Muttering under her breath, she sembled. Her form blurred, she yowled in pain, and moments later nine lizard cats emerged from the redolent, spicy haze. The wind whipped those scents away. Her bodies were scrawny, but filled with venomous hatred. She slipped forward, tails writhing, nine slinky forms rushing up the trail.
The King’s Heel. It would all start there, with the conclusion of plenty of unfinished business. It was likely all the denizens of the village were in there, anyway, meaning she wouldn’t have to do much hunting through houses and huts, pig-sties and stables. No, they would all be crowded in the Heel tonight, sitting out the storm, warm in each other’s stink.
She would make of that wretched inn a tomb, a haunted crypt, its walls sweating the blood of slaughter, the echoes running in all directions from the screams and shrieks and death-rattles.
Racing closer, her gazes caught once more the glaring light from the tower of Wurms Keep. Her fury sizzled like fat in a pan, and she found her throats opening to hisses and then spitting, every scale upon her nine backs arching into serrated lines.
There, directly ahead, the entrance to the King’s Heel.
Reaching it, she flung herselves against the barrier. And rebounded. Frustrated rage filled her bodies. Claws were unsheathed, lashing out at the wind, gouging deep furrows in the frozen mud. She glared at the door, willing it to explode. But it defied her power. Hurl screamed through nine throats.
At the high-pitched wailing from outside, Feloovil shivered. “The wind’s gone mad out there! Here, then, have another drink!”
Laughing, Relish held up her tankard, watching it weave before her. “Brilliant idea,” she shouted. “A tavern on a ship! We should’ve thought of that years ago!”
“You ain’t on a ship no more,” Tiny said, his small red eyes tracking the room before returning to their concentrated fixation on Feloovil’s breasts. “You’re drunk,” he explained. “That’s why you’re all wavering back and forth, and the floor keeps tilting, and those lanterns swaying like that.” He belched then and leaned on the counter to get closer to those breasts, and then he addressed them. “I know you’re old and all,” he said, with a bleary smile, “but that just makes you more desperate, and a desperate woman is my kind of woman.”
“The only kind, I would think,” Feloovil replied. “And I’ll have you know I’m only thirty-one years old.”
“Hah hah hah!”
“Now, if you had me some offerings,” she continued, ignoring his derision, “I might show you the youth of my soul and all that.”
“Oh,” Tiny replied, “I’ll offer you something all right. Hah hah hah!”
“Listen to that wind!” Relish said, swinging round to face the door. “Like voices! Screaming witches! Ugly hags riding the black winds!” She looked round, frowned at all the pale faces and the huddling forms at the tables. “Wind’s got you all terrified! You’re all useless, the worst sailors I ever seen. All hands on deck! Storm-sails, reef the jibe and trim the anchor!” She spun back to Feloovil. “I want some women!”
“She can do that,” Tiny said, nodding, “since it keeps her a virgin, and we promised old Ma we’d keep her virtue and dignity and stuff.”
Feloovil shrugged. “Head on up and find one, then,” she said to Relish.
Weaving, Relish made her way to the stairs.
Feloovil eyed Tiny Chanter. “You got small hands,” she said.
“They ain’t small.”
“Too small for the rest of you, I mean. That’s not too promising.”
“Tiny don’t make promises,” he replied, nodding at her breasts. “Tiny Chanter does whatever he wants to do, with anybody he wants to do them with, as long as they do what they’re told, they’ll do fine.”
“They’ll do fine all right,” Feloovil said. “And I bet you want to see them naked, don’t you?”
He smiled.
“All right, then,” she said. “Here’s the deal. You all look tough and that’s good. There’s someone up at the keep needs killing.”
“I can kill,” Tiny said. “Better than anybody. Just ask ’em, all those people I killed. I ain’t just a sword, neither. I got sorcery. Necromancy. Jhistal, Demidrek, High Mage. Pick a title, I’m it.”
“Even better,” she said. “Since that keep’s full of sorcerors right now. Lord Fangatooth Claw, and his guests. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.”
Tiny seemed to reel for a moment, and then his face darkened. “Aye, them. Wait, who’s Lord Fangatooth Claw?”
“The local tyrant,” she replied.
