Shialobe - Part 9

Merin had been trained from a young age to fear little. He, and his brothers and sisters, were schooled on the Myths that had haunted the lands - and learned of the exploits of those Oth-Sindorson who had hunted and vanquished them. As they grew older they learned the properties of the Beasts of Old, and learned of alchemic wards that could protect or defeat the beasts. Unbeknownst of their towns population, they often refused to dispose of bodies in the hopes they would become Reborn, and allow the apprentices time to hone their craft dispatching a common menace properly. He had become quite proficient at it; even though he'd only been tested against those suffering so much from brain rot they were little more than corpses hungering for any flesh they could find, Merin made short work, locking their jaws shut with a strong grasp before plunging his dagger through an eye socket to scramble and fully destroy the brain.

Standing on the steps of the small church, Merin couldn't force back the wave of nervousness and fear that had washed over him.

    "This is a stupid thing to do," he said quietly to himself. "Very stupid. I can handle this a different way."

    But still he lingered upon the steps of the church. Taking a deep breath, Merin raised a hand and rapped on the simple wood door. There were sounds from inside, of furniture being shifted and feed padding across hardwood. A moment later the door creaked open, and a single bloodshot eye peered out from the darkness.

"Are you the Priest?" Merin asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"Of course I am," came the hoarse reply. "Why would I be out in this miserable hut if I wasn't?"

"Then…" Merin paused, a hand lifting to wipe a trickle of sweat from his throat. "I need to speak with you. My name is Merin, of the Oth-Sindorson. I need your assistance."

"That's very unusual," the priest said. "Even for another cursed vessel. You can run away now, you know, and probably not have attention drawn to you."

"It's not as simple as that. Attention from the Gods was given at my birth; it's been given my whole life. I'd rather draw the eyes of all the Gods than let another senseless death hit this little town."

"Such a foolish answer. Come in, let us talk," the door swung open wide, and the priest stepped back to allow Merin entry. Merin kept his composure as he stepped inside, though his eyes wandered over the priests' sore covered face, to his one glassy eye seeping a thick milky fluid, and eventually down to the right hand, twisted, broken, utterly useless.

The Church was sparse, a simple wooden hut with an alter to Risa Ren – The Goddess of Luck, and Love - near a small window in the back. Wood plates caked with dried food were scattered upon the single table in the room. A small cot was assembled in a corner, a woolen blanket tossed overtop. The general clutter and disarray did not bother Merin; what did were the walls and floor. They were covered in carvings, terrifying and arcane designs, glyphs and words that Merin had never seen before. They reached to the ceiling, and he was sure that if only the Priest had a ladder, that space would be filled with carvings as well.

"You're not wearing a mask," Merin finally said, standing uncomfortably by the door.

"This," he ran his fingers over his disfigured face, "is all the mask I need. Now what do you want, I'm very busy."

Merin looked around the room, his lips pursed into a tight, thin line. He started to speak, to question the Priest, but quickly decided against it. He took a deep breath instead, and asked in as calm a voice as he could, "Someone in town is selling narcotics to the miners, and it has been killing them. In doing so, the townsfolk are blaming it on a mythical creature – the Shialobe."

"Mmm, I've seen her before," the Priest said, picking at his face with his good hand.

"Do you plan to make jokes my whole visit?" Merin snapped, "Or do you actually wish to help?"

"Make jokes? Please! Of course I've seen the Shialobe. I leave here often when the Gods wants to show me things. She may not reside in our town, but the beast does live in this chain of mountains, far to the north. She preys on the trolls, hindering their efforts to mine and-" a look of pain crossed over his face. The priest raised his hands and pressed them to his temples, eyes squinted shut. After a moment, he chuckled.

"With so few visitors, I forget that some things the Gods want to be found as a surprise. My apologies.

"When I'm finished in this town, I'd like you to tell me where she is hiding."

"You plan to kill her."

"What I plan to do is of no concern, and is not what I wish to discuss – I need you to come to town, tomorrow night."

The Priest laughed softly. "Of course, and do what? Terrorize the town with my presence? Curse them all?"

"Not the entire town. Just the merchants – and just if needed. I doubt any of them will admit to me that they're selling a narcotic to the miners, and if they do, fine, I'll serve justice then and there. But if they don't – I'd like to use you as a little bit of pressure."

"Highly unorthodox. This won't go over well, especially with the payments they bring to keep me in my church."

"Then I'll help sneak you in. The only ones to see you will be the merchants – the only one to get punished, is this drug peddler."

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Obsessions – Meet the Doctor

Hnnn, rain storms coming in. Not good, not good at all. Track'll be lost for days, and where will I be then? One link further behind in the chain. One fewer [black suit, black tie, white shirt] suspect to round up. So much time being wasted just to get the pieces back in hand, to start working again, to [black suit, scuffed shoes, blue tie… stain on white shirt] start putting my notes back together again…

The man trudged down the sidewalk, hugging as close to the buildings as he could. His head down, unwashed hair hung in front of his eyes, he trudged passed the throngs of people that hurried past in great clumps. Occasionally he would have to move, around a pillar or away from a bench, and would accidently shoulder into someone who mistakenly thought he would move aside. Sometimes he was yelled at – this time, by a businessman with a briefcase and an expensive watch.

"What the fuck, buddy, get out of the way!"

