by Mike Wild
Not just similar to the star chart. A perfect match.
This was the place. He had found his destination at last.
All he needed to do now was confirm what he believed.
Redigor’s attention shifted from the night sky to West’s immediate surroundings. The Fulsome Wench was sinking, its hull already half beneath the waves, and as a result what the second mate saw was wildly skewed, disorientating, obscured at times by the flailing bodies and screaming faces of his shipmates. Redigor was annoyed that they were stopping him seeing what he wanted to see in the few moments of their lives that remained.
West sank beneath the surface and suddenly all was a maelstrom of air bubbles and darkness, but then, for the briefest of times, he came up and Redigor smiled.
There. No more than snatches and glimpses, but enough. Outlined against the night sky, in the distance, a darkened island of sharp and jagged rocks whose desolation was palpable even through this vision. And before it – washing the island again and again from view – a swirling, unnatural body of water that was responsible for the sinking of the Fulsome Wench.
It was fitting that William West should choose that moment to breathe his last and drown. Fitting that the eyes of the figurehead dimmed and reverted to wood once more.
Because their job was done.
He had seen something in the water. Part of the water.
The legends, it seemed, were true. There was hope for him yet.
The Hel’ss wasn’t just approaching Twilight.
It was already here.
CHAPTER THREE
“EXCUSE ME,” A voice said, loud and demanding enough to be heard above the general hubbub in the tavern, “but I think there’s something wrong with this stew.”
Everything in the Here There Be Flagons stopped. Red Deadnettle half way down a jug of thwack; Fester Grimlock and Jurgen Pike about to slam down winning hands of Quagmire; Pete Two-Ties and Ronin Larson arguing, as they always did at this time of day, about the true depth of Bottomless Pit and how many times one of them would have to throw the other idiot in to fill it up. Even Hetty Scrubb, gigglingly high on one of her many ‘combustible herbs’ lapsed into silence with an uncharacteristic look of horror on her face.
Behind the bar, Aldrededor stopped towelling down the bowls of those regulars who had seen nothing fit to complain about and mouthed, “Oh, gods, no…”
All eyes turned towards the kitchen door.
It was a delayed reaction, but the sound came soon enough from within. Hoarse yet high pitched, and, to those who didn’t know otherwise, somehow strangely… reptilian.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”
The man who had complained, some kind of city fop by the look of him, couldn’t help but look at the door, too. And though he couldn’t say why, he started to swallow rapidly and involuntarily.
“Did I say something wrong?” he said, glancing around in exasperation.
A hand slapped down on his right shoulder. “If I were you, friend, I’d get out of here now. Get out while you can still father a child.”
Another slapped down on his left. “But run fast, for her knives, not to mention her tongue, can sever your manhood half a league away.”
“Knives? Tongue? What? the man gasped. “You’re joking, right?”
Both regulars burst into raucous laughter, and the man looked relieved. But the laughter stopped abruptly, leaving only shaking heads and deadly serious expressions.
“No.”
A dagger thudded into the wooden beam right next to the man’s head, quivering so fast that a few seconds passed before it ceased to be a blur. The fact that bits of moist, sliced onion slithered down and then dropped off its blade did not make it appear any more homely or less lethal.
The frame of the kitchen door outlined something long and thin and oddly disturbing that appeared there and began to make its way towards the table where the man sat. He tried to run, as advised, but suddenly, almost preternaturally, the something was there, looming over him, and despite all his survival instincts he couldn’t help but sit and stare in mesmerised astonishment at its long, hawk-like nose.
“Oh, please, don’t stare at the nose,” someone whispered urgently from nearby.
Dolorosa shot them a look, and then, with an intake of breath, drew herself up to her full height, folded her arms and smiled. With the lipstick she was wearing, the smile looked something like a spray of blood at a murder scene.
“You havva the complaint?” she said.
“No, n-no. L-lord of All, no,” the man stuttered quickly, but then realised there was no denying what he’d said. “Well, all right, yes, it’s your Surprise Stew…”
“And wotta seems to be the problem?”