Tiny grunted. “Nice name.”
“He thinks so,” said Feloovil. “So, that’s the deal.” She lifted her breasts. “You get these, in all their glory. But you got to kill everyone in that keep first.”
“We can do that,” Tiny said. “We was going to do it anyway.”
“Oh. Well, then—”
“After we killed all of you,” Tiny went on. “But instead, we’ll do it the other way round. Keep first and then everybody here, but not till after you and me do … you know … the stuff men and women do. The pinky stuff.”
“The what?”
Tiny reddened. “Pinky naked, I mean. You know.”
“You ain’t never done any of that before, have you?”
“Of course I have!”
But Feloovil shook her head. “If you had, you’d know that what your sister’s doing upstairs with one of my girls makes her no virgin in anyone’s eyes.”
“Watch your mouth!” he snarled, reaching for his sword.
“Never mind what I just said, Tiny. Go on and kill them up there, if you think you can. Wurms Keep.”
“We will! And then we come back down and kill all of you!”
“The walk will sober you up, I hope,” she said, glancing over at Tiny’s equally drunk brothers. “You’ll need your wits about you.”
“Tiny don’t need no wits about him,” Tiny replied.
“You’re giving me all the reasons I need know about why you’re called Tiny,” said Feloovil. “But I’m sure I’ll get a few more by the time we’re done.”
He jabbed a finger at her. “Count on it!” Turning to his brothers he said, “On your feet all of you! It’s time! In the keep up there, we’ll find Lord Fungaltooth and those two from the Suncurl!”
“Who’s Lord Fingaltooth?” Midge asked.
“A dead man!” shouted Tiny.
Flea frowned and said, “We gonna kill a dead man, Tiny? What for?”
“No, he ain’t dead yet, Flea. But he’s going to be, when he meets us!”
Midge laughed. “And he won’t be no Lord Fancytooth then, will he? Ha ha!”
“Fumbletooth,” corrected Tiny.
Feloovil watched the huge man draw his equally huge sword, and felt a brief wilting of anticipation. Shaking it off, she pointed at the door. “On your way, Chanters. Destiny awaits!”
“Ha ha ha,” said Midge. “Destiny’s taking us up to the keep! Where is she, then?”
“Get the door, Puny,” commanded Tiny. “We’ll regroup in the street,and then begin our charge on the keep walls.”
“Up that hill?” Lesser asked.
“Tiny don’t do hills,” Tiny said in a growl. “We charge and that’s that. We take the walls, and then we slaughter everyone!”
“Hey,” said Puny, “where’s Stint and Gil and Fren?”
“Probably ran off with your new hat, Tiny,” said Scant.
“We’ll deal with them later,” Tiny snapped.
Puny walked to the door and swung it open.
“As far as stupid ideas go,” whispered Sordid, “this is our worst one yet.” She was crouched with the rest of the squad, barring Birds Mottle, in the ditch beside the track, not thirty paces from the keep’s gatehouse. From their hidden vantage point, they studied the lone guard standing in front of that gate.
“You got a bad attitude there, Sordid,” said Bisk Fatter in low tones. “It’s always been your problem, you know. You’re
always wanting to stand apart from the rest of us, as if you were special or something. Smarter, maybe.”
“Prettier, that’s for sure,” Heck Urse said.
“Shut your mouth, Heck,” said Bisk in a growl. “Listen, Sordid, it’s bad for morale.”
She turned to study the man. “Morale? Have you lost your mind, sir?”
“We can do this,” said Bisk, glowering in the gloom. “He’s just one guard, for Hood’s sake.”
“But he’th juth sthanding there,” hissed Gust Hubb. “Thorm’th howling and wind’th blowing and thill he juth sthans there, holding tha’ sthworth.”
Sordid saw Wormlick slide close to Gust, reach up with one gloved fist, and knock on the side of the man’s head.
Gust flinched away. “I ain’t thimple, you fool. Juth got a sthliced thongue.”
“And one eye, no nose and no ears, and bite marks on your legs.” Wormlick laughed.
“Sthooth thoo clothe to Manthy, ith all.”
“Gave you the title, I’d say,” Wormlick went on. “Gust Hubb the Luckless. Sorry. The Luckleth.” He sniggered.
