Feloovil cackled with many of her ghastly mouths, while the others said, “You ain’t worth nothing anymore, Witch. You’re banished! Go on, out into the storm! And never come back!”
“Else I kill you for certain this time,” added Whuffine.
“I want my keep!”
“No,” said Whuffine.
“I hate you all!” Hurl hissed, rushing for the door. “Murder will have to wait. Now it’s the other sweet word! Now it’s hate. Hate hate hate hate! This isn’t over, oh no it isn’t—”
An odd sound came from the doorway, where Hurl suddenly stopped, and then stepped back, but when she did so she had no head, only an angled slice exposing her neck, from which blood pumped. Her knees then buckled and she collapsed upon the threshold.
Tiny Chanter stepped over her and peered into the tavern, looking round with a scowl. Blood trickled rivulets down the length of his huge sword’s blade. “Tiny don’t like witches,” he said.
“Begone,” Whuffine said again. “My last warning.”
“We’re storming the keep now,” Tiny said, with a sudden bright smile.
To that, Whuffine shrugged.
“Hah hah hah!” said Tiny, before ducking back outside and bellowing commands to his brothers.
Eyes fixing on Feloovil, Whuffine sighed and shook his head. “All for a slip of the chisel,” he said.
Huddled at the top of the stairs, Felittle edged back. A muffled murmuring came from between her legs, to which she responded with: “Shhh, my lovely. She won’t last much longer. I promise.”
And then it’s my turn!
Coingood broke the last of the manacles from Warmet Humble and stepped back as the broken form sank to its knees on the stained floor. “It wasn’t me,” the Scribe whispered. “I’m a good scribe, honest! And I’ll burn your brother’s book.”
Warmet slowly lifted his head and looked upon Bauchelain. “My thanks,” he said. “I thought mercy was dead. I thought I would spend an eternity hanging from chains, at the whim of my foul, evil brother’s lust for cruelty. His vengeance, his treachery, his brutality. See how broken I am. Perhaps I shall never heal, and so am doomed to shuffle about in these empty halls, muttering under my breath, a frail thing buffeted by inimical draughts. I see a miserable life ahead indeed, but I bless you nonetheless. Freedom never tasted as sweet as this moment—”
“Are you done now?” Bauchelain interrupted. “Excellent. Now, good Scribe, perhaps the other prisoner as well?”
“No!” snarled Warmet. “He cheats!”
The other prisoner weakly lifted his head. “Oh,” he quailed, “so not fair.”
Shrugging, Bauchelain turned to his manservant. “By this, Mister Reese, we see the true breadth of honest compassion, extending no more than a single blessed hair from one’s own body, no matter its state. Upon the scene we can ably take measure, indeed, of the world’s strait, and if one must, at times, justify the tenets of tyranny, over which a reasonable soul may assert decent propriety over lesser folk, in the name of the threat of terror, then upon solid ground we stand.”
“Aye, Master. Solid ground. Standing.”
Bauchelain then nodded to Warmet. “We happily yield this keep to you, sir, for as long as you may wish to haunt it, and by extension, the villagers below.”
“Most kind of you,” Warmet replied.
“Mister Reese.”
“Master?”
“Upon this very night, we shall take our leave. Korbal prepares the carriage.”
“What carriage?” the manservant asked.
Bauchelain waved a dismissive hand.
Warmet slowly climbed to his feet. Coingood rushed to help him. “See, milord?” he said. “See how worthy I am?”
Warmet grimaced with what few teeth he had left. “Worthy? Oh indeed, Scribe. Fear not. I am not my brother.”
As the sorceror and his manservant made their way to the steep, stone stairs leading up the ground level, Warmet loosed a low, evil laugh.
Both men turned.
Warmet shrugged. “Sorry. It was a just a laugh.”
“Tiny never gets lost,” said Tiny, looking around with a frown on his broad, flat brow. The sun was carving its way through the heavy clouds on the horizon. Then he pointed. “There! See!”
The keep’s tower was perhaps a third of a league to the south. The brothers set out. Midge, Puny and Scant, and of course Tiny himself. A short time later, after crossing a number of denuded, sandy hills, passing near a wretched shack with thin smoke drifting from its chimney, they reached the track they had, somehow, missed last night.
At the keep’s gate they found Relish sitting near a heap that consisted of one corpse lying atop another, with both heads caved in by weapon-blows. Their sister rose upon seeing them. “You useless twits,” she said. “I saw what was left of the tavern, and Feloovil was wearing a shroud and didn’t want to cook me any breakfast.”
“Be quiet,” Tiny retorted. He walked up to the door and kicked at it.
“It’s open,” Relish replied.
“Tiny don’t use his hands.” He kicked again.
Puny walked past and opened the heavy door. They all trooped inside.