“Urm, for one thing, look,” the man said, pointing, “there’s something moving in it.”
“Yes?”
“Well, something moving in it wasn’t quite the ‘surprise’ I was expecting.”
Dolorosa’s eyebrow rose. “The leetle redda thing? It issa macalorum. It infussa your dish with flavour. Itta loves to do so.”
“Macalorum?”
“It issa local ’erb. It ees a bastardo to catch.”
“Catch? Excuse me but herbs don’t run away.”
“Nor do they ’ave bladders.” Dolorosa watched as the small red herb squirted something into the stew, and shrugged. “Whatta can I say?”
The man swallowed. “Are you saying that this macalorum is peeing in my stew?”
“It issa full of vitamins.”
“Okay, right,” the man said doubtfully, poking in the stew with his fork. What looked like a couple of white eyeballs bobbed to the surface. “But what about these?”
Dolorosa peered intently into the bowl. “Ah. You avva me there.”
“What? You don’t know what they are?”
The question prompted a slap about the head. “Of coursa I know whatta they are. Eet wassa the joke, you stupeed man.”
Dolorosa emitted what for her passed as a laugh – hahahahaharrrr! All of the regulars in the Flagons echoed it. Hahahahaharrrr.
“Then,” the man asked hesitantly, “what are they?”
“They are, owwa you say, the love spheres ovva the purple skoonk.”
The man paled. “You mean its –”
“Delicioso, yes?” Dolorosa interrupted proudly. “A rare delicacy and,” she cast a glance at Red Deadnettle, the ruddy-faced poacher raising his tankard and nodding back, “locally sourced.”
The man picked up his napkin and wiped the edges of his mouth slowly and solidly, as if trying to erase even the memory of what he had so far consumed.
“Let me get this straight. Am I to understand I’ve been eating vermin’s gonads and the waste products of an over-excitable, incontinent weed?”
“You havva the problem with that?”
The man stood abruptly, his chair making a loud scraping sound on the wooden floor. He tossed his napkin angrily down onto the table.
“Madam, do you know who I am?” he declared.
“You’d be wiser asking who she is,” Aldrededor muttered behind the bar. He shook his head. “Be merciful, my wife.”
“Have you ever heard,” the man continued, “of the Miramas Times?”
Dolorosa had, of course. It was the oldest news-sheet on the peninsula and, back in the day, had often reported her and Aldy’s maritime exploits. Out of the many headlines the two of them had engendered, her favourite remained Perilous Pirates Pillage Pontaine – Again!
“I see that you have,” the man said, smiling. “Have you heard, then, of its respected food critic, H. Borton Jeckle?”
“Yes!” Dolorosa blurted. “Wait, no.”
“I, Madam, am H. Borton Jeckle.”
“You never are.”
“Indeed I am. And I came to your establishment today to consider bestowing it one of my coveted Jeckle Moons.”
Dolorosa’s lips curled back. “You feelthy purravert…”
“Madam?”
“No one flashes their bottom inna my taverno!”
“It is an award, Madam. A mark of distinction that is highly regarded by anyone of taste. A Jeckle Moon means that the food in an establishment is of an exceptional quality.”
Dolorosa’s smile suddenly reappeared, twitching, and this time on the other side of her mouth. She swept her hand back through her hair.
“Anda you say I am to be considered for one of these Moons?”
Jeckle considered his stew one more. “I regret, Madam, only if it is indeed provided by my arse. And only then while it is leaving your establishment. The fare you have served me today was the most disgusting and repellant concoction it has ever been my displeasure to con – ”
The last syllable disappeared down Jeckle’s throat along with two of his teeth, and with surprising sprightliness for a man of his age Aldrededor leapt the bar to support the critic as he staggered against a wall.
“You must forgive my wife,” he said, glancing towards the far end of the tavern where, up a small flight of skewed steps, sat an empty Captain’s Table. He grabbed Dolorosa’s arm as it tried to go for the knife still embedded in the wooden beam. “She is… missing a friend.”
