Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  “Father,” Haylee moaned. “Master Goldstring was lovely.”

  Ivan did not reply, sinking into his hide bound oak chair and nursing a cup of wine. He would have to find a new teacher, one more efficient than the last. Scanning the faces in the hall Ivan noted the stares. It was good, he thought, that he made his expectations known to them. Some faces were surprised, others amused. At the far end he noted Master Freeman still wearing his councilor’s sash along with a smile of approval. It might be convenient, Ivan thought, to have the old man’s nagging tone rid of his council for a time.

  8

  They lay for hours, waiting for the rushing torrent to slow. When it did Antony struggled to drag himself out. The tunnel opened into a larger channel. Curious blue stones littered the roof of the tunnel shedding a faint light, a respite from the pitch-dark passage they had left. The water turned waist high and ran strong, its source coming from many small tunnels such as the one they had left, all funnelling into one.

  “I know where we are now,” Antony managed to spit out between convulsions.

  “You mean he didn’t before?” Ghost wondered.

  “You okay?” asked Dead.

  “Sure. Not far now.” It was a struggle for Antony to speak, each word coming slow and slurred. They continued wading through the stream until it broke out into a large aqueduct, flanked by a smooth stone walkway.

  “Go upstream from here,” Antony panted through white lips. His pace had slowed and Ghost saw that the old man would not make it through without help.

  “Dead, carry him.” Dead complied, scooping the old man in his arms. Antony spat out directions as needed.

  They came to a well-hidden inlet carved into the wall, concealed by shadow in such a way that one could walk by without noticing it. It turned into a rough, hand carved tunnel, so narrow that Dead had to turn sideways to fit himself and Antony through at the same time. The tunnel itself ran in darkness, Antony held out his hands to the wall, feeling the way for Dead who, even if he had not been holding the old man, would not have been able to feel the rough edges of the walls with his nerveless fingers.

  A faint light ahead greeted them as they turned a corner, a dim oil lamp almost as bright as a summer sun after spending so many hours under the Earth. Ahead of them rose an iron ladder, half rusted and looking dangerous under the flickering light.

  “One at a time,” Antony wheezed. Dead tried to send him up first but the weak thief couldn’t stand on the first rung.

  “Looks like we go together,” Dead stated. Antony was too exhausted to argue. Dead flung him over one shoulder and climbed the ladder, straining under the weight of the men, groaning in a loud complaint as if the pair had woken it from a long sleep.

  The ladder did not speak when Ghost took his turn.

  At the top another tunnel led to a series of intersections each lit by another lamp. Antony whispered the way and they came to an old steel door with a red horse, its paint flaking from age. Dead sat Antony on the uneven stones and knocked. No reply. Again he tried, his hand booming and shaking the door. He stood back as if readying to break it down when Antony stopped him.

  “Booby trapped. Keep knocking.”

  The hammering continued and it took many minutes before Dead heard someone approach from the other side. An eye peered through a hole above the horse.

  “Who’d you think you are?” came a threatening voice.

  “Tell them we need help,” Ghost said.

  “We’ve got a sick man.”

  “So, what’s that to me?”

  “My name,” Antony whispered.

  Dead paused for a moment, he had forgotten the old man’s name. Rather than asking him again he stooped over and picked up the old thief, holding him up to the door..

  “God damn, Old Tony.”

  Several clicks announced the disarmament of whatever fearful contraption awaited anyone foolish enough to try and break in. The door swung open to show a tall gaunt-faced man in a serving apron.

  “Bring him in,” he ushered, shutting the door behind them.

  Antony lay unconscious in one of four beds, his breathing shallow and weak, an iron coil element expelling warmth next to him. Its red coils looked ready to burst as they heated the room. Dead was entranced, he stared at the glowing metal as it seemed to grow ever more vibrant. Every now and then the heater would let off a sounding crack, as if the crude wiring inside was liable to burst into flames.

