by Duncan Pile
“I go where I’m told,” he said, trying to sound neutral, but he was unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
Thankfully, the Wrench misinterpreted it: “I see you understand what an honour this is,” he said. “Don’t get any ideas though. It’s just temporary. The guard you’re standing in for will be back in a few days.”
Jonn feigned nonchalance. “Fine by me.”
The Wrench didn’t respond. They walked on in silence through the hallways until they reached the wide corridor that led to Belash’s suite of apartments. Two of the elite guard were on duty at the entrance and, when they saw the Wrench, they stood aside to let him and Jonn pass. The walls were lined with elaborate tapestries and lit by evenly spaced, fitted brass lamps. Jonn had glanced down this corridor once before, and had caught a glimpse of silk, the trailing wisp of a woman’s clothing as she ran past. This was where Belash kept his girls. His heart started to race at the thought of finding Adela. What if he actually saw her? He’d have to manage the gargantuan task of suppressing his feelings, and school his face to stillness. If it happened, at least he didn’t have to worry about her giving it away. She would only see a stranger, another cruel man among many.
They turned right at the end of the corridor, where it was bisected by another passageway, and almost collided with a dark-haired girl, hurrying along with her arms full of bundled cloth. She cried out when she saw them, dropping the bundle to the floor.
“Sorry!” she said, refusing to look either of them in the eye. She crouched down and hurriedly gathered the cloth into her arms
“Sendana dropped the cloth,” a gleeful voice cried. A curvaceous woman leant out from one of several doorways lining the corridor, her face alight with cruel pleasure. Rich, red hair tumbled luxuriously over one shoulder, sweeping over her ample, partially-exposed bosom. She would have been considered beautiful by almost any man, but her expression was cruel and haughty, and all Jonn saw in that moment was ugliness. Other girls stuck their heads out too, but quickly pulled them back in when they saw the Wrench. That is, with the exception of the curvaceous woman, who stayed where she was. Sendana scurried away, leaving them alone with her.
“Hello Kaitlin. I’ve come to see Belash,” the Wrench said.
“Have you now? Wait there and I’ll find out if he wants to see you,” she responded, and strutted off down the corridor. Jonn was staggered. Nobody spoke to the Wrench that way! He glanced at the henchman.
“Kaitlin is allowed certain privileges,” the Wrench said, interpreting Jonn’s expression correctly. “She’ll get what’s coming to her eventually. Belash has had favourites before but, when he tires of them, they are worse off than any of the other girls. When the time comes, I may ask him for the pleasure of Kaitlin’s company.”
An image came to Jonn’s mind – something he had tried very hard to forget; Stephanos, tortured to death at the Wrench’s sadistic hands. The thought of the disturbed henchman getting his hands on a woman, any woman, made Jonn’s blood boil. It took everything he had not to wrap his hands around the Wrench’s neck right there and then, and squeeze the life out of him.
“Are you alright?” the Wrench asked, looking at Jonn quizzically. “You’ve gone red in the face.”
Jonn coughed loudly to cover the moment and forced himself to breathe. “Had something in my throat.”
“Try not to choke,” the Wrench said dryly.
Kaitlin returned, sweeping down the corridor towards them. “Come with me,” she said imperiously, turning around with a flick of her luxuriant hair and heading back the way she’d come. They followed her along the corridor and round a corner. Jonn kept trying to glance through doorways as they passed, but the Wrench caught him at it immediately.
“Don’t stare,” he hissed. “Especially if Belash is around. He guards his girls jealously.”
Jonn thought of the poor creatures tossed into the cages and left to rot, and had to subdue another wave of fury. He was in very heart of the vipers’ pit! The drug trafficking was bad, as was every other part of Belash’s organisation, but what angered him the most was the way these women were treated. The crime-lord saw them as possessions. He used them, damaged them, and here, in this exclusive part of headquarters, the abuse was at its worst. Jonn tried to keep a lid on his feelings, his self-control tested to its limit. Neither Belash nor the Wrench had become what they were without being able to read peoples’ emotions. Jonn poured icy water on his anger. He was here for one reason and one reason only – to find Adela.
