The Wurms of Blearmouth

by Steven Erikson

“Well, as it took him five months to animate the thing, I expect he’ll be somewhat upset,” Coingood replied.

  At that moment the golem arrived. By the rust rimming its pail-shaped head Hordilo knew it to be Gorebelly. Hinges squealing, the abomination thumped to a halt and slowly raised its halberd.

  Impossibly, Korbal Broach was suddenly standing in front of it, plucking the heavy weapon effortlessly from the golem’s iron hands and flinging it aside. He then reached up and twisted off Gorebelly’s head. Fluids gushed from the gaping throat. The headless apparition staggered back a step, and then toppled. Its impact on the floor shattered tiles.

  Still clutching the dripping iron bucket, Korbal turned to face them, a deep frown lining his brow. “It broke,” he said.

  “See!” Hordilo shrieked, rushing towards Coingood. “That’s what he does!”

  The scribe was very pale. Licking dry lips, he cleared his throat and said, “Ah, well. I had best summon my master, I think.”

  “Sound judgement,” said Bauchelain.

  “I’ll go with you!” Hordilo said.

  “No. Stay here, Sergeant. I won’t be but a moment, I assure you.”

  “You can’t leave me with them!”

  Sighing, Coingood turned to Bauchelain. “I trust you can constrain your companion, sir, and so assure the sergeant here that no-one will tear off his head or anything.”

  “Ah, we are ever eager for assurances, it’s true,” Bauchelain replied. “Only to invariably discover that the world cares nothing for such things. That said, I am confident that the sergeant will get to keep his head for a while longer.”

  Hordilo stepped close to Coingood. “Please, don’t leave me alone with them!”

  “We’ll be right back. Show some courage here, damn you!”

  Hordilo watched the scribe hurry off. Although they were now inside the keep, still he shivered. Setting his back against a wall, he eyed the two men opposite. Korbal Broach had upended the golem’s iron head and was shaking out the last few rattling bits left inside it. Bauchelain was removing his gauntlets one finger at a time.

  “Dear sergeant,” the tall man then said. “About your lord…”

  Hordilo shook his head. “That won’t work.”

  Brows rising, Bauchelain shrugged. “Simple curiosity on my part, nothing more.”

  “I’ve done my part and that’s all I’m doing.”

  “Of course. But now … do you regret it?”

  “The only one regretting anything will be you two. Lord Fangatooth Claw is also known as The Render, and it’s a title well earned!”

  “Surely it should be ‘The Renderer’?”

  “What?”

  Sounds from the corridor drew their attention. Korbal Broach dropped the golem’s iron head and the clang echoed shrilly in the chamber.

  Moments later Coingood appeared and a step behind him was Lord Fangatooth.

  Hordilo saw his master’s eyes fix on the decapitated golem lying on the broken tiles. His expression revealed nothing.

  “Korbal, my friend,” said Bauchelain, “I believe you owe the lord an apology for your mishandling of his golems.”

  “Sorry,” Korbal said, his flabby lips strangely stained by the fluids from the golem, as if he had but moments earlier licked his fingers.

  “Yes, well,” said Fangatooth. “Their sole purpose, of course, was to instill fear in the villagers. Now, as I understand it, but one remains. I see a busy winter ahead.” He swept his black cloak back from his shoulders. “I am Lord Fangatooth Claw, Master of the Forgotten Holding, High Sorceror of the Lost Gods of Ilfur, Seneschal of Grey Arts, High Mage of Elder Thelakan and last surviving member of the League of Eternal Allies.” He paused, and then said, “I understand that you are survivors of an unfortunate shipwreck.”

  “We are,” replied Bauchelain. “This is a fine keep, sir, in which every chill draught evokes nostalgia. As a child I once haunted an edifice quite similar to this one. This has the feel of a homecoming.”

  “I am pleased,” Fangatooth replied with a tight smile. He then turned to Coingood. “Scribe, be sure the best rooms are prepared for our guests. Furthermore, you will attend our supper this evening with all the wax tablets at your disposal, for I anticipate a lively discourse.”

  “Our manservant,” said Bauchelain, “is presently recovering from his ordeals at a tavern in the village.”