“She is missing her marbles,” Jeckle protested through bloodied lips. “I demand an apology, Sir!”
Aldrededor sighed as he and his wife struggled. “Dolorosa, apologise to the nice man.”
“I willa not.”
“Perhaps,” Aldrededor gasped, “it might be better if you leave. Your meal is, of course, on the house.”
“Correction, sir. The meal belongs in a horse.”
“Heeeeeeee…”
“Oh, now you have reminded her of her friend again. Please, for your own safety, leave now.”
“Sir,” H. Borton Jeckle said, “you do not have to ask me twice.”
The much respected food critic of the Miramas Times exited the Flagons with an harumph and the swish of a tailor-made cloak. Outside, his carriage awaited, his driver slumped in a doze at the reins. As H. Borton Jeckle mounted the rig and deposited himself into his upholstered seat, he reflected that while the county of Tarn was indeed a delightful place, and the Flagons itself ideally situated for the sort of weekend sojourn his readers might appreciate, there was no way on Twilight he could recommend it to them. Just the opposite, in fact. On reflection, he supposed he should have expected little more from a tavern that was reputedly owned by a female outlaw.
He prodded his driver in the back, demanding they begin the long journey home.
The driver tipped forward onto the reins, causing a disquieted stirring from the horses. It seemed he was not dozing but dead.
“Broggle, Lord of All, man,” Jeckle said, slithering back out of the carriage. Maybe the sun had got to the poor fellow, or maybe his heart had seized, but whatever the cause it was damned inconvenient. If he couldn’t find another driver he might have to spend the night in this hellshole while he sent a runner for a replacement.
“Broggle, you’re fired,” Jeckle declared.
The body of his driver twisted as he prodded it, falling onto its back on the seat. He stared, glassy-eyed, up at Jeckle and the critic’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he saw the blood red slash across the driver’s throat. The man’s livery was sodden and stained through.
Grabcoins, he thought, with a thudding heart. Probably in league with that Hooper woman. Well, that settled it. Another reason to warn his readers to stay away. Actively discourage them from coming anywhere near here, in fact.
A hand clamped tightly over his mouth while the point of a blade pressed into his spine.
“Who are you?” a voice breathed into his ear. The hand was released briefly so that he could provide an answer.
“Jeckle. H. Borton Jeckle,” he answered quickly. He swallowed as some kind of flying sphere hovered in front of his face, as if examining him.
There was a moment’s hesitation from his assailant. “The food critic for the Times?”
Jeckle’s eyebrows rose but, his mouth covered once more, he could only nod. A half sob escaped him, muffled by the hand.
“Then this is unfortunate, Mister Jeckle, for I find your column edifying. But you are not who we hunt and we cannot alert those inside to our presence. Do you understand this?”
Of all things, H. Borton Jeckle thought, what, don’t be ridiculous, man! What could a grabcoin know of my column? He never vocalised the thought, though, as a moment later he felt something so sharp it didn’t even hurt slash across his throat, and the only sound he could make was a gurgle.
His wide-eyed, spasming body was lowered quietly to the ground, where it subsequently produced a large red puddle, and died. His assailant stared down, thinking how Jeckle’s job would have benefited had he lived. In his profession it would be a distinct advantage to have two mouths.
He signalled his men, who emerged from the bushes in which he himself had hidden, and in absolute silence they moved towards the Flagons. The shadows that they, and at least six Eyes of the Lord flitting about the tavern like angry flies, cast fleetingly at the windows went unnoticed as, inside, there was a communal burst of laughter.
“LOVE SPHERES!” PETE Two-Ties bawled, his voice cracking into a hoarse wheeze as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe tears from his eyes. “The man was a buffoon!”
“Flashing his arse!” Fester Grimlock cried.
“He didn’t realise you knew who he was!” Red Deadnettle joined in. He took a deep slug from his jug. “The bit about the macalorum!”
“No, Red, that bit was true,” Aldrededor said, eyeing him steadily across the bar.
