by Mike Wild
“Answer me,” he demanded.
“My... my name was William... William West, sir.”
“And what were you, William?”
“I... I was second mate on the Fulsome Wench, sir.”
Redigor nodded. This at least confirmed he had summoned what he wished – necromancy was so prone to strays and intruders, chancers from the fringes of the planes. It confirmed also that West was on the crew manifest of one of the ships he had despatched beyond the Stormwall. The translocation rituals that Makennon’s people had perfected recently had come in very handy in that regard: one moment these ships had been sailing safe waters, the next unknown and lethal seas thousands of leagues away. The magical cost of such translocations – and of retrieving their almost universally doomed remains – had left him exhausted physically, but, as the Eyes of the Lord he had earlier attempted to send beyond the Stormwall had been brought down by its preternatural energies, he’d had little choice.
“You know, do you not, William, that you are quite dead?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”
“There is no need to apologise, William.”
“I... I wasn’t, Sir. What I mean is, I’m sorry for my Meg, my wife, and Rob, my boy. They’re all alone now.”
The smallest of smiles curled Redigor’s lip. West could not know that it was he who had sent him to his death. “Do not worry yourself, William... the three of you will be together again soon enough.”
“Can you promise me that, Sir?”
Redigor’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. I can.”
William was silent for a moment and his eyes stared beyond Redigor, as if picturing that time. Then he spoke again.
“Is there something you wish of me, Sir?”
“Yes, William,” Redigor said. “I want you to show me what you saw.”
“Sir?”
“Before you died.”
The dead sailor’s eyes started to flicker. “I... I’m not sure I want to do that.”
“And why is that? Because it would cause you pain?”
“Yes. The memory.”
Redigor’s eyes, and his tone, darkened. “Is this the kind of pain you would like instead, William?”
Something carried with Redigor’s words and suddenly the mouth of the figurehead began to wheeze and gurgle. Its eyes, in turn, became even more grotesquely deformed than before, flecked with veins that bulged with blood, threatening to burst despite the fact their owner was already dead. William’s voice became a series of strangled, bubbling gasps, the sound of a man desperate to breathe but finding only water where air should have been. Where a few seconds of these gasps would normally have ended with the silence of liquid filled lungs, and of dimming eyes, however, here they simply continued, a frantic and agonising and wild-eyed struggle for relief that the Pale Lord let continue for two minutes or more. When at last Redigor released his hold on his summoning, William West’s eyes stared forward glazed.
“That’s better,” Redigor said. “Now... show me.”
Before him, the vitreous of West’s eyes began to cloud over, as if beset by cataracts, and then began to swirl. At first it was like looking at a reflection of something indistinguishable in a mottled and tarnished mirror, but then the swirls began to coalesce into the view of a storm-tossed seascape at night. Redigor leaned forward and allowed himself to be drawn into the scene – in, and very far away. He found himself travelling out from the peninsula, through the Stormwall and over an endless expanse of ocean. Land disappeared far behind him until there was nothing but water. After what seemed like an eternity an object became discernible on the horizon, and after a few seconds it resolved itself into the shape of a vessel. Then he was sweeping up to the hull of the ship, and then aboard, where at last he came to rest, or at least as at rest as the vision of a man who was trapped on a sinking ship could be.
This was what West had seen moments before he died, and as his gaze shifted across the panorama before him, his fellow, doomed crewmen could be seen, too, frantically working the sails and ropes on the deck of their ship. The Fulsome Wench was already breaking apart, and there was nothing they could do to save themselves, but that didn’t matter to Redigor. He didn’t care about their deaths and it was not their deaths that he had summoned West to see.
Redigor waited patiently, disappointed too many times. The seascape of the other side of the world was by now a familiar vista to him – as familiar, that was, as an endless expanse of maelstrom could be – but he needed to see more. And to see more, the location had to be right, the conditions had to be right, the stars had to be right. The chances of a translocation bringing him close enough for these conditions to be met were, of course, infinitesimal, and he was already prepared to be disappointed once more. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened.
