Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech

by Werner, C. L.

  The subterranean grotto was brighter than Lorca had ever seen it. The collection of mining lamps had been supplemented by a profusion of foul-smelling candles. As he walked past the greasy, ugly lights, he tried not to think too hard about the materials his gruesome allies would have used.

  Everywhere, the sound of pick and hammer rang through the grotto. The clamor had a disturbingly methodical, untiring quality. The risen, their bodies scarred with the bloody sigils of Azaam’s magic, hacked away at the walls, dislodging clumps of necrotite. Others gathered the glistening black rocks, their necks shackled to ore carts, eventually dragging them across the grotto to a final collection point where more of the animated dead were packing the sorcerous ore into long, shallow crates. The size and shape of the boxes made it clear they’d been recycled from coffins, probably the same ones that had once contained their miners.

  Strewn about an open area at the middle of the cavern were the remains of the Helldivers. Two of the bonejacks had been destroyed in the attack on Volkenrath’s estate, but Moritat had used six for the assault. The survivors had been disassembled, stripped down to the bare husks of their chassis. The necrotech was fussing about these husks of metal and bone, cobbling together new appendages and attachments. Lorca noted what looked to be a disassembled steamjack lying behind Moritat, a Buccaneer if the bulbous diving helmet was anything to go by. The ’jack’s components were laid out in a row, almost like a display of anatomical specimens. As he puttered about the exhaust of one Helldiver’s soul furnace, Moritat giggled and whispered to himself.

  “Now is not a good time to disturb him,” Azaam said. The blood hag rose from the crate she’d been sitting upon. Lorca noted with revulsion that she’d been filing down the jagged stump of her missing horn with one of her grisly knives. Blood dripped from the stump and streamed down the side of her face.

  Lorca shook his head. “I need to talk to him.” Before Azaam could intercept him, he approached the necrotech.

  “Vulger’s dead,” Lorca said. His temper flared when Moritat didn’t even look up. “I said Vulger’s dead.”

  “Then you should be pleased,” Azaam said. “We’ve kept our side of the bargain.”

  “Have you?” Lorca glanced from Azaam back to Moritat. “What was that thing down in the tunnel? I was expecting you or Azaam to be down there, even that gun-ghost, something with enough of a brain to tell its friends from its enemies. That monster of yours could have killed me just as easily as Vulger.”

  Moritat tossed aside the valve he’d been fiddling with. The necrotech’s cadaverous face was rendered still more horrific by the crude stitches and wire holding his damaged cheek and jaw together. There was an unpleasant gleam in his gaze. “Yes,” he conceded. “It might at that. Sometimes Caracalla gets strange ideas into his heads.” The necrotech’s damaged face stretched in a smile. “Must come from having three minds fused into a single entity. I sometimes think maybe Caracalla is spying on me. If I thought he could comprehend even a fragment of my work, I’d probably break him down into his constituent parts.” Moritat shrugged. “Of course, if Fulmenus sent him to spy on me, I might get into trouble. That could interfere with my experiments, and we wouldn’t want that.” He wagged a finger at Lorca. “So you see, Caracalla is less expendable than you are.”

  Lorca tapped the side of his head. “Exactly how crazy are you? Without me, without my connections you’ll never get out of Five Fingers! Then what good will all your necrotite be? How will old Toruk like it if his fat little spider has to sit here and twiddle his thumbs because no ship can get him past the watch and the navy?”

  “It is fortunate then that Caracalla didn’t become overzealous,” Moritat said. “I abhor letting anything go to waste.”

  The ghastly interest with which Moritat was regarding him set Lorca’s skin crawling. “You still need me,” he said. “This attack on Bellicose has sent panic all across Five Fingers. There’s been talk of bringing the army in to augment the watch, even rumors of a Morrowan crusade from Cygnar to cleanse the city. The high captains are being pressured to put the pressure on the syndicates and the gangs they control, which in turn is causing the independent street gangs to be suppressed. The lord governor is lighting a fire under Five Fingers, and the city’s starting to boil over. It’s time to get you out of here.”