“It was?” Red said, shrugging. “Well, it’s never done me any harm.”
“Whatta makes a man like heem think we would like to be in his stupeed guide,” Dolorosa said. “‘Madam, do you know who I am?’” she mimicked. “Pah!”
“Perhaps you should have keeled him,” Jurgen Pike mimed, “lika thees.” His hand stabbed down repeatedly, as if holding a knife.
Dolorosa suddenly loomed over him as she had over Jeckle, arms folded tightly across her chest, fingers drumming. “What issa thees stupeed accent in whicha you speak?”
Hetty Scrubb splurted out the cocktail from which she had been attempting a quivering sip, and once more giggled uncontrollably. But the giggle faded a moment later as the surface of her drink was unexpectedly covered by a fall of dust from between the skewed wooden beams of the ceiling. The Flagons being so old it was normal practice to cover drinks against the possibility of such falls, but only on the occasions there was someone upstairs.
Hetty’s eyes moved suspiciously upwards, one slightly slower than the other, and just as the two levelled out the fall of dust was followed by a low creak of the timbers. From behind the bar, Aldrededor looked over at Dolorosa and shook his head at the slight look of hope in her eyes. They were all aware of the circumstances that dogged Kali and neither of them had seen her for over two months, and when she did return to say hello and dump her washing, their adopted offspring always used a different means of entering the Flagons, in case she had been compromised.
The last time she had come, she had come from upstairs.
“My ’usband,” Dolorosa hissed. “I theenk we havva the uninvited guests.”
“Then, my darling wife,” Aldrededor responded, with a twinkle. “I suggest we prepare to repel boarders…”
Aldrededor moved to the chest by the Captain’s Table, heaved it open and drew out a crackstaff – one of the few still working that had been left behind by one of Jengo Pim’s men – and flicked it on. It crackled softly, like hand-held lightning. Dolorosa, meanwhile, plucked her kitchen knife from where it remained embedded in the wooden beam, and from her garter produced another, far more deadly looking blade, which she proceeded to toss full circle in her palm. The two of them looked towards the base of the stairs.
“Stay where you are,” Dolorosa whispered to Hetty Scrubb and Pete Two-Ties. “Red and Ronin
will look after you.”
“Give ’em one for me,” the diminutive herbalist requested. She rose and hopped from leg to leg, punching the air before her. “In the nuts. Yes, yes, in the nuts.”
“The only place she can reach,” Pete Two-Ties sighed.
As Dolorosa and Aldrededor approached the first two risers, Red Deadnettle slid from his stool, far more gently and quietly than might be expected from such a giant of a man, and, from beneath, withdrew a large wooden club. Ronin Larson, the blacksmith, joined him in standing guard, his weapon a molding hammer he kept perpetually slung on his broad leather toolbelt and which he now pounded into his open palm. From his grin, it seemed he was looking forward to molding a few Final Faith faces rather than metal for a change.
Unfortunately, neither he nor the others were prepared for the type of attack that was to come. The ground floor of the Flagons was thrown into chaos as three of the whorled glass windows were smashed in a series of determined blows from sword hilts, and through them came three canisters that spewed a green fog across the bar area.
“Swamp gas!” Dolorosa hissed, and began to cough uncontrollably. As did the others. A few seconds later they were all on their knees, weapons dropped. The gas began to dissipate and, as it did, the door to the tavern was kicked open. Swords of Dawn flooded the room, each placing a weapon at the throats of those who were incapacitated.
But other than stand guard, they made no further move.
They were waiting for something.
And that something was the creaking of the tavern’s stairs as they signalled the arrival of a figure descending them. Their uninvited guest, it seemed, knew how to make an entrance.
“My name,” he said, “is Gregory Morg.”
Dolorosa squinted at him through stinging eyes, a man dressed in robes and armour that identified him as neither Swords of Dawn or Faith, but somewhere in between. He was likely one of those damned mercenaries Jakub Freel had conscripted. “This tavern is now commandeered, and you are in the custody of the Final Faith.”