by Andy Remic
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said.
“But then, of course…”
“Yes?”
Skalg stared at her face. Large, beautiful eyes. Heavily lined with ochre. Fine square jaw. High cheekbones, like the Great Dwarf Lords themselves. Pretty. No. Beautiful, classically beautiful, like the princesses from the Scriptures of the Church of Hate.
Kajella yelped, and one hand came free. She was seconds from death.
Skalg smiled.
He reached over, reached down, and grabbed the hand which still held on. Blood had run from under broken fingernails, cracked and split from the pressure; now it ran down her fingers and dripped onto her breasts.
Skalg’s throat was dry. Blood. Breasts. Quim. Screams, long into the night. I will do anything. Anything, First Cardinal. Anything you can fucking imagine in your most depraved fucking heaving sweating dreams…
He licked his lips. His eyes gleamed.
Skalg took Kajella’s weight, and he held her over the abyss. His head lifted then, catching the scent of fire. His eyes narrowed. The church was burning furiously. Howls of wind drawn into the pumping furnace wailed from the city far below. Smoke billowed, making the whole of this underworld city seem… hazy.
She caught his gaze.
“Please,” she mouthed. “You said I was one of the most beautiful young dwarves you had ever seen!”
Skalg nodded. And smiled. “However, I see hundreds of the most beautiful young dwarves in the entire Five Havens,” he said. “You are nothing special, other than the fact you tried to kill me.”
He opened his fingers, and enjoyed the look of shock on Kajella’s face, as he watched her accelerate quickly into the landscape.
Wearily, Skalg pushed back his shoulders. His hunched, broken back gave a crack and he shuddered, but felt a little random relief. He stared down, tilting his head slightly, listening. Finally, there came a distant thump. There was no scream. Skalg imagined her bloody, pulped carcass, and gave a little shudder. “The Mountain gives, and the Mountain takes away,” he murmured.
Skalg turned, and ran a powerful hand over his face, stroking his dark beard. He fixed his gaze on Granda, who was lying on his side now in a pool of blood. He was groaning softly. Skalg hobbled over to his Chief Educator, and sat the man up from his sticky platter with a grunt.
“How do you feel?”
“Is the little bitch dead?”
“In separated pieces on the ground far below.”
“Good.”
“We’d better get you to the infirmary.”
Granda nodded, face grey and lips quivering. Then he grabbed Skalg’s sleeve. Skalg looked down at the grip, eyes narrowing at the lack of formality; but he managed to stay his words at the impropriety.
“There’s something else,” Granda managed, through his pain.
“Yes?”
“My Educators. They caught one.”
“Caught who?”
“One of the fire starters,” said Granda, blood speckling his frothing lips.
With Granda transported to the Hospital of the Sacred Church, Cardinal Skalg, in full church robes, escorted by twenty of his most trusted Educators, powerful men and women armed with spike-headed maces, clubs (known in the business as Peace Makers), and crossbows painted in church colours, smart of dress, stern of face, descended on the still burning church. This particular treasure was a two thousand year-old edifice on Red Stone Street, and as Skalg led the formation of Educators, their eyes lifted to see the still raging inferno now at the heart of the church, as if some great dragon had broken into the core and was burning the religious building from the inside out.
Skalg stopped. His Educators halted also, boots stamping. They were in a perfect inverted V formation; almost military in its structure, precision and synchronicity. Skalg looked up, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“How dare they?” he murmured.
A dwarf came running forward. He was soot-blackened, boots caked in slurry, fire protector uniform torn, soot-stained, the polished gold buttons tarnished. “Cardinal Skalg!” He saluted.
“Give me your report.”
“We have the fire under control, Cardinal. Now as you know, a church doesn’t burn easy. This act of arson was very well executed by people who know their art. As far as we can ascertain, the culprits covered the lower storey windows with fire blankets to allow the fire time to take hold without discovery. They set barrels of tar at every single timber support strut, and ignited them simultaneously. That is why,” he turned, glancing up at the destroyed church where thick plumes of black smoke poured from the ruined tower, “their fire has caused so much damage.”