  “Sergeant Hordilo will collect him,” Fangatooth said. “Although I assure you, my own staff can see to all of your needs.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, sir, but I am partial to Mister Reese.”

  “Understood. Now, by what titles are you two known?”

  “Such titles as we may have accrued in our travels,” said Bauchelain, “are both crass and often the product of misunderstanding. Our names should suffice. I am Bauchelain and my companion is Korbal Broach.”

  “Yet of noble blood, I presume?”

  “Most noble, sir, most noble. But we have travelled far—”

  “In the company of misfortune, it seems,” cut in Fangatooth, finally showing his teeth in the smile he offered his guests.

  Bauchelain waved one pale, long-fingered hand. “If the past pursues, it is leagues in our wake. While the future holds only promise, and should that promise be nothing more than one foot following the other, pray it continues without end.”

  Fangatooth frowned, and then he said, “Yes, just so. Please, my dear guests, shall we retire to the sitting room? A fire burns in the hearth and mulled wine awaits us, in keeping with the season. Scribe? I trust you have recorded this momentous … moment?”

  “I have indeed, milord.”

  “Excellent!”

  “I wonder, good sir,” ventured Bauchelain, “if this keep has a spacious kitchen?”

  “It has. Why do you ask?”

  “As I said earlier. Nostalgia. It was in the kitchen where I skulked the most as a child, and where, indeed, I learned the art of baking.”

  “Baking? How curious.”

  “I would be delighted with a tour later.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Bauchelain smiled.

  “What wuz I drinking?” Emancipor asked, as the room tilted back and forth, as if he still stood on a deck, amidst rolling swells. The walls bowed in sickly rhythm, the floor lifting and falling beneath him.

  “Rum,” said Feloovil. “You’re celebrating.”

  “I am? What’s happened, then, for to be celerbating. Brating. Celeb … rating.”

  “The death of Lord Fangatooth Claw, of course.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “About to be.”

  “Is he sick, then?”

  She scowled. “Listen, sober up, will you? You got half a pot of stew in you, damn me, and that wasn’t for free neither.”

  “I’m sober enough. It’s you who ain’t making any sense.”

  “They’re up there, right? In the keep. All together, the three of them. Blood will spill, and who will be left standing when it’s all done? You told me—”

  “Oh, that.” Emancipor spread his legs wider to keep his balance. Feloovil swayed before him.

  “They’ll kill him, won’t they?”

  “Probbly.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I like to hear, friend. Oh yes, and for that, why, it’s time for your reward.”

  “It’s my birthday,” said Emancipor.

  “It is?”

  “Must be. Celerbating, rewards, but then, how do you know it’s my birthday? I don’t even know what day this is, or month for that matter.” He shook his head. “You probbly got it wrong, which is typical, since everyone does. Or they forget. Like me. Is there any more rum? I’m not warmed up yet.”

  “Let me warm you up,” Feloovil said, stepping closer. “Here, grab these. No, one for each hand. No, you keep missing. How can you miss these?”

  “They won’t sit still, that’s why.”

  “I named them, you know.”

  “You did?
Why?”

  “Now that’s my secret, only you’re about to find out. Just you. Only you. It was a gift, you see. From Witch Hurl, who ruled here years back—”

  “What happened to her?”

  “No-one knows. She just vanished one night. But that don’t matter, Mancy. It’s what she gave me. She had this statue, right? Very old. Some earth goddess or someone. She took all her power from it, for her magicks. In any case, whoever carved that statue could’ve been using me as a model, if you know what I mean.”

  “I thought you said it was old. How old are you, then?”

  She scowled. “No, it wasn’t me. But it could’ve been. Especially my friends here—no, don’t look around, you idiot. The tits you’re holding. This one here, her name’s Stout, on account of her staying firm the way she does. And the other one’s Sidelopp, on account of … well.”

  “You’ve named your tits?”

  “Why not? They’re my friends.”

  “As in … bosom companions?”

  Her eyes thinned. “Oh,” she said, “I never thought of that one before. Thanks. Now, let go of them so I can get this tunic off, so you can see what she did to them. To make them just like the statue’s tits.”

