Wicked Ways: An Iron Kingdoms Chronicles Anthology

by Douglas Seacat

  She realized she’d simply been staring at Versh for nearly a minute.

  “My apologies, Illuminated One,” she said. “You can hire me, if you will agree to my terms.”

  He gave a wry smile, the first sign of real emotion she’d seen from the man. “Most people simply do what I ask them for fear of being labeled a heretic,” he said. He didn’t give her a chance to reply or to determine if he was joking. “Name your conditions.”

  “First, you will not harm any of the spirits of the March unless I deem it necessary,” she said.

  “Very well. I promise if I feel I must take violent action, I will consult you. If I am able.”

  She said, “Good enough. Two, you must work alongside the team coming in from Ceryl. They are sending one of their most experienced crews.”

  He gave her a steady look she couldn’t read and said, “That isn’t going to be a problem. I’ve heard a lot about them.”

  • • •

  ELLIOT THOUGHT ELSINBERG WAS BEAUTIFUL, with its white stone buildings, orderly streets, and the glorious Monastery of Ascendant Angellia sitting at the heart of the city. The remains of the ascendant were housed within the monastery, as were those many Morrowan heroes like the knight who had guarded her remains in isolation for thirty years before carrying her from the wilderness to her final resting place. After the events of the last few weeks, he couldn’t help but feel a little safer so close to the sacred site. Had he been alone, he would have wept for the losses they’d suffered, the distance they’d come, and the promise of relief he could feel being in the city.

  Duncan Grimes was somewhat less impressed.

  “Thought there’d be more Reds here. They’re all over the rest of Llael like a godforsaken plague,” he said as they walked down a wide, people-choked street in Elsinberg’s academic district. The city was well regarded as a place of higher learning, and its library was considered one of the most complete in the Iron Kingdoms.

  “Everyone seems to be getting along,” Abigail said with a shrug. She was walking at the head of their team next to their new mechanik John Kincaid.

  Since Mel’s death, she had struck Elliot as being continually wearied of the world. As he thought of Mel, his hand drifted to the knot tied into his satchel strap. She had told him she would fix it for him on the day she died; he had decided to leave it as it was. “From what I understand, Elsinberg surrendered to Khador relatively peacefully. They’ve gotten used to being part of the Khadoran Empire, I suppose.”

  “Disgusting, if you ask me,” Grimes said. “I hear Lord General Stryker bloodied their noses in Riversmet, though. Morrow willing, he can drive the scum out for good.”

  “Maybe we could keep our political opinions to ourselves,” Elliot said in a low voice. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  “Listen to the boy,” Kincaid said. The mechanik was the newest member of their team and had proven himself surprisingly capable. Elliot liked him, and he didn’t mind that he called him boy. He supposed his frailties, which hearkened back to the severe illness he’d endured in his childhood, contributed to the way the others looked at him. And in truth, he was one of the youngest members of the team, alongside Abigail.

  Of course, no matter how much he liked Kincaid, it did little to blunt the recent and extremely traumatic loss of Mel. Her death had affected them all, and was something they were struggling to come to terms with. Since that had happened, Kincaid seemed to be almost categorically refusing to say her name—or anyone’s name, for that matter—as if minimizing her tangibility could mitigate the reality of her absence now.

  They were approaching the University of Elsinberg, several connected buildings surrounding a small campus green. Like many of the buildings in Elsinberg, the university was built of white stone, giving it an air of lofty purity.

  They walked onto the grounds without challenge, though they drew a few strange looks from students going to and from classes. Their destination was the offices of Doctor Jana Goodman, a Strangelight investigator who had been stationed in Elsinberg for the last decade. She was the foremost expert on the March of the Dead, the annual spectral manifestation that marched through the heart of Elsinberg. She had sent an urgent request to Blackwell Hall after a number of disturbing anomalies with the normally benign apparitions. Elliot suppressed a shudder; they’d seen their share of “disturbing anomalies” of late.

