Fuck!
Red, the lizard cat, bewildered once again by vague, troubling memories of walking on two feet and wearing clothes, stared at the two figures sitting side by side on the bed. He owned one of them, the one with the soft belly and the soft things above it that he liked to lie across when she slept. The other one, with his hands that slithered and his smells of lust wafting from him in pungent, whisker-twitching clouds, he didn’t like at all.
Among his memories was the even stranger notion that once, long ago, there were more of him. He’d been dangerous back then, capable of ganging up on and then dragging down and killing men who bellowed and then shrieked and screamed that they wanted their eyes back, until jaws closed around the poor fool’s throat and ripped and tore until it was all bloody and in shreds, with air bubbles frothing out and spurts that came in quick succession only to slow down, and finally fade into trickles. That was when he would feed, every one of him growing fat and torpid and eyeing places to lie up for a day or two.
Red wanted to kill the man on the bed.
What made things all the more infuriating, the lizard cat understood everything these two-legged creatures said, but his own fang-filled mouth ever failed to speak, and from his throat came nothing but incomprehensible purrs, hisses, moans and wavering wails.
Lying atop the dresser, Red was silent for the moment, eyes unblinking and fixed on the man’s throat. Every now and then his thin, scaled tail twitched and curled.
The pink-throated man with the slithering hands was speaking. “… not thinking clearly, that’s for sure. Hah hah! But there’s no telling how long it’ll last, Felittle.”
“You can always hear her on the stairs, silly. Besides, we’re not doing nothing, are we?”
“I shouldn’t be in here. She’s forbidden it.”
“When I live in Elin, in that city, where you’re taking me, there won’t be nobody to tell me I can’t have men in my room. So I will! Lots and lots of men, you’ll see.”
“Well, of course you will, darling,” the man replied, with a tight smile that made Red’s scales crackle down the length of his serrated back. “But then, you know, you might not want that.”
“What do you mean?”
“One man might be enough for you, is what I’m saying, my love.”
Felittle was blinking rapidly, her carmine lips parted in the way that always made Red want to slide his head between them, to look into the cavern of her mouth. Of course, his head was too big for that, but still, he longed to try. “One man? But … no woman wants just one man! No matter how much he pays! Where’s the … the … variety? One man!” She yelped a laugh at her companion and punched him on the shoulder.
Such gestures were appallingly useless, with the nails folded in like that. Far better, Red knew, if those short claws lashed out, slicing that shoulder to ribbons. There was no doubt in the lizard cat’s mind that she needed proper protection, the kind of protection that Red could give. He rose slowly, affecting indifference, and lazily stretched out his back.
But the man noticed and his eyes narrowed. “Your damned cat’s getting ready again. I swear, Felittle, when we go it’s not coming with us. If it attacks me again, I’ll punch it again, hard as I can.”
“Oh, you’re cruel!” cried Felittle, jumping from the bed and hurrying over to take Red into her arms. Over her shoulder, the lizard cat met the man’s eyes and something passed between them that both instinctively understood.
By the time the flying scales and bits of flesh settled, one of them would stand triumphant. One of them, and only one, would possess this soft creature with the wide eyes. Red snuggled tighter and stretched open his mouth in a yawn, showing his rival his fangs. See them, man-named-Slipgit?
The display stole all colour from the man’s face and he quickly looked away.
She snuggled Red closer. “My baby, ooh, my baby, it’s all right. I won’t let the big man hurt you again. I promise.”
“It can’t come with us,” the man said.
“Of course he will!”
“Then you’d better forget about having lots of men in your room, Felittle. Unless you want them all sliced up and enraged and liable to take it out on the both of you.”
Cooing, she slipped her hand to the back of Red’s round head and held him so that she could peer into his face, only whiskers apart. “You’ll get used to them, won’t you, sweetie?”
Used to them? Yes. Used to killing them. Bellows, shrieks, screams about the eyes and then gurgles. But this elaborate and detailed answer came out as a low purr and a snuffle. Red exposed his claws and batted one paw in the man’s direction.
