Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  His legs were still weak, having rested idle for many days. He had spent the first week after the attack doped on numbing drugs, unable to gather the coordination to step out of bed. As his face had settled down he was taking less of the drug, his mind becoming clearer and allowing him to plot a way back into the castle. He had already decided that Pierce’s reign had to end fast, a decision made before losing one side of his jaw. His exile from the court had stuttered those plans, making a simple murder more complicated. While he still had agents within the citadel he had not been in contact with them, nor did he know if they were still loyal to him since his fall from grace.

  He gathered a woolen robe from the bed head and wrapped it around his frail figure, tying it tight. Slipping into elk skin slippers he left his room, a balancing act that required enough attention to prevent collapse.

  There was only one guest room in the house, the rest of the building dedicated to family rooms and one room for the house servant. For a man of wealth Jacob lived a frugal life, avoiding the extravagant luxury that many of his peers descended into. It made the Master comfortable, feeling that his friend was guided more by morals than his purse. He would need that trust if he were to regain his station, he knew, ascending a flight of simple stone steps and making his way to the study.

  Jacob was set to his desk, a common practice through the colder months. A heated element ran under the length of a window facing out to the cluttered streets of the lesser merchants. Despite its presence the room remained cold, the heater left off until the heavy snows came. The merchant looked up from a letter, smiling as Freeman waddled to him.

  “It’s good to see you about,” he wheezed, trying to stifle a cough.

  Like many in the city, Jacob had contracted black lung, having lived too long in the ashen city. Although some people showed resistance to the disease, cases of the sickness were on the rise as more of the city burned up coal in order to stay warm. Those who stayed through the autumn were most at risk, the swirling winds sprinkling the black ash right over the city proper.

  “Thank you. I am feeling better,” Freeman sat opposite him, helping himself to a glass of watered wine. It was a cheap vintage, nothing more than he expected.

  “I was hoping you’d make a swift recovery. Your face looks better now. When you were first brought to me I hardly recognised you.”

  “I could imagine… Has there been any word from the citadel since my assault?”

  “Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Jacob shrugged his slender shoulders. “Miss Ammba is still missing from all. Pierce seems to be consolidating himself within the castle. He is weighing the merchants with another tax now, didn’t seek the approval of the noble vote, rather imposing it himself. As you can imagine both the nobles and the merchants are up in arms.”

  Freeman scratched at the white stubble forming on his chin.

  “If the nobles are against it then how does he plan to collect?”

  “The army. He’s cut a deal with them from what I hear.”

  “A dangerous move,” the Master stated, wondering if another war was inevitable.

  “It’s a small tax,” Jacob sighed. “But one that all registered merchants must pay. It’s a flat rate increase, so it’s the minor merchants that really suffer.”

  “And the major ones will pay up rather than cause a fight,” Freeman agreed. “Though the nobles might challenge him over the matter. They have traditionally been the source of the regent’s income. They would not like this shift back to the old structure of self-management,” Freeman mused.

  “Well, if they wish to challenge him they need to be fast. A rumour merchant tells me that Pierce has ordered the forging of steel reinforcements for the walls of the citadel.”

  “That would cost more than what a simple flat rate could provide,” Freeman pondered. “It was an issue that was raised from time to time when I was councilor… There was never a simple solution.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. This lord Pierce seems more resourceful than anyone gave him credit for.”

  “Including myself, I’m afraid.” Freeman tasted the cheap wine again, the vintage unaccustomed to him.

  One other thing you might find of interest,” Jacob said, stretching out his thin arms. “The child accused has been tried by the nobles.”

  “So he is dead?”

  “Not yet. He has to undergo the Ritual of Entrailment.”

  “So Pierce gave him up?”

  “No, he was smuggled out.”

  “Interesting,” Freeman thought. “It seems Lord Pierce is not so secure in his castle after all. To smuggle out the child would have required someone working against him from the inside.” Freeman thought of his own agent, an older woman that had been in the employ for years. “Would you do me a favour Jacob? I wish to have a gift sent to Haylee Steward but I fear that it would not reach her if it bore my mark.”

  “You want me to play your little games?”

  “Hardly. I just fear for the girl and need to know if she is okay. I would not expect you to incriminate yourself in anyway.”

  Jacob crossed agitated fingers, disliking the notion that he might be used in a game that he didn’t know the rules to.

  “I would not ask if we were not close friends, you and I.” Freeman tilted the cup back to his lips, the flow of cold liquid burning the holes where his teeth had been, and monitored the merchant’s reaction.

  55

  They returned through the wet passages, following the lights. Dead walked faster, more capable of speed and balance since his rotting insides were removed. The wound in his belly looked nasty and was sure to attract attention.

  They reached the murky steps that led back into the inhabited areas of the asylum. The man that Dead had knocked unconscious earlier was awake, standing with shaky legs and talking with two other men. He spluttered when Dead slammed open the door, fresh chains tearing apart, half a shattered head held in Dead’s left hand.

  “You’re alive?” The guard asked in his high-pitched voice.

