The Wurms of Blearmouth

  Adjusting his fur hat, he went back inside his shack. He sat down in his captain’s chair and stretched out his feet. He looked round, studied his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. The shark-jaws lining the slatted walls, the burst of dusty, curly hairs pushing out between the boards, the lanterns and brass fittings, the casks and skinning knives and shucking stones, the harpoon heads and bundles of netting, the dhenrabi spines and Jhorlick gills, the heaps of clothing and fine cloth, and the amphorae filled with oil or wine or dyes, the clay jar on the shelf with all the gold teeth, and the half-dozen Seguleh masks …

  Whuffine grunted. All in all, he decided, this was a far finer abode that any chilly, draught-filled temple with muttering priests for company, and all the slippy pattering of bare feet in the dead of night, as cots creaked under unusual weight and unlikely forces made them sway and jerk. Better, indeed, than the dusty shadows of the alcoves smeared in old wax and crowded with pointless offerings, where spiders built webs only to die of starvation and their tiny shriveled bodies crunched down to bitter nothing between the teeth.

  But somewhere in that temple, it was held, there was faith, thick as curdled cream, upon which a god could grow fat. Well, he’d yet to see that happen. The corridors echoed with pointless hopes and muddled ambitions, with sordid crimes and petty betrayals. Faith was a claw hammer to pry loose the boards beneath the commonry’s feet, an executioner’s axe to lop off the heads of unbelievers, a flaring torch to set light to the kindling crowding a thrashing fool bound to a stake. Whuffine snorted. Why, a god could get sick with this lot, no doubt about it.

  If it wasn’t too much work, he would have ended this world long ago, and without much regret.

  But I’ll settle for what washes up every morning. The bodies and dead dreams, the brave and the insipid, the frightened and the belligerent, the wise ones—but oh how rare they are!—and the idiots, of which there are far too many.

  “Ah, listen to me, all nostalgic again.”

  Slithering with all the stealth she could muster, Witch Hurl moved among the chopped-up hunks of scorched meat outside the door to Whuffine’s shack. She gathered a few clumps up and under one arm and continued on up the trail.

  This meat was fresh. This meat wouldn’t sour her stomach the way that dead man had, and she wouldn’t have to listen to any endless nattering about crossing the ocean and getting home, when all he had left was his head, or his cry of thanks when she kicked it into the waves.

  She tore off mouthfuls of the human flesh, swallowing without chewing.

  Remembering everything gave her good reasons, now, reasons to continue on, up into the village, where she would deliver a night of vengeful mayhem that, by dawn, would see not a single villager left alive.

  And you, Feloovil Generous, you I’ll save for the last. You betrayed me when I needed you the most, and for that you will pay—by all the hoary pig-gods of the Hog Harbingers of Blearmouth—may their bones rot in their stupid little barrows—you will pay, aye, Feloovil.

  Because, woman, I remember everything!

  With every mouthful of bloody flesh she swallowed, she felt her strength returning.

  Soon, everyone dies! She cackled, choked, and then spat out a sliver of shattered thigh bone.

  Behind her, the storm struck the shore, and its howl filled the air. Reaching the rise and coming in sight of Spendrugle, Witch Hurl paused. A single glaring light was visible in the distant keep tower. My tower! My keep!

  Such a delicious night of slaughter awaited them all!

  “We take the beach trail,” said Ackle, “but then cut off from it while still on the rise. Then it’s two hundred paces along the goat trail further down the coast. There’s a cut that leads down to a secluded strip of sand.”

  “If you say so,” Spilgit said. He was freezing, clutching his shovel in hands swiftly growing numb. The light was almost gone, the wind turning ferocious and it buffeted them as they trudged along. Keeping his head down against the sea-spray slanting in almost horizontal, Spilgit stayed a step behind Ackle.

  They were halfway along the coast trail when Spilgit heard the man grunt and saw him stagger to one side.

  A wild-haired old woman was suddenly before him, shrieking and lunging with hands hooked like talons.

  Spilgit swung the shovel and the clang when the flat of the blade struck the woman’s forehead was like a hammer on an anvil. The impact sent her tumbling into the brush between the trail and the beach.