They turned another corner and entered a courtyard. A covered portico surrounded the open area, supported by graceful columns, and a large pool occupied the centre of the open space, graced with lilies and flowering shrubs. Stone benches surrounded the pool, on which sat a dozen women in varicoloured silks. Belash had certainly spared no expense in making himself comfortable. It would have taken a lot of work to take out such a large section of the roof and build this courtyard. Everything about the place looked languid and restful, but Jonn wasn’t deceived. It was just a veneer of physical beauty, hiding the worst form of moral corruption. It was a whitewashed tomb.
“This way,” Kaitlin said, leading them around two sides of the portico. In the far corner of the courtyard, an elegant stairway wound gracefully up to the roof. She ascended the stairs, her hips swaying lasciviously before them and disappeared onto the roof with a swish of silk. The Wrench went up next; quickly, energetically, and then it was Jonn’s turn. He climbed the stairs with forced steadiness, keenly aware as he emerged onto the roof that he could well be within a few yards of Adela.
The roof garden was a pleasure palace built on top of the warehouse. Waves of silk billowed gently from long, slender beams of expensive-looking wood, and folding dividers separated the interior into ‘rooms’. Comfortable couches were strewn about the place, and a palatial-sized bed could be seen through gaps in the hanging silks. Outside the residence, many-fronded pot plants were spaced all around, and bronze braziers stood ready for use in the cold. And everywhere, there were beautiful women, dressed in silks of many colours, their exotic perfumes carrying on the breeze.
Jonn surreptitiously tried to locate Adela, his eyes flicking from woman to woman, but there were so many of them, sitting and reclining on every available surface. The Wrench was clearly waiting for some signal before going any further – Belash was nowhere in sight, but much of the interior of the apartment was obscured. As Jonn searched, one of the silks twitched aside and a woman came out, carrying a broad silver tray, laden with refreshments. Jonn ignored her, looking all around for Adela, but then she reached the Wrench and spoke: “Something to refresh your palate?” she asked in a voice so familiar Jonn’s heart almost stopped. He’d found Adela!
Thirty-one
Ferast left the Ruined City of Elmera with nothing but the cloak on his back and a few basic provisions. His master had been very clear about his mission. He was to travel to Namert – a journey of several weeks – and use any means at his disposal to raise an army of mercenaries. He smiled in anticipation of the task. At last, his master had given him something worthy of his talents. He licked his lips with pleasure at the thought of it – manipulation, extortion, blackmail, and torture should just about do it. He’d have to be cunning about it of course, but with his powers, he was confident he’d be able to raise an army and bring it back to Sestin.
There was something he needed to do before he travelled very far, however - he needed to replenish his store of Darkgems. Ferast had faith in his superior powers, but he wanted every advantage from the outset, and the focii enhanced his magical strength to the point where he was practically indomitable. The only person who’d ever withstood his enhanced powers was the Nature Mage. Ferast shook his head angrily. Thoughts of his enemy filled him with rage and hate, but also something that felt uncomfortably like fear. He slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped the facetted shape of his last Darkgem, reassured by the power it placed at his command.
Yes, it was time to create some more gems, but he needed to be careful how he went about it. You could forge a basic Darkgem from the suffering and fear of an animal as its life was extinguished, but the most powerful Darkgems involved the murder of another human being. Ferast had no problem taking life – he’d lost count of the number of times people had died at his hand – but he wanted to build his stash of Darkgems far from Namert, where rumours of a rogue magician might interfere with his task.
A slow smile curved across his face. He knew exactly where to get his Darkgems. The villagers of West Farthing had been less than hospitable when he’d passed through on his search for Sestin. He’d been too rushed to do anything about it at the time, but perhaps the time had come to pay them a little visit.