  “So, you met in the cells?” The man had introduced himself as Jim, the proprietor of The Ilky Den, a quiet bar in an old part of the Poor Man’s Quarter. It was below ground level but well lit. “How did you get out?”

  Dead’s face tugged at the question, struggling for an answer. His own memories of the prison and morgue were so clouded that he couldn’t even be sure they existed. There were no specifics in his memory, only flashes that whizzed through too fast to latch onto.

  “A morgue,” he stuttered.

  “What the hell are you telling him,” interrupted Ghost.

  “I can’t remember,” Dead confessed, looking at Ghost. Jim watched Dead, growing anxious in the larger man’s presence.

  “Tell him you were hit on the head,” Ghost ordered.

  “I’m not feeling good. I got knocked around bad before.”

  “Maybe you’d better sit down,” Jim said, nodding in the direction of a bed, his tone stern.

  “I should be right,”

  “You misunderstood,” Jim lashed out a single-chambered pistol and pointed it at Dead’s chest. “Sit down.”

  “Just do it,” Ghost called. “You’re making him nervous.” Dead was reluctant, inching to the bed.

  “I’m sorry to do this, but until I can get a clearer idea of your mess of a story then I’m not trusting you.” Dead glared, thinking he could take a bullet without worry, leaving him free to tear the skinny man apart. The muscles in Dead’s neck tightened as his primal urge to kill came back and threatened to eat up the slim helping of rationality that the zombie possessed..

  “Hey,” yelled Ghost with all the authority a spirit could muster, enough to catch Dead’s attention. “What do you think you’re doing. Jim can help us.” Hearing the name out loud triggered a hint of a feeling in Dead’s mind and he fought to control his temper.

  “I don’t like being threatened,” he said to all in the room.

  “I’m not threatening you,” replied Jim with a cool voice. “But so far you’ve told me nothing that makes sense.”

  Dead sighed, his shoulders sagged as the last of the anger faded away.

  “I have no memory,” he confessed. “I don’t remember meeting Antony or escaping.” He looked at his clothes, wet and covered in dirt and human filth. “I don’t even know why I’m so dirty.” He spoke with an emotionless tone, betraying his insensitivity.

  “Sounds like you’re in a spot of trouble then,” remarked Jim.

  Ghost snorted. “What a master of perception he is.”

  “It’s worse,” Dead continued. “I’ve got an annoying voice that keeps following me around.”

  “Annoying? I’m the only thing that’s keeping your brain from leaking out your ears.”

  Jim raised an eyebrow. “And what does this voice say.”

  “He gives advice sometimes.”

  “I can also remember things for you. Tell him that I’ll relay your story.”

  Using Ghost, Dead retold their story. They missed certain details, such as the bungled autopsy. Jim relaxed a little but still frowned.

  “You need some food and clothes,” he said.

  “Just clothes,” Dead corrected.

  “Then I’ll lend you some, it’s the least I can do. After all, you saved my father.”

  The pistol was hidden away under Jim’s shirt, the slender weapon undetectable beneath the apron. Jim left to fetch clothes, leaving the dead men with the dying one.

  9

  The old plastered wall dripped with cracks, stained a sick yellow through year
s of smoke. The Ilky Den was a quiet pub secluded from the main street of Poor Man’s Quarter, a haven for those not wishing to be found. Locke sat at one table sipping ale and noting those in the pub, all thieves or other undesirable social class. Jim Caulfield owned the joint, a thin man profiting from the illegal goods ferried through his section of a series of smuggler tunnels. In one corner three men were playing cards with a healthy purse sitting on the table.

  Heads turned for a moment as the door cracked. Ronny stepped in, a thick pelt cloak keeping the harsh autumn night at bay. For a moment he stood, searching faces through the acrid smoke. He moved to Locke’s table, taking a seat without word until the barmaid brought a drink.

  “So… How’d it go?” Ronny asked in a soft voice not quite a whisper.

