Knives of Bastion (An Empire Falls Book 2)

by Harry Leighton

“Yes sir.”

  “Does this have any direction?”

  “Just a helpful reminder. If you have any … positions coming up. Any … powerful positions.”

  It was going to be a long morning. Maybe he should just sack this man.

  *****

  Angry. He was angry.

  Things had been going well and he’d not had the compulsion to kill for a few days. He’d tried to swallow it, keep it deep down, hold on to the progress he’d been making.

  But it was no good. The more he thought about it, the more his anger grew. He had to kill again. Soon. And now here he was, stalking a man at the end of the day, using the dusk to be as unobtrusive as possible.

  Anger and haste had probably selected a bad target. The soldier was being cautious. He’d clearly not drunk quite as much as his friends and was watching where he went, even as he walked home alone. The need was consuming though. It had to be done and it had to be a soldier. The thought of walking away from this was too much. It had to be done.

  The roads were quiet, but not quiet enough. It needed to be an alleyway or at least a deep shadowed doorway. Tackling a man who was armed where he could see it coming would be dangerous enough, without the added complication of being seen doing it. The kill would be far less satisfying if he had to spend the next few hours running from a mob rather than savouring his angry release.

  He kept shadowing the man, looking for an opportunity. He was heading out of the old quarter and down towards the docks. Hopefully the man was going home rather than on duty. He felt frustrated enough as it was anyway. Having to find a new target or perhaps even failing for the night was not something he could even think about.

  He watched as the man turned down a quiet side street. Excellent. Though it was going to make following him a little harder as he would stand out more. If the man looked back and noticed him it might be noticed that he was being followed. It didn’t matter. This was his target now and he was going to do his best to make this happen. The soldier paused before a doorway, patting his trousers.

  Ah. Home. Now or never. He dashed across the street and slammed into the soldier’s back, surprising him and forcing him up against the door. As he pulled his knife, the soldier twisted, fighting back. The soldier threw an awkward punch, gauntleted fist glancing off his face as the knife came into play. He thrust but the soldier managed to get hold of his wrist with one hand, shouting as he did. He slammed the soldier in the face with his free hand, trying to maneuver the knife for a killing strike.

  The man wrestled as he did, knife coming back at him towards his face. He twisted, applying force to the soldier’s wrist. The soldier shouted so he butted him in the face as hard as he could. The soldier sagged back slightly, still gripping the knife but now there was a bit of room to move.

  “Die,” he growled, clamping one hand over the soldier’s mouth before twisting the knife and forcing it with a strength that belied his size. The knife pushed into the man’s chest, making his eyes bulge before he went limp. He removed his hand from the man’s mouth. He wouldn’t be shouting anymore. He listened. The shout and the fight had probably drawn attention. There was no time to do the cutting to hide his crime amongst those of the Nightwalker. It’d have to do that it looked just like a random street killing. He looked at the body, slumped in the doorway. Better rob him of something to make it look like a mugging gone wrong.

  He rooted through the man’s clothing, finding his purse. He felt sick. This was not making him feel better at all. Killing in anger was one thing, rummaging through a dead man’s belongings was quite something else. He pocketed the purse, standing up and walking away quickly, not risking discovery any further.

  He breathed. Clear. And no way to tie this back to him. It was sloppy but it would have to do for now. As he walked, he noticed a pain in his cheek. He put a hand to his face. Bleeding. He needed to see the damage. He moved over to a nearby torch, wiping his knife carefully on a cloth.

  Regis looked at the reflection of his face in the shiny metal of his knife blade. Damnit. That was going to show and questions would be asked.

  *****

  The baker leaned to his right and took a look at the queue. Ten people, all looking cold, all looking ready to purchase some bread. This was a good sight, except there was a small problem.

  “Oi,” he shouted as he stuck his head into the back, “hurry up and get those loaves made, we’ll be sold out in a moment.”

