only good thing to be said about the place was it was cooler than anywhere else in the city. Small comfort to the unfortunates who wound up locked within, he admitted.
Cassie Synclaire looked especially mortified by her new surroundings. The girl, who was already fair-skinned, had turned a shade of white that almost matched her hair. Her eyes were wide, and Dune noticed her trembling as she was brought into the dungeon.
“Put her in one of the cells,” he said. “Clock might want to see her.”
She was locked in without a word. She asked no questions and made no fuss. In fact, she had been a cooperative hostage the entire trip. Was it fear, or perhaps she knew how meaningless it would be to plead? Despite Dune’s assurances he meant her no harm, she seemed convinced her doom was inevitable. He was a man of his word, but he lost no sleep over her mistrust either.