  “Meaning you’ve gotten what you wanted and now it’s time for us to leave?” Azaam said. The witch fingered her gore-crusted knife and licked her lips.

  “We’ve all gotten what we agreed on,” Lorca said. “You’ve removed Vulger for me, I’ve given you the necrotite you wanted and clear passage out of Five Fingers.”

  Azaam maintained her threatening pose. “There’s more here than we can take in a single ship.”

  “No need to be greedy,” Moritat said. “One ship will be sufficient for my research. If I need more, we can certainly come to a new arrangement with Lorca.”

  The gangster nodded at the necrotech. “I’m sure that we can, once things quiet down. A year or two. Three at the most.” He shook his arms in a helpless gesture when he still found Azaam glaring at him. “What do you want to do? Stay here all that time? Don’t you know they’re going to be scouring these islands looking for you? They’ll have every sorcerer and street-seer with a crystal ball using their magic to find you. They’ll have soldiers probing every cellar, vault, and basement searching for your hiding place. And they’ll start with Hospice, figuring they can cause the least public concern if they ransack the poor districts first.”

  Lorca smiled. He could see from Azaam’s sullen expression that he’d impressed his point. He turned back to Moritat. “Can you have everything you need ready tomorrow?”

  The necrotech scratched his chin as he considered the question, digging furrows in the wan flesh. He glanced down at the dismantled Helldivers. “Yes, I think that can be accomplished.”

  “Good,” Lorca said. “I’ve contracted a ship out of Berck, the Majestic. It’s registered to one of the Mateu Merchant House’s subgroups. There aren’t many even in the navy who’ll look too closely at a Mateu ship. The captain’s agreed to hire on a crew of Scharde for the voyage.”

  “Isn’t that a bit obvious?” Azaam asked.

  Lorca laughed. “Who else would sail with this sort of cargo? They’ll be disguised as Tordorans and Thurians.”

  “I am certain the arrangements will be satisfactory,” Moritat said, glancing over at Azaam and silencing any further protest from her.

  “The ship will be waiting for you at the Coveward Docks just before dawn,” Lorca said. The gangster made an admirable pretense of looking unhurried as he withdrew from the grotto.

  The witch ran her finger along the back of her knife. “How will we leave the city?” she asked Moritat.

  Moritat chuckled. “Leave? Why, by the Dragonfather, should we leave?” He stretched his arms wide, gesturing to the grotto around them. “Everything I need for my research is right here.”

  A feeling of horror swept through the Satyxis hag. “Lich Lord Malathrax won’t appreciate a neighbor,” she said. From the first, she’d cautioned Moritat against becoming too bold in his activities for fear of drawing Malathrax’s attention. Malathrax had been conducting his own operation in Five Fingers for years, exploiting the corrupt city as a central hub for the Nightmare Empire’s spies. Much of the information from the mainland that Cryx needed to plot its campaigns against the Iron Kingdoms flowed through the port. Despite Moritat’s insistence that his research was of profound importance, she doubted that his own patron, Lich Lord Fulmenus, would expend much effort defending the necrotech against the ire of Malathrax.

  Moritat was back to fussing over the Helldiver exhausts and the motley assortment of valves he’d collected. “With the mortals so upset, Malathrax’s people will stay right where they are,” he said. “Certainly, some of his human agents will be out and about, but they’ll stop looking when the others do.”

  “You are certain?” Azaam asked.
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br />   “One thing you must appreciate about these mortals is that they do respond to a spectacle. Do something on a big enough scale and they don’t think to look for subtleties. Right now they are looking for a battalion of monsters from Cryx. If they find them, if they destroy them, they’ll stop looking. Provided the bait is big enough.” He made an irritated wave of his hand. “Now leave me be. I want to finish these refinements so I can get back to more important experiments.”

  Azaam rushed forward, her hand almost touching the necrotech, such was her hopeful excitement. “My rejuvenation?” she dared to ask.

  Moritat picked a ribbon of skin from around his ruined cheek, grinding it between his fingers. “Time enough for that later,” he said, dashing her hope as casually as he would swat a botfly. “I was thinking about what went wrong with the Reaper. That mortal wasn’t even a warcaster, but he managed to get the better of me. He was relying on that machine’s crude mechanikal cortex, yet he turned my helljack into scrap.”