  “No, but I am here,” Dead was menacing. The two other men, both dressed in the plain smocks that denoted a position of influence backed off, seeing the danger.

  “I thought I splintered your skull already?”

  The shaky guard looked to his companions for help, they offered none.

  “What do you want from me?” he begged.

  “I want to know why you didn’t warn me of what was down there.”

  “Ahhh, I, uh,” the man fidgeted. “I, uh, was… I mean, you… you knocked me out before I could say.”

  Dead eyed him, a semi-smile peeled back.

  “Maybe,” and a fist slashed out, jarring the man’s twitching chin.

  He fell back, cracking his head against the hard plaster, and laid still. The two onlookers said nothing and paid no resistance when Dead walked past them, still clutching the decapitated remains of the king’s lapdog.

  “Your majesty, there’s a problem.”

  The king tore his attention away, frustrated, the dancing inmate ignored for a moment. She wore a partial smock and had dark matted hair but was still enticing.

  “This better be important or I’ll feed you to my dog.” he threatened.

  “That’s the thing,” rattled Scott. “The dog’s been…”

  He was cut short as the doors at the far end of the hall parted. Dead stormed in clutching the dog’s head, with the deformed Mutt trying to give chase. The king tried to straighten in his wheelchair, his body rocking back and forth in a futile fashion. Dead reached the dais and dropped the remains at the king’s feet, the fat head unmistakable.

  “I see you brought me the head of the traitor,” King Joanne stuttered, trying to look calm. “You truly are the greatest knight I have ever serviced.” A fast sweat broke his brow.

  “You tell me this man’s name was Louise?”

  “Louise… yes, why yes of course he is. Did you not find him where I mentioned?”

  “The reward,”
mentioned Ghost.

  “There was a reward,” Dead took from cue. “We were promised medical supplies.”

  The king was still in shock, trying to stutter through his answers. “Yes, medical supplies. I, ah… I would need one more task before you receive your reward,” he stammered.

  “No,” Dead growled, a menacing air engulfing him. “A king must always pay his debts.”

  “And I will, I will… I just have one more task.”

  “I am through with tasks,” broke Dead. “And I have one more gift to bestow on you.”

  Dead reached inside his belly, liquid seeping out as his hand squirmed around. The fist came back, in it a thick chain with heavy shackles attached. The king looked on in horror.

  “What are you?” came a sputtering heave.

  “I am the progeny and the harbinger,” Dead roared, clutching the chain.

  Ghost recoiled, as a bullet searing through his mind. The words held weight, though he had not heard them uttered before. Within an instant Ghost understood a piece of the puzzle. King Joanne and Dead held a link, however tenuous. In the King’s presence Dead had lost his bumbling mannerisms, the aura of the royal a spiritual anchor in which Dead could weigh down and connect with the remnants of his past self. In this moment of insight Ghost knew with morbid clarity that Dead was not aware of this link.

  “It is time for you to seek your place alongside you ancestors,” Dead cursed, swinging the chain overhead.

  “Dead, wait,” Ghost cried out, too late.

  The thick coil spun hard, gathering momentum and crashed down on the stationary royal. The iron smashed through, cracking the skull in one blow and emitting a sickening thud throughout the chamber. No one intervened. The guards watched on mute, the dancing girl stood with covered mouth and the king’s retinue wept.

  Joanne’s head slumped forward, the top of the skull open wide and visible through the balding hair. The body would have fallen out had it not been for the slim chain that ran across its chest. A stench filled the air as the dead man’s bowel opened up.

  The crowd woke slowly, as realization dawned. There was no anger or despair, but the knowledge that their reality had changed. No longer would the asylum be run from within, there was no authority now. Dead had murdered a royal member and changed the social hierarchy of Ashmore Asylum with one stroke.

  As the understanding grew there was a surge of discontent. Of insane men who had been charged with following rules for too long. Several surged up and attacked, not Dead, but the guards who had been granted authority by the king and accepted by the wardens unwilling to enter the keep.

  The room burst into anarchy. A dozen men grabbed the dancing woman and threw her to the ground, forcing her legs apart. Screaming drenched all as the Mutt was torn apart, crazed shouts descending through the keep. Scott managed to escape the chamber, running from the savagery.

  The madness spread, each level erupted, as a community of the violently insane that are released from all charge. Inmate murdered inmate, raped and tortured, fulfilling every diseased thought that could be entertained. Bodies flew down the stairwell, their screaming ending in abrupt clacks. Others were victims of the mob set off in a random chain reaction of violence. Scott did not escape, a steel rod penetrating his rectum and rammed up through his collarbone. He screamed as they mounted him for display in the lobby.

  Ghost and Dead did not participate. They watched for some time, unthreatened by the mob violence they had caused. The king’s body had been pulled apart and strewn across the hall. They stepped over his pieces to leave.

  “What did you mean when you said you were the progeny and the harbinger?” Ghost finally asked.

  “What?” Dead’s abrupt self had returned.

  “Back then. That’s what you called yourself when the king asked who you were.”

  “Really? The words mean nothing to me?” Dead ran a hand over his stubbled chin, hairs that would never grow further than the short whiskers that they were.