The man stopped. He stared blankly at the businessman, his eyes cloudy, the irises a too-pale blue. He made no attempt to respond. The businessman, his schedule already thrown off by the brief stop, stormed off down the street, still hurling expletives. The man waited a few more minutes before trudging on once more, worn boots slapping the pavement dully.

In a city immaculately clean, bright lights flashing from video screens affixed above shop windows, the man was an oddity. His clothes, a filthy camouflage jacket torn at the elbows and shoulders and a pair of dirt-stained jeans, hung loosely from his gaunt frame. His face was heavily lined, sunburnt skin drawn tight over his skull, accenting hollowed cheeks and high forehead. Occasionally the man would stop to scratch at the graying beard that dangled nearly to his chest, lice and dead hairs puffing out from the motion.

Ah! There it is. Can't get away forever, now can you? [Kid, street clothes, new ballcap, gold-plated teeth]

The man stopped near an alley, partially hidden in shadows. He turned his face skyward and stared at the blackening clouds. In irritation he sucked on his teeth, a low, wet, uncomfortable sound as his jaw worked. The clouds vexed him greatly, but the scent was growing stronger. Maybe, just maybe, the day wouldn't be a bust after all. He rubbed at his eyes roughly, pressing his fingers into them until little starbursts popped into his vision.

When his eyes cleared he inhaled deeply and set off down into the alley. The cleanliness the streets and sidewalks exhibited did not extend far behind the buildings. Soon old brickwork was the predominant sight, chunks of masonry littering the grounds, the department stores and apartments left to rot out of view of the public eye. Dumpsters sat beside locked steel doors, but trash often overflowed them, scattered onto the concrete and left by workers who weren't paid to clean up the mess.

The man looked up as a rumble ripped through the clouds. He squinted, sucking his teeth once more, and began to jog down the alleys. He would stop not and again, his mouth open slightly, eyes squinted, as he tasted the air. Twice he had to backtrack, fighting his way across a congested street.

As he rounded a corner, a smile appeared through the thick layer of his beard, his teeth blackened, some missing, a foul expression on his drawn face. A drunk sat with his back to one of the walls, a puddle of vomit drying to the concrete between his legs. Beside him were empty bottles and cans. One, just out of arms reach, was a quarter full of brownish liquor.

"My, my, look at you," the man said, his voice cracked and hoarse. "Are you awake? …Are you alive?"

It took a moment but the drunk stirred. He lifted his head, blinking bloodshot eyes. Though his shirt was stained with sweat, and his pants caked with vomit, the man was well dressed. An expensive watch was on his wrist, a chain and cross dangled from his neck. The man smiled again and squatted down onto his haunches. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled a red handkerchief from it, pressing it to his mouth tightly. With the other he gripped the quarter-full bottle. It scraped against the pavement as he drew it to him.

"Good, you are alive. I see you're nearly out of drink, and this…" the man picked the bottle up, staring at the label as if he didn't comprehend it. "This is just swill, cheap swill. It must taste horrible, but it gets the job done. Do you have a name?"

The drunk opened his mouth, then closed it, his lips smacking together dryly. After a moment he said quietly, "Rob."

"Rob. Good. Very good. I'm Doctor James Kirkland. I'm here to help you."

"Do you have-" Rob started. Doctor Kirkland cut him off with a shake of the bottle.

"Of course, Rob. Of – Hnnn – of course I do. I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind, and than I'd be… happy to get you some more drink. Are you up for a few questions?"

The first drops of rain began to fall. Doctor Kirkland reached back behind him and unzipped the pocked behind his collar, pulling free his hood. It took a moment, but Rob gave a little nod of agreement.

"Excellent. This is new for you, isn't it? This" the doctor gave a sweeping motion of his hand, gesturing to the alley, and to Rob. "Whole lifestyle?"

Rob nodded again, sullenly. Doctor Kirkland smiled his horrible smile once more. "You found something recently, didn't you? Something small, and black? Do you know what it was?"

"I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't," Doctor Kirkland said, trying to make his voice come out smooth and reassuring. "I suppose I can just leave, then, before – Hnnn - the rain worsens."

"No, I mean, I didn't steal it, or anything."

"I'm sure you didn't."

"I mean it," Rob said, agitated. "It was just out in the open, I just wanted to see it, and…"

"Oh, I'm quite aware," Doctor Kirkland said knowingly. "Quite aware. I really don't care what possessed you to take it, I'm concerned with where it is now. Where's the pearl, Rob?"

"I don't know," he said, pressed a palm against the pocket of his slacks. Worry flashed over his face.

"Did you sell it?" Doctor Kirkland asked.

"No!" Rob nearly shouted. Overhead, thunder rolled.

"I wouldn't have imagined you did. How long have you been passed out?"

Rob rubbed at his eyes, and moaned as he moved, his body sore and stiff. He looked at his watch and blinked, moaning a second time. "Like, twelve hours."

"I imagine you were rolled last night. Some petty thug – Hnnn – looking for some quick money. No matter… do you still want your drink?"

"Y-… yes, I would. And the, uh, the pearl."

"I doubt you'll ever be seeing that again," Doctor Kirkland said. He stood, grimacing as his knees cracked from the effort. He smoothed out the front of his jacket, and pulled the hood up to cover his head.

"Come with me," he said, and held a hand to help Rob up. "Let's get you your drink, and see that you're cleaned up. I have a few more things I'd like to ask you. It's so rare I find one moderately healthy, and alive."