…
The old crofter sifted carefully through the long grasses, looking for his favourite mushrooms. He had to be quiet, because strictly speaking, this wasn’t exactly his patch. The dense copse of trees was behind Hogan’s house, but if Hogan was too lazy to forage in his own soil, then someone else ought to do it instead. It’d be a criminal waste of good mushrooms to let them rot!
He pushed aside a knot of grass to reveal a familiar brown cap with light speckling across its perfectly rounded dome. He smiled broadly to himself as he picked it. Browncaps refused to be cultivated – God knows he’d tried! – but they could be found growing wild at just the right time of year and just the right kind of conditions. Conditions like Hogan’s copse in fact – damp, overgrown, shadowed. Licking dry lips, he pocketed the find and straightened up. Suppressing a groan, he pressed his hands against his lower back and leaned back as best he could.
“You’re an old, old man,” he muttered to himself, but not even the interminable ache in his back could diminish his happiness at finding two dozen large browncaps. He’d eat well tonight, and that was as much as an old man could ask for.
He heard a disturbance from the village and hastened towards the edge of the copse to see what was going on. He didn’t want to be caught on Hogan’s patch, so he stopped within the fringe of the trees and peered out through the branches. It was Bunto, the village blacksmith, who was making all that noise, tearing out of the smithy and chasing a stranger down the road. The cloaked stranger was retreating from him, but without any obvious urgency, which the old man thought was a mistake. Bunto was a large man, heavily muscled from years at the anvil, and he was carrying his hammer. The stranger, on the other hand, was young and skinny, and didn’t stand a chance. What confused the old crofter even more was that Bunto’s youngest son, a child of seven or eight, stood next to the stranger, arms dangling loosely by his sides.
A chill ran up the old man’s spine. Something wasn’t right here. He watched Bunto stride towards the man, his hammer raised.
“Give me my son, now!” the smith demanded, but when he was only five paces away, the stranger lifted a single finger and Bunto stopped in his tracks. Not like he’d changed his mind, but like he was frozen in ice. “Hey, what’s going on?” Bunto demanded, a note of fear in his voice.
Magic! the old crofter thought to himself fearfully. What did the stranger want? What was he going to do to Bunto, or to his son?
“Shut up!” the young magician snapped disdainfully. Bunto tried to speak, but no sound came out his mouth. The old man’s fear turned to terror in a single moment. Nothing good would come of this.
Other villagers were coming out of their homes, demanding to know what was going on, but the young magician gestured, his arm describing a broad arc, and all of them froze, just as Bunto had done. The spell took hold of the old crofter too, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he realised that he too had been ensnared in the young magician’s net. He couldn’t look away or close his eyes. All he could do was watch.
The young magician sneered at the villagers. “Look at you, so fearful for your petty lives. You should be grateful – today I am going to relieve you of your useless existence.” He looked at Bunto and laughed; a drawling, nasal sound, with more than a hint of madness in it. “You look like you’d piss your pants if you could. I think we’ll start with you.”
The old crofter’s heart was beating so fast he thought it would give out. This couldn’t be happening.
“What’s your son’s name?” he asked, waving a hand at the blacksmith to enable him to speak.
“You don’t have to do this!” Bunto pleaded. “We’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Yes you will,” Ferast answered flatly. “Now tell me, what’s your son’s name?” He held a hand up to stop Bunto from saying anything else. The magician’s eyes narrowed cruelly. “If you don’t tell me, I will change my mind about who is going first.”
Bunto paused, but he looked defeated.
“Tell me!” the magician said, raising a threatening hand towards Bunto’s son.
“Milo,” Bunto answered.
“Very good,” the magician answered, gesturing sharply at Bunto to seal his lips again. He withdrew a knife from within his robes and held it out to Milo. “Milo, if you will.”
The boy took the knife and, controlled by the magician’s powers, walked towards his Da with the blade held before him.