  It had cost them a great deal. Lestingway in Caspia had been bad enough, but he couldn’t stop seeing Mel’s final moments, especially when he was trying to fall asleep. As a result, he’d not been sleeping much.

  Doctor Goodman’s offices were tucked away in a small building on the outskirts of the campus. They entered into a large but cluttered office with bookshelves and cabinets lining every wall. The shelves were overflowing with books and documents, and in the center of this maelstrom was a large desk, also covered with papers. Behind the desk sat a woman in her late thirties with dark brown hair piled in a smart bun atop her head. She wore plain but sturdy clothing, the kind of clothes a woman who expects to be working in the field might wear.

  The doctor looked up as they all entered. It was clear she hadn’t slept in some time. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her face seemed unnaturally pale and drawn.

  “Doctor Goodman,” Abigail said, stepping forward to offer her hand. “My name is Abigail Thorpe, investigator for the primary response team. It is good to finally meet you. I’ve studied your work extensively.”

  Doctor Goodman stood and accepted Abigail’s hand. “That’s kind of you to say,” she said, and she looked past Abigail at the rest of the team. “I’ve heard much about you and your team’s recent exploits as well.”

  The doctor’s tone struck Elliot as odd. She seemed pleased to see them, but there was a reservation in her voice. Given this particular team had only been operating for a few years, it may have just been concern about their level of experience, particularly Abigail’s. It was not an unfamiliar reaction when they met more veteran members of periphery Strangelight branch offices. The primary response team carried some prestige, though it also bore the brunt of the Workshop’s most dangerous jobs.

  Abigail made the introductions, and they each greeted the doctor. It was clear Grimes had met her before.

  “Where’s Mel?” she asked. “I’d been looking forward to catching up with her.”

  Elliot couldn’t help but look at his shoes, and he suspected several of the others did the same. Glancing to his right, he saw Grimes’ clenched jaw.

  Abigail’s voice faltered slightly as she said, “I’m afraid we had a mishap on our way here. Mel was…killed in action. We’ve yet to submit a formal report back to Blackwell, so we can’t really talk about it. We should get to the matter at hand.”

  “Of course,” Goodman said, pausing to let the news sink in. She sat down again and cleared her throat. “I’m sure you’ve read the reports I’ve been sending.”

  Abigail nodded. “I have; you’ve got quite a situation here.”

  “An understatement,” the doctor said. “But there have been recent developments.”

  “We’re walking into another snake pit,” Grimes muttered. “That’s what ‘recent developments’ means.”

  Abigail scowled over her shoulder at him then turned back to Doctor Goodman. “Can you fill us in?”

  Doctor Goodman opened her mouth to reply, but a door in the wall behind her opened, a door Elliot hadn’t realize was there in the obscuring clutter of the office. A man stepped into the office—tall, imposing, clad in a leather great coat. The symbol of Morrow hung around his neck, and everything about him seemed confrontational and dangerous, including the stern expression on his face.

  “Well that can’t be good,” Grimes muttered.

  “Who’s that?” Elliot asked him.

  Grimes spoke in a low aside, though probably not so low as not to be overheard, “That, my lad, is none other than Harlan Versh, former member of the Order of Illumination and general ruine
r of people’s lives.”

  Elliot knew the name and a little of the man’s reputation. Generally, the Strangelight tried to avoid the Order of Illumination and with good reason. From all he’d heard, drawing the attention of a man such Harlan Versh meant their job had just become much more difficult. Elliot recalled it was Grimes who had advocated for bringing them in when they found out they were dealing with infernals in Caspia, but clearly he wouldn’t have sought out Versh—a man considered unbending and harsh even by their standards.

  Abigail looked shocked, but Kincaid seemed unsurprised. “Sooner or later, you end up in a cell with a killer,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “Did you call in the Order of Illumination?” Abigail asked, aghast.

  Versh said, “No one calls us in. We go where we must. And I hired her. You’re my client now.”