Skalg’s eyes were hooded. He sniffed. “The Scriptures?”
“Rescued by the bravery of my fire protectors,” said the dwarf, swelling with pride. “Our first act, as instructed, was to breach the fire-damaged structure and rescue that which the Great Dwarf Lords gave with such generosity; the Sacred Chest is now under the guard of church wardens. We only lost eight dwarfs recovering the chest, with another twelve seriously burned and on their way to the infirmary now.”
“Good, good,” said Skalg. “The church will look after them and their families for their sacrifice.” Skalg’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was told one of the, ah, culprits, was captured?” The gentility of his voice should have been a warning. Skalg was so far beyond anger he had entered a new realm of emotion.
“Yes, he is under close guard by church wardens until the Educators arrive; it took six of them with clubs to pacify him. He has been taken to the closest firehouse.”
Skalg nodded, and walked forward towards the great arched doors – or the charred, blackened remains of what had been incredibly rich and decorated arched doors. His boots crunched on shattered glass shards, on chunks of charred charcoal, and he kicked something, a blackened coin of church gold, which rolled away and chimed as it performed a sad, lonely series of jumps down five stone steps before rolling in a circle and singing itself to a halt.
Skalg glanced at the two lead Educators, a great hulking dwarf called Blagger, and a slender female with a scarred face and one eye, notorious for her ferocity and lack of mercy. Her nickname was Razor, a nickname which had stuck, and not for pleasant reasons.
“Blagger, Razor, come with me. The rest of you, I want house-to-house searches. I want more information about who committed this sacrilege; you are allowed to use maximum persuasion.” His eyes swept out over the dark city. Flames flickered in fire-bowls and curve-burners, and the cobbled streets were damp. He looked up, at the towers and the arched bridges high above, glowing softly like gold, and he felt completely part of this damp mountain underworld. He felt like he was part of the rock; part of the mountain’s soul; an integral cog in the machine, in the engine that powered the dwarves and their society.
“Yes, First Cardinal!”
“We will get to the bottom of this,” he said, turning, purple and black robes sweeping behind him as he marched, somewhat crookedly, down the damp stone street with Blagger and Razor in close proximity behind.
Skalg halted before the huge doors of the firehouse. He adjusted his robes, and reaching out, pounded a complex rhythm of knocks. Fires burned in iron brackets to either side of the great studded door.
Behind, Blagger rolled his huge head on thick neck muscles, and there were a series of cracks. He glanced at Razor, and she was stood, cool, relaxed, and almost nonchalant. Her face was expressionless, her one good eye impassive, her milky, ruined eye like a glass bauble in a dead doll.
Razor looked at him, a quick movement, like an insect. She caught his stare and grinned, showing blackened teeth. Blagger looked away, looked back at the door and the patiently waiting twisted figure of Skalg, feeling himself redden a little. Razor wasn’t somebody you wanted to upset, and she’d made it plain, on many occasions, often backed up by violence, that she didn’t like to be looked at. She’d slit throats with her “razor knife” for much less.
Skalg
glanced back at the two Educators, but his face was unreadable. Blagger gave a single nod, as if to say, we’re here, Cardinal Skalg, we have your back. Razor offered no such securities, simply stared ahead, face impassive.
“When we go in,” he said, words so soft they were barely audible, “you follow my instructions, instantly, and to the letter. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Cardinal,” rumbled Blagger.
Razor gave a curt nod. A simple acquiescence.
Skalg felt himself being inspected through the spy hole, and slowly, the door creaked open. Three wardens stood with crossbows levelled, and Skalg gave a nod, then hobbled inside. The Educators followed, and the church wardens backed away a step, licking dry lips, fingers suddenly slippery on crossbow stocks. To be a church warden was to have an unprecedented level of power throughout the Five Havens, but to be an Educator was something else.
“Who’s in charge here?” snapped Skalg, as the heavy door boomed shut.
