Brimstone

by Skinner, Alan

  Antrobus froze. Another man stepped from beside the door and the alchemist could feel the point of a sword in his ribs. Through the open door to the back, Antrobus could see a third man, carrying a torch.

  ‘Call the other one inside,’ said the man with the pistol to Antrobus. ‘Go to the front door and ask him to come in. Tell him his friend’s ill and you need help.’ He flexed his arm, and the sword point broke the skin on Tom’s neck. A small trickle of blood ran down Tom’s throat. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  Tom hesitated. ‘Jack,’ he said.

  The man’s smile broadened. ‘That’s my name. That would be a coincidence – except your name isn’t Jack. It’s Tom. And your friend out there is Laylor. You think that if Master Antrobus tells Laylor that Jack needs him, then Laylor knows something’s up and he scarpers for help.’ He dismissed Tom and looked at Antrobus. ‘You just tell Laylor that young Tom is poorly and you need help to get him in. Do it right and both Tom and Laylor will live.’

  The second man put the point of his sword at Tom’s neck and Jack took his place next to Antrobus. He gestured with his sword and walked with Antrobus to the front door. The alchemist called to Laylor. The moment Laylor stepped through the door, Jack kicked it closed behind him and put his sword at Laylor’s throat. His pistol was still in the small of Antrobus’s back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Laylor,’ said Antrobus. ‘They have Tom. I couldn’t do –’

  ‘Stow it!’ snapped Jack. ‘Laylor knows the lie of things. He’s been Rayker’s man for long enough. In the kitchen.’

  Tom and the man guarding him hadn’t moved. Jack gestured to the man, who took his place next to Laylor. Jack looked at Tom. ‘Right, now you get back outside. If anyone comes through that gate, I want them to see you.’

  Tom didn’t move. Antrobus could see that the young man was trying to make up his mind whether to fight or not. Perhaps with Laylor in the room, he’d have a chance. He tensed his body.

  Jack laughed. ‘Now, that’s the difference between the young pup and the old dog. Laylor here’s already decided. He knows he’d be dead the instant he moved. This young one can’t make up his mind whether to fight or do as he’s told. Just do as you’re told, lad. Isn’t that right, Laylor?’

  Laylor nodded. ‘It’s no use, Tom. Do what he says.’

  Tom glared at Jack, then turned and walked towards the door. He had taken only two steps when Antrobus saw Jack move. It happened so quickly, it seemed impossible. Jack matched Tom’s steps, then his arm flashed out and his sword went deep into the boy’s back. Tom’s body arched and he gave a sharp cry. He staggered a few steps into the yard, then fell. His body twitched once, then went still.

  ‘That’s for lying to me, boy,’ said Jack.

  Antrobus shivered in the dark. He wished he could forget the sight of Jack’s sword entering Tom’s back. He wished he could forget what happened next.

  Laylor had made a small noise, like the stifled snarl of a wolf. He had pushed aside the blade at his throat, slicing his hand but not even flinching, then thrown himself at Jack. Yet, casually, as if he knew what Laylor would do, Jack had turned and his sword arm had come up. This time he had slashed, a single sweep of the blade that caught Laylor’s throat. Then Rayker’s man had collapsed, face up, just inside the door. Death took its time claiming Laylor. His body had convulsed and the blood had bubbled from his throat for what seemed an eternity.

  ‘That was stupid of me,’ said Jack. He wiped his sword on Laylor’s breeches. ‘Now he’s in the way.’ He barked at his accomplice. ‘You, move him! And you,’ he said to Antrobus, ‘are going to come with me.’

  Antrobus was gagged, bound and blindfolded. He was pushed into alley and on to a small cart. And then, for good measure – or simple pleasure – they hit him on the head and his mind joined his eyes in darkness.

  He had woken on a damp earth floor. They had removed the cords that bound him, and his blindfold, though it wouldn’t have made a difference. The room was pitch black and he couldn’t even see his own hands. He had explored the room, feeling the hard dirt walls and the roughly hewn wooden door. It was obviously makeshift but sturdy, the timbers of the frame set deep. He stumbled into the bucket and then into the pallet, barking his shin. At least he could stand and even pace. The only other thing he could do was wait.