  “Gods below! Who was that?”

  Ackle reappeared and joined Spilgit as they peered into the tangled thicket. “Did you kill her?”

  Spilgit licked his lips, his heart pounding hard in his chest. “I don’t know. She attacked me!”

  “Ever seen her before?”

  “No, I swear it. I thought I knew everyone.”

  “Maybe she came up from the sea. Another one from the wreck.”

  Spilgit’s sigh was shaky. “I suppose so.”

  “You’re a murderer now, Spilgit.”

  “No I’m not. It was an accident. It was self-defense.”

  “She had spindly hands and you had a shovel.”

  “She attacked me, you fool. You saw it.”

  Ackle shrugged in the gloom. “She didn’t attack me. But then, I’m not a tax collector, am I?”

  “Let’s just get on with this, shall we? We’re out here, might as well bring the nightmare to an end, though I’m beginning to think that end is a long way off. Don’t look at me with those eyes, I’m an innocent man.”

  Saying nothing to that, Ackle set off once more, and Spilgit quickly followed.

  Lying on the bed, Hordilo watched her getting dressed. “It’s not going to happen,” he said. “I mean, you were great and all, but I’ve had my fill of wives.”

  Birds Mottle glanced briefly at him before shrugging into her quilted gambeson with the huge tear exposing one breast. “Thought you never married.”

  “Exactly, and I mean to stay that way.”

  She faced him. “I was great, was I?”

  “That’s what I said, but don’t take it to heart.”

  “I won’t, and you know why? You weren’t so great. You’re so hairy I thought I was rolling with a dog.”

  Hordilo scowled. “I know what this is.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s you thinking you need to throw a knife or two, since I told you I wasn’t interested. Making up insults ain’t no way to make yourself feel better. Maybe for a moment or two, but it never lasts. Besides, women like dogs, and I should know. So,” he concluded, “it didn’t work.”

  “Well now,” said Birds, studying him, “you got all the answers, don’t you?”

  “I got the answers to the questions, which is better than answers to questions nobody asks, since those kind of answers are a waste of time. So, if you still got a question, ask it and I’ll answer it, unless it ain’t a question worth asking.”

  “I don’t,” she replied, collecting up her weapon belt. “There comes a point in a relationship when it all goes past words, or talking, even. And in the heads of the woman and the man, even thoughts dissolve into a grey, formless haze. Time itself turns into an illusion. Days and nights meld, forward and backward, up and down, now and then—all vanishing into a muddle of pointless existence.” She faced him from the door. “We’ve reached that point, Captain.”

  “I ain’t fooled,” he said.

  “By what?”

  “You’ll step outside the door and close it softly behind you, and lean against the wall, with tears running down your cheeks. Then you’ll take a deep breath and find, from somewhere deep inside, the resolve to go on, alone, abandoned and rejected. But really, what else is there to do? The shattered, wounded heart will mend, maybe, in a decade or two. That’s how it is for women and it’s too bad, you know? But a man’s got a thicker hide, and well, that’s just natural. Something we’re born with.”

  “How did you know?” she asked him.
br />   He shrugged, sitting up on the bed and reaching for his trousers. “It’s all there, in your pretty face.”

  She opened the door behind her and stepped out into the corridor. Hearing the latch drop in her wake, she made her way to the stairs. Gods, when a woman needs a drink so soon after sex, that’s a bad sign for everyone concerned.

  Reaching the top of the landing she heard a door open behind her and turned. A young woman was edging out, and there was enough about her that made it clear to Birds Mottle that this was Feloovil’s daughter. Seeing Birds, the young woman hurried over. “Who are they?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Always a good question,” Birds replied. “Who is who?”

  “Those huge men coming up the street. And one woman. Friends of yours?”

  “Huge?”

  “Giant!”

  Birds pushed past her and hurried back up the corridor. She threw open the door to Hordilo’s room. “You were right! I need you. I want you. Let’s get married! Find us a shack somewhere out of the village, where we can hide away, making wild love for days on end!”