At that he grunted and stood. “The problem with lizard cats,” he said, “is that they kill the furry kind. Angry neighbours are never good, Felittle. In Erin, why, someone will strangle this thing before the first week’s out.”
“Oh, you’re horrible! Not my Red!”
“If you want him to live for, er, however many years lizard cats live, you should leave him here. That’s the best way of showing your love for Red.”
No, the best way is tying you up and leaving you on the floor while she goes down for supper. I don’t need long.
“Then maybe I won’t go! Oh, Red, I so love your purring.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, I don’t know anymore! I’m confused!”
During this, Red had been gathering his limbs under him, moving slowly up onto her shoulder. Without warning, he launched himself at the man’s face.
A fist collided with Red’s nose, and then he was flying sideways, into the wall. Stunned, he fell to the floor beside the dresser. Something buzzed in his skull and he tasted blood. As if from a great distance, Red heard the man say, “You know, if that thing had any brains to speak of, it would try something different for a change.”
Red felt hands slip under him and then he was lifted into the air, back into her arms. “Oh, you poor thing! Was Slippy mean to you again? Oh, he’s so mean, isn’t he?”
Something different? Now there’s an idea. I need to remember this. I need to … oh, she’s so soft, isn’t she? Soft here, and soft here, too, and …
Whuffine Gaggs hummed under his breath as he pulled the silver ring from the severed finger and then tossed the finger into the spume-laden surf. It rolled back onto the sands with the next wave, as if trying to make a point, and then joined the others, jostling like sausages in a mostly even row above the fringe. A brief glance at them made his stomach rumble. Sighing, he squinted at the ring, which was thin but bore runic sigils running all the way round its surface. He saw the mark of the Elder God of the Seas, Mael, but little good that prayer had done the poor fool. Glancing down at the now-naked corpse at his feet, he studied her fleshy form for a moment longer, before shaking himself and with a muttered curse turned away.
A sharp grating sound made him look up to see a battered boat grounding prow-first against the wrack twenty paces up the beach. It looked abandoned, its oar-locks empty and the gunnels mostly chewed away, as if subject to frenzied jaws. Waves thumped into its stern, foamed over its square splashboard.
Grunting, Whuffine made his way over. As he drew near, cavalry boots crunching smartly in the sand with the jab of the walking stick making sweet punching sounds, he saw a man’s head rise into view, and then a bandaged hand lifted in a frail wave. The face was deathly pale, except where a burn had taken away half the beard. Rimed in salt, the man could have crawled out from a pickling barrel.
“Ho there!” cried Whuffine, quickly pocketing the ring as he hurried closer. “Another survivor, thank Mael!” His free hand slipped beneath the sheepskins and deftly palmed the knife.
Red-rimmed eyes fixed on him, and then the man straightened. A short sword was belted to his waist, and he now settled a hand on it. “Back off, wrecker!” he said in a snarl, using the sea-trader’s cant. “I ain’t in the mood!”
Whuffine halted. “You look done in, sir! That’s my shack up on the trail.
Nice and warm, and I have food and drink.”
“Do you now?” The man suddenly smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. He looked down and seemed to nudge something with one foot. “Up, my love, we found us a friend.”
A dark-skinned, mostly naked woman rose into view. Her left breast, brazenly exposed to the chill wintry air, was white as snow, but this absence of hue was uneven, its edges like splashes of paint. The look she settled upon Whuffine was full of suspicion. Moments later a third figure stirred upright in the boat. Blood-stained bandages covered most of his face, leaving only one eye clear, along with the lower jaw. “Thath’s a wrecker all right,” this man said, pausing to split and then lick his lips with a forked tongue. “I bet thath thack of hith ith a damned gallery of murder and worth, and crowded with loot bethideth.”
“Just my point, Gust,” said the first man. “We could do with some new gear, and stuff to sell, too.” He then clambered over the side and stood on the sand. “Brisk, ain’t it?” he asked Whuffine. “But it ain’t no Stratem winter, is it?” He then drew his sword. “Put the knife away, fool, and lead us up to the shack.”