  “Dead, whoever you were before you died, I think it was important. Back in the city you recognised the sign of the Patriarcht without hesitation. And when you spoke to the King you were like a different person.”

  “What are you saying? That I’m royalty?” Dead’s grim smile showed through.

  “No, I don’t think so. Otherwise someone would recognise you. Tell me, what did you think when you murdered Joanne?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dead admitted. “It’s like there is a weight off my mind, as if killing him has released a small part of me.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. I don’t know what the meaning of it all is.”

  “Well, whatever it is, we won’t find out by hanging around here any longer. We will want to get out of here fast and I doubt the guys running the show are going to let this mess go on for long. Once they calm things down they’ll want to know what started it.”

  The pair left the chamber and returned to the place they had met Malcolm, pushing their way past crazed inmates. Several times Dead had to use force, overpowering those who hindered him. Malcolm was not far, they found him in a room on top of a female inmate, her eyes lifeless.

  “Hey,” Dead called, wanting his attention but forgetting his name, ignoring the necrophilic act.

  “Hey, it’s you,” Malcolm pulled himself out of the victim and stood. Ghost felt ill. “Had my eyes on her for a long time,” he admitted. “What do you want?” he seemed relaxed, speaking in a calm voice, different to the man they had met before.

  “We need to escape,” Dead stated with a reminder from Ghost.

  “Good luck,” he smiled. “You’d be better off just enjoying yourself.”

  “So you can’t help?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “There might be a way, though it could only be a rumour.”

  “What is it then?” Dead pressed.

  “I’ve heard that there’s a series of tunnels connected to the basements around here, not much wider than a man though. Problem is, if what I’ve heard is true, which I ain’t saying it is, they branch out in a maze that you can get stuck in.”

  Ghost considered the possibility. “Ask him where he heard this from.”

  “There’s an old guy who lives here. Been a prisoner for years, told me about it once in his delirious state. I wouldn’t trust him myself, but then look at me,” he leered.

  “Where is he now?” Dead asked.

  “He might be in his room, doesn’t get out much. Of course, someone might be pulling him to bits as we speak, you never know.”

  “Where’s his room?” It was an urgent question.

  “Somewhere on floor one. I can’t remember exactly. I think it’s on the eastside. The old fellow’s name is Marcus Ambriery, ask around, someone there will know him.”

  Ghost ordered Dead to follow, leaving their informant to return to his pleasure.

  56

  Pierce stood, abandoning his meal and a discussion with Gehrig, grumbling as he witnessed the procession shambling through the hall to greet him. Georgia Pierce led the march, flanked by a series of servants, men and women.

  “This is a touching welcome,” she sneered, greeting her husband.

  “If I had known my distant wife was visiting I would have turned out a carpet.”

  “I’m sure. It would have given you time to empty the sluts from your bed. I’m assuming they still service you in my absence.”

  “They service me when I like,” Pierce spat, grumpy at her arrival. “You look fatter.”

  “As do you, dear,” Georgia smiled back. “I had hoped to arrive before my brother’s funeral. I assume you took the eulogy.”

  “I prattled on like they told me to, if that’s what you mean?”

  “Such tender words you speak.”

  “What do you want me to say? I never met the man.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I will have Master Freeman show me the tomb.”

  “Freeman is no long employed in the citadel
.”

  Georgia raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you run the council now?”

  Pierce did not reply. He liked his wife little when they were wed, taking on the union as a strategic partnership. They had not seen each other for three years, Georgia preferring to remain at their villa in the north, Pierce remaining in Ironwood throughout the year. It was a situation that Pierce was keen to maintain. As long as they were married he held the right to govern in the regent’s absence

  “Gehrig here will take you,” Pierce informed her.

  The foreigner looked up from a daydream, surprised.

  “A barbarian?” Georgia jeered.

  “Aye,” Gehrig stood. “Gehrig Yemoon at your service.” He took Georgia’s hand in a traditional Northane greeting, placing his on top.

  “Well, at least you have trained him,” Georgia said.

  Gehrig smiled at the jibe.

  “Come then barbarian, show me my brother’s tomb.”

  “She’s a Steward,” Pierce told Gehrig, giving the foreigner a push towards his wife and returning to his own meal. Georgia’s servants were led away, taking the substantial luggage train up to a spare guest room set aside for important visitors.

  “So, you are from the Kingdom?” Georgia’s voice echoed down the smooth stone corridor of the Royal Crypt.

  “Yes, lady. From the Upper Reaches.”

  “A long way to travel.”

  “It was,” Gehrig agreed, his face lit by buzzing lights as they wound deeper underground. “I’m ex-infantry. We came down to fight the Imperials and I wound up here.”

  “Fascinating. Is it much further?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been down here.”

  Georgia let out a laugh.

  “A big help then. James must’ve known.”

  “I suppose. You two are bonded?”

  “We’re married,” Georgia corrected, taking the lead. “He sleeps in the city, I sleep in the country… It works.”

  “But you are here now?”

  “I must be by my husband’s side while he holds the regent’s position. It is because of me, after all, that he claims it.”