A portly dwarf in smart uniform stepped forward. His buttons were polished gold. His boots gleamed. A long moustache had been waxed to perfection, and despite his age, he had a military bearing and utmost seriousness.
“Cardinal Skalg. Thank the Great Dwarf Lords you have arrived! I am Fire Sergeant Takos.”
“You have a prisoner for me?”
“We do. He is causing us some concern.”
“Why is this?” Skalg’s eyes were iron.
“He has threatened that all of us, and all our families, will be exterminated within the next twenty-four hours. He is a frightening individual to behold!”
Skalg nodded. “Take me to him.”
Takos led the way down a complex set of corridors, all gleaming with military cleanliness. Everything was sterile and white. Even the polished stone floors gleamed.
Skalg limped on, his hunched back aching like the devil, and sending secondary pains down his spine, and bizarrely, into his balls. That’s when he knew he’d seriously overdone it. Pain in the bollocks. And he knew it would last until he smoked gangga, sucked on crushed malwort, and had twelve hours sleep. He rubbed at red-rimmed eyes and for a fleeting moment pictured Kajella disappearing from the high balcony of the Blood Tower, broad, beautiful dwarf face gone in a flash.
“Damn.”
He paused, flat hand against the cool wall, panting. Blagger stepped forward, and almost, almost, touched Skalg. “Are you well, Cardinal?”
“Apparently not,” snapped Skalg, and regretted his anger. He took several deep breaths. Fire Sergeant Takos had also halted, turned, and had his fingers steepled before him, waiting. There was a nervous sweat on his broad brow. “Give me a minute.”
Skalg took several deep breaths and waited for the pain to fade. He pictured Kajella’s face again. Imagined the howling grief puked from her mother. Skalg snarled at himself, and a drool of saliva fell from his mouth, and removed an ounce of dignity from his black and purple robes.
So they see me as a dwarf suffering real and terrible pain?
Fuck them. They will see an echo of reality, then.
I might have been blessed by the Great Dwarf Lords, but I was cursed, also, by the Mountain. Cursed, I tell you.
Regaining his composure, he signalled distractedly for Takos to continue. The Fire Sergeant did so, looking back every few seconds to check he wasn’t in some way inconveniencing or embarrassing the First Cardinal. Because that was a very dangerous thing to do. Skalg’s evil reputation preceded him by a thousand leagues.
They moved down more white corridors.
Eventually, they arrived at a door. There were two more pale-faced church wardens with mounted crossbows, safety triggers off.
“Point them the other fucking way,” snarled Skalg, tiny flashes of pain almost blinding him. The wardens obeyed immediately, terror etched into every crease of their faces, fear a live worm wriggling inside their brains.
“Cardinal Skalg, the prisoner is in there.”
“What am I dealing with?”
“A man, heavy build, singing and screaming religious doctrine.” He saw the look in Skalg’s eyes. “Although no religion I’ve ever heard of,” he added quickly. “He is, I fear, insane.”
“Does he have a name?”
“None we could beat out of him.”
“We shall see,” said Skalg. He half turned. “Razor? Blagger? Ready?”
“Yes, First Cardinal.”
The wardens pushed open the door, to reveal a fire wardens’ locker room. It had tiled floors and walls, white and sterile. Against one wall there were wooden shelves for uniforms and equipment. In lines across the ground were thick wooden benches. Two had been pushed together, and on these, lying on his back, was a heavy built dwarf with thick black beard and shaggy hair. He had grey eyes, like steel, and clenched teeth, and was straining at his tightly tied rope bonds.
Nobody who has succumbed to the throes of insanity attempts to escape, thought Skalg.
He moved forward, kicking a boot out of the way which skittered across the tiles. The man strained forward, looking at these new actors on the stage. He snarled a stream of obscenities in old tongue and Skalg smiled.
“Razor. Put out one eye.”
“Yes, Cardinal Skalg.”