  Hordilo stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. “A shack? Somewhere remote? Secluded, private, where no-one will disturb us? Sounds like my farmhouse. Ain’t been there since, well, since a while now.” He smiled at her. “Who’s the man with all the answers?”

  “You!” she cried, rushing into his arms.

  Tiny Chanter threw open the inn door and stepped forward, only to bang his head on the jamb. “Ow,” he said, ducking and continuing on. Over his shoulder he said, “Lesser, Puny, fix that door, will you?”

  Behind him the two brothers started hacking at the plastered beam with their axes.

  “Hey! Feloovil shouted from behind the bar. “Stop that!”

  “Needs doing,” Tiny said, glaring round. “Too low for a proper man, anyway.”

  “Then you duck!”

  Tiny bared his teeth. “Tiny Chanter don’t duck for nothing.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Feloovil said, throwing a tankard at his head. It cracked hard just above his left eye, fell to a table and bounced and then dropped to the muddy floor.

  “For that you die!” Tiny bellowed, one hand to his forehead.

  “Before or after I serve you?” Feloovil asked.

  “Make it after,” said Relish, slipping past her brother. “I’m thirsty and famished!”

  Flea went to a table and dragged locals from their chairs and flung them into a corner, and then he turned to his siblings. “Found us a table, Tiny!”

  As Lesser and Puny, putting away their axes, hurried to join Flea, Scant and Midge, Tiny pointed a finger at Feloovil. “Ale. Food. Now.”

  “Pay. First.”

  “Tiny Chanter don’t pay for nothing.”

  “Tiny Chanter gets hungry and thirsty, and so do his brothers and sister. Not only that,” Feloovil continued, “they all get to sit outside, on the ground.”

  “Gods below,” Relish said to Tiny, “cough up some coin, brother, so she don’t spit in our bowls.”

  Snarling, Tiny pulled out a small pouch. He loosened the drawstrings and peered into it. He frowned, small eyes getting smaller.

  Feloovil snorted, leaning her forearms on the counter. “No wonder Tiny don’t pay for nothing.”

  Midge rose from the table and walked to the bar, shoving Relish to one side as he slapped down three silver coins.

  Feloovil swept them up in one hand. “Got pretty women upstairs,” she added.

  “Really?” Relish asked.

  Ackle led Spilgit down to a shelf of sand and crushed shells well back from the thundering surf, but spray engulfed them nonetheless, icy and fierce. Lightning flashed through the massive storm cloud roiling above the wild seas, thunder drumming through the howl of the wind, and Ackle was hunched over like an old man, prodding the ground ahead every now and then with his shovel. At last he halted and faced Spilgit. “Here,” he said.

  “Then start digging,” Spilgit replied.

  “I’m freezing.”

  “The exercise will fix that.”

  “No, I mean I’m freezing solid. My arms barely bend. I can’t straighten my legs. There’s ice in my eyes and my tongue feels like frozen leather.”

  Spilgit scowled. “Stop pretending to be dead, damn you! You think I’m not cold? Gods below, go on, then. Freeze solid for all I care.” Pushing Ackle back he set to digging in the heavy, ice-laden sand. “If this is a waste of time,” he said in a snarl, “you’re not leaving this spot, Ackle. In fact, I’m digging you a grave, right here.”

  “It’s there, Spilgit. My haul. My hoard. Enough to buy a damned estate, maybe two, if one of them is run-down and occupied by an old woman who’s half mad and eats bats for breakfast. The kind of woman you can push down the stairs and no servants to ask any questions, so the property just falls into your lap, because of debts or whatnot—”

  “What in Hood’s name are you going on about?” Spilgit demanded, glaring up at the man. “What old woman? What debts?”

  “I’m just saying. I was the last one to go, you see, and maybe bats were fine with her but I was down to making tea from cobwebs, and yet I stayed on as long as I could, and did I get a word of thanks? Not on your life. That hag spat on me and clawed my face, but the candlesticks were my severance pay—she promised them to me! Instead, she rips the pack and everything falls out, and then she kicks my shin and tries to sink her teeth in my throat. But she didn’t have any teeth. She gummed my neck, Spilgit, and that wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

  Spilgit laughed harshly. “You ran from an old woman. Gods, Ackle, you really are pathetic.”

