The Last Benediction in Steel

by Wright, Kevin

  “Hunting criminals. Catching ‘em. Killing ‘em.” Sir Alaric wiped his chin. “Has to be done. A necessity. Chop off their heads. Hang ‘em. Whatnot. But breaking ‘em? By the hound. Hearing the deliberate snap of bone?” He shook his head. “Brings us all low.”

  “Sends a message, though,” I said.

  “Aye. We’re barbarians, despite our best attempts at Christ’s word.”

  “Now your King just beheads them or your ogres flog them rotten.” I kept a hand to Yolanda’s hilt. “You’ve come so far.”

  “Was an old Haesken family tradition,” Sir Alaric said.

  “Yeah?” I glanced at him sidelong. “Mine has ham every Easter.”

  Sir Alaric seemed suddenly consumed with knocking ashes from his pipe.

  Tied off and staked down, a mishmashed muddle of tents and lean-tos huddled in close groups through the old keep’s courtyard, silent but for the patter of rain against canvas. Eyes from within watched. I felt them but saw no one.

  “Slow-cooked over a spit…” I kept my eyes to the tents, to the doorways, the windows. Had the sense that king’s officers wouldn’t be loved round here. Or anywhere else for that matter. “Basted in honey. Brushed on like paint.” I swallowed. “Turning it round and round. Take all day.” I glanced over to the kid. “Ever have it that way?”

  “Eh? Huh? Wha—?” Young Parwicke stammered. I made him for nigh on par with the lad from the courtyard. From the slab. The crypt. “Ah … no, Your Majesty.”

  “Ain’t a king, kid.”

  “Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Young Parwicke’s shoulders were up by his ears, hands fidgeting, eyes feverishly scanning the grey stone structures. “Ain’t never had it that way.” He looked like he hadn’t had much of anything of late and for a fair decent stretch beyond. “Sir Luther,” he added after.

  “Too bad.” I smacked my lips. “Sweet as candy.”

  A stone toppled from a fallen tower. I nearly shit myself. Jesus. Tried playing it cool. Karl caught it, though, and chuffed a rough sidelong rumble.

  The kid said nothing, though, just glanced expectantly at Sir Alaric. It was his show. The weight Karl and I bore was trying to look big and scary. There was a certain freedom in being a base tool. No need for thought. Making decisions. Morality.

  “What say you, lad?” Sir Alaric chewed his pipe.

  “Aye, sir. That’s it.” Young Parwicke pointed. “Over yonder.”

  “The gaol?” Sir Alaric glared at a squat stone structure, a massive lock and chain crisscrossing its front door.

  “Nay. Beyond. The old chapel.” Young Parwicke jumped at a sound, real or imagined. He was one of many from the tent camp, but the only one we could find willing to spill. I’d hazard it’d make him about as popular as us but said nothing. We all have our reasons, and an empty belly was better than most. “C-Can I get my coin, sir?”

  “Nay, lad,” Sir Alaric strolled past him without looking, eyes only for the prize, “not til we’ve come to grips with our quarry.”

  “Uhh…”

  I could see it plain as the pimples on his mug, Young Parwicke was itching to bolt then and there, payment be damned, but greed’s a bitch and a bastard and a sticky thing all stitched inexplicably into one. A ponderous thing to bear, for sure, but even more so to set down.

  Young Parwicke glared at the old chapel. “Ain’t going in there.”

  I didn’t blame him.

  The old chapel rose crooked and gnarled, slathered en masse by an onslaught of ragged pine and bristling twig. Their tops were still green, but lower down was consumed by a riot of jabbing sticks devoid of any vibrance or joy or semblance of sanity. Where the trees began and chapel ended was difficult to say.

  “Lovely.” I eyeballed Young Parwicke. “Any folk squatting inside?”

  He gave me a look that clearly stated, Are you nuts?

  A bead of rain inched down my spine. “He still inside?”

  “I…I think so.” Young Parwicke offered a somber nod. “Saw him go in last night.”

  “Last night, huh?” An old oak door stood burst ajar, sopping with congealed rot. “So you really have no clue.”

  “Eh…?” The kid kicked a stone. “Nay, sir.”

  “Ever been inside?”

  “Nay.”

  “Great.” I turned to Sir Alaric. “By your leave?”

  Sir Alaric blew snot out one nostril then waved me onward. He didn’t seem one for pomp or ceremony.