“Look whothe thalking, you pock-faced hog-butt.”
“Keep it down you two!” Bisk commanded in a rasp. “Someone throw a rock against the wall. Make the guard turn round, and then we rush him.”
Sordid faced the guard again and shook her head. “He ain’t right, sir. Too pale. Too bloated.”
Heck Urse pushed up beside her, squinting. “Necromancy! That’s man’s dead. That’s one of our ship-mates from the Suncurl. That’s Briv, who drowned.”
Gust Hubb joined them on the bank. “Briv the carpenter’s helper or Briv the rope maker?”
“That don’t matter,” whispered Heck. “This is Korbal Broach’s work.”
“So what?” Bisk said behind them. “Dead or alive, it’s just one man.” He pulled up a stone from the ditch. “Get ready.” He straightened slowly, and then threw the stone. It sailed over the guard’s head and thumped high on the wooden gate.
The guard turned.
“Now!”
The squad rose from the ditch and rushed forward.
But somehow, still the guard faced them, and was now raising his sword.
The charge slowed, wavered.
“How did he do that?” Wormlick demanded.
“It’s not the same man!” Heck said. “That’s Briv one of the other ones!”
“He thowed them thogether!” shrieked Gust Hubb.
The squad’s charge dribbled away, and they stood staring at the new guard, with fifteen paces between them.
The dead man lifted his sword with some alacrity.
“A guard no one can sneak up behind!” cried Heck Urse.
“Gods below,” said Sordid. “That’s the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”
“You’re only saying that,” retorted Heck, “because you weren’t on the Suncurl!”
“Wormlick, you and Bisk go to the right. Heck and Gust, to the left. Follow me.” She headed forward, drawing her fighting knives.
“I’m corporal here, Sordid—”
“Just follow, sir.”
The others fanned out while Sordid advanced on the guard. “Hey!” she shouted.
As she suspected, the guard facing the gate sought to turn round. The other one resisted the effort and they stumbled.
Bisk howled and charged in from one side, trailed by Wormlick, while Heck attacked from the opposite flank. Gust Hubb stumbled on something and fell hard on the track. He cried out as he landed on his shortsword.
The guard tottered about, waving swords that kept clashing against one another.
Sordid came in low and hamstrung the creature. It fell over, just as Bisk shrieked and swung his huge two-handed sword. The heavy blade swished over the guard and flew from the corporal’s hands. It sailed across the track and speared Gust Hubb through the right thigh. He loosed another howl.
Heck Urse reached the fallen guard and hacked at both heads. “Briv and Briv! Die! Die and die and die again!”
Sordid backed away. “Wormlick, check on Gust. See how bad it is.”
Wormlick laughed. “How bad? The fool’s skewered through the leg! And he fell on his sword! He’s spurting blood everywhere!”
“Then bandage him up, damn you!”
“You ain’t corporal—”
“No,” she snapped. “Our corporal’s the one who speared him! I’m busting him down right now. Whose plan was this? Did it work? Of course it worked. Why? Because it was my plan! Listen, all of you, I’m now Captain.”
“Sergeant, shouldn’t it be?” Heck asked, still gasping from hacking open Briv and Briv’s heads.
“Captain! Sater always had it in mind to promote me.”
“Since when?” Bisk demanded.
“Since I just said so.”
Gust’s howls went on and on.
At that moment the gate swung open and there stood a tall man with a forked beard. “Ah,” he said, eyes alighting upon Gust Hubb, “the late Captain Sater’s redoubtable soldiers … and friends. Well, your timing is impeccable. I have just made cookies.”
Emancipor Reese sat across from Korbal Broach, watching the huge, fat man licking the icing from one of Bauchelain’s creations. His stomach rumbled and then gurgled. “How is it you’re allowed to eat them, then,” he asked.
Korbal blinked at him, said nothing.
There was a commotion from one end of the dining hall and a moment later, amidst clumping boots, gasps, whispers and moans, Bauchelain returned leading a woman and three men carrying between them a fourth, who had a massive sword thrust through one thigh, and a short sword driven up into an armpit. His bandaged form was splashed with blood.
