The Five Faces (The Markhat Files)

by Frank Tuttle

  She’d been an old woman when she died. Her long, white hair proved that, where it still clung to her wizened skull. Her eyes were empty sockets each filled with something shriveled and shrunk, like peach pits left in the sun.

  Her cheeks were patches of flaking corpse skin. Her neck was open, just bone and paper-dry ligaments.

  My wits slowly returned to me. I took in the size of the room and the height of the marble table and the length of the dead woman’s torso and arms.

  She’d been a giant too.

  Buttercup moved the skull about, sending its glow probing into the dark crypt. There was no movement, no sound. The necromancer’s long fingers never quite touched my Darla’s pale cheek.

  I tried moving. I couldn’t. My feet were stuck as if nailed. I tried shouting, but no words would come. I remembered walking with Stitches in a dream and hoped this was more of the same.

  Bones littered the floor. They weren’t those of the seated corpse. Skulls had been stacked in a corner, ten deep.

  On either side of the table, there was a shrouded body. The flesh that showed was black. Bones protruded, ends splintered as if chewed.

  Again, I tried to go to Darla, but my feet were rooted to the floor.

  Buttercup squeezed my hand. The air suddenly reeked of death and the motionless tableau came alive.

  The necromancer’s fingers stroked Darla’s cheek. “There, there,” said the witch-woman, her voice deep and husky. “You be still. You make a good meal for Momma. She eat you all up, skin and bones. Maybe I make the hat of your hair.” She ran long fingers through Darla’s hair. “You like that, no? To be winter hat for your betters?”

  The witch-woman leaned down and spoke in Darla’s face.

  “You want I should let you scream now? You want I should let you beg?”

  The necromancer did something with her fingers.

  Darla took in a sudden breath.

  “Go to hell,” hissed Darla. “Go to hell and take that cheap necklace with you.”

  “Get your hands off her,” I shouted. My voice should have been loud in the tiny crypt. It barely reached my own ears.

  The necromancer didn’t so much as glance my way.

  “She eats souls,” said the witch-woman, smiling down at Darla. “Oh, bodies too. The bodies of the dead, most times. But you—oh, you she will enjoy.”

  She ran a finger down Darla’s chin, down her neck, between her breasts. “She has not tasted the flesh of the living in years. You will remain aware while she consumes you. Bite by bite.” The necromancer tore Darla’s gown, leaving her naked. “Come, Momma,” said the necromancer, smiling. “Time to dine.”

  She moved to stand by the dead woman. Once there, she produced a short, wicked dagger, slashed it sure and quick across her right wrist, and then held the dripping wound over the corpse’s open mouth.

  “Is treat for you tonight,” said the necromancer. Darla began to struggle on the table. “Is live one. Warm flesh. Living blood. So sweet. Enjoy her, Momma. Take your time with this one.”

  The corpse stirred, twitching. As blood dripped past its withered, black lips, its limbs began to jerk and move.

  The necromancer laughed. “Make her suffer, Momma. For me. Later, I come for what is left. Leave her hair for me, please. She make good hat.”

  The dead woman sat upright in the filthy marble chair.

  “You have good meal, Momma. Start with her feet. Let her feel each bite.”

  Angels help me, the dead woman stood.

  She wobbled. Her dry tendons crackled like twigs underfoot. Her jaw worked, clacking and snapping, dry teeth gnashing against dry teeth.

  The necromancer took the corpse by the hand and led her toward me. I looked the damned woman right in the eye, but she didn’t see me, even as she stepped with inches of me.

  “Here you go, Momma,” said the necromancer. She reached down and stroked Darla’s bare leg. “Eat your fill.”

  The corpse bent. Dry fingers scratched on the stained marble slab. She took Darla’s foot in those dead hands and bent her skull face close.

  The necromancer laughed and vanished.

  Buttercup let go of my hand.

  I fell on the corpse, knocked it aside, brought it to the floor under my weight. I didn’t dare a pistol shot. I did manage to land a single blow with the butt of my pistol on the back of its bare skull.

