The Wurms of Blearmouth (7 page)

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.”

“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!”