  I nodded to Karl. “Take a look round back.”

  Karl offered a sarcastic bow and trudged off.

  “Sure it’s our man?” I scoured the ground. Footprints, some going in, some out, scarred the muck.

  “It’s Rudiger,” the kid answered.

  “Alright. And what’s he look like?”

  “He’s a … a big fella.” Young Parwicke flared his arms out. “Not tall, mind, but stout. Wide. Dark brown hair. Sports sideburns that connect nigh on in a beard. Was,” he screwed his eyes shut, “wearing a reddish-colored hat.”

  “He by himself?” I asked.

  “No. Was with another fella and the Grey Lady.”

  “Grey Lady?” I said. “Like a noble lady?”

  “Don’t know,” Young Parwicke said. “Was wearing finery. But all mucked up. Looked like it mighta been white or pink once.”

  “Fancy. What’d she look like?”

  “Like hell.” Young Parwicke picked at his lip. “Long hair all a-tangle. Light brown. Slender. Pale.”

  “No name?”

  Young Parwicke shook his head. “Folk just call her the Grey-Lady. Wanders around town. Up here from time to time. Always talking to herself, laughing low. Giggling. Folks ken she’s mad.”

  A vision subsumed me, of the corpse outside the Half-King, of the haggard lady leering as she glided down the alley, giggling. “And what do you ken?”

  “I ken I give a wide berth when I hear her coming.”

  “Great.” I took a deep breath, shook away the vision. “Tell me about this third fella.”

  “Kind of a funny-looking.”

  “How so?”

  “A tall, hefty bloke. A big belly.” Young Parwicke patted his stomach. “Like a lady with child. But with arms and legs like toothpicks. Balding and a grayed beard. Wore a brown homespun cloak.”

  “Know his name?”

  “Nay.” Young Parwicke blinked. “New fella come to camp. From the south side or so’s someone said.”

  “Who said?” I asked.

  Young Parwicke considered a moment then shrugged. “Don’t know. Just someone.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “Heard he was a brewer. Others say he’s an old monk.”

  More drivel. “What’s the word on Rudiger?”

  “Used to be a miller, maybe, once upon a time. Folks ain’t like being around him. Even talking about him. They ken him weird.”

  “Weird…?” The hair on my neck stood up.

  Young Parwicke picked at his ear.

  “Alright then, lad,” Sir Alaric said. “Many thanks. You go hunker down yonder.” He patted his coin purse. “We’ll even up on our way out.”

  The kid didn’t need to be told twice. He scurried off rat-quick, disappearing in the shadow of a blink.

  “You playing games, old man?” I squared up on Sir Alaric, crossed my arms, gave him the hard glare.

  “Eh?” Sir Alaric adjusted his cravat. “What?”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” I said. “What’d our man do?”

  “I told you already. Murder.”

  “Yeah…” Something was off. I could smell it. Taste it. “What is it about this murder? In particular?”

  “Well,” Sir Alaric scowled, “murders would be more apt. Few folks’ve gone missing, and Rudiger’s the last one seen with more’n a couple of ‘em. Folk ain’t rushing to talk, though. Not in the open. Our Parwicke’s a brave lad.”

  “Stupid,” I corrected. “How many murders?”

  “Enough.”

  “
So he’s good.”

  “Might not call it good, but, aye. Fella’s proficient.”

  “And what about the weird?”

  Karl appeared, trudging round the corner of the chapel, picking thistles from his beard. “Nothing out back but a trench-shitter by the curtain wall.” He showed some teeth as he drew back the string on his crossbow and set a bolt within. “Couple old pictured windows. Narrow. Mostly busted out.”

  “Can he get out of them?”

  “If he greases up.”

  “Well, let’s hope he’s no Dago.” I gave Karl the lowdown then turned back on Sir Alaric. “And this Grey-Lady? What of her?”

  “Warrant’s for Rudiger.” Sir Alaric shook his head. “Don’t say nothing about cackling hags.”

  “And we’re in it for the long haul, yeah?”

  “Aye. Like the old days.” Sir Alaric drew his sword. It was an old blade, nothing fancy, but serviceable, staid, not unlike him. “Blood and iron. Dead or alive. Him or us. You ready, lads?”