  Several of them started to talk at once, but Goodman’s voice rose as she interjected, “Now, listen here. Things have escalated in a bad way since I sent my first reports. The ghosts have gotten violent, and there have been injuries and deaths. I don’t think they mean to hurt anyone; they’re reenacting their final battles, but the manifestations are stronger and the spirits are increasingly tangible.” She waved her hand to indicate Versh. “And that has drawn some attention. Clearly.”

  Abigail spoke hotly to Versh. “Your organization has interfered with ours on countless occasions. I can’t think of a single investigation where Illuminated Ones got involved that didn’t end badly.”

  Versh walked closer to Abigail, looming over her as he gave her a steady stare. “That is because your foolish leaders meddle in forces they do not understand. The Illuminated do what must be done.”

  Grimes bristled and stepped protectively closer to her with his fists clenched. He snarled at Versh, “Back off, or you’ll answer to me. You’re not even a member of your order anymore, so don’t pretend otherwise.” Turning to Goodman he said, “Hiring this lunatic will probably get us on the wrong side of both Blackwell Hall and the real Order of Illumination.”

  The doctor’s face had reddened. She stalked around her desk to stand in front of Grimes. He dwarfed the Elsinberg investigator, but she was not cowed. “I did not actively aim to involve Harlan Versh in this investigation,” she said. “He was already here. And he’s been more polite than you have been. This is a bad situation. You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with.”

  Abigail said, “All right, everyone settle down. Let’s talk this through.”

  At her urging, Grimes stepped back a pace and folded his arms, though he continued to glower.

  “I’ll be paying a fair wage for your services,” Versh said. “I’m given to understand you could use the coin.”

  Doctor Goodman threw a frustrated glance over her shoulder at Versh, but she spoke to Abigail. “As much as I would rather work without Harlan Versh looking over my shoulder, he has given me certain assurances that he will not tamper with my work.” She paused and swallowed, as if what she was about to say tasted bad. “Though I am loathe to admit it, his training may be of use to us.”

  All eyes turned to Versh. He was undaunted.

  “Whatever you have heard about me, I’m still quite willing to work with you on this. I hired Doctor Goodman because she is the foremost authority on the ghosts of Elsinberg, and what may be happening to them is a specialty of mine,” Versh said.

  “What do you mean?” Abigail said, her eyes narrowing.

  “I believe what is happening to the spirits of Elsinberg is the result of outside necromantic influence,” the Illuminated One said. “Possibly connected to the Orgoth.”

  The room grew quiet as everyone absorbed that information. It was like a weight had settled on them, and images of the many horrors they’d encountered in the past weeks flashed through Elliot’s mind. Mel’s death had certainly left a deep, as-yet unhealed wound in their team, and the mention of necromancy sent trickles of ice water down Elliot’s spine. It underscored their loss and the ever-present threat that any of them could join her on the other side. Necromancy was always a possibility when looking into unusual hauntings, as it was a dark power that could twist souls. But until the job in Caspia, none of the investigations Elliot had been directly involved with had involved deliberate and unholy tampering.

  “Orgoth?” Grimes said to Doctor Goodman. “Why on Caen would you think that?”

  “We’ve seen things,” she said, and her anger evaporated, leaving her looking tired and frail. “Just recently, I’ve noticed the ghosts of the March suffering from some kind of spectral decay, like they’re being slowly devoured by something. It’s horrible. It’s worth noting we’ve never seen anything affecting these spirits before. Not blessings, not attempts to exorcise them. They have been unchanging for centuries. As I’m sure you know, these spirits were likely killed fighting the Orgoth. Now this change. And suddenly in the last few days, we’ve observed them dying in horrible ways, all inflicted by the Orgoth. I think this is no coincidence. Perhaps the spirits are trying to communicate but can’t. Versh thinks what is happening to them might be rooted in some sort of Orgoth artifact, perhaps in the hands of a necromancer.”

  Grimes looked away. He was gruff, but he wasn’t unfeeling—he’d been suffering in silence since Mel’s death—and Elliot could see the doctor’s fear and exhaustion had broken through his tough exterior. It was these moments when Elliot most treasured Duncan’s friendship and the jammer’s place on the team.

