“Can you help my Mah?” he said.
The man looked at him funny.
“Huh?”
“Can you help her?”
“Sure, sure we can. Just let me have the purse.”
Brak squeezed the bag of coins tight in his hand and then tossed it to the guard. The watchmen all had bewildered looks on their faces.
“Now, help my Mah!”
Things started to turn fuzzy in Brak’s mind. The guard he was talking to got a big smile on his face when he saw inside the purse of coins.
“Very well, pick her up and follow me, then.”
Brak picked up Vorla, and the men had to tilt their heads back to see his face once he was standing. The watchmen went over and gathered his sword and his mah’s.
If they were going to kill him, he didn’t think he minded. He stayed still.
“Is this really your mother, Mister?”
Brak nodded.
“Strange,” the man said, shaking his head and putting Brak’s sword back in his sheath. The man sheathed Vorla’s sword, too and peered at her face. “I am sorry about your mother, Son. She was a pretty one. Follow me.”
Brak followed, his head downcast, with no ideas about anything. His mah had always taught him to listen to his elders, never explaining that could be a bad thing.
The head watchman said, “Wait for the carrion wagon. Tell em’ nothing, if you want your share. I’ll explain when I get back.”
“Leave the purse with us!” one said.
“Shut up! I’ll be back like I said!”
Brak carried his mah, gazing into her face, not making a sound, oblivious to the staring faces in his midst.
“You can’t be lugging your dead mother around, Son. You’re gonna have dispose of her body. There’s nowhere to bury her around here, either. You’re gonna have to have her burned.”
“What? No!”
“Hush, Man, there’s no choice. It’s either this or you’ll have put her on the cart with all those you chopped up. At least this way you can see her go.”
Fresh tears were running down his cheeks as he followed the man he didn’t know. He noticed hot air blasting on his face and looked up. An open iron gate was in front of him, tall and thick with twisted bars. Inside a desolate facility the pair went, and down a wide set of stone stairs. Brak could hear the sound of a thousand roaring fires ahead as blood and sweat dripped down his face.
The watchman stopped and said, “Son, I can do this if you want me to.”
“Do what?” Brak stammered, holding his mah tighter.
“Ah … this is it, where the dead go … into the inferno.”
“You burn them like wood?”
“No choice. I’ve done it a hundred times at least. It’s not something a man should get used to, but you do. It’s better than the sewers, or being eaten by the dogs. There are people that pay to eat people, too. Your mother could end up with them. I don’t think you want that.”
Brak had never imagined such a thing, but now images rose in his mind that were crystal clear. He stepped forward and said, “No, I’ll go.”
“All right then. Tell you what, get whatever you want to keep of her things, and say your good-byes. I’ll ready the chute,” the watchmen said, his gray bearded face moist with sweat. The man set his pack down.
Brak watched the man's face become illuminated for moment in orange wavering light, as he rounded a corner. Brak set his mah down and ran his hands over her clothes. Whatever she had, he put it in his pack. He kneeled beside her and looked into her eyes one last time before he closed them.
“I’m gonna miss you, Mah …” he said with a last heavy sigh. His sobs renewed.
He took her sword off last and looped it over his shoulder. He picked her up and walked around the corner. The heat jumped another fifty degrees. He’d never experienced such heat before. It was intense, like a sun stuck in the ground. Squinting, he headed toward the black silhouette of a man. The man wasn’t alone; another one with long leather gloves, goggles and a heavy apron was at his side.
“Set her here, Mister.”
Brak set her on a long metal slab that was hooked to a network of chains. The man in goggles began pulling at the rattling chains, hoisting the woman up with the slab. Brak looked over at the giant-sized rectangular opening. It was bright orange and yellow, but he couldn’t see the roaring flames. He stepped toward the retaining wall that housed the fire below.
The watchman grabbed his arm and said, “You can’t look in there, Son, it’ll blind you. Just watch her go. It’s time to say your last good-byes.”