…
The old crofter dug his spade into the ground for what must have been the ten thousandth time. Every time he lifted it, blood trickled from his ruined hands and ran over his wrists. Clenching his jaw sternly, he tried to block the images that assailed his mind. Images of people forced to kill their loved ones, and of the demon that had controlled them, revelling in their pain and fear. The magician did not seem to know he was there, but the old man had been bound tightly by the spell, forcing him to watch the depravity as it unfolded.
When it was over, the magician had seemed exhausted, looking around him in a kind of daze. And then he had fled, running off through the night as though terrified. The old man had been freed from magic’s control and slumped to the ground. He’d crawled back to his cottage, crying and retching, and had fallen into desperate sleep. When he awoke the next day, he went about the task that needed to be done as if in a waking dream. Picking up a shovel, he’d walked back over to the village and started to dig a communal grave. It was a colossal task, bringing him back three days in a row. He dug until his hands bled and then carried on until handle of his shovel was stained red.
He completed the grave on the third day, putting away his spade and looking numbly at the hole he had dug, the final resting place of friends he had known all of his life. He took a moment to catch his breath and then walked to the pile of bodies. He was too old and frail to lift any of them except the children, so he dragged the bodies across the ground one by one and tipped them over the edge of the grave, where they flopped lifelessly onto the others at the bottom of the pit. Sadness overwhelmed him then, breaking through the numbness and shock that until that moment had protected him from the full horror of what he’d seen. Sobs wracked his body and he fell to the ground, rolling in the dirt and beating his hands against the ground. He cried out once, twice, many times, shouting his pain to the skies until his voice was hoarse, but nothing could make it any better.
It was then that the three men found him. They bandaged his hands and gave him something to drink, trying to talk to him, but nothing could break the unrelenting grip of his grief. Finally, one of them mumbled something he didn’t understand and his mind cleared. In a heartbeat, he realised they were magicians. With a cry of anguish, he fled, but he wasn’t capable of anything faster than a hobble, so they caught up to him quickly enough and talked to him calmly and slowly until he stopped panicking. They assured him over and over of their good intentions, and finally persuaded him to tell them what had happened. They were horrified by what they heard, but there was something else to their reaction too, like they’d received some long-awaited news.
Offering their deepest condolences, they helped him place the last of his friends in the open grave and then to fill it up. With the three of them working alongside him,
the job went much more quickly. His sobs broke free again as he saw his friends’ faces disappear beneath the dirt, but once the grave was filled, he just felt empty. The magicians invited him to travel with them back to somewhere called Helioport, where he’d be rehomed and looked after, but he refused. He’d seen quite enough of magicians. In fact, he’d seen quite enough of everything. He bade them goodbye, and as the magicians left he concluded that no-one, including magicians, should have that kind of power over others. The life of an entire village had been destroyed and despoiled by one man, and now, it was time to end his own.
…
Hephistole hunched over his desk, poring over the latest tome he’d borrowed from the library. It was a treatise on dark magic, written by some ivory tower professor who’d never been exposed to true darkness in his life. Its language was academic, its observations sterile, and it contained no more information than the chancellor had been able to glean elsewhere.
Thinking hard, he pushed the book to one side and stood up. He walked over to a more comfortable chair and slumped down in it, easing the kinks out of his shoulders.
Despite the reams of available material, there was a notable lack of references to Bloodstones. There were several books on necromancy – the foul practice that enabled the magic user to capture and manipulate death energies. Ferast had used focii in this way to enhance his magical strength at the Measure, bloating his magical capacity and enabling him to kill Everand and even hold his own against Gaspi. There was plenty of information about almost every disreputable and dark practice, but nothing at all about the topic he was researching.
Despite the lack of direct references, Hephistole was pretty sure he’d intuited something of how Bloodstones fitted into the big picture. He leaned forwards and poured himself a sherry. He took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. It was delicious – dry and delicately flavoured, rolling around his mouth like honey. He twirled the crystal stem in his fingers, absent-mindedly enjoying the play of the light in a thousand tiny facets.