Husk: A Maresman Tale

by Prior, D. P.

  “Can’t do that, Sheriff,” Sweet said. “I ain’t pressing no charges.”

  “You shut up, Sweet,” the sheriff said, “unless you fancy being a rape suspect.”

  “Without a victim?” Marlec said. “Sheriff, there’s really no need for this. We should all pull together and find this husk before any more harm is done. If I could just talk to her—”

  “Oh, I’ll find Maisie, right enough,” the sheriff said. “I promise you that. Can’t say whether she’ll be alive or dead, but either way, there’ll be an end to this husk business, mark my words. Seems you shogging Maresmen ain’t all you’re cracked up to be, don’t it? Now, get yourself to a healer,” he told Sweet, “and put some shogging clothes on.”

  “Allow me,” Marlec said, leading Sweet by the elbow to the open door of the Crawfish. “The Lord himself will tend your wounds through my hands, and maybe you can tell me more about what you saw.” He paused and looked at Jeb. “Don’t do anything rash, Jeb. If you go after her, I should be there.”

  “What I do is my business,” Jeb said. He eyed the sheriff. “Mine and mine alone.”

  With that, he stalked away up the high street, heading for the stables by the Sea Bed.

  19

  AT THE FIRST hint of dawn, Jeb rode Tubal out of town like a dare. A few early risers stopped and stared, then went back to coiling rope and mending nets. Part of him hoped the sheriff would step out in front of him, try to stop him doing what they both knew he was gonna do. He didn’t rule out Sweet coming back for another go, too, or maybe getting someone to do it for him, given how cowed he’d been after the fight outside the Crawfish. Either one of them would’ve been making a big mistake, the way Jeb felt. But no one showed, and disappointment sunk like a stone to the pit of his stomach as he reached the bridge.

  Odd thing was, Sendal Slythe was on the far side, waving off a rider astride a gray palfrey. The former senator hardly struck Jeb as the sort to watch the suns come up. The color drained from his face when he saw Jeb cantering toward him, but he quickly masked his surprise with a lopsided smile.

  “Only way to get mail to Brink anytime useful,” he said, cocking his thumb at the dust cloud trailing the horse and rider threading toward the foothills of the Gramble Range.

  Jeb pulled up and squinted to see better. “Brink, is it?”

  “Business is looking up,” Slythe said. “Need to move fast when the opportunity arises.”

  Seemed a roundabout way to ride to Brink, Jeb thought as the dust cloud climbed higher, still heading north. Would’ve been a straighter route to skirt the Chalice Sea and cross the Outlands, maybe even stopping in Lownight for refreshment. He chewed his lip and said nothing of it to Slythe. He had his reasons, Jeb was sure.

  “About last night…” Slythe said.

  “Fault’s all mine.” Jeb tipped his hat. “It was the drink talking; that and the loss of so much coin. Reckon I owe you an apology.”

  Slythe’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “I appreciate that, Mr. Skayne. That was right gentlemanly of you. Are you… leaving?”

  “Good day for a ride,” Jeb said. “Helps to clear the head.”

  “Indeed,” Slythe said, though Jeb had the sense he’d never ridden a horse, and was probably as unfamiliar with a clear head as a sober one. “Well, nice seeing you.”

  “Likewise.”

  As Slythe ambled back toward the high street, Jeb steered Tubal toward the western shore until he was out of sight, then looped round and headed for Boss’s place.

  20

  JEB TETHERED TUBAL to a tree in the woods above Boss’s ranch. He inched closer to the edge of the slope and squatted down. The rhythmic trudge of sluggish footfalls echoed up to him through the half-light, and as he waited, a guard came into view around the side of the verandah. Another lay propped against a post, chin tucked into his chest.

  The soft glow of a lantern spilled from the window of one of the outbuildings across the field, but as long as he watched, Jeb saw no sign of movement from within.

  Smallish animals were now corralled in the pens; they could have been goats, but it was hard to tell from so far away. Behind them, a dilapidated barn he’d not paid any attention to before was silhouetted by the scarlet glare of the rising suns. One of its doors hung off its top hinge and swayed in the gathering wind.