When Brak looked up again, the slab was moving over the edge of the fiery pit. He heard metal gears winding up, and the slab began to tip forward. He heard nothing as she slid from the slab and down into the fire. He screamed.
“Whatever goes in never comes out. Sorry, Son. Life’s a Bish.”
Chapter 49
The smell of hot food filled his nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the kitchens above the surface. Coarse voices could be heard mixed in with delightful giggles. Gillem erased the grim look off his face with a broad smile as he pushed his way through a pair of swinging doors. No more than ten men and women were scattered about a dimly lit tavern room. He made a quick wave as a few hands raised a glass to him and back to their lips. A staircase awaited on the other side of the room. Up he went, meeting a gruesome-looking man with a crooked nose who towered over the top of him. Crooked Nose Man was standing in front of a closed door, two shortswords strapped on his hips. Farther down the balcony, another man nodded at Gillem. This man was holding a crossbow over the rail and dangling a toothpick from his mouth.
Crooked Nose Man uncrossed his arms and cleared his throat before saying, “Welcome, Master Gillem.”
He nodded and said, “What kind of mood is he in today, Thorn?”
“Most of the ladies just left, so I’d say right now he’s pretty good. Want me to check?”
“Nah … I’ll take my chances,” he said.
Thorn opened the door and stepped aside so Gillem could enter. I hope the tramps didn’t disappoint him.
The master suite was divine in comparison to everything else in The Nest. The room was designed around a marble fireplace mantle and a dining table with a dozen chairs. Candles with the girth of a man and half as tall were lit and scattered around the room. He could smell the freshly cut flowers that bloomed in crystal vases. The carpet was of royal fiber, hand stitched by the finest urchins of Holm. Paintings, rare and picturesque, decorated the walls of the room. A rack of weaponry stood shining in the corner. Everything was refined, perfect, and exquisite, even by the highest of Royal standards.
Gillem sat down at the long table where goblets and a carafe of wine awaited him. The fire roared with life, toasting him from his head to his toes. He admired a great sword that gleamed over the mantle. It looked unnatural to him: six feet of gleaming superior steel. How could any man possibly wield such a thing? But according to Palzor it had been done. In the middle of the table were dozens of neatly stacked columns of silver and gold coins. His mouth watered. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he moved down another seat, away from the fire.
Gillem helped himself to some wine and waited. He could hear the rustling of sheets from behind a nearby door, and a pair of light footsteps hitting the floor. The door opened, and a short pudgy man in a fluffy maroon robe and matching slippers stepped out.
“Ah, Gillem, I thought I heard someone come in. Welcome back,” Palos said.
The tightness in his chest began to ease. It seemed the past few days had been good ones. The coins on the table were evidence of that.
A woman with dark and mysterious features emerged, wearing a shear black slip and nothing else. She tiptoed up, wrapped her arms around Palos from behind, and sucked on his ear.
“Ah … that’s the spot, Dear. But I’ve got company; Master Gillem is here.”
“Hello, Master Gillem,” she said, “would you like me to
send for some of my girls?”
“No thanks,” he said, puffing on his pipe.
“Later perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, leave the man alone, Woman, He just got here,” Palos said with a happy look on his face. “Now, be a bad girl: go back in the bedroom and wait for me.”
“As you wish, Master Palos,” she said in his ear as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.
Palos pulled up a chair and sat down across from Gillem. The man’s hair was a mess, and his eyes were glassy and wide. Gillem pushed him over a goblet of wine. Palos gulped it down.
“Ah … now, she knows how to make a man thirsty, and hungry. Thorn! Thorn!” he yelled.
The main door opened and Thorn’s form filled the doorway saying, “Yes, Master Palos?”
“Food! Now!”
“Right away,” the big man responded, closing the door.
“So Gillem, tell me about things: the boy, the Magi Roost, and Kam.” Palos began to drift into thought. “Kam … she is a bit of perfection, isn’t she. I’d love to nuzzle my face in those perfect breasts once more. I was so close, Gillem, so close … but she evaded my charms,” Palos said, his hands gripping the air in front of him.