  “Bloody hell,” Grimes finally said. “I suppose all things considered, it might not be too bad having an Illuminated One around.” He inclined his head to Versh, then held out his hand to Goodman. “I’m sorry for before,” he said awkwardly.

  Abigail added, “As am I. Perhaps we can make this work.” She still sounded a bit dubious.

  Doctor Goodman smiled wearily and took the man’s hand. “Apology accepted. I am grateful you’re here.” She looked around the room. “All of you.”

  • • •

  THEY MOVED FROM THE CLUTTERED OFFICE and into a small but well-kept sitting room that abutted Dr. Goodman’ personal quarters. The doctor made a pot of tea and served each of them in mismatched cups. She added a healthy shot of brandy to hers.

  “All right, then. Can you update us on the situation?” Abigail said when they were all seated and served. Her glasses fogged over from the tea’s steam, making her eyes blur behind the lenses.

  Doctor Goodman nodded. “Yes, of course. As you know, the ghosts of the March have been appearing at random throughout the city, outside of the normal echoes they’ve been caught in for over four centuries. At first, we began seeing them as they were before the march. This was strange, but they were only living out harmless scenes from before they left Elsinberg over four hundred years ago. Recently, however, the soldiers have been appearing locked in combat, reacting violently and fighting some unseen enemy.”

  Elliot was familiar with such echoes. He’d communicated with many ghosts caught up in them, living out moments from their lives over and over again. It was a terrible thing, and when he managed to make contact with such a spirit, it was terribly confused because the circumstances of its death left something in its life unfinished. The thought of hundreds of soldiers trapped in such a predicament for so long, cut off from the peace of death and their destinies in Urcaen, seemed a terrible injustice.

  “Yes, but I’m still having trouble seeing how this outside influence is connected to the Orgoth,” Elliot said, directing his question to Harlan Versh. He didn’t feel as strong of an aversion to the Order of Illumination as the others did. They were zealous, yes, but their aims were noble and necessary, even if their members were sometimes harsh in pursuing them. Black magic was very real, as the team had seen, and they needed those willing to fight it. Versh was gruff, and he apparently lacked compassion, but Elliot still admired his devotion. He was a committed soldier of Morrow, which was never a bad thing to have on your side.

  “General Gallowey’s army disa
ppeared en route to a battle with the Orgoth,” he said. “We have seen evidence in the last week that clearly shows they found the Orgoth, did battle with them, and perished.”

  “Fine,” Abigail said. “But what does this have to do with this sickness you spoke of, Doctor?”

  Doctor Goodman said, “I don’t know if ‘sickness’ is actually the right word, but it manifests as yellow blemishes on the spirits’ incorporeal bodies. At first it was just one or two spirits, but now it’s more of them. And the blemishes are getting larger.”

  “The Orgoth left behind many fell artifacts, and some have been found in the hands of those seeking to unlock their power,” Harlan Versh added. “What we are seeing could be a reflection of the use of such an item here. A side effect or the intended cause.”

  Doctor Goodman added, “If Orgoth necromancy was involved in setting the stage for the March, in the trauma that first preserved the spirits here and denied them their passage to Urcaen, then they may be attuned to it somehow. Similar necromancy might be the only way to affect them as we have seen.”

  Elliot frowned, considering what he knew of such matters, though his knowledge of the Orgoth was limited. He did know that the trauma of death left an indelible imprint on ghosts that lingered. Such a sensitivity was certainly possible.

  “It makes sense,” he said. “Though without evidence, it’s just a guess.”

  “Very well.” Abigail said, looking around at the team. “Where do we start?”

  “We must first ascertain in greater detail just how the Orgoth destroyed Gallowey’s army,” Versh said.

  “But there are no records of what happened to them,” Elliot said.

  “That may not be true,” Doctor Goodman said. “The great library here in Elsinberg holds many ancient texts on countless subjects, many on forbidden magics such as those used by the Orgoth. Unfortunately, I have not been allowed to access those particular tomes.”