  After what seemed an age, another sentry ambled into sight from the opposite side of the verandah, tucking his shirt in and doing nothing to stifle a gaping yawn. He exchanged words with the first guard, who slipped round back. The sleeping man started awake but settled down again when he saw nothing was amiss.

  Jeb had seen eight guards previously, but he could only account for three now. Either Boss was tightening his belt, or the others were stationed out of view. Seemed prudent to go with the latter; only, that left the problem of how to get close to the house without being spotted. Assuming, of course, the stygian was in the house. Jeb knew if it were down to him, the husk would be as far from any palatable humans as possible. Boss might have it on a short leash, but a nature like a stygian’s wasn’t made for civilizing.

  He sat on the roots of an old oak and leaned back against the bark. He needed to think, to plan, not go charging in on a wave of anger. Least that’s what he took it to be—anger; but anger at who and what was getting harder and harder to untangle. He was even with Sweet on the physical level, but still rankled the big man had attacked him in the first place. The sheriff was starting to grate, but that was nothing new. Maresmen had to deal with that sort of thing all the time. Marlec, on the other hand, was little more than an annoyance. Jeb was sure the monk had somehow rekindled a spark of conscience he’d not had since a child, but it was an easy enough thing to snuff it out again. Time he was done with the stygian, any nagging voice at the back of his mind would be long gone. No, it was Maisie that had him messed up, and chaos like that always caused Jeb to lash out at the nearest target. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Maisie his ire was aimed at; it was the husk. It was his mother.

  A band of iron tightened around his skull, and he grimaced with long-forgotten pain.

  Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary never let on if they knew more than Jeb did about his mother. When he asked them where she was, they’d exchange looks, then Uncle Joe would ruffle his hair and tell him soberly she was dead. Died of the plague, he said, and told Jeb to leave it there, no matter how much he prodded. At least it was an explanation a child could make sense of. She hadn’t left him: she’d been taken. But that night Mortis had come, he’d been given another story, one he wished he’d never heard. He denied it every which way, but whatever he came up with as an alternative just didn’t ring true. How else could he explain his own burgeoning abilities, and the insatiable lust that rose to consume him? He kept telling himself all he knew for sure was that his dad was dead and his mother was gone. More than that was just guesswork, and so he painted Mortis as a liar, while adopting Uncle Joe’s strategy of not digging about in the graves of the past. For the most part, it had sufficed, and the unexplained losses formed part of the bedrock of who he was. Problem was, the other parts came from a nature that was anything but human, and it only grew clearer the older he got.

  So, he’d known all along, if he was honest. Known from the first Mortis had mentioned it, but the knowing and the accepting never sat snug within him. Until now. His mother was the husk, and it was firmer than a fact that she’d killed his father.

  So what? It wasn’t like acknowledging it could change it any. He’d grown to live with the logic of the position, accepting it explained what he was, what he had to wrestle with, but beyond that, what was the point of dwelling on it? It’s not like he was the only half-husk in Malkuth. There were easily two dozen Maresmen in the Malfen district alone, and at least as many strung out between Pellor in the shadows of the Perfect Peak, and Arnk on the far side of New Jerusalem. All of them had one husk parent, and most of them had been there when it was taken down. Whatever sufferings never really knowing what ha
d happened to his mother had brought Jeb over the years, at least he’d been spared that: standing by and watching her killed in front of his eyes. He should’ve counted himself lucky, but right now he felt nothing but foreboding. Maybe what he’d been spared as a child he was going to have to face as a man. Worse was the pressing realization he was expected to be the one to do it.

  Kill her.

  His mother.

  Mom.

  His mind flicked back to the Crawfish, to Maisie making his bed. Bile rose in his throat as he thought about what he’d felt then, what he’d wanted from her. No wonder she’d resisted him. But why hadn’t she revealed herself then? Maybe she hadn’t recognized him, after all. He couldn’t believe that. A man could look a whole lot different from when he was a child, but not to a mother. Then why? Hadn’t she expected him to be there? Had she expected someone else?