  “No.” But I stepped inside despite, Yolanda gleaming at the forefront. “But I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

  Inside, it was drips. Cold. Slow. Drips. Old pews sat hoary and cracked, all stacked in a pile in the corner. The saw-toothed edges of stained glass rimmed the empty windows like the jaws of some long-dead beast. Tree limb and root squirmed through the ceiling, the walls, the floor, upending slats and cracking mortar. A massive anvil stood immobile at the head of the room, as stout and immovable as Thor’s Mjolnir.

  “Used to be a cross set atop the anvil.” Sir Alaric crossed himself.

  “Old gods and the new,” I said.

  Karl hocked a wad.

  I wiped Yolanda off with my cloak and laid her bare across my shoulder.

  Karl stayed along the right, laying a gnarled hand atop the anvil as he passed.

  I took the left.

  “Stairs are over yonder.” Sir Alaric lit a second lantern and handed it to me. “Round the far corner.”

  “You used to come here?” I asked.

  “Aye, for Mass. Back when I had hair.” Sir Alaric pointed with his pipe stem and stepped over a warped pew. “Stairs. Over there.”

  The stairs were in fair shape. Some dust. Nitre. A few cracks here and there.

  “Footprints.” Karl was already there, trudging through clutter.

  “So, I guess stealth’s out the window?” I deadpanned.

  “You want to be next out?” Karl turned, his crossbow with him.

  “We’re on a ground floor.” I glared down the stairs and into darkness. “Idiot.”

  Karl rumbled a laugh as he started down.

  “Hold—” I laid a hand on Karl’s shoulder. “You smell it?”

  “Eh?” Sir Alaric frowned. “What?”

  Karl didn’t turn; he was focused on the down. “You fart?”

  “Well, yeah, but there’s something else, too. Something dead.” If anyone was still down there, they knew we were here, so I carried on full-bore. “Oy, Rudiger, you fucker!” I called into the void. “You come on up quiet, hands to the fore and empty as my heart, and it’ll go smoother for you.” For us, too, but murderers rarely give a damn beyond their own skins. I knew it true of myself. “Cross my heart. Hope to die…”

  We waited.

  No one answered.

  “Fuck it,” I said. “Onward. To glory.”

  “Yar,” Karl trekked onward, me at his shoulder, brandishing the lantern in one hand, Yolanda ready for the devil himself in the other.

  Karl held up a clenched fist. Halt. A wide door stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Got it.” I shouldered past. “Ready?”

  “Yar.”

  “Don’t shoot me in the head.”

  “I’ll aim fer your arse.”

  “Good.” A burst of bent bravado to heat the blood and I let loose, a sharp rasp of breath, a hand to the wall, then hurling forth bodily, throwing my weight into my heel and taking the door above the knob. There’s just something viscerally satisfying about kicking in a door, something that clicks with the heart. The soul. Some innate tendency of man. Maybe it’s just the base pleasure of wrecking something that works.

  The door was old and crusty and splintered on impact, folding nigh in half but somehow not collapsing completely. The jamb-half clung persistently to hinge while the latch-side shattered inward.

  The stench hit me first, a gale reek, a hammer fist to my senses. “Jesus.” I breathed through my mouth. “Smell it now?”

  Karl grunted assent.

  I ducked the hanging wreckage and shouldered blade-first into darkness.

  A glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye “Wha—!” and something struck me. Hard. A gush as the air left my lungs, and I was off my feet, weightless, rough arms crushing my midsection and driving me back, back, back smashing against a wall. Yolanda clattered somewhere as my head ricocheted off stone, stars cascading before my eyes.

  But I kept my feet, spreading out, remaining upright more through buttressing against the wall than anything else. I twisted, over-hooking one arm. Hucked a blind uppercut. One, two, three, hammering flesh, face, bone. Growling and gnawing at my mail shirt, the fucker clamped down. His arms squeezed, my ribs squealing in failing protest as he folded me in half to the ground.

  “Fuck!” I smashed him, kneed him, but had nothing behind it.

  Karl roared in the cavern twilight. “Move!”

  “Shoot—” I croaked.

  The fucker paused a second, distracted maybe, loosening for sure, and shifted, trying to muscle me over. Use me for shield duty. Cowardice chicken-shitting at full bore, I squirmed, bucked and turned, jamming a thumb into his eye, growling obscenities while I finger-fucked hard, scraping nail against slick concave bone.