  It clacked its jaw and stood, shaking me off. Fingers of bone reached out for me.

  I kicked it where its privates should have been. My boot hit hipbone. Something cracked, and the corpse lurched and raked a bony claw across my face.

  I didn’t fire. Part of me, the part that hadn’t seen much practice since the War, told me to wait until the necromancer had time to unhitch her mares, to get out of earshot. So instead of firing, I rushed the corpse headlong, sent us both tumbling down in a tangle of bones and limbs.

  I beat against it. Sparks flew from the marble floor where my pistol-butt connected. Its jaw clacked and ground, its elbows and knees clicked and scratched on the stone. We rolled and struck and rolled again, stopped finally by a bloated, black corpse that spewed something foul and sticky all over us both.

  Seconds passed. It got its shriveled fingers around my neck. I got my hand on its face and slammed the back of its skull repeatedly against the floor, determined to break it open and scoop out whatever was left inside.

  Finally, Buttercup began to sound her keening banshee howl.

  I took that as my signal, and I shoved a gun in the dead woman’s mouth and I blew her damned head off.

  She let go.

  I rose to my elbows and shoved her aside. The bones still twitched and moved, but no longer in a coordinated fashion.

  Buttercup helped me to my feet. I gave the corpse a kick for good measure and hurried to Darla.

  Her eyes were closed. I felt for a pulse, found a good strong one, tried to shake her awake.

  Buttercup tugged at my collar, shook her head no.

  Darla slept.

  I held her, for a time. Felt her breathe, felt her heartbeat. Listened to her take in slow deep breaths, exhale, listened to her sleep.

  Wondered what she dreamed.

  I don’t know how long we were there. I remember Buttercup, sitting in the corner, conferring with her skull. I remember Darla murmuring and stirring after I loosened the straps, remembered gathering her in my arms, and rocking her back to sleep.

  Buttercup took us through the crypt’s wall, right after sunup. Darla slept through that. Slept through being carried over my shoulder out of the Pale. Slept through the curious stares and the cab ride home.

  Home. Not to the hotel, but to our house. Home to our good, Balptist red rug, and her mother’s good quilts, and our bed. Home to our porch and our kitchen and our tiny bathroom. To the faucet that drips and the gate that creaks and the closet door that never quite shuts right.

  I put her to bed. In our bed. Then I pulled up the covers, and I kissed her good night.

  Love is a hard thing. Hard to recognize, hard to understand. But this I knew—I couldn’t live without her. And woe betide any who would threaten her, be they necromancer or god or Angel or devil.

  I hailed a passing cab, sent a note to Mama. Told her Darla was hexed or drugged or both, and to come at once.

  I put my old Army knife down my right boot. I put Toadsticker at my waist. I loaded my pistols, filled my pockets with ammunition.

  Then I sat on our porch and kept watch for black wagons.

  None passed. I was hoping it would be nightfall before the necromancer returned to the crypt. Hours, I knew, were the best I could hope for. After that, the necromancer and probably the giant would come for us in earnest.

  A day. A handful of hours. That’s all the life I had left, if the drawing was to be believed. And since the godlet saw it all happen, I had no reason to doubt it, and no way to stop it.

  Darla had no such assurance of even that much time.

  The sun rose while I s
at. Rannit awoke all about me, yawning and stretching and preparing for the day.

  I heard Mama yelling at the cabbie a block before it rolled to a stop at my curb. She flew out of the cab and hit the sidewalk running, bloody murder plain in her piercing Hog eyes.

  “Where is she?” she shouted, fumbling with my gate.

  “In bed. Sleeping.”

  Mama cussed. Her burlap sack dragged the ground. The tops of jars and paper-wrapped herb bundles poked out.

  “Put some water on to boil,” she said, trundling up my steps. “I brung Troll-wort. I brung moon-charmed spring water. I’m gonna need every pot you got, boy, start laying them out.”

  She was still barking out orders as she marched through my door. I watched her go.