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Shialobe – Part 8

"Of course, ma'am, of course. Payments should always be prompt, I understand how these things work."

"You understand nothing, Two-Souls."

Merin frowned as he dug into his coin purse. "Quite unfair of you to make judgments so soon, ma'am."

"I make none, the Gods do. You're not paying me for my services, you're paying to keep their eyes off of you. You're cursed with knowledge, and you're a curse upon any town you enter, you draw their foul eyes. Your payment to me ensures that we have incense and herbs, and that the Priest upon the hill stays fed and away."

"Mm, fine, fine, here," Merin pulled a handful of crowns from his purse, jingling them in his closed palm. The woman's eyes blazed greedily as she held her hand out for them. Merin paused briefly before he opened his hand, dumping the contents into her palm. She stared at them, counting quickly the number he had given – much more than he personally felt was necessary – before she gave a slight nod of approval.

"Come with me, then. You may see the meat."

She turned and swiftly headed back to the apiary. Merin turned to look at Kuch, and scowled. "You could have warned me about this."

"I knew nothing!" the fat man complained. "I don't make it a habit of attending this… disgusting place, and even if I did, I'd never come to pay a visit to Miss Stone. If it wasn't to help you protect my friends, I wouldn't even be in here."

Merin shrugged and started towards the building, side by side with the larger man. A small walkway of gravel crunched under the heels of their boots, and Merin was quite surprised by how well kept the small shrubs and flowering bushes lining the apiary really were. Disgusting as the citizens of White Crest may find it this wasn't a place of horror. It was a place of love, a well tended home for the souls of many that have fallen. Merin couldn't help but smile as he passed through the doors and into the cold stone interior.

"Va niashutte," Kuch muttered, resting a hand over the folds of his neck. Merin spared him a withering glance.

"Will you be able to suffer through this?" Merin asked quietly.

"As long as we get out of this hall, aye."

Merin glanced at the walls surrounding the main hall; situated above the pews, and even far back above the main alter, masks hung from the stone. Most were made of iron, some rusted, but a few near the back were made of brass, of copper, and a few of food and rotted cloth. "A labor of love," Merin mused. He ignored the glance from Kuch; Miss Stone was beckoning to him from a small, plain doorway at the far end of the hall. He hurried over, Kuch weezing a few steps behind him as he waddled to catch up.

"Inside, inside, out of their gaze now."

The back room was small, and comprised mostly of two tables; a solid slab of rock in the center upon which the dead miner rested, his clothes carefully cut from his body. Against a back wall was a work bench lined with tools, a leather strop dangling from a drawer knob. Lining the floor were small drains, a barrel of water rested casually in a corner. Merin sidled near the side wall and was alarmed by the heat radiating from it. Miss Stone smirked at him, her mouth curling cruelly.

"After we examine the meat, we burn it. Ashes are taken below ground to the apiary itself, and stored among the honeycombs. While we examine, the furnace is allowed to attain the proper heat."

Merin said nothing as he took that in. Generations held below, their ashes and souls the busy bees in the halls of the dead. If this was a simple place to release the dead it would not hold such fear and reverence, but to hold the dead within its halls was another thing all together.

"Are you sure you wish to witness this, Kuch?" Miss Stone said in a mocking tone. "It's been… years since last I had someone in here to see anothers face."

"I'll…stay," Kuch gulped. His eyes were locked upon the corpse, at the gouges in his cold chest. Miss Stone smiled.

"Excellent, shall we begin? What will you be looking for, Two-Souls?"

"Foul play."

"And you expect to find it?"

Merin nodded, once. The soft scrape of metal across leather drew his attention. Miss Stone was calmly sliding a knife over the strop, honing its edge methodically.

"We will examine the face, and then the internals. You've seen his chest, and as I understand, you feel the meat did this to himself, yes?"

"Fine, fine… Kuch, are you alright?"

"I… yes, I'll be… just fine."

Miss Stone set the knife she had been sharpening beside the corpse. Gently she unhooked the clasps at the side of the miners mask. The sound they made, a soft tchk as they snapped free, set Kuch to shivering where he stood near the door. Fingers softly closed around the mask, and she lifted it from his face, setting it on the slab of stone beside the knife.

Kuch gasped, fingers stroking at his throat. Merin glanced up at him, his mouth tightening. He fought the urge to chastise the fat man, up to his eyes with irritation for backwater superstitions. Merin stepped closer to the corpse, peering down at his bare face. It was pale, untouched by the sun for years – perhaps his whole life, an oval of porcelain surrounded by grit smeared skin.

"Well that's certainly interesting," Merin said, leaning over to peer into the face. "Do they all bleed like that?"

"Of course not, fool, it's from the Shialobe."

"And I highly doubt that…"

"Oh, by their mercy," Kuch moaned from the door. His hand had slipped up to cover his mouth.

Merin traced the tip of a finger along one streak of dried blood. He let it linger at the eyelid, before he pressed his finger to the foggy eye, pressing briefly. There was a faint bubbling of deep red as blood oozed thickly from the socket. The face wore a frozen expression of pain, of horror, the eyes wide and staring sightless. Blood had seeped from both sockets, and from both nostrils, a frothy mixture of blood and foam caking the corners of his lips.

"Shall we begin the examination?" Miss Stone asked, picking up her knife.