They found servants huddled in the stables, their eyes wide and full of fear, and in the house itself there was little to see, barring a pair of broken iron statues lying in murky pools of some foul oily liquid, and the exploded body of some man in robes, lying in the dining hall with demonic footprints stamped in the man’s own blood around the corpse.
“We’ll have to search every room,” Puny said, “and see what’s been squirreled away, or who’s hiding.”
Tiny grunted, glaring about. “The bastards fled. I can feel it. We’re not finished with them. Not a chance. Tiny never finishes with anything.”
“Look!” cried Scant. “Cookies!” And he and Puny rushed to the table.
From the dirty window, Birds Mottle had watched the Chanters walk past in the pale light of early dawn, and once they were out of sight she sighed and turned back to study Hordilo where he lay on the bed. “Well,” she said, “I’m heading into Spendrugle.”
“What for?” he demanded.
“I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you, in fact. I never want to see you again.”
“If that’s what you think,” he retorted, “then go on, y’damned gull-smeared cow!”
“I’d rather sleep with a goat,” she said, reaching for her weapon belt.
“We was never married, you know,” Hordilo said. “I was just using you. Marriage is for fools and I’m no fool. You think I believed you last night? I didn’t. I saw you eyeing that goat on the way here.”
“What goat?”
“You don’t fool me, woman. There ain’t a woman in the whole world who can fool me.”
“I suppose not,” she said, on her way out.
Down in Spendrugle she found the rest of the squad, and there was much rejoicing, before they all headed off to plunder the wreck of the Suncurl.
Feeling turgid and sluggish, Ackle walked into the tavern, whereupon he paused and looked round. “Gods, what happened here? Where is everyone?”
From the bar, Feloovil lifted a head to show him a smudged, blotchy face and red eyes. “All dead,” she said.
“I always knew it was catching,” Ackle replied.
“Come on in and have yourself a drink.”
“Really? Even though I’m dead, too?”
Feloovil nodded. “Why not?”
“Thank you!”
“So,” she said as she drew out an ale from the tap, “where’s that tax collector hiding?”
“Oh, he’s not hiding,” Ackle said. “He’s dead, too.”
Feloovil held up the tankard. “Now,” she smiled, “that’s something we can both drink to.”
And so they did.
A little while later Ackle looked round and shivered. “I don’t know, Feloovil. It’s quiet as a grave in here.”
On the road wending north, away from
the coast, the massive, black-lacquered carriage rolled heavily, leaf-springs wincing over stones and ruts. The team of six black horses steamed in the chill morning air, and their red eyes flared luminously in the growing light.
For a change, Bauchelain sat beside Emancipor as he worked the traces.
“Such a fine morning, Mister Reese.”
“Aye, Master.”
“A most enlightening lesson, wouldn’t you say, on the nature of tyranny? I admit, I quite enjoyed myself.”
“Aye, Master. Why we so heavy here? This carriage feels like a ship with a bilge full of water.”
“Ah, well, we are carrying the stolen treasure, so it is no wonder, is it?”
Emancipor grunted around his pipe. “Thought you and Korbal didn’t care much for wealth and all that.”
“Only as a means to an end, Mister Reese, as I believe I explained last night. That said, since our ends are of much greater value and significance than what might be concocted by a handful of outlawed sentries, well, the course ahead is obvious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Obvious, Master. Aye. Still, can’t help but feel sorry for that squad.”
“In this, Mister Reese, your capacity for empathy shames humankind.”
“Heh! And see where it’s got me!”
“How churlish of you, Mister Reese. You are very well paid, and taken care of with respect to your many needs, no matter how insipid they might be. I must tell you: you, sir, are the first of my manservants to have survived for as long as you have. Accordingly, I look upon you with considerable confidence, and not a little affection.”
“Glad to hear it, Master. Still,” he glanced across at Bauchelain, “what happened to all those other manservants you had?”
“Why, I had to kill them, each and every one. Despite considerable investment on my part, I might note. Highly frustrating, as you might imagine. And indeed, on a number of occasions, I was in fact forced to defend myself. Imagine, one’s own seemingly loyal manservant attempting to kill his master. This is what the world has come to, Mister Reese. Is it any wonder that I envisage a brighter future, one where I sit secure upon a throne, ruling over millions of wretched subjects, and immune to all concerns over my own safety? This is the tyrant’s dream, Mister Reese.”
“I was once told that dreams are worthy things,” said Emancipor, “even if they end up in misery and unending horror.”
“Ah, and who told you that?”
He shrugged. “My wife.”
The open road stretched ahead, a winding track of dislodged cobbles, frozen mud, and on all sides, the day brightened with an air of optimism.
Bauchelain then leaned back and said, “Behold, Mister Reese, this new day!”
“Aye, Master. New day.”
Steven Erikson, The Wurms of Blearmouth
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