by Ben Stivers
Nerva digested that and replied, “Seems wise.”
Sabinus nodded toward the Death Handlers who proceeded to take the Grier’s body away without every looking toward Sabinus or Nerva. The guards stood away, leery of the mysterious figures. When they departed, Sabinus said, “Prepare for the next case.”
The guards briskly moved to do his bidding without question, the spiral brands on their necks lurking behind the high collars of their uniform.
Nerva looked uncomfortable with the outcome.
“This is not what we discussed.”
Sabinus shrugged and regarded Nerva. “It is done and the lesson taught. Cases will come fewer and further between and with that settled, this particular task will make the next step easier to execute.”
“You are right, of course,” Nerva replied, not sure at all that Sabinus was right, but seeing no error in his logic.
“You want peace and prosperity. This action will bring it. Where you want those things, compliance is paramount. If the citizens wish to be secure, there are certain things they must accept. This is but one.”
Word of the day’s proceedings circulated the city by nightfall to all who had ears to listen.
Chapter 10
Blade stood with his head down, his lids half closed as he watched the grey-skinned creature that, in turn, scouted Blade from the roof.
The rain had not stopped, or even slowed, but it did little to hide the thing that crouched on the roof, peering down with overlarge eyes and dilated pupils. The creature eased its way down the side of the building, clinging with suckers on its feet to the bare wall as a cat did a tree. Blade shifted his weight, turning himself a bit sideways, as though he were simply settling in for a good nap.
The slimy biped dropped to the top of an adjoining wall with a slight squish and there it paused. Its globular eyes glanced nervously between the curtains of the Dead Whore entrance and back to Blade. Again, Blade altered his stance, bringing his flanks around, but keeping his head down and his eyes lidded.
As the creature progressed in movements so slow that Blade could hardly discern them, he reassessed. He thought the thing might be some sort of human-spawn, or perhaps something left from the days of the trolls.
Lightning split the sky’s belly, which gave Blade a better look. The mottled skin had a pale yellowish green hue, the spots darker, but not black. With fore and aft appendages that matched, four suckers as big as Blade’s eyes ended five jointed fingers on each “hand.” Another, more distant stroke of lightning caused the creature to flinch and raise its left foremost hand to cover its eyes. Each sucker on its digits had three barbs that looked much like items Wolf called fishhooks.
A pair of narrow eye ridges protruded over each eye socket, and the creature stunk like rotted food mixed with disemboweled entrails.
Bristly hair strung down the sides of its head, and perhaps the back like a dark, strangled river. In the rain, the stuff clung to its head, covering oversized ears. With legs that bent the wrong way, the way it walked was more a spring, perhaps why it moved so slowly, not wishing to wake the ever-vigilant Blade. Patiently, he waited as it crept its way behind him along the wall, stalking.
Blade adjusted one last step to reach a point that he felt comfortable, and then waited. He had yet to see how fast the creature could move and what threat might lay behind the thin-lipped mouth that ran nearly ear-to-ear.
The creature tensed. Blade relaxed. Seconds passed. The creature coiled its shoulders and pounced, set to grab Blade’s flanks. Its mouth flew wide. Oversized teeth, too big to fit into its head, shined in the night, as large as Arthur’s fingers and sharp as a boar’s tusk. Suckers flapped back, revealing the barbs, and then abruptly snapped shut as Blade’s rear hooves crushed a resounding thwack into the creature’s soft chest. With a shriek, it smashed back against the wall from which it had leapt, bent backward as its lower body failed to clear the wall over which Blade had intended to kick it.
Bending sharp as a door corner, a flat splat split the night. The creature slumped against the wall, twitching. In a desperate gasp, it squealed loud, if not long. If this were a warning call, more would come.
Blade turned toward his foe and reared into the air, flashing sharp steel-clad hooves into the head, and forcing the creature’s own teeth out from under the sockets of its eyes.
Satisfied, he withdrew to the corner, head down, pretending once again to be asleep. He had longed for some violence of his own, and now that they had returned to Hellsgate, he hoped to find a grain sack full.
Mrandor left Overlord City in Nerva’s incapable hands, explaining that another patron had a crisis and that he should not be gone more than a fortnight. Already the court loads had begun to dwindle, and those judges who opted not to follow the example Nerva set vanished from Overlord City into the depths of the prison along with their wives and children. Resistance had been scant with Mrandor’s men enforcing the sentences passed in the name of the army.
The general populace had not challenged the new procedures, and the sword in the courtroom had settled several grievances. Nerva visibly relaxed under the stringent advice Mrandor provided as Sabinus The Advisor, when he saw that one man might just be willing to kill another over a keg of nails or a piece of property. Those who did not settled affairs themselves.
Mrandor had calculated that result and had honestly hoped the populace did not take to outright killing one another en masse. The next step in his scheme required a significant amount of manual labor, and more than the trades within the city could provide. Thus far, he had asked no payment and Nerva had not asked the debt. That suited them both, or at least it suited Mrandor since the amount would ultimately be the city.
Rain had drenched the territory as he made his journey to the Black Forest. He reached the edge of the woodlands towards the morning of the third day. The thrust of heavy weather passed, drifted further east and left behind a soggy sun.