"I doubt we'll find anything in him…" Merin said softly.

"I can't…" Kuch began. He quickly exited; moving faster than Merin thought would be possible.

Miss Stone laughed, the sound unnatural coming from the small women. She placed the tip of the knife in the middle of the scared breast, and with unnerving strength plunged it in to the hilt. She sawed through the breastplate, hauling the knife downwards in great jerky strokes. Blood welled over the stones edge, leaking down to the floor below.

"And with some tugging…" She flitted to the back table and returned with a small prybar, shifting it into the incision. Merin winced at the sounds of bones cracking, a noise he would never get used to. Red to the elbows, Miss Stone leaned in to examine the internals.

"Please fetch the bag of herbs on the table, Two-Souls."

"And these are for?"

"Aromatics. Those near the apiary feel calmer when they smell burning spices, instead of frying fats."

As Merin sat the sack of spices and herbs on the slab, something in the corpse caught his eye. He leaned forward and peered into the incession. With a steady finger, he probed at the blackened lungs, at the nodules that had grown upon the sickly organ.

"Lung-rot," he said quietly.

"Now that is interesting," Miss Stone mused, tip-toeing up to peer in as well. "And you sense nothing on him?"

Merin glanced at her sidelong. "I sense a sadness in this death, but the supernatural? Of course not. You would have seen me take preparations as I entered the room to handle it. You may have a haunting in the mines of this town, but did it cause this death? Not in the slightest. Tell me, who deals with merchants in your town?"

"The tavern keeper Nerish, Blackwell for the miners supplies, the conductor Inaul at the trains-stop, Kuch for his general store, a handful of the farmers on the outskirts of the town…"

"Mmm. I will leave you to your work. Perhaps if you speak to others, you'll say that it was the Stone Witch?"

"And I would do this because?"

"Lung-rot could be caused from the mines, but the death isn't as violent as this. You drown on your own fluids when it's from the mines, here he was tearing out his own skin. Somewhere, he was getting a narcotic. And if I have my way, the one supplying the miners with this evil won't suspect for a while that I am looking for them."

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Varner - Part 6

    It took nearly three hours to have the troops massed by the northern gates. Underneath the thick walls, lined with ice and snow, stood a hundred Soldiers of God, their armor glistening with polish, their swords already out of their sheaths. Stravitch stood at the front beside Varner, already exhausted, his barrel chest heaving with the exertion of rounding up so many men, of making sure they were ready before sundown, of hurrying back dressed for battle.

    Varner looked him over and gave a nod of approval. His apprentice – as he'd long ago began to think of the youth – wore his white robes of his position overtop the bulky padding and armor, giving his shoulders an impossibly broad width while managing to tighten his sides and slim his gut. He made an imposing figure, his dark hair whipping in the chill winds, one hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Varner smiled and clapped him on the shoulder; sure he could feel the anxiety underneath the padding and metal.

    "Father Gria Mias says they're a miles march away, at most. He's sending one of his few remaining native-scouts with us as a guide. Keep him safe from harm."

    Trudging through the growing snow the scout approached the group. Unlike the Soldiers of God, he was dressed in heavy pelts and gloves, his face hidden behind a fur-lined mask. He passed the assembled soldiers without as much as a glance, garnering a round of murmers from the sea-weary men. He approached Varner, his eyes flicking briefly to Stravitch, and spoke in a rough, heavily accented voice, "I don't think we should be doing this, it is bad idea."

    "Justice should prove itself swift," Varner replied, scowling. "Your heathen kinsmen should learn the error in attacking emissaries of God. They cannot hide from their punishments."

    "Heathens yes, cannot hide? No," the scout said. He rubbed his gloved hands together, shifting slightly from foot to foot. "You're making a mistake, Justice. They've seen your ships but they do not know your numbers. Possibly they will see your brother, fixing walls, killing monsters, and they will get over-eager. But to march to them? Idiocy."

    "Watch your tongue," Stravitch warned.

    "Your council is not appreciated," Varner said, "Your knowledge is."

    "Father Mias keeps my council just fine," the scout snapped.

    "And Father Mias has lost more than half of his outpost, should I be concerned of your loyalties if it's your council that has caused that?"

    The scout went silent, his eyes darkening from the scolding. Stravitch jutted his chin, the creak of leather as he tightened his grip upon his glove. Rubbing at his covered nose with a thumb, the scout shrugged and said quietly, "As you wish, Justice. But please, let us finish this errand before nights-fall."

    The soldiers marched, with Stravitch and Varner, and the Scout, in the lead. The lands were a mixture of snow fields and icy mud, wisps of plant life visible through the white. To the east grew a hill, eventually funneling the soldiers through a winding path along the edge of an expansive forest, tree limbs frosted and glittering.

The march was slow; the path was traveled by the marauders but more infrequently than in the excavation town. The snow stood much higher, nearly shin deep, and the soldiers were unaccustomed to slogging through such resistance. Gria Mias was wrong; the nearly two miles to the encampment took almost an hour, the soldiers panting for breath, their shoulders hunched forward as the chill wind buffeted against them ceaselessly.

Stravitch's brow was furrowed, his lips curled into a chapped snarl. Varner watched him from the corner of his eye, concern growing for his apprentice's issues with rage. He wasn't pleased either about the march, and his throat was parched and yearning for a strong and warm wine, but he was able to hold the anger in check until he could release it upon the enemy, or until he could ask for forgiveness at the bedside. To see it so plainly on the youths face was troubling, and something he would need to address soon.

