‘Your friends? They’re dead!’
‘No, not those ones.’
The man pointed and Hordilo turned to see a group appearing from the beach trail. That’s where Spilgit was going, and Felittle with him! She must have seen a ship on the reef and snuck out to the Factor, so they could get a first look. Gods below, will the treachery never end?
‘But I want these ones, too,’ added the stranger. ‘I’m saving them.’
Licking his lips, his mind in a fog, Hordilo said, ‘They’re past saving, you fool.’
The stranger frowned. ‘I don’t like being called a fool.’
The tone was flat, unaccountably chilling. ‘Sorry to tell you, those two are dead. Maybe you’re in shock or something. That happens. Shipwreck, was it? Bad enough you arriving uninvited, and if that wasn’t enough, look what you did to Grimled. Lord Fangatooth won’t be happy about that, but that’s between you and him. Me, well, the law says I got to arrest you, and that’s that. The law says you got to give account of yourselves.’
‘My selves? There is only one of me.’
‘You think you’re being funny? You’re not.’ Stepping back, trying to avoid a peek into the inner workings of poor Grimled – not that they worked anymore – Hordilo shifted his attention to the newcomers as they arrived.
The tall one with the pointed beard spoke. ‘Ah, Korbal, there you are. What have you found?’
‘A golem, Bauchelain,’ the first man replied. ‘It swung its axe at me. I didn’t like that, but I didn’t mean to break it.’
The man named Bauchelain walked over to study Grimled. ‘A distinct lack of imagination, wouldn’t you say, Korbal? A proper face would have been much more effective, in terms of inspiring terror and whatnot. Instead, what fear is inspired by an upended slop bucket? Unless it is to invite someone to laugh unto death.’
‘Don’t say that, Master,’ said the third stranger, pausing to tamp more rustleaf into his pipe, though his teeth chattered with the cold. ‘What with the way I go and all.’
‘I am sure,’ said Bauchelain, ‘that your sense of humour is far too refined to succumb to this clumsy effort, Mister Reese.’
‘Oh, it’s funny enough, I suppose, but you’re right, I won’t bust a side about it.’
Spilgit was almost hopping from one foot to the other behind the newcomers. ‘Hordilo, best escort these two gentlemen up to an audience with Lord Fangatooth, don’t you think? We’ll take their manservant to the Heel, so he can warm up and get a hot meal in him. Spendrugle hospitality, and all that.’
Hordilo cleared his throat.
But Korbal was the first to speak. ‘Bauchelain, this man called me a fool.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Bauchelain. ‘And has he not yet retracted his misjudged assessment?’
‘No.’
‘It was all a misunderstanding,’ Hordilo said, feeling sudden sweat beneath his clothes. ‘Of course he’s not a fool. I do apologize.’
‘There,’ said Bauchelain, sighing.
‘I mean,’ Hordilo went on, ‘he killed one of the lord’s golems. Oh, and he wants to bring those two bodies with him up to the keep, because they’re his friends. So, I don’t know what he is, to be honest, but I’ll allow that he ain’t a fool. Lord Fangatooth, of course, might think otherwise, but it’s not for me to speak for him on that account. Now, shall we go?’
‘Hordilo—’ began Spilgit.
‘Yes,’ Hordilo replied, ‘you can take the manservant, before he freezes solid.’
Bauchelain turned to his manservant. ‘Off with you, then, Mister Reese. We’ll summon you later this evening.’
Hordilo grunted a laugh.
‘All right, Master.’ Mister Reese then glanced down at Grimled and looked over at Hordilo. ‘So, how many of these things has your lord got, anyway?’
‘Two more,’ Hordilo replied. ‘This one was Grimled. The others are Gorebelly and Grinbone.’
Mister Reese choked, coughed out smoke. ‘Gods below, did the lord name them himself?’
‘Lord Fangatooth Claw the Render is a great sorcerer,’ said Hordilo.
‘I’m sorry, Lord what?’
‘Go on, Mister Reese,’ ordered Bauchelain. ‘We can discuss naming conventions at a later time, yes?’
‘Conventions, Master? Oh. Of course, why not? All right, Slipgit—’
‘That’s Spilgit.’
‘Sorry. Spilgit, lead me to this blessed inn, then.’
Hordilo watched them hurry off, his gaze fixing with genuine admiration on Felittle’s swaying backside, and then he returned his attention to the two strangers, and raised his sword. ‘Am I going to need this out, gentlemen? Or will you come along peacefully?’
‘We are great believers in peace,’ said Bauchelain. ‘By all means, sheathe your sword, sir. We are looking forward to meeting your sorcerer lord, I assure you.’
Hordilo hesitated, and then, since he could no longer feel his fingers, he slid his sword back into its scabbard. ‘Right. Follow me, and smartly now.’
Scribe Coingood watched Warmet Humble writhe in his chains. The chamber reeked of human waste, forcing Coingood to hold a scented handkerchief to his nose. But at least it was warm, with the huge three-legged bronze brazier sizzling and crackling and hissing and throwing up sparks every time his lord decided it was time to heat up the branding iron.
Weeping, spasms clawing their way through his broken body that hung so hapless from the chains, Warmet Humble was a sorry sight. This was what came of brotherly disputes that never saw resolution. Misunderstandings escalated, positions grew entrenched; argument fell away into deadly silence across the breakfast table, and before too long one of them ended up drugged and waking up in chains in a torture chamber. Coingood was relieved that he had been an only child, and the few times he’d ended up in chains was just his father teaching him a lesson about staying out after dark or cheating on his letters and numbers. In any case, if he’d had a brother, why, he’d never use a bhederin branding iron on him, which could brand a five year old from toe to head in a single go. Surely an ear-puncher would do; the kind the shepherds used on their goats and sheep.
Poor Warmet’s face bore one end of the brand’s mark, melted straight across the nose and both cheeks. Fangatooth had then angled it to sear first one ear and then the other. The horrid, red weal more or less divided Warmet’s once-handsome face into an upper half and a lower half.
Brothers.
Humming under his breath, Fangatooth stirred the coals. ‘The effect is lost,’ he then said, lifting up the branding iron with both hands and a soft grunt and then frowning at the burning bits of flesh snagged on it, ‘when it is scar tissue being scarred anew. Scribe! Feed my imagination, damn you!’
‘Perhaps, milord, a return to something more delicate.’
Fangatooth glanced over. ‘Delicate?’
‘Exquisite, milord. Tiny and precise, but excruciatingly painful?’
‘Oh, I like that notion. Go on!’
‘Fingernails –’
‘Done that. Are you blind?’
‘They’re growing back, milord. Tender and pink.’
‘Hmm. What else?’
‘Strips of skin?’
‘He barely has any skin worthy of the name, Scribe. No, that would be pointless.’
Warmet ceased his weeping and lifted his head. ‘I beg you, brother! No more! My mind is snapped, my body ruined. My future is one of terrible pain and torment. My past is memories of the same. My present is an ending howl of agony. I cannot sleep, I cannot rest my limbs – see how my head trembles in the effort to raise it? I beg you, Simplet—’
‘That is no longer my name!’ shrieked Fangatooth. He stabbed the branding iron into the coals. ‘I will burn out your tongue for that!’