  “As usual.” Locke pressed the cup to his lips taking less than a sip of the bitter drink. He disliked the Ilky Den, feeling it was a poor thieves hideout littered with the lower stations of his craft. Ronny insisted on the meeting place however. A successful fence who had made a good business by his perceived lack of association with Ironwood’s criminal element, Ronny worked in the house of Gerard Jacobmann, a wealthy merchantman whose dealings with the underworld were many and historied. The Ilky Den turned a blind eye to any transaction that might go on under its black stained tables, providing the pair a convenient place to meet.

  “Got what you wanted,” Locke moved one hand under the table. There was a trade performed in a fluent motion that only the most discerning eye would notice. Even in The Den prudence always paid.

  “What’re you going to do now?” asked Ronny.

  “Take it easy, no more jobs for the year if I can help it.” Locke tasted his lips, a tick in the back his mind whispered to him.

  “I’ve got something if you change your mind.”

  Locke weighed his answer. He wanted a quiet winter, to relax, but the promise of reward was hard to deny and there was always that tugging want calling. “I might need it,” he admitted.

  Ronny nodded, he knew Locke’s demon. With a pat on the shoulder he stood. Locke sank back into his chair, one hand on the heavy pouch. If he was smart it could last through winter and into spring. Locke stood, mourning the exit. With shoulders slumped he turned, walking to the far corner.

  “I’m in,” he declared, tossing a coin into the pot.

  They played the cards for hours. Locke’s pouch grew light. He had been winning, playing the table well and filling his bank. Greed overcame him though as he sought to take the full prize. His luck soon soured, as it so often did, and he felt the remorse of one who spends more than he can bear to lose. Across from him sat a face of scars wearing a nondescript jacket, cut from leather and buckled tight. He was grinning, a mound of coin dragged into his chest.

  “One more boys?” he sneered.

  Locke’s pouch held a couple of weeks’ wages left, enough to cover his rent but no more. It was all or nothing, he realised, cursing himself for the blunder. Locke was a great thief and shameful gambler. He steadied for one more game when the back room opened. Jim entered, a concerned look scrawled on his face. Locke stayed his hand, watching as the proprietor whispered words into a few patrons’ ears and strode to Locke.

  “The Old Man’s just been pulled in,” he said in a sullen voice. “He’s not looking good.” Locke dragged at vague memories of his past. That name was a distant memory.

  Jim straightened and addressed the bar, announcing it was closed for the night. “There’s been an accident… I’d ask if you are not acquainted with the person that you leave and come back tomorrow.”

  Locke thought it a rare thing for paying customers to be turned out, questioning the sincerity in Jim’s announcement. As many left, some unwilling, Locke sat and stared into his warm ale. He tried to drink, lips peeling at the bitterness, and pondered. It was going to be an interesting night he realised.

  10

  Damian squirmed on the rough floor, the thick blanket inadequate both as a mattress and to stop the stinging autumn night. His face was swollen and aching, the discomfort hindering sleep even without the hard floor and rain blowing in from outside. His plan to spend several days lost in the ruins was falling apart, the thought of a fire and warmed elk skin too tempting. He had spent the day away from Greenstone keep and his father, using his knowledge of the ruins to seek out the secret pockets that littered the wreck. No hunting party had come looking for him.

  With one last failed bid to find comfort Damian stood, blood throbbing through his face and threatening tears. He had lost, he knew, and would have to face the wrath of his father. Feeling the full shame of his act Damian gathered his skin blanket and wound his way through the ruins. It was a half moon, the twilight enough to illuminate the way even through the downpour. Damian stepped softly as he descended split steps and leaning towers, careful not to slip on the hard slate.

  He reached a level floor, not far from his point of entry, when he froze. He was standing in an old guest room, the east wall having collapsed in one of Ironwood’s violent storms. A figure was supplanted against the night sky, looking out to Greenstone castle. He was not far from Damian, a shadowed man with his back turned. Looking into the ruins from outside would net no evidence of the figure, hidden in shadow and rain. It was only from Damian’s view that he was silhouetted against the night, the moon peering down across his back.