  “I thought you said they already were.”

  “Almost, but now, aye, they are, Mancy.”

  He watched while she turned her back, as if suddenly succumbing to modesty, and shrugged and tugged her way out of the heavy, stained tunic. Then she turned around.

  Her breasts had no nipples. Instead, in place of them, were mouths, with soft, feminine lips painted bright red. As he stared, both tits blew him a kiss.

  “They got teeth, too,” Feloovil said. “And tongues. But they can’t talk, which is probably a good thing. I think it’s a good thing, at least. Watch while I make them lick their lips.”

  Emancipor spun round, staggered to the nearest corner of the room, and threw up.

  “Hey!” Feloovil shouted behind him, “that was half a pot of my best stew, damn you!”

  Spilgit leaned away from the wall. “She yelled something,” he whispered. “And then started berating him. Something about thinking he was a man of the world, only he isn’t. And then there were footsteps and someone trying to get out of the room.”

  “Only Ma’s locked it,” Felittle said. “He can’t get out.”

  Spilgit frowned across at her. “She’s done this before? What’s she doing to him? She locks men in her room? Why do they want to get out? Well, I mean, I would, but then I’d never go into her room in the first place. But he did, so he knew what was coming, more or less, didn’t he? But I swear I heard him gag, or something. It sounded like a gag—wait, is she strangling him or something? Does she kill them, Felittle? Is your mother a mass murderer?”

  “How should I know?” she demanded from where she sat on the bed, her lizard cat sprawled across her thighs, the creature watching Spilgit with unblinking, yellow eyes. “Maybe I’ve seen her bury a body or two, out back. But that happens. It’s an inn, after all, with people in beds and old men trying to die smiling, and all that.”

  “She’s buried people out back?”

  “Well, dead ones, of course. Not like Ackle.”

  “Ackle wasn’t dead.”

  “Yes he was.”

  “Not a chance. The noose strangled him bad, that’s true, and probably killed bits of his brain, which was why he looked dead to everyone. But he wasn’t, and that’s why he came back. Gods below, I can’t believe the superstitions you have here in this wretched backwater. No, you’ve not treated him well since then, have you? It’s a disgrace.”

  Felittle blinked at him. “Backwater? Are you calling Spendrugle, where I was born, a backwater? So what am I, then? A backwaterian? Is that what I am to you, Mister Big Smelly City?”

  Spilgit hurried over, recoiling at the last moment to Red’s savage hiss and raised hackles. “Darling, of course not. Every dung heap has a hidden gem, and you’re it. I mean, if I didn’t find you lovely and all, would I offer to help you escape? And,” he went on, still trying to get closer but Red was now on its feet, dorsal spines arching and ears flattened and mouth opened wide, “if you didn’t think this was a backwater you wouldn’t want to get away, would you?”

  “Who says I want to get away?”

  “You do! Don’t you remember, my sweet?”

  “It was you who wanted to steal me away, and I listened and all, and so you convinced me. But maybe I like it here, and once Ma lets me start working with the other girls, I’ll—”

  “But she won’t, Felittle,” Spilgit said, looking for something he could use as a weapon on the cat. “That’s just it. She’ll never let you do that. She’ll see you stay a virgin, a spinster, all your life. You know it, too.” He found a brass candlestick on the dresser and collected it up.

  “But then you said you weren’t going to let me have lots of men in the city, so what’s the point of me going with you anywhere? You’ll end up just like Ma, chaining me in some cellar! What are you doing with that?”

  He advanced on her, hefting the candlestick. “Is that how you really want it? You want me to hire you out for the night, to whoever’s got the coin?”

  “Oh, will you? Yes, please! What are you doing with that candlestick?” she backed up on the bed. “How many bodies have you buried behind the tax office, that’s what I’m wondering now!”

  “Don’t be silly. Tax collectors want people to live forever, of course. Getting older and older, so we can strip from them every single hard-won coin.”

  “Put that thing down!”

  “Oh, I’ll put something down all right. Count on it.” He raised the candlestick.

  Red leapt at his face.

  He swung with all his strength.