  Turning back to the shop, he smiled, and decided that while you could get the staff, they never tell you some days it’s hard to get the fucking flour on time.

  “Yes sir?”

  A tall, thin man he hadn’t seen before was now at the front. He’d be considered ill looking were it not for the fact this was winter in Bastion and pretty much everyone was ill looking at this point.

  “Two loaves please,” Vesek asked him.

  “Two?” Oh fuck, we’re going to run out.

  “Please.”

  “How about some rolls…”

  “Rolls … why are they called rolls?”

  “They roll?”

  “I see. Well two loaves please.”

  “Of course sir. Perhaps a cake?”

  “If you really only want to sell one loaf, just say…”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s have a discount on some cake.”

  A man came running into the shop, shouting with obvious excitement.

  “He’s killed again! The Nightwalker killed again!”

  “Oh God,” the baker cursed, “who now?”

  “Just now! Just been found now! A soldier, they said he was still warm, a soldier killed by the Nightwalker!”

  Vesek turned his head to the man. “When you say killed…”

  “Sliced to pieces! Cut apart! A Nightwalker killing!”

  “Must be some mistake…”

  “Oh they’re sure, matches all the other ones. Scourge of the city.”

  Vesek began to feel something unusual in his stomach. A sort of bubbling feeling.

  “Well I hope they find him and hang him,” the baker said with the sort of conviction someone trying to fit into society mustered over these things. “I’ll do you one loaf and…”

  “One loaf is fine,” Vesek said with his eyes focused on a spot a hundred feet behind the man.

  “Oh, right. Er, cake is…”

  A coin was held up. “One.”

  A short while later Vesek was walking out with bread under his arm, and being hailed from behind. “Avoid alleys, avoid the Nightwalker…”

  Vesek walked into the street, and didn’t notice he’d stopped feeling the cold. He passed the queue waiting out the door, and didn’t notice anything about them. Didn’t even eye them up for murder.

  Instead he began returning to his hiding place, and his mind was roaming the city.

  Someone killed a soldier last night. Not unusual.

  Someone tore them to pieces. Unusual.

  The guard are useless and think the Nightwalker did it. Is that unusual?

  Vesek began to think back, roaming his mind over recent weeks. Killings, there were always killings, and he was but the leader of that activity in this city.

  But … then it dawned on him.

  Then his mind put pieces together and he realised.

  Someone else was killing people, doing that and copying him.

  There was another serial killer and his cloak was being ridden on.

  He walked along slowly as this new concept expanded in his mind.

  Why did he want to be the main killer?

  The only killer?

  The leading killer of this city?

  Why did he want to be the source of people’s terror and fears and why was he angry that he was sharing that stage?

  Why did it matter?

  Vesek was an artist, but he had never experienced someone stealing his ideas, copying his work, thieving what made the man tick. He was an artist, but one untroubled by others.

&n
bsp; But he was also a killer, an artist of a killer, and that same pride and protection was suddenly violated by someone copying those ideas.

  He wanted to be the Nightwalker, he wanted to be famous and feared, that was part of it, something he was ashamed of.

  But only a part.

  More was the possessiveness, the hurt of someone taking his role, his ideas, his art.

  It hurt him.

  It actually hurt, and suddenly he wanted to find this killer and slice them into small pieces. The things he could do to that corpse…

  And then there was a new idea.

  The city thought there was another Nightwalker. If someone caught or chased that one, he might be able to escape. He might be able to avoid detection.

  He could set this other one up and slip away…

  The idea was rejected. If someone else was caught, they would be the real killer for evermore. He’d have to leave his work behind.

  So he had to remove this fake, this charlatan, before the other man or woman was caught.

  A difficult task when you’re in just the one city.

  Vesek was back at his hideout, half the food he wanted to have bought in his hand, and he cared not a jot for it.

  He wanted, not revenge, but to claim his professional due.

  He wanted to kill a killer.