Rage almost bubbled over when they reached the Arcadian campsite. Smoke tendrils still wafted from where the fires had sat, the snow trampled and melted around the areas the tents had been assembled. But foot– and hoof –prints extended from the camps edge in all directions, disappearing into the woods, trudging up the hill until they vanished at the top of the rise. All that was left was a headless corpse impaled on a stake in the center of the clearing, stripped naked, covered in hundreds of small cuts. Ice frosted over the blue hued skin, blood clotted and frozen in upside-down droplets. Strands of meat stuck up from the stump in grotesque, icy spikes where his head had been, and Varner sighed. The messenger had been hung by his feet while they tormented him.

"Where are they!" Stravitch barked. He strode briefly towards the corpse, than wheeled upon the scout, pointing an accusing finger towards him. "Where are they!" he said again, spittle frothing at his corners of his mouth. "Are your kinsmen that afraid of us?"

"No, Justice," the scout said, his voice hushed. "They're taunting you."

"This is absurd!" Stravitch shouted. He stormed towards the corpse, and lashed out with a steel shod boot. His heel hit the stake and it cracked. A second kick and it toppled over, crashing to the ground in a crackle of blood and ice. The soldiers shifted uncomfortable, a low rumbling as they talked to their linesmen.

"Stravitch, enough!"

"Enough? These men are cowards; they're just wolves feeding on the weak. Where is their honor?"

"Enough, Stravitch! Back to the line!"

    Reluctantly Stravitch moved to stand beside Varner. Varner gave him a reproachful glare. He shut his eyes briefly, collecting his thoughts, then turned to address the soldiers. "We march back, and quickly. There might be an attack while we've been away, but I doubt it. This is their land; they want to keep us on edge, to keep us uncomfortable. That is fine – we will catch them eventually, and do what we do with all wolves feeding upon our sheep. Trap them and slaughter them. Now prepare for the trek back, we must hurry, in case."

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Shialobe – Part 7

Even though he was in the mines for only a short time, stepping out into the sunlight was painful. Merin squinted behind his mask, his right hand lifting to cup over the top of the eye holes, to shield himself from the glare. The sound of footsteps behind him didn't spur him into motion quite fast enough, and he was shoved hard behind the shoulders. Merin was nearly sent sprawling into the dirt.

"Get going, get going!"
Blackwell yelled. He raised his fists up in front of him in a boxers stance, his jaw tight. "Off the yard, fiend."

Merin stumbled over a rock jutting up from the dirt, but he caught his balance at the last instant. He came to a stop a few feet away, his hands clenched at his sides. "You're making a mistake," he snapped. "A big mistake, I'm trying to save your miners, you braying ass, not start trouble, and-"

Blackwell jabbed at him, his fist aimed low, for the neckline. Merin dodged backwards, stumbling again. He raised his hands defensively, smacking the second jab aside. From the mines mouth, his acquaintances strode out. They came slow, the Raizan's with their heads hung low, Draynor's eyes blazing as he stared at Blackwell. But none made it farther than the shady overhang from the wooden supports over the entrance.

"I see how this is going to go," Merin said. He slapped aside another punch from Blackwell, though it came half heartedly from the forman. Merin took two more steps back and dropped his hands, his mouth pulled down into a scowl. "Fine, Blackwell. I won't be returning, Stone Witch or not-" At his words a murmur ran through the crowd. Blackwell started to speak, but was cut off when Merin continued, "- I wish you good luck, sir, with your doomed miners. Hopefully no more will succumb to such a terrible fate, dying like that in the darkness."

The afternoon was spent inside the Tavern. Merin drank his milk and spices, quelling the Moral Maggots in his chest that stirred and thrashed whenever the bartender or the serving girl came to speak with him. He spent the rest of his time drinking warm beer, his hat pulled low over his mask, and munched on blood sausages and chunks of bland potatoes fried to black in lard. The tavern was mostly empty, though the merchants from the train ride sat at a table in the back. Their heads bowed over a series of ledgers, pen and quill scribbling furiously as they compared notes on their transactions. They seemed pleased – though with the way the Crown controlled the production and usage of Iron and Steel, anyone picked by the Crown's Committee to act as a Merchant Liaison always saw profits in the realms of excess.

Merin scowled in their direction. He didn't want the company, and they seemed to ignore the Oth-Sindorson entirely. But he wanted to make sure. Whenever he looked up from the dried, over spiced sausages, his eyes narrowed and his lips curled back, a gesture that was wasted on the uobservant trio.

"You doing okay, sugar-plum?" The waitress asked. She had her hand resting on a cocked hip, her mask a decoration of dangling rings and studded with polished stones. Painted lips pulled into a well practiced smile. Merin glared up at her, slowly chewing on a burnt wedge of potato.

"I'm fine."

"You look a wee bit blue, what's the matter?"

The glance she gave to the bartender told him all he needed to – that word travels fast in small towns. He gave her a mocking smile, and sliced a potato chunk in half with his knife before spearing it with the tip. "Oh, Blackwell decided he'd rather let his miners die than handle a problem correctly. That's all; I hope none of them were your friends." The waitress stared at him incredulously, her jaw slack.