“She is a beautiful lady. It’d be a shame to see her go before you got another try at her.”
“Pah … those Royals are hard nuts to crack sometimes, but when they owe you a favor, they pay up. Kam’s family owes us no favors, though. This halfling, Lefty, should help with that. Tell me the latest, and remember, things have been good, I’d hate to have any bad news today.”
Yes, I'd hate that, too.
“Kam’s sudden fever was remedied by her family. Within a day she was back home. It was a good break, giving me time to set things in motion quicker. The boy is coming along fine. He’s tentative and fearful, but I’m hardening him up.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been applying palm root to him.”
“Why?” Palos said, as Gillem refilled his goblet.
“It’s keeping the woman down. The longer she’s out, the more he worries. I’m giving him tasks under pressure and worry. Besides, without her around it’s easier for me to mentor him. That strange fever was a good thing. I’m getting a stronger hold on him each day. In time he’ll toughen like leather, and worry no more. ”
The fire reflected in Palos’s gazing eyes. Gillem knew what the man was thinking. He didn’t like him using palm root, which was something Palos didn’t understand or care for. Gillem had a gift with herbal toxins, a halfling legacy. The palm root was dissolved in the bucket of water by Kam’s bed. Gillem had been sneaking in there to add it from time to time. The wash cloth would fill with the stuff. One application would knock a human out for a week or more. The trick was that halflings and dwarves were immune to it.
“Palm root,” Palos mumbled, his voice trailing off as he stared into his goblet. Palos’s eyes met his.
“It seemed necessary, Sir. It’s working fine. The woman could be out for good, if you asked.”
Palos rubbed his head and said, “No, it’s fine. I’d rather she was knocked out than dead. I couldn’t possibly relieve the miserable world of such a fine woman as that. Her breasts are magnificent, as beautiful as the rising suns.” Palos rubbed his finger under his chin, eyes closing as he said no more.
It was an awkward moment. Gillem intervened.
“Ahem.” Palos’s eyes snapped up as he shifted in his chair. “Ah … where was I? Oh … I would just give it another week Gillem, no more. I don’t need her family getting too concerned. They have the power to find us out. Those magi are nothing short of the most arrogant creatures in the world. They might turn a blind eye to trivial matters, but they can still be dangerous. They only tolerate us because of all the dirty work we do for them. We’ve been running their errands forever it seems, finding every ingredient needed in order to cast their little spells.”
Palos was waving his arms in the air in imitation.
“We’ve stolen and smuggled every ounce of their special needs for centuries: parchment, skin, bone, roots, herbs, minerals, organs, dung, fruit, hair, ink, powders and so forth. They haggle as fiercely as us, but in the end they pay well. Shaking down the merchants is a workload too: bribing the guards, stealing keys, starting fires. Ah … Gillem, I miss the days when you tutored me, running the streets and taking whatever we wanted. Now, I stay confined, Prince of the Underground, while my father advises from above. Such an inheritance this is, with enough water and gold to drown a giant.”
Thorn stepped inside with a tray of food and set it in front of Palos. The crooked-nosed man’s eyes flicked back and forth to the piles of gold and silver.
“It’s about time, Thorn, now get your greedy eyes off my gold. That’s for me, not a dumb arse like you!”
Thorn slammed the door behind him.
“Buffoon!” Palos said, stuffing a roll into his mouth. “But you gotta have them. No telling when assassins might be about. Now where was I?”
“You were talking about missing the streets and your inheritance. Can I remind you that you will be the King of the Streets above one day, like your father?”
“Ah Gillem, I could slap you. You know my greedy heart doesn’t want to wait. I want it now!” he said, slamming his fist on the table. His face turned full of fire, then back to its warming charm. “Oh, I guess I can wait … a little while longer. Now, back to the boy … What is your long-term plan? I can’t have you spending too much time with him. We still have recruiting to do. Our numbers are getting thin. The Royals just beheaded eight of our brothers a few weeks ago.”