  “Arrrgh!” The fucker recoiled, shadows dancing in the dim lantern light, a hand clutched to his ruined eye as Karl loosed the crossbow.

  Thunk!

  The bolt impacted, burying into flesh as I kicked out one of his legs.

  Flailing, he slammed down within arm’s reach, and I was clutched on and dagger stabbing gut-chest-gut fast as a maid churns butter. He grunted at first impact, realized what was happening on third and by fifth was somehow game again, smashing me back, snarling to his feet.

  Room reeling, “Grab him!” I dove for his legs, wrapping my arms round his calf, rolling and sucking it up, slitting his Achilles and nearly stabbing myself in the face. I lost the dagger but grabbed his other leg. Wheezing, rasping, slavering, he spun, hopping, ripping free.

  “He’s loose!” I scrambled to my feet, ripping another dagger free.

  Karl growled, sparks ripping a comet trail as his thane-axe glanced off the fucker’s head and along the wall.

  The fucker scrambled for the stairs, took them four at a time with me scrambling after, shouting, “Coming your way, old man!”

  The fucker barrel-assed up, moving like a rabid beast, forearm-bashing Sir Alaric aside like a scarecrow on a blustery day. Sir Alaric groaned against the wall, clutching his chest, sliding down, curled crumpled across the floor.

  The fucker was up and out the door before I could make the landing, “Sir Alaric!” I rasped, and he flicked his hand, waving me on, “Go … go on.”

  I burst out the chapel and hauled across the way, past the gaol, towards the tent city. The fucker tore through the front of a tent and slashed out the back to the sound of screams, disappearing in the haphazard labyrinth of the squatter camp. The sky had one eye cracked awake with dawn grey, and I followed the sound of footsteps splashing through mud.

  “Karl—” Huffing, I stopped behind the tent he’d cut through. “See where he went?”

  “What the hell?” A man poked his head out, a rusty carpenter’s hammer clutched in his fist.

  I ignored him, scouring the ground for prints. “Any idea?” The ground was lousy with them. “He can’t get far.”

  Folk were emerging from tents, looking none too happy, and all to
o armed.

  “This way.” Karl trudged off. “The gates. Odin’s eye…”

  “Oy!” More folk roused, heads poking out like rats from a warren.

  “Yeah.” I trotted through the tents and lean-tos, looking for fresher prints. “He can’t get far.” My new mantra. Repeat it enough and it’d come true. I’d sunk steel into him. Six times. At least. “I gouged his eye and slit his bloody Achilles, for God’s sake.” And Karl’d skewered him then sheared nigh on half his face off.

  He couldn’t have gotten far. Couldn’t have lasted long.

  But he had. And he did. And he kept on doing.

  Sir Alaric finally caught up to us, gimping along, clutching his chest, lurched over, concave as a question mark.

  “Strong work, old man,” I deadpanned.

  “Apologies, lad. Errrg…” Sir Alaric wiped his nose with the back of his hand then hefted his sword in the burgeoning dawn. “But then, this usually does the trick.” It was dripping crimson from point to hilt.

  …over tankards of flat ale came tales of a monstrous folk who dwelt within a valley more remote than any dared travel. They ate the flesh of man, drank of his blood, worshiped a demon god.

  There were stories galore, yet then, there were always stories…

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 12.

  DEAD END,” I called back up.

  We were back in the chapel’s wine cellar. Or crypt. Or root cellar.

  Or whatever the hell it was.

  Sir Alaric didn’t answer. I was fair sure he was slumped at the top of the stairs, nursing a broken sternum and wheezing like my dead grandma after huffing her Sunday pipe. And I was thinking hard on that pipe-weed, remembering its blue vanilla smoothness, the cool wrapping tendrils contorting in dragon shapes. Cause I was breathing through my mouth.

  We’d tracked Rudiger through the Grey-Lark Forest. By prints and by blood. Then lost his trail once the blood stopped and he’d made town. Which was odd. Usually, a bloke’s blood stops running, so does he. But the world’s an inbred blackguard sometimes. Most times. And it’s nigh on impossible to track a mark across cobble unless you’re heeling him direct. Eyes on the prize. Or hearing at the very least. But it didn’t matter, cause he was curled up in the attic of some derelict villa. Or wedged against a post on the far side of a fence, some mongrel worrying away at his cooling corpse. Wherever he was, he was dead.