Merin slid a few pieces of copper across the table towards her, one of them skidding off the edge to clatter against the wooden floor. "Just leave, please," Merin said, his voice low and gruff. The waitress mumbled something under her breath and scooped up the coins, tucking them into the purse she had clipped to the belt circling her waist. She strode off to speak with the bartender, her hands waving animatedly. Merin focused his attention on the last of the blood sausages, hacking at it with his knife before chewing the over-spiced slice he had worked free.

The creaking hinges of the door drew his attention. Instinctively his hand slipped inside his coat to cup the hilt of his knife. But it was only Kuch, out of breath, his fat frame streaked with dust from hurrying down the main street. Merin relaxed, his hand rising above the table, but his mood did not change. He slowly, munched away at his late lunch, sparing Kuch the quickest of glances. Kuch, for his part, ignored this. He seemed pleased, his fat fingers clacking the rings that adorned them together as some sort of nervous act.

"You didn't spend much time in the mines," Kuch said.

"I was thrown out, friend. I'll be leaving on the train this afternoon."

"I heard, I heard," Kuch said soothingly. He pressed his hands together, fingers steepled into a nervous pose at the second part Merin's sentence. "Leaving? No, friend, I'd recommend against that."

"And why is that?" Merin asked, a mocking edge to his tone. "To get barred from the single place I need to go, and get mocked by your kinsfolk? Aye, it's sure exciting to show up in a town my brother has already wrecked havoc in, and find your only way closed down by an arrogant foreman who is perfectly fine in watching his miners die, one by one."

Kuch sucked a breath in through his teeth. He held it, his eyes narrowed, and after a minute he slowly exhaled, the tension and anger that had sprung up within him leaving with it. "That is Blackwell – Yes, the mines are off limits for now, but you don't need them, or him. Don't you have something more important to busy your time with?"

"More important?"

"The corpse."

"Blackwell won't let me near it!"

"Aye, of course not, but Loria Stone will."

"And who is that?" Merin asked, finishing off the his sausage.

"The Grave Digger. She's very sympathetic to your plight," Kuch flashed a mysterious smile – Merin was sure "sympathy" was something that had been bought, not earned.

"And where is she?" Merin asked, pushing his plate aside. The waitress hesitated, but eventually she flitted over and snatched the empty wooden plate. Merin never saw where she took it, the kitchen perhaps? Wherever it was, both she and the plate were out of sight, and quickly, out of mind.

"She's in the apiary, at the top of the hill at the south edge of town. She's near the Priest," Kuch shuddered visibly, "but we won't need to see him. Just Miss Stone."

"And when may we see her?"

Kuch pulled an ornate pocket watch from one of the many pockets on his overalls. He stared at it almost uncomprehendingly for a moment, before he nodded and gave the face a gentle tap with his thumb. "We could leave now – Draynor should have delivered the body her way by now. I'd asked she hold off any preparations until we arrive."

Loathe to admit it, elation flooded past Merin's bruised ego. He smiled, and nodded. "Shall we, then?"

Until they reached the hill the walk was brisk and easy. Kuch made excellent company, animated despite his size, and talked about many subjects in quick succession: the market and its values, the capital, the stage, and in what he claimed was a direct relation, the philosophies of the priests.

The hill itself was a terrible chore. Steep, nearly mountainous in its own right, there was a single walkway with guard railings pounded into the ground as an afterthought. Kuch went silent after the first few steps, and by the top Merin found himself drenched in sweat, his mask sticking to his face, his coat removed and draped over an arm.

The top gave way to well kept grounds, bushes and shrubs obsessively cared for, the path leading up to the apiary's doors grass trimmed very short and even. The pair took their time in walking to the door, catching their breath along the way. The apiary itself rose high in the air. It resembled the husks of chapels that dotted the land near abandoned cities, their walls overgrown with vines and age. This building stood two stories of marbled magnificence, spikes of iron jutting from the high roof. Its smooth sides were devoid of windows, the only entrance a set of wide iron doors, weighted and hinged such that a child could push them open.

In fact, it seemed a child that opened the doors at first. Merin wouldn't have been surprised if it was, as bizarre as this town seemed to him. But as they neared, he recognized her as a slight, middle-aged woman, her hair thinning in the front, her mouth lined from worry and work. She wore a butcher's smock over a simple dress, the simple leather cover sending a thrill of dread up Merin's spine. Her mask was unlike the others – though steel, it only covered her eyes and the top of her nose, a mockery of the charade masks the nobility wore to their many extravagant parties. Little spikes jutted from the sides, spiral designs moving from around her eyes, disappearing at the edges, or swirling into a void around the spikes.

She opened her mouth – her teeth gilded with gold – and her voice floated out rough and low, tainted by years of inhaling incense and tobacco. "Kuch paid. He may enter-" Kuch made to complain, but was cut off by the small woman, her claw-like hand pointing at Merin, "But a few crowns from you will help blind the Gods sensibilities."

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Shialobe – Part 6

The five of them skulked off down a side tunnel. They had to pass another group of miners and haulers hard at work, hoping they went unseen so as to not draw the attention of the foreman. The miners were like ghosts, silent apparitions darting from shadow to shadow, as at home under the ground as most men are in their own homes.