  Damian froze, unaware of the man’s intentions. The mysterious figure stood like a statute, patient and disciplined, watching the patrols of the shadowy citadel guards below. With a shaking hand Damian braced himself against hard stone as he slunk backwards, careful not to scrap his feet or touch loose rubble.

  The man was too raptured to notice the quiet figure slip around a corner. Damian knew he had to reach the castle fast, the memory of his uncle’s murder still retained. With his exit blocked Damian sought a second. He found a latrine tunnel, the one played in earlier, and snuck through the walls, passing the sentry. He made it into another broken room, its wall missing too. He calculated that the spy was in the room to his right and moved to the edge with stealth, crawling over the lip on his belly. He swung around and hung by his hands, slipping on the wet slate. The scabs on his palms tore and he sought in desperation for a foothold. Finding a rickety piece of masonry he swung round and pushed off with his feet, landing hard. The loose brick came away from the disruption, falling into the courtyard below and striking stone. The echoed crack rose over the pound of rain and Damian rushed to a shadow, lying still.

  If the figure was perturbed then Damian never knew. No further disturbance came and as Damian’s heart slowed he braved another move. Pushing up, he snuck into a corridor, the tiles jagged and threatening. Damian kept low and sought the old stairwell, a spiral set that caved in half way up. It was the only means of reaching the ground floor, the broken stones a risk in the dark.

  This was the moment, Damian thought. If the stranger were to wait for him then the stairwell was the perfect bottleneck. Fearing a blade, Damian pressed close to the walls, listening for any signs that someone waiThe whole: ted below. Damian’s pulse beat so hard in his ears that he struggled to hear anything else. Damian inched out, eyes wide like a rabbit searching desperately for a predator in the shadows, expecting to die on the steps.

  No fatal blow came and Damian assumed that the figure must still be waiting at his post overhead. Sneaking now with more pace than caution, Damian reached the front gate that led into the abandoned courtyard. Without any other route to Greenstone, Damian was sure the stranger would see him crossing the open space. The frightened boy snuck around the edges, hoping that he could blend in among the sprawled stonework and twisted metal ruins. As he crawled on his belly, face bleeding, Damian expected to feel a shot in the back. A grey slurry of ash and rain smeared the regent’s son as he pushed on.

  Damian stared across the yard at the gate which led to Greenstone’s courtyard. From here Damian knew it was simple, the low wall an easy challenge for the daring climber
. With one last surge of fear he stood and ran to the point, bounding off a wet granite block and slipping over the brickwork. On the other side he rushed to the main gate, encountering a passing watchman before he could get there.

  “Hold,” came the disheveled cry, a steel barrel pointing his direction. The firearm was sodden and useless.

  “Don’t, it’s me… Damian Steward.” The barrel lowered an inch.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” came an angry voice.

  “There’s a man… in the ruins.” The guard looked at the boy, unsure whether to believe him. As he stepped closer, a shuttered coal lamp lighting Damian’s face, he saw fear through the blood and filth.

  “Get to the keep… Tell the Guard Master that I’m having a look.”

  “He was up in the third floor, south and east side, looking out at the castle,” Damian added, scurrying away. The guard turned and hurried to the gate, fumbling with a set of keys, his off hand wrapped tight around his musket.

  “Well we didn’t find anyone up there,” stated Guard Master Bryce Hommel. “Not that that’s to say someone wasn’t lurking about,” he added looking at the scared boy resting a head on his father’s arm, a dark green paste applied fresh to his cuts and thick towel around his shoulders.

  “If what Damian tells is true, this fellow may have taken off at the first sign of trouble. It is still a death penalty to be on royal property without warrant,” Ivan said.

  “Unfortunately we can’t take any chances my lord,” Bryce warned, pressing white hands against a coal burner. “I would not like to see a third regent pass in so many years.”

  “Then do what’s necessary so you don’t,” Freeman spoke. He had risen at the sounds of alarm and sought out the problem.

  “Of course. I will run more patrol guards and vary their routes.”

  “What else can be done?” asked the old man, looking concerned.