by Jack Conner
Shadow draped the room, darker than before she'd blacked out. Torches still blazed along the round earthen walls, but the light that had shone behind the green glass had faded, leaving only the flickering light of flame. This is hell, she thought. That's what they want me to feel. Fuck them. I really will be in hell before they get to me.
Skulls snapped all about her, their jaws chattering, the mean little tree-fruits trying to mock her. Well, you just go right ahead, snap your little teeth until they fall out. Before you lift one fucking hair on the back of my neck, you'll all be wearing dentures.
Though she was naked, she didn't think she'd been sexually violated yet. That was bad. It meant they'd been saving it for when she woke up so that they could make a production of it. A painful production, most likely. Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about it.
Swish-crack.
The branch whipped her from behind again, cutting into her back and buttocks, and she realized she'd lost a lot of blood, too much to try any mind-tricks. She wished she could stop the damned branch from whipping her, at least, but there wasn't any way she could counter the power of Junger and Jagoda.
She opened her eyes and tried to get a fix on her surroundings. The zombies milled in a circle around her, talking as best they could among themselves.
"Look, she's awake," she heard one say.
"Good, good. Time for the second course."
"I c'n still taste'r on me tongue."
"She doesn't eat enough salt."
Shit! How had she gotten herself into this situation? Because of Ludwig, that's why, because she had to find out who killed him, had to deliver justice. Had to be a Marshal. Was it worth this?
As the swinging rope took her to new and less-appetizing angles, she could see that Junger and Jagoda were sprawled out on the ground below her, their heads touching, their mouths open greedily. Her blood had spattered all over their faces. She shuddered. How long had they been there, she thought, just lying there like fat leeches, letting her blood rain down on them and lapping it up?
"Pleasant sleep?" Jagoda called.
She kicked her legs about in an effort to try and break the ropes that bound her feet—an easy task if her powers had been in full swing. The ropes held.
Movement below, shadows shifting. Junger and Jagoda rose from the ground.
"Time for some rape," Junger said. "We want you soiled, torn, desecrated."
"Yes," agreed the other, curling his fingers around a long black tendril shooting from his beard. "The zombies will take you first, then, after a very special surprise, we will fuck what remains." He turned his eyes from her face to the rope from which she was suspended, and at this motion the cord snapped.
Before she had time to brace herself, her bare pelvis struck first and hard. Pain flared through her, and she cried out. She noticed the ground was strangely warm below her and wondered if that was because the Balaklava had been resting there. Quickly, she attempted to get to her feet, but the bindings made her clumsy. She fell over again. This time her breath was knocked from her so that even with the rope no longer hindering her larynx, she still couldn't breathe.
Finally, after resting a moment, she found enough strength to say, "Please ... don't do this. I ... I didn't … For God's sakes, what did I ever do to you!?"
She looked back and forth between them, hoping for one of them to budge, to waver. That's all she wanted, in all the fucking world, was just a goddamned waver!
"Nothing," Junger answered. "You did nothing at all. We do this because your suffering makes great Art.”
At a movement of his hand, the ropes binding her feet broke so that her legs were free to spread. Now she was wide open for assault.
The Balaklava stepped backwards, outside the circle of zombies that even now began to shrink in diameter, to close in like the noose around her neck. Within seconds they were only a few feet away.
For a moment, some confusion gripped their ranks as they silently debated who would have her first. Then they chose, and the man nearest her feet stepped forward.
Gritting her teeth, she squeezed her knees together tightly. Thoughts ran together frantically in her head, but there wasn't anything she could think of that would save her. When finally it hit home that she was actually going to die here, she tried to figure out how, in this situation, she could die with dignity, and the awful thing was that she couldn't think of a way.
The creature nearest her legs—a bearded man who appeared to have died in his early forties and who wore the remains of a dress tuxedo from the same decade—stepped forward, even as those zombies to either side of her moved in to pin her down. The bearded zombie unzipped his zipper and reached his hand inside—
A thigh-bone erupted from his forehead.
For a second he tottered, then slowly fell forward and came to rest on his knees, his upper half sprawled across Danielle as if in worship.
The others dropped her to the ground and wheeled about. Knocking the truly dead zombie off her, she crawled to the side, but Junger and Jagoda placed themselves before her.
Beyond them, she saw her savior: Kiernevar, the bone-thrower, wearing only a loincloth and an extra skin of his own feces. She’d never been more glad to see anybody in her entire life. At that moment, she remembered Cloire’s prophetic words of just a few hours ago. For now, in whatever sick game of intrigue was involved here, Kiernevar was a player.
To either side of the lunatic loomed his Castle Guards, their faces tense.
"What's the meaning of this?" Junger demanded.
Kiernevar scowled, scraped his hand across his belly, and threw a fist-full of shit at the Balaklava.
"Kiernevar will be king, you say. Kiernevar will be god! Well, he never say to kill Danielle, Danielle who not treat him bad. You treat him bad by not telling him of this—not asking his permission!"
"Ask his permission?" said Jagoda. "You fool, we don't have to ask your permission! We said we'd help you, protect you ... be your allies ... but you’re not our master. Don't fucking forget your place again, fly-catcher. Now leave us."