  A long time had passed when the door opened and he was blinded by the blaze of a torch thrust into the room. Before his eyes could adjust to the light, men had rushed in and a sack was thrown over his head and his hands bound again. The stench of rotted vegetables in the sack had almost made him retch. They had brought in a chair, dragged him on to it and the questioning had started.

  It was Jack’s voice that had come out of the blackness. Where was the astrolabe? Where had he hidden it? They had searched the house but hadn’t found it. He’d been followed and he hadn’t been to the workroom so it wasn’t there. Had he deciphered it? Did he think he would ever be let free if he didn’t speak? ‘Tell me and you can go,’ said Jack. ‘Is it really worth your life?’

  No, thought Antrobus. It isn’t worth my life for me to have it. It wasn’t worth William’s life. But it is worth my life for you not to have it.

  The questioning had gone on for hours at a time. For three days, the same questions, over and over. Irritation and frustration had crept into Jack’s hard, casual voice and Antrobus could tell that his questioner wanted to resort to more painful methods to get what he wanted, and he had wondered what stopped him. Once, though, Jack’s frustration had got the better of him, for without warning, he had felt Jack’s fist crash into the side of his face. The blow had knocked him from the chair, and through the pain of the blow and the thunder in his head, he’d heard distant voices arguing. He couldn’t make out the voices; they must have left the room to argue. After that, he’d not been hit again, but he knew that sooner or later, someone was going to get tired of his silence and the pain would come with a vengeance.

  Then, a short time ago, Jack had stopped. There was silence. The silence made Antrobus’s skin prickle. He felt as if he was suffocating in the fetid sack. He was thirsty and hungry, and cold and damp had set into his bones. Antrobus had waited. He had sensed Jack was in the room, and he had sensed others there as well. His hearing had sharpened, he’d thought, and there were different people breathing and he’d caught the barest hint of a whisper. But mostly, it had just been silence.

  ‘I’ll leave you to think about things for a while,’ Jack’s voice broke the silence. ‘You’re stubborn, but so am I. Maybe a few days with just enough water to keep you alive will make you more reasonable.’

  Antrobus had been thrown from the chair. The cords on his wrist had been untied and he had been thrown on his stomach and the sack pulled from his head. He had caught a faint glimpse of a shadow opening the door and then the door had thudded closed and he had been left alone in the dark.

  *

  ‘You’re paying, so I’ll do as you say, but for what it’s worth, you’re wasting your time. He won’t say anything, not unless you let me use more persuasive means.’

  Jack looked at the two men. He didn’t think he was wasting his time, though they’d had this argument before. One of them said no, but Jack didn’t think he really meant it. The tall arrogant one looked like he’d enjoy the idea of Jack and his cronies giving Antrobus a good beating. And the end of a hot iron. The problem was the other man. The sharp one.

  ‘We’re civilised men, Jack,’ said the arrogant one. ‘We don’t hold with using unnecessary violence.’

  Interesting, thought Jack. That’s the first time he’s used the word unnecessary. He’s been thinking of when it will be necessary.

  But the other man was sharp. He’d noticed, too. ‘With any violence. Do you understand, Jack?’ he said. His voice was low and hard. Jack thought he’d have to watch himself with this one.

  The outlaw was surprised when the man continued. He usually said very little.

  ‘Don’t make d
ecisions you’ll regret, Jack. We’ve planned this for some time and I won’t have it ruined because you think you know better.’ The man’s voice went harder, like tempered steel. ‘There are other bands of pot-tossers just like you, who’d be happy to take our gold for what we’ve asked you to do. And slit your throat into the bargain. Now, when it is necessary, I know what will make him cooperate. Keep at him as you are, and if he still doesn’t talk, I’ll tell you what to do. When the time is right.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He spun round and left the room. His dark cloak swirled, sweeping the hat off the head of the arrogant one. The man picked up his hat, gave Jack a faint smile and followed his companion.

  Jack watched them go and cursed.