In a fluid movement, and to the shock of all present, she strode forward, unclipping a sheath on her hip. A shining silver blade reared in the air; it was curved slightly, and etched with fine runes. Razor reached the prisoner, and cut down, a diagonal slash, so. The fine steel cut a grove across the prisoner’s eyebrow, popped the orb with a spurt of vitreous humour, and carried on down the cheek. The man went rigid in shock, suddenly screamed, and continued to thrash and strain at his bonds.
The church wardens stood uneasily, shifting from one boot to the other. Fire Sergeant Takos stood, stunned, as blood pitter-pattered to the clean white tiles of this makeshift holding cell.
“I…” he said.
“Yes?” Skalg turned.
“King Irlax…”
“I operate on an equal footing to the king; for the Church, under the rule of the Great Dwarf Lords, was given equal power and authority.”
“But I–”
“Yes?”
And Skalg knew what the good, honest, proud, noble Fire Sergeant wanted to say. He wanted to say, But King Irlax has made it be known there is to be no torture, no punishment without trial, no unfair treatment of prisoners until every shred of evidence has been investigated. And Skalg grinned, because he lived in the real world, operated in the dark underworld, where criminals didn’t play by the rules so why the fuck should the Church of Hate? He wanted to educate Fire Sergeant Takos, and explain that the Church of Hate had been created by the Great Dwarf Lords as a secret weapon, an underground cadre, an organisation formed to root out the evil which threatened the Five Havens. Hence equal power. Equal authority. One could not go against the other, for both were at the opposite ends of the same scale.
“Be quiet, and know your place,” said Skalg. He moved forward, and knelt by the prisoner. Very quietly, he said, “Tell me what you know.”
“I would rather die!”
“That can be arranged. However, would you rather be tortured?”
“Torture is illegal in the Five Havens!”
“And so it is, as all good citizens believe.”
The man turned his carved-up face towards Skalg. Muscles were twitching, and tears had formed in the good eye which remained. “You cannot do this to me! I am a legal resident of Zvolga. I pay my taxes. I have a job, a family…”
“And yet you were part of the unit which torched the church on Red Stone Street.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“You will have to prove it.”
Skalg rocked back on his heels, and stepped away. He turned his back on the prisoner. Then he glanced sideways, and gestured for the wardens to remove the Fire Sergeant – who complained as he was man-handled out – but not too much. Skalg had that kind of effect on people.
“Blagger?”
“Cardinal?”
“Castrate him.”
“Really?”
“Do I have to say it a second fucking time?”
Blagger frowned. “Er. No, Cardinal.”
“What?” screamed the prisoner. “You can’t do this! I demand to see the Head of the City Watch! I demand my rights! I demand an audience with King Irlax, you… you fucking heathen bastards, look what you’ve done to me,” he wept. “I cannot believe this is happening…”
“Razor?”
“Cardinal?”
“I’m sick of his noise. Gag him.”
“Yes, Cardinal.”
It was later. Much later. The prisoner lay, limp, eyeless, his stomach carved open, several fingers and toes lying forlorn on the floor like lonely, discarded toys.
News had arrived. The fire had finally been extinguished.
It was morning.
Good dwarves were on their way to work in the mines, in the merchant houses, in the guild houses.
Blagger sat in the corner, face grey.
Razor sat on a bench, slowly sharpening her curved, razor-sharp blade.
“So what have we learned?” said Skalg, half looking at the limp, tortured corpse on the bench.
Razor shrugged. “He wasn’t part of the Army of Purity.”
“Or he was very good at keeping secrets.”
“No man could have gone through that,” rumbled Blagger from his corner. His normally brutal eyes looked just that little bit haunted.
Skalg breathed out deeply, and got to his feet. His head was pounding, and his bed was calling.
“We should call this a night.”
“Morning,” said Razor.
Skalg shrugged, an odd and exaggerated movement with his hunched back.
“We are no further forward towards finding out who did this,” said Blagger.
“Yes,” said Skalg.
“If this man was innocent,” he said, then saw Skalg’s look, and stuttered into silence.
“He was a well-trained arsonist working for the Army of Purity,” said Skalg, face grim. “You both heard him confess.”
“Yes,” nodded Razor.