"No." Kiernevar held his ground. "When Kiernevar king, he will have you killed. Killed! Unless you let go Danielle and do what he says."
Throughout this interplay, Danielle wisely kept her mouth shut. Recording events, but not participating. Something big was going on here, if only she knew what.
Junger growled. "We're not your toadies. That wasn't the deal. Equals, Kiernevar. Equals! You understand that?"
Danielle seriously doubted that the Balaklava considered him an equal, but she wasn’t about to point this out.
The lunatic snapped his fingers at her. Without a word, she leapt to her feet and made a broad loop around the Balaklava to Kiernevar's side. Without her having to ask, he broke the ropes that bound her hands.
"If equals," Kiernevar said, "then next time you ask." He shook a finger at them. "Very important. Understand?"
Junger and Jagoda exchanged glances. After a moment's silence, they seemed to reach some sort of consensus.
"Fine," said Junger. "Keep her. To us she was only a few hours' entertainment. The world could've benefited from the Art her body would've inspired in us, but we'll let that go. Just never forget, Kiernevar, that though we three’re allies, neither Jagoda nor myself will submit to you personally. For the cause, of course, but not to you. And that's an end to it."
Kiernevar nodded. He pounded on his chest as a kind of salute. "Kiernevar!" He spun on his heel and left, bodyguards in tow.
Danielle shot the finger at the Balaklava and started to say something really unpleasant, but the expressions on their faces stopped her. Suddenly cold, she hurried to catch up with Kiernevar. Only then did she start to shiver. She had to stop and lean up against an old stone wall before she could go on.
Kiernevar ordered one of the guards to give her his jacket. After cinching it tight, she cleared her throat and straightened.
"Thanks," she said.
Kiernevar nodded.<
br />
"But why?" she asked.
“Danielle cold.”
“No. Why’d you save me?”
"Danielle ... Kiernevar doesn’t have friends, not like others do. Maybe Danielle a friend, maybe not. But she isn’t an enemy, and that means much to one who has nothing but." He turned to continue the trek back up to the main part of the castle, but she lay a hand on his shoulder.
“That why? Not ‘cause you wanted to prove a point to … them?”
“Maybe both. Does that upset you?”
It didn’t and she told him so, but what she didn’t tell him was that she was beginning to think that his odd patterns of speech were more of an affectation than anything, that he was a lot more sane than he let on.
“What's this cause?” she said. “What do you and the Balaklava have to do with each other?"
He scowled, clearly unwilling to talk about it, and she didn't want to press him after he’d already done so much for her—especially since she had one more favor to ask of him.
"Not yet," she said, when he started to press on. "I've got something I have to do. It won’t take long.”
She walked off through the catacombs, her three escorts just behind, and returned to the dungeon and the door to Malcolm's cell.
"Stay here," she told Kiernevar, and entered the chamber.
She saw nothing at first, but she could smell the blood. Off to the right, her dagger-scythe gleamed dully.
Directly in front of her, she could hear movement.
"Malcolm? It's Danielle. I've come to get you out of here. You're forgiven and all that. Now come on."
Then she saw him, although at first she didn't know quite what she was looking at. Both arm sockets were empty. It was his head and upper torso—that was all that was left, nothing below the fifth rib—and it was dragging itself toward her with one arm, an arm which was attached somewhere on its bottom side. Plugged into its guts. A trail of blood marked his movements around the room. The second arm seemed to have disappeared, and she assumed that Jagoda had eaten it.
"Jesus," she said.
Once it was about five feet from her, it stopped, but it was close enough so she could see its face and eyes. It was hard to be sure, but she didn't think that this creature was still her foster brother
"Malcolm," she said. "Are you ... are you still you?”
No response but an amphibian glare.
From deep within herself, she could feel a growl trying to work its way out. Fucking Jagoda. What, he was gonna spring this on me after they'd all raped me, that the plan? That was his special surprise? She instinctively knew that it was.
Someday, she would see that very bad things happened to those two.
Hesitantly, she stepped closer to her old foster brother, examining him. More than anything, this creature resembled a toad as much as it had ever resembled a human being.
"Say something, Malcolm. You were a fucking braggart when I knew you, only time I ever saw you stop talking was when you were kicking the shit out of somebody, so you better say something now or I’m gonna think you’re not really Malcolm at all and pound my foot through your skull."
It remained silent.
“Say something,” she warned.
It stared at her, toad-like, and blinked its eyes slowly.
Now a little scared, she took another step closer.
Without warning, the creature opened its mouth. An arm shot out of it. Not just any arm, but a skinned arm: the creature's tongue. Or penis. In a flash, she realized that Jagoda had intended for Malcolm to rape her again.
With a scream, Danielle flung herself backwards, out of the creature's range, landing on her side.
Rapidly, using its two arms, the Malcolm-thing propelled itself towards her, and there was no mistaking its intentions.