  *

  And Antrobus waited. He had no way of telling how long he waited. Three times the door had opened slightly and a small flask of water and a crust of bread was hastily left just inside. His captors were very careful. The door was never opened for more than a second or two and Antrobus never had the chance even to glance around the room. He could be in a dungeon, a cave, a cellar; he had no idea.

  Antrobus thought back to when he first woke in his prison. He tried to remember how many times he had been brought food. He reckoned that they’d feed him twice a day. Had that been eight times? Or nine? He couldn’t be sure but he worked out he must have been in the room for at least four days, probably longer.

  The door opened. As usual, the torch-bearer came first; then Jack, carrying a chair and a ream of paper; then two men manoeuvred a small table into the room. They set the table in the middle of the room then backed away to the door. Jack tossed the paper on the table, put the chair down and motioned Antrobus to sit. Wearily, he got off his pallet and sat in the chair. The man with the torch placed it in a metal holder attached to the wall. Then he and the other two men left, leaving Jack alone with Antrobus. The alchemist looked at the wall illuminated by the torch. And he knew exactly where he was.

  Jack reached into his pocket and took out two quills and a sealed bottle of ink. ‘I want you to write something for me,’ said Jack. His voice was back to normal – hard, mocking and disdainful.

  Antrobus looked up at him. ‘Anything in particular? A sonnet? A tale of ghouls and long-leggety beasties? A play?’

  Jack ignored him. ‘All you know about the key to the stone. Everything. And at the end, you will write down where you have hidden it.’

  ‘That will take no time,’ replied Antrobus. ‘I know nothing about it. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours. At the end of twenty-four hours I am going to bring you a visitor. A young lady. They tell me her name is Jenny. If you haven’t filled that parchment with all you know, I am going to make her stand where I stand now and I am going to slit her throat.’

  Antrobus felt his heart pound. Jack would do it. He had no doubt of that.

  ‘Maybe I won’t kill her right away,’ Jack said, his eyes locked on Antrobus’s. ‘She’s a pretty one. Unusual, but very pleasing. And young. Untouched, I’d imagine. I’ll be happy to be her master for a very different kind of apprenticeship.’

  He smiled, the same mirthless smile he wore when he ran his sword into poor Tom. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to scribble away. You’ve got plenty of parchment and ink. Enough to save that pretty young life, at least.’

  Chapter 13

  Brigand’s Cave

  Ewan Swift crouched in the brush. Every muscle was taut with readiness and each nerve tingled with anticipation. All his senses were alert as he watched the man a few feet away. He didn’t recognise him but he had the look of one who had grown wild with the animals of Queerwood. The man’s head turned and Ewan could see his face. Ewan reassessed his opinion; he’d bet the man had been a wild one long before he’d made the acquaintance of any forest animal. Ewan noted the bow over the stranger’s shoulder; not a hunter’s bow, but a soldier’s weapon, just like the sword at his hip and the thin-bladed fighting knife in his belt.

  This would probably end like the others they’d come across. Since the previous morning they had tracked four men and none had been one of Jack-o’-Lantern’s goblins. One pair had been brothers recently come to Queerwood. They hadn’t even made up their minds yet whether to find a band of outlaws to join or try to survive on their own, desperate, hungry highwaymen seeking slim rewards in the forest. After a brief questioning, Rayker let them go. He knew of no crime they’d committed. He hoped they’d heed his advice to leave Queerwood. He had promised he’d come after them if they stayed – if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, they’d come across one of the bands of outlaws – who had unpleasant ways of dealing with independents.

  Another had been a man Ewan thought long dead. He was a villager whose wife had died years earlier. The grief-stricken man had simply walked away from his holding and into the forest. No one had seen him since, until Ewan caught his smell one night and found him sleeping in a small hut of leaves and mud. He’d not turned outlaw; he just decided to stop being human, surviving on grubs, berries and the occasional animals he trapped. Maybe, reflected Ewan, it was the only way he thought could stop the pain of loss that comes with being human. The man probably hadn’t bathed since he’d been in the forest and he could barely speak. Ewan looked into his eyes and what he saw beneath the wildness showed him that the man had been wrong; there was no escape from some pain. They offered him food and one of the men gave him an old jerkin and they let him return to whatever life he had left.