Whuffine eyed the weapon, noting the savage nicks along both edges. “I’m not going to take kindly to being robbed, and since the only town for leagues in any direction is just up the trail, where I have lots of friends, and where the Lord of the Keep is stickler about law and order, you’d be making a terrible mistake doing me harm, or cleaning me out.”
The one-eyed man loosed a laugh verging on hysteria. “Lithen to him, Heck, he’th threatening uth! Hah hah hah! Ooh, I’m thcared! Hah hah!”
“Stop that, Gust,” snapped the woman. “The point is, we gotta get going. Those Chanters ain’t all dead, you know, and I bet they’ll want their lifeboat back—”
“Too late!” shrieked the man named Gust.
“They went down, Birds,” said Heck. “They must’ve! There was fire and screamin’ dead men and demons and Korbal Broach and the sharks—gods the sharks! All with Mael’s own storm crashing down on us! Nobody survived that!”
“We did,” Birds reminded him.
Heck licked his lips, and then shook himself. “It don’t matter, love.” He rubbed at his face, wincing when his fingers touched the weal of the burn. “Let’s go and get warm. We can plan over a meal and a keg of ale. The point is, we’re on dry land again, and I don’t mean to ever go back to sea. You, wrecker, where in Hood’s name are we?”
“Elingarth.” Whuffine replied.
“Nothing but pirates,” hissed Birds, “the whole lot of them. Who’s up in that keep, then? Slormo the Sly? Kabber the Slaughterer? Blue Grin the Wifestealer?”
Whuffine shook his head. “Never heard of those,” he said.
“Of courth you didn’t,” said Gust. “They all been dead a hundred yearth! Birdth, thothe thailor taleth were old when you were thtill farming clamth with your Da.” He waved a bandaged hand. “We don’t care who’th up at the keep, anyway. It’th not like we’re getting an invite to dine, ith it? With the lord, I mean.”
“Oh,” said Whuffine, brightening, “I expect the lord will indeed invite you into his keep. In fact, I’m sure of it. Why’s he’s already entertaining your companions—”
“Our what?” Birds asked.
“Why, the elderly nobleman with the pointy beard, and his manservant—” He stopped then as Heck was clambering back into the boat.
“Push us off!” he screamed.
“Excuse me?”
But all three were scrabbling back and forth in the boat, as if by panic alone they could make the craft move.
“Push us off!” shrieked Heck.
Whuffine shrugged, walked over to the prow and set his shoulder against it. “I don’t understand,” he said between grunts. “You’ve been saved, spared by the storm, good people. Why risk another, and you so unprepared for any sort of sea voyage—”
The tip of Heck’s shortsword pressed up against Whuffine’s neck, and the man leaned close. “Listen to me if you value your life! Get us off this cursed beach!”
Whuffine gaped, swallowed delicately, and then said, “You’ll all have to climb out and help, I’m afraid. You’re too heavy. But I beg you all, don’t do this! You’ll die out there!”
The bandaged man laughed again, this time in the jabbering grip of hysteria. The other two scrambled from the boat and began tugging and pulling and pushing, feet digging deep furrows in the wet sand. Whuffine resumed his efforts and together they managed to dislodge the craft. Heck and Birds leapt back in and Whuffine, wincing at what the salt water would do to his boots, edged out into the waves and gave the boat a final shove. “But you have no oars!”
Hands paddled furiously.
The surf battled against their efforts, but after some time the boat was clear of the worst of the swells, and at last making headway out to sea.
Whuffine stared after them for a time, confused and more than a little alarmed. Then he returned to the corpses on the strand, and cutting off fingers and whatnot.
The sea was a strange realm, and the things it offered up on occasion passed comprehension, no matter how wise the witness. There was no point, Whuffine knew, in questioning such things. Ugly as fate, the world did what it did and never asked permission either.
He moved to the next body and began stripping the clothes away, eyes darting in search of jewelry, coin-pouches or anything else of value. Like his father used to say, the sea was like a drunk’s mouth: there was no telling what might come out of it. Or go back in.