  The necrotech looked up from his labor, starting when he saw the tears in Azaam’s eyes. “Do not fret so,” he said, oblivious to the cause of the witch’s tears. “I’ll figure out what went wrong. Any problem can be solved once it is recognized.” He turned back to the disassembled Buccaneer, scrutinizing the boiler and its smokestack.

  “You’d better collect what you will need,” Moritat said. “I’ll be finished here soon. We have to have our cargo ready for Lorca’s ship. I’m interested in knowing exactly how he intends to betray me. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be big.

  “These mortals do so enjoy a spectacle.”

  Captain Nestor Parvolo’s office had a spare, military atmosphere about it. It held none of the exotic trophies or extravagant furnishings that far less significant officials squandered small fortunes to display. The only adornments were a coat of arms displaying the heraldry of the Cathors and a banner emblazoned with the insignia of the Five Fingers Watch.

  Taryn looked over the office and leaned close to Rutger. “I’ll say this, he looks poor enough to be honest,” she whispered.

  “Honesty is its own reward,” Rutger said, quoting a bit of Morrowan wisdom.

  “Exactly how much ale does honesty buy?” Taryn asked. Rutger started to laugh but composed himself as Parvolo marched into the office and settled behind the desk. He motioned for his guests to take seats.

  “We haven’t found Volkenrath yet,” Parvolo said. “Sculler is trying to shift responsibility for the attack on the Terraces District to me, since I was the one who made the connection between Vulger and the Nightmare Empire. He’s claiming that if I’d done my job, I could have stopped things from escalating so far.”

  “And is anyone fool enough to listen to him?” Rutger asked.

  Parvolo sighed. “Unfortunately, Commander Middleton is listening. He’s not stupid enough to believe Sculler, but he does need a scapegoat. Sculler has too many illicit friends, so using him would cause problems.”

  “The rewards of honesty,” Taryn said, darting a look at Rutger.

  “I’m afraid so,” Parvolo said. “Middleton doesn’t care for the way I run things. He feels that a bit of corruption is necessary to grease the wheels of justice. I’ve heard he has very greasy hands. This is just the excuse he needs to get rid of me. Something so big that even the lord governor can’t gainsay him.”

  “That puts you in a tight spot,” Rutger said. Unlike Taryn, who was still fuming over the way Parvolo had coerced them into helping the watch, Rutger was sympathetic to what the captain was trying to accomplish with the limited resources at his command.

  “If the Cryxians aren’t found . . . and soon, it’ll mean my career,” Parvolo said. His expression darkened as he reached into his desk and withdrew a thin folio of papers. “My situation isn’t much of a secret either. Lieutenant Trask brought me this report earlier. It’s from one of his informants, a cutpurse who, if you follow the strings up, works for our friend Lorca. He’s low enough in the organization that I doubt if Lorca thinks anyone is aware of the connection.”

  “Then Lorca’s been seen since the attack?” Taryn asked.

  “Oh yes.” Parvolo nodded. “Unlike Vulger, Lorca is very much alive, well, and making public appearances.”

  “You think Lorca’s trying to leak information to the watch through this thief,” Rutger said.

  “Not just any information, information that could save my neck,” Parvolo said. “Information he wouldn’t want any of the other, less honest watch captains getting their hands on for fear it might reach the ears of the high captains.”

  “He knows where the Cryxians are,” Taryn said with disgust.

  “Probably,” Parvolo said. “But that isn’t what he’s offering. The informant tells us to intercept a ship out of Berck called the Majestic tomorrow, that the Cryxians will be using it to flee Five Fingers.

  “The way I see things, Lorca brought in the Cryxians to eliminate Vulger and clear the way for him to rise within Kilbride’s syndicate. Lorca’s not powerful enough to attract those kind of allies, so he has to be offering them something. Whatever it is, it must be substantial, and I suspect he isn’t too keen on paying up. Now that the monsters have served their purpose, Lorca wants to use the authorities to eliminate his friends.” Parvolo laughed bitterly. “To do that, he’s picked the one man who’s in a position where he can’t afford to ignore the chance to catch the Cryxians, no matter where the information comes from.”