Something...
Redigor’s eyes narrowed as he studied the last moments of William West’s mortal existence for the finest detail, and at last drew in a sharp breath. There, a glimpse between masts and rigging, of a star pattern that seemed similar to that on the chart from the Halo files. Then as Redigor watched – or rather as West’s perspective shifted – a clearer view, the heavens revealed in all their glory.
Not just similar to the star chart. A perfect match.
This was the place. He had found his destination at last.
All he needed to do now was confirm what he believed.
Redigor’s attention shifted from the night sky to West’s immediate surroundings. The Fulsome Wench was sinking, its hull already half beneath the waves, and as a result what the second mate saw was wildly skewed, disorientating, obscured at times by the flailing bodies and screaming faces of his shipmates. Redigor was annoyed that they were stopping him seeing what he wanted to see in the few moments of their lives that remained.
West sank beneath the surface and suddenly all was a maelstrom of air bubbles and darkness, but then, for the briefest of times, he came up and Redigor smiled.
There. No more than snatches and glimpses, but enough. Outlined against the night sky, in the distance, a darkened island of sharp and jagged rocks whose desolation was palpable even through this vision. And before it – washing the island again and again from view – a swirling, unnatural body of water that was responsible for the sinking of the Fulsome Wench.
It was fitting that William West should choose that moment to breathe his last and drown. Fitting that the eyes of the figurehead dimmed and reverted to wood once more.
Because their job was done.
He had seen something in the water. Part of the water.
The legends, it seemed, were true. There was hope for him yet.
The Hel’ss wasn’t just approaching Twilight.
It was already here.
CHAPTER THREE
“EXCUSE ME,” A voice said, loud and demanding enough to be heard above the general hubbub in the tavern, “but I think there’s something wrong with this stew.”
Everything in the Here There Be Flagons stopped. Red Deadnettle half way down a jug of thwack; Fester Grimlock and Jurgen Pike about to slam down winning hands of Quagmire; Pete Two-Ties and Ronin Larson arguing, as they always did at this time of day, about the true depth of Bottomless Pit and how many times one of them would have to throw the other idiot in to fill it up. Even Hetty Scrubb, gigglingly high on one of her many ‘combustible herbs’ lapsed into silence with an uncharacteristic look of horror on her face.
Behind the bar, Aldrededor stopped towelling down the bowls of those regulars who had seen nothing fit to complain about and mouthed, “Oh, Gods, no...”
All eyes turned towards the kitchen door.
It was a delayed reaction, but the sound came soon enough from within. Hoarse yet high pitched, and, to those who didn’t know otherwise, somehow strangely... reptilian.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...”
The man who had complained, some kind of city fop by the look of him, couldn’t help but look at the door, too. And though he couldn’t say
why, he started to swallow rapidly and involuntarily.
“Did I say something wrong?” he said, glancing around in exasperation.
A hand slapped down on his right shoulder. “If I were you, friend, I’d get out of here now. Get out while you can still father a child.”
Another slapped down on his left. “But run fast, for her knives, not to mention her tongue, can sever your manhood half a league away.”
“Knives? Tongue? What? Who?” the man gasped. “You’re joking, right?”
Both regulars burst into raucous laughter, and the man looked relieved. But the laughter stopped abruptly, leaving only shaking heads and deadly serious expressions.
“No.”
A dagger thudded into the wooden beam right next to the man’s head, quivering so fast that a few seconds passed before it ceased to be a blur. The fact that bits of moist, sliced onion slithered down and then dropped off its blade did not make it appear any more homely or less lethal.
The frame of the kitchen door outlined something long and thin and oddly disturbing that appeared there and began to make its way towards the table where the man sat. He tried to run, as advised, but suddenly, almost preternaturally, the something was there, looming over him, and despite all his survival instincts he couldn’t help but sit and stare in mesmerised astonishment at its long, hawk-like nose.
“Oh, please, don’t stare at the nose,” someone whispered urgently from nearby.