Merin was not as lucky. He was a bumbling fool, tripping over rocks and discarded equipment, the dark patches where torches did not provide light were his own personal hells – a sure fire way to scrape a hand or stub a toe through his boots. Eventually they arrived at the off-shoot passage, a small section that had just begun to get carved. The three miners sat on their barrels and on the edge of their cart, nearly trembling, their eyes cast into the darkness.

"Has anyone come, sir?" Raizan asked, "Anyone disturbed him?"

"No, sir, no, by the Gods, we've watched him this whole unbearable time."

"Get ye' to the foreman, than," Draynor said in a gruff tone. "But take your time reaching Blackwell. Our friend needs to examine yon body, and figure out just what is taking our brothers."

"Aye, we'll go and fetch him, but you best hurry," The miner on the cart said. He hoped down, and handed his lamp over to the un-introduced fourth of Merin's group. "It doesn't take long to get to the entrance Yorren, you know that; it will take even less to get back with the threats of mutiny biting at Blackwell's mind."

Yorren took the lamp, the light glancing off the walls as it swung in his hand. His voice was higher than it should have been, considering his size, but it was gentle, reassuring. "Come, sir Oth-Sindorson, examine quickly, for I fear punishment is coming back with that unfortunate trio."

Merin stepped into the small alcove, and knelt down, his hands resting on the body. For once, he was thankful for the mask – he could smell the scent of death on this one already, though it was faint and hidden behind the odors of cheap oil, and rock and earth, and the overworked smell of unwashed men.

A body lay among a small pile of chipped off rocks. He was face down, the pick-axe he had wielded a few inches in front of his outstretched right hand. His shirt was hanging loosely on him – too loosely – and Merin frowned.

"Bring that light down closer, please, sir," he said, and Yorren accommodated. A shadow was cast, briefly, as Young Raizan leaned over, but his father pushed him back and they viewed the scene from afar.

"A male, dead, face down… no signs of disturbance around him, I don't see any, no… and I don't feel any…" he said, touching at his chest absently. "I'm going to be turning him, now, please lift the lamp higher."

Merin slid his hands under the well muscled body. He tensed, the toes of his iron-shod boots digging into the stone floor, and with a groan well in the back of his throat he rocked forward. The corpse tipped languidly, his hand making a cold sound as it flopped against stone and gravel. The looseness of the shirt was discovered, it was ripped open wide, his chest a messwork of criss-crossing nail marks, blood drying on the patches of skin not shredded, or soaked into the waistband of his pants. His mask was still held on tight, though blood had pooled out from under the chin, and the eye holes were already clotted over, brownish goo sticking in pre-scabs.

Gently, Merin traced two fingers down one of the lines of slashes on his chest. They weren't deep, but the skin was missing, angry red flesh visible underneath. In some places, especially near his chest, Merin could even make out the beginnings of the muscle tissue, and he shuddered.

He lifted up the man's left hand and a smile touched his lips. He used his thumb to extend the mans middle finger, which bent awkwardly at the knuckle he was touching. "What do you see?"

"A dead man's hand," Draynor answered.

"I see our culprit,"

The others stared at him in silence. Merin closed his eyes and exhaled a hard sigh. "Him. HIM. He's the murderer. Or, no, he's the only one here to have done anything to himself."

"You're a madman," Raizan said.

"I told you he'd be as worthless as his brother," Little Raizan complained.

"Look at his fingernails, sirs, look at them close and tell me what you see."

Only Draynor leaned forward, and he said gruffly after a minutes examination, "Dirt, filth."

"I see skin."

"What?" Yorren said, scowling. "Skin?"

"His own. Look at his chest, hmm? Look at his hands," Merin lifted the dead man's hand up, a difficult task as the muscles had already begun the slow process of rictis. He placed the hand at the top of the man's chest, just below his neck, and slowly drew it down. Fingers, curved into terrible claws, scraped lightly down a mostly-accurate path in the gashes that were already there.

"He did this to himself. That is his skin."

"Va niashutte," Yorren gasped, lifting his fingers to tap at his forehead. The Raizans, almost in unison, added, "May the gods ignore our tortured souls in favor of those with more interest."

"Stop your babbling," Merin snapped. "And help me off with his mask. I must see his face."

"No!" the foursome nearly shouted in unison.

"I. MUST. See his face," Merin said, whipping his head around to scowl at them. Already his hands were reaching for the clasps at the side of the metal. He grunted when his wrists were gripped by Draynor, and though he struggled and fought, the Raizan's did their best to haul him backwards, away from the body. Yorren kept the lantern held tight, though his beardless jaw was set, jutting forward in defiance.

"And I'm lied to," Blackwell's voice called, from the darkness. "You interrupt my men, you start a fight, and your desecrating a corpse. Excellent, perfect, just what I'd expect."

The miners dropped Merin, quickly stepping backwards as Blackwell entered the light. His eyes flashed dangerously behind his mask, his lips pulled back into a snarl. "You four, get back to work immediately before I dock your pay – and you…" he pointed a finger at Merin. "Get out of my mines. You step foot in here again, I'll have you strung myself. You want to play with a corpse, do it at Gravediggers shop. I won't have you here riling up my men, you worthless cur."

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Varner – Part 5

With great caution, the ship pulled alongside the docks. The bosun shrieked orders as the twin anchors were dropped into the harbor, skidding through the muck and rock at the bottom. With the sails down, the ship lurched slowly to an almost-stop, and the gangplanks were lowered. The members of The Order, their robes replaced with fur lined robes and thick, woolen pants, streamed down, readying their swords, adjusting the shields strapped to their left arms.