  “And that’s why you called us here,” Rutger said. “You want our help when you intercept that ship.”

  “I’ll need all the help I can get. Certainly, I could just warn the navy and have them sink the ship, but I think that’s exactly what Lorca wants. What I want is to board that ship, capture it, and take one of the Cryxian leaders alive. The Satyxis witch you saw or the necrotech, one of the monsters with enough life in it to understand that Lorca’s betrayed them, who will point the finger back at him. I need to prove a connection back to Lorca. I can’t let him profit from brining monsters into Five Fingers.”

  Rutger was about to give Parvolo his assurance that they would help, but Taryn pressed her hand against his chest and stopped him before he could speak. “What you ask is going to be very risky,” she said.

  Parvolo laughed and shook his head. “No money. All I can promise is that if the ship itself is judged untainted by a priest and we aren’t forced to burn it, then you’ll both get a share of the salvage.”

  “I wasn’t worried about money,” Taryn said. “I’m worried about facing those . . . things again. It’s not like fighting something normal. They’re . . . unclean.” Her body began to tremble as she thought of the pistol wraith’s eerie deliberation waiting for her to draw her magelocks, trying to force her into a duel all her experience and ability wouldn’t enable her to win. She’d stood there, helpless, while he mocked everything she was, laughing silently at her skill.

  Rutger set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Taryn, they need us.”

  Taryn shook her head. “I just don’t know that I can go through that again.”

  Parvolo’s voice was disappointed but understanding. “I’ll have a launch down at the Old Colossus. The informant claims the Majestic won’t be sailing until after dawn, and I’m inclined to trust the timetable. If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find us.”

  The lodgings the mercenaries had taken in the Captain’s Prow District on Captain’s Isle were far from commodious. Their small room was partitioned down the middle by a sheet hanging from a string. There was a hearth, but the flue was so choked with soot that any effort to start a fire soon filled the entire room with smoke. Ventilation came from a single window set high enough in the wall that only an especially acrobatic burglar would bother with it. Given the dilapidated condition of the neighborhood, a robber with any degree of skill wouldn’t waste his time.

  Their reason for moving to these lodgings lay chiefly in the tiny wooden door that opened out into a small yard.
Taryn rather suspected the yard had been put there as a concession to the sanitary needs of the tenement as a whole, but Rutger had appropriated it as a nearby spot to store Rex. A heavy tarp protected the ’jack from both rain and chamber pots emptied from above, though Rutger had been compelled to pay a few gobbers who lived in the rigging overhead to keep inquisitive hands away from the machine. So far, the gobbers had done an exemplary job of making sure all Rex’s parts stayed where they belonged.

  When they returned from seeing Captain Parvolo, Rutger finally decided to voice the question that had been nagging at his every step. He’d had a long walk across half the island to consider how to broach the subject to Taryn, whether to tease the truth out of her, confront her directly, or play on their mutual friendship and trust. As he closed the door and turned toward Taryn, all he managed to get out was her name.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” the gun mage said.

  Rutger raised his hands in protest. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

  “Then don’t.”

  It was the tone more than the words that concerned Rutger. With anyone else, he’d call the tone angry, but he knew Taryn better than that. When she got mad, it was a cold, steely kind of anger, the sort that kept its silence until it was ready to strike. This something different. He wasn’t sure what, but it worried him.

  “You know Parvolo can use our help,” he said. “We could make all the difference for them.”

  Taryn shook her head. “Working for the watch isn’t exactly lucrative.”

  “Some things you do because they need to be done,” Rutger countered. “But I don’t think you’re so petty that gold’s the only thing you care about. I think I know you better than that.”

  She turned her back to him and paced across the room, then turned back around. “Maybe I’m afraid.”

  Rutger hadn’t believed her when she gave that excuse to Parvolo. Now he wasn’t so sure. There was something in her eyes, a sort of alchemy of shame, regret, and guilt all rolled into one. Looking at her, he did get the impression she was afraid, and despising herself for it.