  He pushed himself away from the trunk and sat bolt upright. Was that it? Is that why he’d picked up the blood trail and then lost it? Had she deliberately lured him, not knowing who he was, and then blocked the trail once she had an inkling the pursuing Maresman was her son?

  His thoughts flashed to the dozens dead in the Outlands—that was how it had first started, how the husk had first come to the Maresmen’s attention. Soon after, they realized they’d been drawn, that the prey was really the predator. His mother, then, was a murderer, although that was maybe crediting her with some semblance of humanity. The term might have fit Jeb due to what he’d inherited from his father, but his mother… she was just a nightmare of the Cynocephalus, a demon, the Wayists would have said. A succubus. She’d sought out only men, and in each case there’d been evidence of mating. That would seem to make her worse than a whore, not that Jeb had anything against whores. Like a spider, Mortis had said. The kind that ate its mate once he’d served his purpose. But how many mates did she need? You’d have thought, once she was pregnant…

  Something shouted at Jeb deep down in his mind. Something was not quite right with his thinking. Sure, she was a succubus, a demon that preyed on men, but she was acting above and beyond her nature. Revenge, he could understand, if Marlec was right about Mortis driving her away, depriving her of her child, but that didn’t account for the Outlanders. That had all the hallmarks of unfettered blood lust, of rage, of… despair?

  He settled back against the trunk. He needed to stop. Speculation was all well and good, but if you went too far in the wrong direction, you’d likely miss the facts when they were staring you in the face. He had to return to basics, establish what it was he really knew. Facts, backed by evidence, not hearsay or the imaginings of a child.

  Sweet and Maisie had fought; Sweet claimed she was some kind of demon, and Marlec said it was the husk, said it was Jeb’s mother. It didn’t change a thing as far as he was concerned. Still had to be dealt with, one way or another. Either he did it, or someone else would. He entertained the idea of giving her a chance to flee, never come back, but that wouldn’t wash with the Maresmen. So much harm had been done already, he wouldn’t put it past them to follow her over the Farfalls into Qlippoth. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  His mother…

  He cut off the head of the thought with a guillotine blade of darkness. Nostalgia would only get him killed, and when it came down to it, he’d sooner it was her than him. After all, she’d left him, any way you looked at it, and most likely deprived him of a father, too. A husk is what it was he was here to deal with, a husk like any other. Hunt or be hunted, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. There was no more to it than that.

  Jeb tilted his chin. There was something in the air: a scent wafting toward him on the breeze. He couldn’t quite place it—sage, maybe; a hint of spice. Reminded him of the incense burned by the soothsayers in Malfen, bunch of money-grabbing tricksters that they were. He scanned the field before him for a source, but couldn’t make anything out in the dawn light. The wind gusted and changed direction, and then the smell was gone.

  He relaxed himself with a few deep breaths. Patience is what was called for, same as the times he’d hunted wild turkey and waited hours for them to come close enough to get off an arrow. Not that he had a bow anymore. Hadn’t seen the need for one once he’d acquired the flintlock. That was an example of why never to be too hasty. Bloody gobbler would no doubt squawk with laughter if he tried to shoot it with that piece of shite.

  Thinking about the flintlock reminded him to reload it, but before he could, it needed a damned good clean. It was a weapon of last resort, and he’d sooner not have to use it, but if he did, he wasn’t gonna chance it misfiring like it had done for Tharn. Might be a piece of crap, but at least he could make it a functioning piece of crap.

  As he worked on the barrel with a strip of oily cloth wrapped about the tip of the ramrod, the ghosts of the past had their way with his thoughts.

  He’d always had the notion Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary were too quick to leave it that his mother was dead and never take the conversation further. It struck him many a time they were jealous of not being his real parents and glad to have her out of the way. After finding them murdered, though, he’d started to reappraise them, and reckoned they’d just being trying to protect him. Likely, they’d known a whole lot more than they’d let on, and were maybe even planning on sharing it with him when he was older. No, any way you looked at it, they were paragons of virtue by Malfen’s standards, and decent folk by anyone else’s.