Hordilo Stinq made a fist and pounded on the thick wooden door. He was slightly out of breath from the climb, but the effort had warmed him up some. As they waited, alas, he could feel the cold seeping back in. “Normally it’s not a long wait,” he said. “Lord Fangatooth has sleepless servants, ever watching from those dark slits up there.”
The man named Bauchelain was studying the massive wall rearing up to either side of the gatehouse. The remnants of a few corpses still remained, hanging from the hooks they had been impaled on. The heads, still bearing tufts of weathered hair and a few sections of dried skin, were all tilted at unnatural angles and the effect, from directly below where stood Hordilo, was that of being looked down upon, with toothy smiles and empty eye sockets. At the foot of the wall more bones were jumbled in disordered heaps.
“This keep is very old indeed,” Bauchelain then said. “It reminds me of the one I was born in, to be honest, and I find this curious detail most enticing.” He turned to his companion. “What think you, Korbal my friend? Shall we abide here for a time?”
But Korbal Broach was stripping down the two corpses he’d dragged all the way from the beach, flinging the sodden, half-frozen garments aside and prodding exposed, pallid flesh with a thick finger. “Will they keep, Bauchelain?” he asked.
“In this cold, I should imagine so.”
“I will leave them here for now,” Korbal replied, straightening. He walked up to the heavy door and closed his hand on the latch.
“It’s locked, of course,” said Hordilo. “We must await the lord’s pleasure.”
But the huge man twisted until the iron bent, and then there was a muted snapping sound from the door’s other side, followed by something striking the floor. Korbal Broach pushed the door open and strode inside.
Appalled, Hordilo rushed after the man. They crossed the broad, shallow cloakroom and emerged into the main hall before Hordilo was able to interpose himself in the man’s path. “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.
Korbal Broach swung round to Bauchelain. “He is in my way,” he said. “Why is he in my way?”
“I would expect,” Bauchelain replied, stepping past and adjusting his cloak momentarily, “that this constable serves his lord from a place of bone-deep fear. Terror, even. I for one find the relationship between a master and his or her minions to be ever problematical. Terror, after all, stultifies the higher processes of the intellect. Independent judgement suffers.
As a consequence, our escort finds his position most awkward, and now fears his potential demise as a result.”
“I have decided that I don’t like him, Bauchelain.”
“I am reminded of Mister Reese, on his first day in our employ, as he stood belligerent against an intruder in defense of our privacy. See this man before you, Korbal, as a victim of panic. Of course you may kill him if you wish, but then, who would make introductions?”
Heavy footsteps were drawing nearer, each plod rumbling like thunder through the stone tiles of the floor.
“A golem approaches!” gasped Hordilo. “Now you’ve done it!”
“Do step aside, sir,” Bauchelain advised. “It may be that we are forced to defend ourselves.”
Eyes wide, Hordilo backed to the wall beside the entranceway. “This has nothing to do with me! Not anymore!”
“Wise decision, sir,” murmured Bauchelain, sweeping clear his cloak to reveal a heavy black chain surcoat and a longsword strapped to his belt, the bone handle vanishing inside a gauntleted grasp as the man readied to draw free the weapon.
His companion now faced towards the sound of the approaching footsteps.
They were all startled by a voice from the other side of the chamber. “Hordilo! What in Hood’s name is going on? Go close that damned door! It’s chilly enough in here without the added draft!”
“Scribe Coingood!” Hordilo gasped in relief. “I arrested these men—that one there killed Grimled! And then he broke the lock on the door and then he—”
“Be quiet!” Coingood snapped, setting down the bucket he carried and then leaning his mop against a wall. Brushing his hands, he strode forward. “Guests, is it?”
“They killed Grimled!”
“So you say, Hordilo, so you say. How unfortunate.”
“I would certainly describe it in just that manner,” Bauchelain said. “And I trust, good sir, that your master will not hold it against us.”
The Wurms of Blearmouth Page 5