  Emancipor Reese clawed fruitlessly at the lock on the door. Behind him, Feloovil laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “It’s no use, Mancy, we’ve got you for the night, and when I say we’re going to cover your body in kisses, I do mean it, don’t I? Kisses and bites and nips and—”

  “Open this damned door!” Emancipor snarled, spinning round and reaching for his sword.

  But Feloovil had raised one hand. “Shh! Listen! I hear voices in my daughter’s room! Voices! Gods below, it’s Spilgit!” She collected up her tunic from the floor and began pulling it on. “That’s it, he’s a dead man for this. And I’m calling in his tab, too. Can’t pay, can’t leave, ever. Can’t pay, it’s the back yard for you!”

  Edging away from the door as Feloovil produced a key from somewhere beneath her tunic, Emancipor drew his shortsword. “Good, open it, aye. Before things get ugly here.”

  “Ugly?” She barked a laugh. “You’re about to see ugly, Mancy, like no ugly you’ve ever seen in that miserable, sheltered existence you call a life.” She unlocked the door.

  They were startled by a loud thump on the wall, followed by broken plaster striking the floor beside Feloovil’s bed.

  Something had come through the wall, halfway to the ceiling. As the dust cloud cleared, Emancipor saw a lizard cat’s head, its nose draining blood, its eyes blinking but not synchronously. It seemed to be winking at them.

  With Feloovil standing motionless, staring at the cat’s head, Emancipor made his move, pushing hard to get past her and into the corridor. Without a look back, he rushed for the stairs. Behind him he heard Feloovil bellow, and someone else was now screaming. Reaching the stairs, Emancipor plunged downward—and coming fast behind him was another set of footsteps. Growling a curse, Emancipor looked back over one shoulder. But it was Spilgit who was on his way down, with Feloovil thundering after him.

  Reaching the ground floor, Emancipor ran down the length of the bar to the door.

  It opened then, revealing Hordilo, who pointed a finger at Emancipor and said, “You!”

  Despite the bitter cold, the half-frozen sand Whuffine turned over with his shovel stank of urine. He’d already excavated a decent hole, and had begun to wonder if his memory had failed him, wh
en his shovel struck something hard. Redoubling his efforts, he quickly worked the object loose, and lifted into view a pitted and suitably stained stone idol. Grunting, he heaved it out of the pit and set it down on the sand for a closer look.

  It had been a few years since he’d buried the thing beneath his piss trench, but the chisel work now looked centuries old. Come the spring, after the winter’s hard weathering, he could load it onto his cart and take it into the village. If anything, this one was better than the last effort, and hadn’t Witch Hurl paid a bagful of silver coins for that one? For all he knew, Fangatooth might be just as happy to kneel in worship before an idol from the Ancient Times.

  The creation of true art had a way of serendipity, and if he hadn’t snapped off a nipple on the final touches with the last one, he’d never have found the need to rework it into a mouth instead, and then do the same to the other nipple, inventing a whole new goddess of earth, sex, milk and whatever. This time, he had elaborated on the theme, adding a third mouth, down below.

  Hearing more voices from the beach, he climbed out of the stinking pit and brushed gritty sand from his hands.

  The boat was back, and this time the three sailors were piling out to scrabble their way up towards the trail, the bandaged one limping and already falling behind the others.

  Collecting his shovel, Whuffine awaited them.

  “Come to your senses, did you? No wonder. There’s another blow coming in…”

  But the three simply swept past, gasping, moaning and whimpering as they hurried up the trail. Whuffine stared after them, frowning. “I’ve got warm broth!” he shouted, to no effect. Shrugging, he set down the shovel again and collected up the idol. He’d walk it down to the water, off to the left of the sands where the rocks made ragged spines reaching out into the bay. Lodged amidst those rocks, the idol would sit, gnawed by salt and cold and hard waves day and night for the next few months.

  Whuffine was halfway to the spines when he saw the other boat, coming in fast.

  Gasping in pain, Spilgit limped up the street. If Feloovil hadn’t stumbled at the last moment, that knife would have found his back instead of his right calf. Shivering with shock, he approached his office. It took a strange person to decide to become a tax collector, and over the past month he had come to the conclusion that maybe he wasn’t cut out for it.