  Still didn’t help him with what he was gonna do if he ran into Maisie again, though. He couldn’t help thinking of the husk that way; somehow, it was more natural than calling it Mom. If she attacked him, the choice would be easy. Not choice at all, really. He’d kill her on instinct, before he’d thought enough to regret it.

  But she’d showed no signs of wanting to harm him, other than goading Sweet into giving him one hell of a beating. There was the thing of it. Had she done that to frighten him off, as Sweet had said, knowing full well what was coming if he remained and eventually uncovered her? If that were the case, either she was looking out for herself, or protecting him. She’d killed Maresmen before, all three of them tough men Jeb wouldn’t want to stand toe to toe with.

  He sighted the barrel then blew down it to get rid of any lingering pockets of dust. Satisfied it was clean and shiny as new, he painstakingly reloaded it and eased it back in its holster.

  The twin suns staggered into the sky above the smudge of forest that skirted distant Arnk. Jeb stood and sniffed in the cool morning air, and there it was again: that smell of spice and herbs. This time, it was stronger from where the wind had turned once more, and now he could see a thin plume of smoke snaking through the space left by the hanging barn door. That was a long way for a smell to travel. Must’ve been more than a couple of hundred yards.

  Dark flecks moved from the trees edging Boss’s land and converged on the barn. Jeb narrowed his eyes to bring them into focus, and he smacked his lips. There it was again, that intuition that had a way of coming true. The flecks were turkeys, wild turkeys, like the kind he used to stalk. Must have been eight or nine of them, all running for the barn.

  It was the smell, Jeb realized, making the connection with the Malfen soothsayers. Incense, but not quite natural. It was a lure, and a magical one at that. He was already moving toward Tubal when the turkeys reached the barn doors. Even over the distance, he heard their gobbling. He paused, hands still unwinding Tubal’s reins from the tree, as the stygian burst between the doors and snatched a turkey by the neck in each hand. That was all Jeb needed to see. Next thing, he was in the saddle and taking a wide arc through the forest, aiming to get behind the barn without being seen from the house.

  Tubal wove in and out of the trees like he was bred for it, and all Jeb felt was the thrill of looming danger and the overwhelming relief he didn’t have to break into the house. Eight guards weren’t beyond his skills with the blade, but it was a risk he could well do without.

  By the time he left the trees, the t
urkeys were scattering in every direction, but there was no sign of the stygian chasing them. He’d likely got what he needed and had gone back inside to consume his meal.

  Jeb’s eyes fell on a missing plank on the barn’s back wall. Those surrounding it were thick with rot, and it suddenly looked like an invitation he couldn’t refuse.

  He shortened the reins and walked Tubal toward the barn. If he dismounted there and barged through the back wall, he’d likely take the stygian by surprise. He knew Tubal would stand his ground, be there waiting if he needed to make a break for it. That was the thing about a horse like that: he was worth his weight in—

  Tubal whinnied and reared, sending Jeb tumbling backward out of the saddle. He threw an arm out and rolled. Pain lanced through his shoulder, but he was lucky. He started to stand, rubbing his arm and relieved he hadn’t broken anything. This time, Tubal’s whinny was more like a scream.

  Inky vapors coiled about the colt’s legs. Tubal stomped and bucked, but the tendrils tightened and slammed him to the ground.

  Jeb’s saber leapt to his hand and he swiped at a strand. The blade passed straight through it, as if it weren’t there. Roasting meat inflamed his nostrils, and Tubal thrashed about wildly, whinnying in panic. Steam plumed from where the dark limbs touched him, hair charred, and the skin beneath sizzled and popped.

  The shogging stygian! Jeb realized. Magical wards. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It’s what stygians were known for.

  A spasm rippled throughout Tubal’s body, and then he burst into flame. Jeb cried out, but had no choice but to back away.

  Cries went up from the ranch, and he heard the doors on the far side of the barn creaking open. Throwing caution to the wind, he launched himself at the rotten planks and burst through the back wall.