Though summer had come, the Black Forest used its magnificent stands of black walnut and ancient towering oaks to close its edges and ward off the casual traveler. Occasionally, an errant person wandered into the forest in search of food, or perhaps to squat. When they did, they inevitably found themselves wandering lost. If any made it out alive, they should count themselves lucky, but the forest never spoke to him of those things. Instead, the woods held itself apart, as if it were above his station and impermeable to his magic.
Through the decades, however, he had begun to exert his influence, not against the trees themselves, but through the soil, seeping magic into the waters, the dirt, and the rock.
Thus, as his horse drew near a particular wall of underbrush, the barricade parted, allowing him and his horse entry and then closing behind him in reverence. For nearly two more days, he traveled swiftly under the canopy until he arrived at the place he had agreed to meet Belial. He had heard news of her interference and further inept use of his recruits. This day, he would put a stop to such nonsense. She had agreed not to interfere, and she had violated that oath.
As he rode, he allowed his mind to regurgitate the last few days’ happenings. He had stolen the ore from the same company to the north from which he had ordered it. His bandits had killed everyone in the supply caravan. Some of those men that died he had hired, but that did not vex him. There were always men to hire, and that he had other of his men kill men who followed his orders, did not stir regret. Instead, it fertilized his plan to keep the miners satisfied as well as Overlord City. The city would wait for their ore, the miasmic bureaucrats not overly concerned that the army needed their horses shoed. He could count on the city’s government to provide him with whatever he needed as long as he kept them convinced of their own power—of which they had almost none.
Killing the blacksmith had given him no great pleasure, but the action convinced Nerva of Mrandor’s dedication as the faithful servant, Sabinus. He had saved the governor’s weasily life. That in itself played well to all he wished. Nerva’s mind was
pliable as mud and practically vacant of original thought. Their next ruling action would place the cornerstone of Mrandor’s kingdom.
The sorcerer rode into what had once been a small clearing, the place that he and Belial had first encountered one another. The area had grown to nearly five hundred paces in diameter. In the heart of the circle sat the altar he had built, announcing Belial’s following, and having once loomed large, now seemed small compared to a mammoth entrance in the ground nearly two thirds of the circle across.
The city of canvas tents he had ordered before he left, had vanished from sight, as had the towering trees that so clearly sheltered the area from weather as well as prying eyes.
Nearly two hundred soldiers marched from the entrance upon Mrandor’s arrival, mounted men, dangerous men, his men.
Resting near the altar, a dais had been raised. Sitting upon a hewn granite throne, Belial lounged, as though awaiting a serf.
Refusing to dismount, Mrandor rode straight to the dais and kept his seat in the saddle. This discussion could well turn into war. If it did, his options must remain open.
“What is this?” he opened.
“Improvements,” Belial replied with a wicked grin. If she anticipated any argument from him, her face did not show it. Circling his index finger around the spiral on his saddle bridge, he traced a warding spell. The trick to controlling one more powerful than yourself often rested in subterfuge.
“Where are the tents for the men?”
“They no longer need them. My golems have carved long and deep in your absence. Your skin-men have taken quarters in the underground out of the rain.”
“The trees?”
“Hewn down. I had them transported to the coast, sent to your island shipbuilders. They will continue to serve, but do so in a different manner.”
Mrandor had prepared himself for an argument, but at least in this part, he felt some gratitude. She had improved the situation.
“What do you mean, ‘golems’?”
“Back up your horse. I will give you a demonstration.”
Mrandor hitched his horse back nearly a dozen steps before Belial signaled that he was far enough. Raising her hand, palm up, she closed her fingers and uttered ancient words that Mrandor had not before heard.
The forest floor grumbled and the moss covered rocks popped and crackled. Rising from where it lay, a creature lifted from the poisoned soil of the Black Forest. Three times as tall as a man on a horse, the creature had two legs as thick as a stallion’s body. Bent at the boulder-sized knees, the golem rose to near standing. Tremendous arms could have been human, if they had not been comprised of dirt, rock, and moss; even grass protruded from the cracks. The head looked off-center, comprised of two smaller stones to create a craggy face with glowing green eyes. Each arm had three clutching fingers and a single opposable thumb, giving the monstrosity the ability to grasp objects or make a fist.
Mrandor tried to keep admiration from his face, but his voice betrayed him when he said, “For someone who wished to destroy Creation, you have spent a good bit of time with this piece of work.”
Belial shrugged off his compliment and his broken condemnation. “The effort is negligible as you can see.”
Truth was, he did not see. “How many of these do you have?”
“Enough.”
Mrandor attempted a different path to the information. “My men were not used to create this cave?”
“It is not a cave. It is a city. Soon to be more vast than your silly Overlord City. A day’s hard ride in any direction under the forest, the space lies. This is but a start to your empire and my contribution.”
“Speaking of,” Mrandor replied, mentally filing the substantial advantage of a large underground lair. Lucifer had made avid use of such a thing, and now Mrandor had a new and unknown one at his disposal. “You sent a dozen of my men after Bornshire. That is not what we agreed.”