  “Goodbye, Mama,” I said. “Take good care of her.”

  I put one of Darla’s loaded pistols down just inside my door. I figured Mama could find the trigger, if the need arose. Then I threw the bolt, made sure the door was locked, and I walked away without a single backward glance.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Avalante was a well-dressed beehive.

  Armed halfdead rushed to and fro. The day folk were armed too, and rushing as best they could, though they were no match for their pale brethren.

  I found Jerle himself, unflappable as always, but this day armed with a long-barreled rifle and a belt lined with silver-tipped rifle rounds.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  Jerle paused long enough to speak. “Mr. Prestley left a letter for you in his office,” he said. “I believe you know the way. It’s been good knowing you.”

  I repeated my query, but he pulled away and was off.

  I dodged dapper vampires and made my way down to Evis’s comfortable lair. Not once was I challenged.

  I arrived to find Evis’s door open, and his office empty.

  It was dark, as usual. But he’d left a fancy magelamp on, its stained-glass shade illuminating a single tall beer glistening on his desk. Propped against the bottle was an envelope bearing my name.

  I made for it. My footfalls sounded as loud in the empty office as they had in the crypt.

  I tore open the envelope and read.

  Markhat,

  Our artistic friend took out House Lethe last night. The whole House. They say there isn’t anything left but ashes. Found all ten of Lethe’s sorcerers skinned and stuck in trees.

  Word is we’re next. The House has decided to take the fight to him, right now, today. I’m not given a choice.

  I doubt it would matter anyway.

  I’ve sent Gertriss south. Tried to find Darla, couldn’t, hope she’s with you.

  Behind my desk you’ll find a box. What’s inside is yours. Don’t flash it around inside the House. Throw it hard and be behind something heavy and solid by the time you count to ten.

  I wish we’d had time for one more beer.

  Good luck, my friend.

  See you in Hell,

  Evis M. Prestley, Esq.

  I cussed.

  All around me, the curios and artifacts and magical gizmos Evis spent his afterlife collecting glittered and sparkled and glowed and shone. A cigar butt trailed the faintest wisp of smoke from a silver ashtray.

  I’d missed him by mere moments.

  I found the box, just as he’d said. There was no lock. Inside was a thick silver tube, rounded at both ends, its length worked with characters in a script I didn’t know.

  It was warm to the touch. I could feel the characters inscribed on its surface moving beneath my fingertips.

  I shoved it in my pocket. Then I rummaged through Evis’s desk, found paper and pen, and wrote a short note to Stitches, suggesting that she rob the necromancer’s crypt in case the corpse could be used as leverage later.

  For the first time in my life, I left a free beer untouched. I did shut Evis’s door behind me.

  By the time I climbed up and out of Avalante, the House was deserted. I could see a line of black carriages charging away down the Hill, and then they too were gone.

  I made what time I could on foot. There wasn’t a cab to be hailed. Word that the Houses were at war left the Hill deserted. The few day folk I saw were busy running and shouting and shuttering their windows.

  So I walked. The godlet’s gold crown I’d tried so hard to lose found its way into my hand. I put it back in my pocket, only to feel it appear beneath my hat.

  “All right, dammit,” I muttered, snatching it from my hair. “I’m paying attention.”

  It did nothing but glitter in the sun.

  I put it away and kept walking.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the Hill and set foot on the Brown River Bridge, the first new columns of smoke climbed up the horizon.

  I cussed and stomped. Below me, barges and boats made wakes heading south. The boats were crammed stern to bow, and the barges rode low, packed with people perched on every bale and every crate.

  Rannit was on the run, for the second time that year.

  I marched on, realizing I was all alone on the Bridge. Even the clowns had fled.

  I counted three columns of black smoke rising from north Rannit when I started across the Bridge. By the time I reached the other side, there were five towers of thick black smoke arcing across the sky.

  “Evis, keep your fool head down,” I muttered.

  A crow cawed from the rail, startling me. I gave it a hard look and it tilted its head, crapped in the Brown, and took off, its shadow falling over me as it flew.