  But he had no idea how to start.

  It wasn’t as if he could walk up to the guard and ask what they knew. He was best avoiding them entirely.

  He needed to plug into the town news, the rumours, the gossip, something lost since he abandoned his rooms. He needed to be more aware, and not get lost in his own world. How long had there been another one of him?

  *****

  “It’s good to see you moving around,” Erik said, looking back whilst wiping his hands as Daeholf walked into the back of the shop.

  “I needed a bit of exercise,” Daeholf said. “The stairs seemed like a good place to start.”

  “Please try not to hurt yourself again. I wouldn’t want my first patient to be a loss,” Erik said.

  “First patient?” Daeholf said, curious.

  “And last I hope,” Erik said. “Assuming you three don’t make a habit of this sort of thing.”

  “It’s not in my list of things to do again,” Daeholf said. “Now that I’ve fallen off a roof once, I don’t feel the need to do it again.”

  “I know it’s a bad idea and I’ve managed to avoid it,” Erik said.

  “Only because pioneers like myself do these things first so that we can pass on our experiences,” Daeholf said.

  “You didn’t break your sense of humour anyway,” Erik said. He looked around at the empty shop. “It’s quiet in here so is there anything you need?”

  “Perhaps, but honestly I’m bored. I’ve been spending all my time in one place, looking at paperwork. I’d like something different to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Do you need any help in the shop?”

  “It’s quiet today as you can see.”

  “Yes. Well, preparation then?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can get more done, and done better if I just do things myself. You three were little short of a disaster as butchers on reflection.”

  “I thought we were coming along quite well.”

  “I did have hopes for you. Some of you anyway. But you stopped getting any better at it. I wasn’t sure that was really possible, but I’ve learned something valuable.”

  “Well, I’m glad we could help in some way at least,” Daeholf said. “What was it you learned?”

  “If I ever take on an apprentice, make sure they have some idea what they’re doing first.”

  “Ah. And I’d been getting my hopes up. Buy a little butcher’s shop, retire somewhere nice.”

  “I’d stick to the day job,” Erik said, chuckling. “Whatever that really is. That’s days though, not nights. You’re not so good at them.”

  “Ouch,” Daeholf said. “Where have you been hiding this rapier-like wit?”

  “Being robbed and beaten takes a toll as you can imagine. But now business is mostly picking up, I’m not being extorted, and I’ve not had a beating in a while. Life is almost starting to feel normal again. But for the Nightwalker and the Thieftaker, things are falling into place.”

  “I can see that,” Daeholf said.

  “So did you just come down for a chat and some company?” Erik said.

  “That’s always nice, but since you ask, I do have a question.”

  “Ask away. It’s not like there’s anyone else to overhear at the moment anyway.”

  “It’s about the Nightwalker case.”

  “Not sure I can help much there, but ask away anyway.”

  “We were wondering if we can learn anything from the cuts he is making.”

  “Cuts?”

  “The bodies. The Nightwalker cuts the bodies after the kill.”

  “And you thought I might have some input on that?”

  “It was an idea, explore all the angles, that sort of thing.”

  “That probably explains why you’re a terrible butcher I suppose. What exactly is it you think I do here?”

  “Cut meat.”

  “In its simplest sense, I suppose so. Are you asking me how he cuts and joints them then?”

  “Joints? Oh. No, he’s not doing that.”

  “So what is it that he is doing?”

  “Well, maybe some sort of punishment, humiliation display perhaps.”

  “I’m not going to get very far in business if I start doing that to my meat.”

  “Of course not, no.”

  “I’m a butcher, not a killer. And whilst I suppose if I had to hide a human body, I could cut it up well enough that few people would know what it was, it’s not something I do, whatever my competition might tell people at times.”

  “I’m not suggesting otherwise. But you do have some expertise that we don’t. Or perhaps better put, there’s something you know more about than we do.”