Emancipor pointed a finger at one of the men helping this unfortunate comrade to a nearby bench. “You was on the Suncurl,” he said. “You led the charge onto the Chanters’ ship during the mating and the battle and all. Then you stole one of their lifeboats and lit out.”
The man glared. “Aye, ’Mancy. I’m Heck Urse. And this is the rest of Sater’s squad. They chased us down, all the way from Stratem.”
“Very loyal of them,” said Bauchelain, resuming his seat. “Korbal, my friend, will you do me a favour? This poor wounded man needs healing.”
At that the bandaged man suddenly sat up. “No!” he cried. “I’m bether!”
Korbal set the cookie—stripped clean of its covering of icing—down on the table, and then rose and walked over to the wounded man, who shrank back. When Korbal tugged the sword from the thigh, the man swooned, which made removing the shorter sword much simpler. Weapons clanging to the floor, Korbal Broach began peeling sodden bandages from the man.
Emancipor could see that this effort was going to take some time. He rose and reached out across the table for the cookie Korbal had left behind, only to have his hand slapped by Bauchelain.
“Now now, Mister Reese, what did I tell you?” Bauchelain then gingerly picked up the lone cookie, and slipped it into a pocket beneath his cloak, but not before Emancipor caught a glimpse of the pattern incised on the top of the flat cookie.
From somewhere below came a long, wavering scream.
The squad soldiers started.
“That would be our host,” Bauchelain said, smiling. “I believe he is torturing prisoners in the cells below. However, I am assured he will be joining us soon, to partake of my baking.”
“He’ll want a food tester,” Emancipor predicted, settling back and reaching for his goblet of wine.
“I sincerely doubt that,” Bauchelain replied. “Lord Fangatooth is doomed to bravado, as we shall soon see. In any case, I shall be his food tester.”
“But with you immune to poisons, Master—”
“I assure you, Mister Reese, no poison is involved.”
“So how come the fancy patterns beneath the icing, Master?”
“My private signature, Mister Reese, that shall remain so, yes? Now, although I am not yet the host, permit me, if you w
ill, to be mother.” Bauchelain gestured with one thin, pale hand to the plate heaped with cookies. “Do help yourselves, will you?”
The woman snorted and said, “Wine will do for us, thank you. No, Heck, don’t be a fool. Just wine.”
Bauchelain shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, a lesser man than I would be offended, given my efforts in the kitchen and whatnot.”
“That’s too bad,” the woman replied with all the sincerity of a banker. “Heck was telling us about compensation. For injuries and all. Also, there’s the whole matter of our cut in the haul from Toll’s City, which Sater promised us.”
“Ah,” murmured Bauchelain, nodding as he sipped his wine, “of course. It would be coin, wouldn’t it, behind your impressive, if somewhat unreasonable, pursuit across an entire ocean. We are indeed driven to our baser natures in this instinctive hunger for … well, for what, precisely? Security? Stability? Material possessions? Status? All of these, surely, in varying measures. If a dog understood gold and silver, why, I am sure the beast would be no different from anyone here. Excepting me and Korbal Broach, of course, for whom wealth is but a means to an end, not to mention cogently regarded with wisdom, with respect to its ephemeral presumption of value.” He smiled at the woman and raised his goblet. “Coin and theft, then, shall we call them bed-mates? Two sides of the same wretched piece of metal? Or does greed stand alone, and find in gold and silver nothing but pretty symbols of its inherent venality? Do we hoard by nature? Do we invest against the unknown and unknowable future, and in stacks of coin seek to amend the fates? We would make of our lives a soft, cushioned bed, warm and eternal, and see a fine end—if we must—shrouded in the selfsame sheets. Oh, well.”
The woman turned to Emancipor. “Does he always go on like this?” Without awaiting an answer she faced Bauchelain again. “Anyway, cough up our share of the coin and we’ll be on our way.”
“Alas,” said Bauchelain, “we do not possess it. I imagine the bulk of the treasure will be found beneath the wreck of the Suncurl. That said, you are welcome to it all.”
Emancipor grunted. “If that comber ain’t collected it already.”
“Oh, I doubt that, Mister Reese, given the inclement weather. But the townsfolk, being wreckers, will of course contest any claim to that treasure.”
The Wurms of Blearmouth Page 12