  “So much for omens.”

  Across the Bridge, traffic all along the Brown was chaos. Half the people were determined to reach the docks and hire a boat, and half were equally determined to head away from the river and take old roads south instead. I wound up caught in the middle, and only harsh and frequent slaps of Toadsticker and boots applied to asses got me through the melee.

  I lost sight of the smoke plumes in the canyon of storefronts and roof-tops, but even above the rush and roar of the mob I could hear the sounds of battle.

  Cannon fire. Gun fire. The rapid miniature thunder of rotating repeaters. The sizzle and crack of the new weapons Evis called rockets.

  And above all that, the grumble and growl of an angry god.

  I pushed my way ahead. Flashes lit the sky. People panicked and dropped their bags and their boxes and they ran. Horses chomped and galloped past, wild-eyed and foamy with sweat and charging wherever they damn well pleased.

  On the north side of town, a god howled, and the lingering remnants of the mob stopped their half-hearted looting and sought refuge wherever they could.

  The sky went dark, though it was only midday. I watched as something shaped more or less like a man rose, growing so tall its head blotted out the sun.

  I found the coin, squinted to see it in the sudden fall of night.

  Lacking any other inspiration, I flipped it into the air.

  The god shouted as the coin flew. The sound of it was louder than thunder, louder than Buttercup, louder than the sound the world would make if some furious deity took it in its hands and broke it.

  The coin landed in my palm, and it was daylight again.

  The silence left my ears ringing.

  The light made it hard to see.

  When I could hear again, there was only silence, and the keening of a cold, steady wind.

  When I blinked away the spots that danced before my eyes, the storefronts were leaning or fallen, pitted by fires or decay. The rooftops were gone, swallowed by flames or wind, charred rafters and warped joists left behind to twist in the rain.

  The street was covered in litter and debris. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized some of the trash at my feet had been human, once upon a time.

  Yellowed bones protruded from tattered, rotted clothing. Shoes and boots had fared best, some remaining nearly intact.

  My first thought was shock, not at the presence of so many corpses, but at the sight of their un-looted shoes.

 
The wind whistled past, cold as winter.

  I stepped over the skeletal remains of a child. My boots scraped on the cobblestones, and the sound sent shivers up my spine.

  I stood still for a moment, waiting for something, anything, to move among the gutted ruins.

  Nothing did. No dog barked. No rat scurried. No crow called out or flew.

  The coin lay cold in my hand. The face of it had changed, neither sword nor crown, but a crude rendering of a bare skull face.

  I’d seen it before on each of the drawings.

  I took in the bones, the charred buildings, the chill that rode the air. The creature claiming to be a god of fate told me the coin would let me walk out of time.

  I wondered just how far ahead that single flip had carried me.

  I took another careful step, straddled another pitiful corpse.

  Was this Rannit’s future? Was I witnessing the aftermath of Evis’s battle at the tower, which had only commenced moments ago?

  Moments or months?

  I stepped on a finger-bone. It snapped like a twig, the sound loud in the eerie, oppressive silence. I froze, crouching out of old habit, waiting for the sound of I knew not what.

  While I waited, I wondered. Had I just trod upon Mama’s finger? Darla’s? Was everyone I knew, those few I held dear—were they too withered and unmourned, silent and still beneath a lead-grey sky?

  I cussed, flipped the coin again, caught it in the air.

  Night fell, without preamble. A half moon rode high above, just bright enough to highlight the ends of bones and the grinning faces of upturned skulls.

  The air was warm now. Warm and scented with the stench of decay. Flies rode it, buzzing and busy, landing on my lips, trying to squeeze into my ears.

  I cussed and batted. Bones crunched. But where the day in winter had been silent, this warm, foul night was filled with sound.

  Moaning, coming from the north. Not a single person moaning, but hundreds, thousands.

  And screams. High wailing screams cut short, only to resume again from a different throat.

  I heard scuttlings and scratchings in the darkness around me. The storefronts were hulks, though some still smoldered and spat sparks.