Gillem had friends among those men, and Palos did, too. They were a family, but they didn’t mourn the consequences of their risky actions for very long. There were no graves or funerals for thieves. It was the incinerators for them. If there was one thing Gillem feared, it was dying on the end of a noose. The spectacle of the men’s tongues hanging out and their feet twitching had burned a vivid impression in his mind. He wasn't required to watch hangings, but he always did. It was like watching his own death. He hoped he wasn't leading Lefty to a similar fate, but for now he had no choice.
“I’ll work him on the streets; keep him with me as often as can be. He’s fast-learning, this one. He already knew how to pick a lock, even has his own tools. You’ve seen the skims he’s already set up,” Gillem said as he rubbed his long-fingered hands together. “I’ll be able to keep recruiting up there, too. There are plenty of hapless humans running around. There’s got to be some talent in some of them.”
“Mmmph … good Gillem, good,” Palos said, washing his food down with more wine. “Keep me informed, every week. If Kam wakes up, let me know immediately. I can’t believe the woman had the gall to attack me. The favor she owes me in the meantime is the boy; she just doesn’t know it yet.”
Gillem’s stomach crawled, the way the man said it.
“Find something else we can use against her while you train the boy, too. Until the next time, Gillem,” Palos said, his eyes flickering from the stacks of coins to his.
“Until then Master Palos,” Gillem said, adding four gold to one pile and three silver to the other as he walked away.
“I’ll expect more than that that next time, much more.”
Gillem heard the man scoot his chair across the floor and slam the bedroom door behind. He left for the city above, his heart heavy for the first time in decades. Lefty Lightfoot’s life was being staged for him. The halfling would be a bound prisoner of sorts. It was a sad feeling. The boy would have been better off in Bone.
Chapter 50
He was lying down now, or so he thought. He tried to sleep, but didn’t know if he was. His dreams were intertwined with nightmares. Everywhere was white mist, no day, no night, just mist. Even his thoughts and memories seemed fogged by it. Venir could have sworn that he was dead, but his aching body and groaning stomach suggested otherwise. He never could have imagined tha
t life could be so everlastingly miserable.
He rolled onto his stomach and rubbed the ground. He was pinching something like dirt in between his fingers. Other sounds began to echo in his mind, birds and water-like sounds. He got up and tried to follow, but nothing was there. The sounds came and went as he trudged onward, following the echoes only to have his hopes fade time and again. Move or die. There didn’t seem to be a difference now.
He thought he was moving upward; a gentle slope seemed to slow his pace. The farther he went, the steeper it became. A new energy surged through him when the mist seemed to become brighter. He stumbled over something. A rock? Another one tripped him along the path. The new footing was different. Boulders began to crop up everywhere. He sat on one of the rocks, pulled out his canteen, and took a drink.
“Yes!”
He felt something around him now. A monolith of rock seemed to loom in the mist before him. He headed straight for it. It was there! A thrill rose inside of him. He was climbing like a mountain goat now, his powerful legs straining against the ever steepening grade. Upward he went, yards, miles, leagues. His fingers and feet slipped as he fought for foot holds. He slipped down time and again, only to fight his way back up. He kept going, knowing no mountain could be too tall to climb.
A blood curdling roar froze his blood. He didn’t realize he stopped breathing. His body was immobilized. The unexpected sound rang in his ears. Another roar came, louder than the first and shaking the ground. Shards of rock began slipping down the jagged hill he was climbing. He found himself hanging on to a cleft in the rock when his ears started ringing with the sound of massive wings beating somewhere high above him.
WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! SNORT!
Another roar followed, closer than the last one. Something whooshed through the mist over his head. He pressed himself into the mountain. It roared again, now farther away. The roars began to fade so that Venir could hear his blood rushing behind his temples. Every instinctual thought told him not to follow that sound, but he did anyway.
The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 22