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.”