  “She probably poisoned me. Or cursed me. Or both. I was actually looking forward to a proper death, you know. Just an end to this whole miserable existence. I’d earned it, in fact—”

  Something clunked under Spilgit’s shovel. Breathing hard from the exertion, Spilgit worked the blade around the object, and moments later he could make out the curved lid of a banded chest.

  “That’s it,” said Ackle. “I told you I wasn’t lying.”

  Spilgit set the shovel aside and pulled at the chest, working it free. It was heavy and he grunted lifting it from the hole. “Hold on,” he said, eyes finding the seal over the lock, “this is a Revenue Chest!”

  “That’s right,” said Ackle. “I beat a tax collector senseless, on the Whitter Road just east of Elin. With a candlestick.”

  “You stole tax revenue!”

  “Just getting my own back, Spilgit. Anyway, you quit as a tax collector, so what difference does it make to you? You’re getting half, besides.”

  Spilgit climbed out of the hole, brushed sand from his hands, and then leapt at Ackle. “Thief!” His hands closed on the man’s twisted, scarred neck, and his weight drove Ackle down to the ground. Spilgit knelt on him, squeezing with all his strength, seeing the ugly eyes bulge, the deepening hue of the face going from blue to grey. “This time you die for real! Just what you wanted!”

  Ackle’s struggles fell away, his kicking stilled, and all life vanished from his mottled face.

  Still Spilgit gripped Ackle’s throat, gasping out the last of his rage. “Thief,” he said again, but this time without much feeling. “Look at you. Got your wish, fool. This was punishment. Legal execution, in fact. I’m still a tax collector—it’s in my blood, in my bones, gods, in my hands!” He pulled his grip free, crawled off the corpse.

  Eyes falling to the chest, he frowned. “Stolen revenues. For building better roads. Lanterns in the streets. Keeping the drains clear. But still, well, a man needs to get properly set up. It’s not like they’ll take me back, anyway. I could go into accountancy, use my skills for the other side. A nice office, in a decent neighbourhood, in a fine city, with proper clothes. Servants. It’s what I deserve, after a year in Spendrugle. Year? Only a year? More like a century!” Reaching over he pulled close the chest, broke the seal and flipped back the lid.

  The coins were properly columned
, each column wrapped and sealed and marked with the total amount. They’d already been converted, meaning every damned coin was solid gold. This wasn’t no normal haul. Not some scrapings from villages, farms and hamlets. Gods below, this was a city’s take. What in Hood’s name was that tax collector doing with it on Whitter Road? Without an armed escort?

  Spilgit, you fool, the bastard was stealing it, of course!

  He dropped the lid. He was getting cold again, now that he’d stopped digging and strangling Ackle. He had enough coin here to buy Spendrugle, all the lands surrounding it, and that damned Wurms Keep. He had the coin to hire an army and march back in the summer and lay waste to the whole place, and it was only what they all deserved.

  Spilgit stood, staring down at the chest.

  The shovel flattened the back of his skull and he toppled forward. His legs kicked a few times then went straight as spears. Ackle studied the sprawled corpse of the tax collector. “I told you I was dead!” he shouted. “You can’t kill a dead man! I told you!”

  Dropping the shovel, he fell to his knees and pushed the chest back into the hole. It could all wait until the spring, anyway. Too cold for travel. His joints were freezing solid, making every move a creaking ordeal.

  Ackle filled in the hole again, and then took up Spilgit by the ankles and dragged him to the edge of the shelf. He kicked the body into the thrashing surf, watched as the corpse was tugged out to sea, sucked down and out of sight between two massive rocks.

  “Killing tax collectors,” he muttered. “I could make a living out of that.”

  Picking up both shovels, he set off for the village.

  Witch Hurl crawled up from the bushes and made it onto the trail on her hands and knees. Blood dripped sluggishly from her forehead, but the cold had frozen most of it. She had to hand it to Spilgit: the man’s reflexes were like lightning. Still, no matter. Against nine of her, he would have no chance, and indeed the time had come.