  The fourth man had given them more trouble than the others. They had surprised him as he walked down an old overgrown trail. Though more than thirty men surrounded him, he had decided to make a fight of it. He had drawn a cheap, heavy sword with nicks along the fighting edge. Swinging his sword, he had tried to break through the circle of men. But Rayker had personally chosen each of the men and any one was a match for the outlaw.

  ‘I want him alive!’ Rayker had cried.

  ‘Then come and get him yerself!’ had shouted a grey-haired veteran called Ben. He had grinned and raised his arm. Blood came from a small cut above his wrist. Sometimes it was harder not to kill a man.

  Unable to get past the ring of men, the outlaw had fallen back to the middle, still swinging his sword wildly, and threatening to gut any man that came near.

  ‘Youse’ll ’ave ta kill me!’ he’d said defiantly. ‘I won’t cry pity!’

  Ewan had hefted his staff and walked straight towards the outlaw. He’d come within an arm’s length and the man’s sword had flashed, a hard, fast slash that should have disembowelled the forest ward. As the sword edge approached his belt, Ewan had whirled on his back foot and brought his staff round. It was a heavy staff, the height of a man, fashioned from the heart of a fallen myrtle tree. It had caught the outlaw on the jaw and he’d dropped without a sound.

  ‘’Ere, Swift,’ called Ben good-naturedly. ‘Whaddya do that fer? We was jist gettin’ ta know ’im! ‘Now ’e’s gonna have a terrible ’ead when ’e wakes!’

  And indeed the outlaw did have a terrible headache when he came to. Despite being bound hand and foot, he had refused to be cowed. When he’d caught sight of Ewan, he’d scowled and cursed him. Then Rayker had knelt down beside him. On hearing Rayker’s name, he had fallen silent, his eyes showing his fear. Gradually, he had realised they were looking for Jack and his attitude had changed immediately.

  ‘That Jack’s cursed, he is.’ The outlaw had spat the name like it was an insect in his mouth. ‘I’d rather sell me soul to the devil than run with him. He don’t kill for pleasure, for I don’t think anything in this life gives him pleasure. He kills cos he can.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ Rayker had asked.

  The outlaw had shaken his head. ‘If it’d be anyone else you’re lookin’ for, you’d have to kill me before I’d tell you. But I’d happily tell you where to find that evil bugger if I knew. But only those that run with him know. All I know is that it’s east of here, mebbe half a day. I’ve lea
rned that much.’ He cursed again. ‘That Jack killed my uncle and my best friend when they refused to pay tariff to him. He thinks he owns the forest and when he comes across another making his living off the highway, he wants his share. And he takes it – or your life. Simple as that.’

  Rayker had been inclined to believe the man but far from inclined to let him loose in the forest again. So, he had sent the outlaw back to Vale, guarded by two of his men. Then Ewan, Rayker and the remaining men had headed east.

  That had been yesterday. This morning, they had risen with the sun and then walked towards it into the remotest part of the great forest.

  The eastern regions of Queerwood were the most wild; the forest was dense and there were few trails; the terrain became mountainous and the Blasted River (named, Ewan had once told Jenny, because that was what anyone who tried to cross it called it) thundered through the land. The river crashed along deep gorges and between sheer ravines, affording few places to cross – and those few places were treacherous. Looking at the untamed landscape, Rayker had to admit that this was an ideal place for Jack and his outlaws. If he was hiding somewhere amid the rocky hills and thick forests, finding him would be difficult. Getting him out of his lair might prove to be impossible.

  Ewan had been ward of Queerwood for more than fifteen years and he knew it as a living and breathing being. He knew where the forest was welcoming and where it was forbidding. He guided them by feeling the land, and he brought them to the top of a hill overlooking the Blasted River. Its source was a mountain to the north, between the cities of Vale and Cleve. It rushed down a series of mountains like a terrace garden until it poured off the one to their left; down its face it tumbled into a small valley in an enormous cascade of white water and spray, before rushing into a steep gorge where the valley narrowed to their right. On the far side of the river was the rugged cliff face of a mountain.