Dolorosa shot them a look, and then, with an intake of breath, drew herself up to her full height, folded her arms and smiled. With the lipstick she was wearing, the smile looked something like a spray of blood at a murder scene.
“You havva the complaint?” she said.
“No, n-no. L-lord of All, no,” the man stuttered quickly, but then realised there was no denying what he’d said. “Well, all right, yes, it’s your Surprise Stew...”
“And wotta seems to be the problem?”
“Urm, for one thing, look,” the man said, pointing, “there’s something moving in it.”
“Yes?”
“Well, something moving in it wasn’t quite the ‘surprise’ I was expecting.”
Dolorosa’s eyebrow rose. “The leetle redda thing? It issa macalorum. It infussa your dish with flavour. Itta loves to do so.”
“Macalorum?”
“It issa local ’erb. It ees a bastardo to catch.”
“Catch? Excuse me but herbs don’t run away.”
“Nor do they ’ave bladders.” Dolorosa watched as the small red herb squirted something into the stew, and shrugged. “Whatta can I say?”
The man swallowed. “Are you saying that this macalorum is peeing in my stew?”
“It issa full of vitamins.”
“Okay, right,” the man said doubtfully, poking in the stew with his fork. What looked like a couple of white eyeballs bobbed to the surface. “But what about these?”
Dolorosa peered intently into the bowl. “Ah. You avva me there.”
“What? You don’t know what they are?”
The question prompted a slap about the head. “Of coursa I know whatta they are. Eet wassa the joke, you stupeed man.”
Dolorosa emitted what for her passed as a laugh – hahahahaharrrr! All of the regulars in the Flagons echoed it. Hahahahaharrrr.
“Then,” the man asked hesitantly, “what are they?”
“They are, owwa you say, the love spheres ovva the purple skoonk.”
The man paled. “You mean its –”
“Delicioso, yes?” Dolorosa interrupted proudly. “A rare delicacy and,” she cast a glance at Red Deadnettle, the ruddy-faced poacher raising his tankard and nodding back, “locally sourced.”
The man picked up his napkin and wiped the edges of his mouth slowly and solidly, as if trying to erase even the memory of what he had so far consumed.
“Let me get this straight. Am I to understand I’ve been eating vermin’s gonads and the waste products of an over-excitable, incontinent weed?”
“You havva the problem with that?”
The man stood abruptly, his chair making a loud scraping sound on the wooden floor. He tossed his napkin angrily down onto the table.
“Madam, do you know who I am?” he declared.
“You’d be wiser asking who she is,” Aldrededor muttered behind the bar. He shook his head. “Be merciful, my wife.”
“Have you ever heard,” the man continued, “of the Miramas Times?”
Dolorosa had, of course. It was the oldest news-sheet on the peninsula and, back in the day, had often reported her and Aldy’s maritime exploits. Out of the many headlines the two of them had engendered, her favourite remained Perilous Pirates Pillage Pontaine – Again!
“I see that you have,” the man said, smiling. “Have you heard, then, of its respected food critic, H. Borton Jeckle?”
“Yes!” Dolorosa blurted. “Wait, no.”
“I, Madam, am H. Borton Jeckle.”
“You never are.”
“Indeed I am. And I came to your establishment today to consider bestowing it one of my coveted Jeckle Moons.”
Dolorosa’s lips curled back. “You feelthy purravert...”
“Madam?”
“No one flashes their bottom inna my taverno!”
“It is an award, Madam. A mark of distinction that is highly regarded by anyone of taste. A Jeckle Moon means that the food in an establishment is of an exceptional quality.”
Dolorosa’s smile suddenly reappeared, twitching, and this time on the other side of her mouth. She swept her hand back through her hair.
“Anda you say I am to be considered for one of these Moons?”
Jeckle considered his stew one more. “I regret, Madam, only if it is indeed provided by my arse. And only then while it is leaving your establishment. The fare you have served me today was the most disgusting and repellant concoction it has ever been my displeasure to con – ”
The last syllable disappeared down Jeckle’s throat along with two of his teeth, and with surprising sprightliness for a man of his age Aldrededor leapt the bar to support the critic as he staggered against a wall.