  “Lots of things probably, but the reverse is also going to be true. Specifically what are we talking about here though?”

  “Knives.”

  “That I do know something about, yes.”

  “You keep yours very sharp.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a butcher if I didn’t.”

  “Now clearly a sharp knife is a better knife for cutting, but how hard is it to get them as sharp as you do?”

  “It requires a bit of practise, certainly,” Erik said modestly.

  “And how much of a difference in cutting ability is there between a knife I would consider sharp enough and one you’d consider sharp enough?”

  “Mine would cut cleaner,” Eric said firmly.

  “Then it might be a shame we didn’t ask you about this sooner. Would you be prepared to go and look at a few bodies?”

  “A few? Have there been a lot of Nightwalker killings that we’ve not heard about?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

  “Look, if I’m being honest, I’d rather not. But I don’t actually need to.”

  “No?”

  Erik pointed to a particular knife behind the counter. “Test the edge on that for me would you please?”

  Daeholf picked up the knife and tested the edge carefully with his thumb. “Sharp?” he said.

  “Score that leg of pork with it,” Erik said. Daeholf did as he was told. “Okay, now do the same with the knife that was next to it.”

  Again, Daeholf did as he was told. “Ah. I see. Cleaner cut. That’s actually pretty helpful I think.”

  “No problem. Though the three of you have just bought pork for dinner.”

  “Should have seen that one coming. Fair enough. I have one last question then before I leave you alone and you stop selling me the contents of the shop.”

  “I should probably ask for some sort of retainer from the watch if I keep helping them with their enquiries like this. Ask away.” />
  “What about different knife materials?”

  Erik frowned. “What, like different types of iron or steel? That sort of thing? Some hold their edges better than others but you have to work with whatever you can get. It’s not like I can exactly afford the empire’s finest here.”

  “What about bronze though?”

  “Bronze? Well I know that you can get it very sharp. But it’s too soft, won’t hold an edge very well. No one uses it for that reason. It’d be far too much of a pain these days. Why, did someone suggest the Nightwalker was using a bronze knife?”

  “Not as such. It’s like I said though, we’re trying to cover all the angles.”

  “It’d be a daft weapon nowadays so I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there,” Erik said.

  *****

  “There must be something,” Daeholf said. “Let’s go over what we have again.”

  Zedek nodded but he wasn’t really listening. The three of them were sat in the bedroom, running through what they knew. There had been many leads, nearly all of them fruitless. Was the artwork another one? He sat, thinking. Elena had thought it relevant and important enough to drag him and Trimas across town to look at it. Art was one of his blind spots. He’d never really had the time, though he’d had a lot of it by human standards to stop and appreciate paintings and the like his people had created, except in a historical context when it tied in with his study. And they were almost always depicting nonsense anyway from a historical standpoint so he’d usually disregarded them. Still, he was probably the closest thing to an expert on elven art they were likely to find.

  Unless ... Karina? She had proven surprisingly knowledgeable about his people. Troublingly so in some ways, though given her history her interest was understandable. She was a long way from here as far as he knew and this was most likely beyond even her anyway. Besides which, this was information they’d not even shared with Kellan. They were keeping the evidence of an elf away from him for now, not really trusting what he or his employer would do with it, so this was also a dead end for his thinking.

  They’d had to make do with their own resources, as had so often been the case, but somewhat surprisingly to him, they’d had to defer on this subject to Trimas. Oh he shouldn’t be surprised. He was right, he had been a noble with all that entailed, but it was just hard to see him that way these days. Wars and life had worn away at him and for all Daeholf’s ‘prince’ or ‘princess’ jibes, Trimas had very little of that about him these days. Certainly since he’d known him, Zedek had never seen him with that aloof air that many of the over-privileged humans seemed to walk around with. He came across as a much simpler man, not in the sense of unintelligent but in the sense of uncomplicated. It was little things like this that served as a reminder that there was far more going on under the surface.