Belial pruned her smile to a frown. “You dare question me?”
“I do,” Mrandor replied. “You overstep your bounds. In doing so, you tread upon my plan.”
“Bah, your plan. You scheme, but you take only a little action.”
“That is not for you to decide, Belial. My men are dead and our enemy alerted. This is not what we agreed, but I am willing to overlook your ineptitude this once.”
Belial’s golden eyes grew narrower with every syllable that came from his mouth. Her lips drew back, exposing her first row of teeth. “I have done nothing but help you, you pathetic slug. The creatures that I sent to Hellsgate—.”
“Wait! What? I have men in Hellsgate!”
“They should take care.”
Mrandor did not particularly wish to step back in time by openly challenging Belial, destroying her golem and paying the probable penalty of having to replace his entire growing army in a woodland feud that could level half the forest.
Reining in his emotion and straddling his pride, he rode it into the place he found most comfortable. “Fine. Fine. Tell me about your creatures. I must ensure that the men I have in Hellsgate do not disrupt the timeline I have in mind.”
Belial put her teeth away, though the mounted fury did not leave her eyes. “I need more resources in the way of human beings to create my legion of followers. I weary of tweaking yours.”
“I build an army.”
“Grow it as you see fit, but thus far, your men have been unsuccessful in garnering a victory in even a single mission. Do not expect that I solely rely upon you and those weak things,” and she waved toward the men standing near the entrance of the underground city, “to do the hard things. Under your command, a great many of your men were killed when you rid the world of the elder Bornshire. Forgive me if I distrust your skills at this particular game.”
Mrandor seethed. The criticism stung. He had heard much the same speech from Lucifer and yet in the hands of that mighty naysayer, the entire world, and the plot, had turned to ash.
Wrapping every strand of angst in a binding of his soul, Mrandor removed emotion from his face, flattened his voice and sat back in his saddle, still looking Belial in the eye, even with the sizeable golem standing so close.
“Let us begin again, Belial,” he said. “We are cohorts in this making. You agreed to allow me to do this my way. Dabble with your own creations, wind your way into the earth if you will, but this is not about revenge for either of us, is it? Are you trying to avenge your brother?”
“Of course not,” Belial replied, huskily.
“And for me, the death of Bornshire would be a shallow victory. If you could destroy the world by yourself, Great Destroyer, I believe you would have done it by now.”
He let the words linger until Belial replied, “Continue.”
“This is about pain. You wish to wound your tormentor. You want him to appreciate the perfection of your creations and you. You want him to look your way and then with everything he held dear taken away, you want to gaze into his eyes that he might realize that though he thought he controlled you, he never did.”
Belial sat up straight on her throne. “Yes.”
“I want the same,” Mrandor replied, then added a half-truth. “I understand you as best I can. I want for you what you most desire, but realize that I want the same for Bornshire. I want to break him. It is not enough to kill him. Can you see?”
Belial admitted that she could, and with that acknowledgement, he wove his spell. “I will get you resources. I will create a binding and from Backswain, we will take every body and every soul to do with as you wish. Turn them to your creations. Use them as you will. No one will ever miss them.”
“And how will you do this? With your army? I have no use for mutilated and burned bodies.”
“No,” Mrandor replied. “I have a much deeper scheme than blood and steel, and should I fail, I will need your shelter.”
As he sat at the table, passing idle time speaking with Scralz, Arthur heard a piercing squeal rise from the alley. The entire room hushed,
and not a single eye was not toward the door. No one rose from their seat. Whatever occurred outside in the dark and the rain, they had no interest in investigating.
Arthur, however, left his seat, concerned about Blade. In battle, they were unmatched, but the Alones and Snipes of which Scralz had spoken were an unknown. For all of his ability, Blade did not carry a sword. He depended upon his rider, and Arthur would not quietly sit by if he were in danger.
The eyes in the room watched him go. No one asked him if he wanted someone to come with him. Wolf and Scralz both knew the answer, and the rest could not be counted to stand up to a faceless danger that already strangled Hellsgate’s nights.
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the torrential downpour. Lightning had slashed the sky just seconds before, and the thunder did its best to pulverize the area so that Arthur felt the vibration to the bone. He looked left and saw Blade standing where he had left him, looking asleep, appearing bored. As Arthur stepped out into the alley, however, the clever horse raised his head and snorted.
Arthur placed his hand upon his sword, and guardedly backed down the alley. Wolf would be sure that no one approached from the confines of the tavern, but the rain muddled the view of the street, and from what they had seen of the Alones, they could condense themselves to spring with astonishing speed. Arthur reached Blade’s side and placed his hand on the horse’s neck.
“What was that?”
Blade shoved Arthur to the side with his considerable body, putting himself between Arthur and the street. Arthur accepted the guidance until his eyes came to rest on the dead creature.
His sword slid silently from its sheath and Arthur prepared for it to leap, but the Snipe did not move. He could only guess what it was from Scralz’s description, but the thing looked like a deflated splotched sack. Easing over, he poked it with his sword before touching it, then grabbed it by its stringy hair and pulled its head back. The eyes told what he wanted to know and with dawn hours away, he dragged it back toward the tavern door for inspection.