“You must forgive my wife,” he said, glancing towards the far end of the tavern where, up a small flight of skewed steps, sat an empty Captain’s Table. He grabbed Dolorosa’s arm as it tried to go for the knife still embedded in the wooden beam. “She is... missing a friend.”
“She is missing her marbles,” Jeckle protested through bloodied lips. “I demand an apology, Sir!”
Aldrededor sighed as he and his wife struggled. “Dolorosa, apologise to the nice man.”
“I willa not.”
“Perhaps,” Aldrededor gasped, “it might be better if you leave. Your meal is, of course, on the house.”
“Correction, sir. The meal belongs in a horse.”
“Heeeeeeee...”
“Oh, now you have reminded her of her friend again. Please, for your own safety, leave now.”
“Sir,” H. Borton Jeckle said, “you do not have to ask me twice.”
The much respected food critic of the Miramas Times exited the Flagons with an harumph and the swish of a tailor-made cloak. Outside, his carriage awaited, his driver slumped in a doze at the reins. As H. Borton Jeckle mounted the rig and deposited himself into his upholstered seat, he reflected that while the county of Tarn was indeed a delightful place, and the Flagons itself ideally situated for the sort of weekend sojourn his readers might appreciate, there was no way on Twilight he could recommend it to them. Just the opposite, in fact. On reflection, he supposed he should have expected little more from a tavern that was reputedly owned by a female outlaw.
He prodded his driver in the back, demanding they begin the long journey home.
The driver tipped forward onto the reins, causing a disquieted stirring from the horses. It seemed he was not dozing but dead.
“Broggle, Lord of All, man,” Jeckle said, slithering back out of the carriage. Maybe the sun had got to the
poor fellow, or maybe his heart had seized, but whatever the cause it was damned inconvenient. If he couldn’t find another driver he might have to spend the night in this hellshole while he sent a runner for a replacement.
“Broggle, you’re fired,” Jeckle declared.
The body of his driver twisted as he prodded it, falling onto its back on the seat. He stared, glassy-eyed, up at Jeckle and the critic’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he saw the blood red slash across the driver’s throat. The man’s livery was sodden and stained through.
Grabcoins, he thought, with a thudding heart. Probably in league with that Hooper woman. Well, that settled it. Another reason to warn his readers to stay away. Actively discourage them from coming anywhere near here, in fact.
A hand clamped tightly over his mouth while the point of a blade pressed into his spine.
“Who are you?” a voice breathed into his ear. The hand was released briefly so that he could provide an answer.
“Jeckle. H. Borton Jeckle,” he answered quickly. He swallowed as some kind of flying sphere hovered in front of his face, as if examining him.
There was a moment’s hesitation from his assailant. “The food critic for the Times?”
Jeckle’s eyebrows rose but, his mouth covered once more, he could only nod. A half sob escaped him, muffled by the hand.
“Then this is unfortunate, Mister Jeckle, for I find your column edifying. But you are not who we hunt and we cannot alert those inside to our presence. Do you understand this?”
Of all things, H. Borton Jeckle thought, what, don’t be ridiculous, man! What could a grabcoin know of my column? He never vocalised the thought, though, as a moment later he felt something so sharp it didn’t even hurt slash across his throat, and the only sound he could make was a gurgle.
His wide-eyed, spasming body was lowered quietly to the ground, where it subsequently produced a large red puddle, and died. His assailant stared down, thinking how Jeckle’s job would have benefited had he lived. In his profession it would be a distinct advantage to have two mouths.
He signalled his men, who emerged from the bushes in which he himself had hidden, and in absolute silence they moved towards the Flagons. The shadows that they, and at least six Eyes of the Lord flitting about the tavern like angry flies, cast fleetingly at the windows went unnoticed as, inside, there was a communal burst of laughter.