She jumped to her feet and scanned the room for the blade she’d left here. There! She snatched it up and wheeled about, seeing the creature within an arm’s distance. It drove toward her. She plunged the sword through its skull, pinning it to the floor. It lashed around with its arm and phallic tongue for half a minute before finally succumbing to whatever peace it was allowed.
Slowly, almost delicately, she removed the blade, and for a long time she stood there staring down at Malcolm's remains.
"You bastards,” she whispered, and plunged the sword down again.
* * *
Later, when she was alone in her room (Loirot was out feeding), she luxuriated in a long hot shower, then dressed in heavy black clothes and threw herself onto the bed.
What the hell was going on?
Mainly she just wanted Ruegger to get here. Then, as a team, they would kill Junger and Jagoda and consider Ludwig avenged. But something bigger was at stake here, wasn’t it? The War of the Dark Council, the Scouring, and add to that Ludwig’s murder. Where did the latter fit in? Obviously to incite Maleasoel’s wrath so that she would attack Roche Sarnova with the weight of her army behind her.
Right?
Danielle couldn’t think of another reason. The Balaklava worked for Vistrot, had performed a few Scourings, so they tied into that part of it. They said they had nothing to do with Amelia, and Danielle believed them. After what they’d done, the kavasari would surely kill them. However, the Balaklava also figured heavily into Ludwig’s demise: the second employer. Or was it?
Would Vistrot (the first employer) have gained anything from Ludwig’s death? Not unless he wanted Maleasoel to attack the Castle and so wipe out the Dark Lord. Maybe clearing away the competition in Europe? Expand his Empire here? No, because the Titan had yet to clear out all the competition in the States. So the Titan hadn’t ordered Ludwig’s death … and now the Titan was presumed dead.
The sole Scourer left was Amelia, but Danielle didn’t see why the kavasari would want Roche Sarnova killed. Besides, Amelia wouldn’t be associating with Junger and Jagoda.
What now? The assassins themselves said things were drawing to a close, right here at the Castle. What close? How would a new world order come of it? And how did the Scouring and the War figure into it?
And, not least of all, how did Kiernevar fit in?
Chapter 12
Several days passed, during which Junger and Jagoda were often seen in the company of Kiernevar. Sometimes they took a position just behind him and sometimes they flanked him like equals. No one knew whether the Balaklava were serving the lunatic, or if he were serving them. The rumors ran unchecked.
For her part, Danielle wondered whether or not to approach the Castle authorities and attempt to press charges against Junger and Jagoda. On the one hand, she desperately wanted to see them punished for what they’d done, but on the other the two were friends of the Castle. Going against them officially might be damning herself. Better to deal with them on her own, she thought. Harry counseled her against this course of action, but she ignored him. The Ice Queen wasn’t consulted at all, though Danielle was pretty sure what her advice would be.
Meanwhile, Kiernevar continued to compete in the Pit and be successful at it. On the day before the Funhouse of the Forsaken opened, the competition ended, leaving eight surviving warriors to do battle on the chessboard. Of these eight, he was the only unknown quantity.
At first, public opinion swung against him, but then he began a campaign of winning favor. One at a time, he took several Council members out to dinner and buried them with gifts. Some observers speculated that the money to do this came from the Balaklava, but the truth was that no one knew. Was it possible that the lunatic had a fortune buried away? What really won the favor of Council members (and others that Kiernevar approached) was his pledge of loyalty; if he won the contest and became Roche Sarnova’s successor, he vowed allegiance to each individual officer. By the end of this short campaign, public opinion had shifted more in his favor. This wouldn’t be enough to get him elected, but it would be more than enough to prevent him from being assassinated immediately after being crowned, which is surely all he had been looking for.
Still, the crew continued to (barely) function, though the weight of Vistrot’s unknown fate pressed heavily on them. The Kavasari Amelia had taken the Titan’s place, but she had not made any effort to contact the death-squad as yet, and it didn’t look as if she would. They were on their own. Aware of this, Castle authorities had requested that the death-squad vacate the luxury suites and move into the common rooms. Danielle wasn’t surprised to hear Cloire grumbling about it, and shortly Cloire began laying the groundwork for the crew to leave the Castle entirely. But even in this the werewolf seemed reluctant.
“What the hell are we doing?” Kilian yelled at her one day.
“We’re thinking,” she told him.
“Well, think faster.”
* * *
The day after she’d put the blade through Malcolm’s skull, Danielle packed her suitcase and at Sophia’s invitation moved into the large warren of rooms that the Funhouse had been allotted. Living there proved chaotic, but it beat staying with the death-squad.
The rooms in this section of the castle had no order, just yawned and spilled into each other at random, which suited the performers just fine. And the groupies! The number of damned groupies the Funhouse attracted shocked Danielle. Often, she was mistaken for one, but that stopped happening after the first few black eyes. Like their drugs, the freaks distributed their groupies equally. Well, almost. Maximillian and Claude seemed to get a slighter larger share—but then Max was the boss and Claude the closest thing the Funhouse had to a star. Not only that, but Claude wrote many of the pieces they performed.
“He says he wants me to write something for him,” Sophia said after she’d helped Danielle move in. “What should I write?”