The soldiers of God broke into two separate groups, a hundred strong each. Renalt stalked to the front of one of them. His hood was thrown back despite the cold, his blonde hair whipping about his face in the chill wind. He waited for the milling soldiers to settle down, though they still fidgeted and shivered. None were prepared for the harsh conditions of Arcadia, even at this early in the winter.

"There are two passes into the Maw," Renalt screamed, making his voice heard above the foul wind that shrieked through the valley. "West, and North. We head west, past the shanty town, and we will hold it with our fellow brothers, those who have been at the dig from the beginning. Our task is to rebuild the wall. We are to hold the pass until we can be safely entombed within the Maw.

"There may be raiders from the outlying towns. Arcadian Savages. They fight hard, they come in hordes, but they die like any man, and they do not have the One True God fighting beside them, fighting within them, as we do. This wall must be completed soon. We can not have the attack of a night's raid by these savages. Now move, go, and help the excavators as best you can."

    Marching towards the Northern entrance, Stravitch and Varner's troop was much different than that of their compatriot, and brother. Varner walked with a slight limp, his leg – broken once in his youth – locking up due to the coldness in the air. His voice carried well, his troops a ragged mass of fives and tens.

    "The wall stands. Our job is to stand at the wall. Do you see that fat fellow up ahead? Not Stravitch-" The group laughed, and Stravitch placed his forefinger and pinky underneath his chin, snarling while he made the rude gesture. "-the fat fellow up ahead that is waving towards us. That's Father Gria Mias, and he has been here, working on our excavation for years. He's the one who sounded the alarm to us, late as it was. He is the one we will listen to, and protect. Are there any complaints?"

    Stravitch felt the answer in his stomach, as all one hundred soldiers roared at once, "None, sir!"

    "Excellent." Varner sidled over to Stravitch, his voice lower so the men couldn't hear, "They'd follow me straight to the gates of hell, because of glory, and for gold, and God. Your brother knows 'right', but I know correct. Make your men laugh, make them love you, and they will cut off their own hands if you ask. Remember that."

    "Sound advice," Stravitch said. "Very sound."

    "Stick with me, and you'll have nothing but sound advice."

    Gria Mias approached them, his attire light in contrast with their cold weather gear. He wore a simple frock, his hood thrown back to expose a mostly bald head and a long, chest-length gray-and-black beard. Steam radiated from his scalp, but he seemed not to notice as he waddled towards them, his face long with worry.

    "The Arcadians taunt us! They saw your ship and held off on their attacks, Justices. Their messenger said he wanted a challenge, a real challenge, and readied their raiders."

    "Where is this messenger?" Stravitch growled, his hand on the hilt of this sword.

    Gria Mias shuddered, and pointed towards a pike near the front of their stone-and-wood wall. There was a blob embedded on the pike, though through the tar Varner could easily make out a nose, two sockets where eyes had been, strands of hair dangling down in knotted, tar-covered clumps. Nailed to each side of the head was a piece of tattered parchment, an odd, almost archaic style of script covering the sheets of paper.

    "That was Brother Braun, and we sent him as an emissary to strike piece with the savages. They returned him to us like that, and laughed, even as we put arrows into the hides of two of their kind."

     Varner stared at the head, and at the writing. Gria Mias nodded, "They're just over the ridge."

    "And what of the west wall?" Stravitch asked.

    "They ignore it. The trolls raid from the west, coming for blood, and the Arcadians attack it at night, wrecking it, to spread our forces thin. There were a hundred here, we're now down to forty. We won't survive the week."

    Varner rolled his eyes, and pressed his fists to his hips. "Save your tears for someone that cares, old man. We wouldn't have sailed this distance to sit down and die. We're here for Viavios's skull and helm and if we must cut through the whole of the Arcadian Army, we'll do just that."

    "There is no Army, you ignorant pup. There are just bands of warriors weaned on snow and death. The ones closest use us for sport."

    "I suspect that is not the case, Gria," Varner said, his voice low.

    "And what do you suspect, our Lord and Grace, aye? What do you suspect that us simple country priests would not understand."

    "The Arcadians use us for sport, yes, but they also do not wish us to reach the skull and helm. Messengers spoke with one of the tribe kings in these lands. They spoke of great evil, of death locked up in the cleansing ice. They think we're evil, to try and free it."

    "Such folly from such savages," Gria Mias growled. He rested his hands on his stomach, and with his back arched and head jutting forward the appearance was wholly ursine, unnatural and inhuman.

    "Then what are we to do?" Stravitch asked. Varner shot him a look as Gria Mias glowered, but it was quickly softened.

    "The apprentice forgets his place, forgive him. Stravitch, we march on the savages, and we will route them. Your brother is tasked with holding the trolls, and rebuilding the wall – and though I doubt the captain will be happy, his ship will be used to buttress it's defenses. The sailors will make excellent additions until spring, or until a secondary ship – sir, when do the secondary ships arrive, with winter supplies?"

    "One should come within the month, before the ice grows too thick to sail through."

    "Then they'll stay and help until then, I wager, though the captain will be mighty sore. I'll allow you to ready the men, Apprentice-Justice. Ready them well, we march to battle immediately. Let's route the savages, and Gria Mias get a hearty stew ready, our bellies will need a reward for the hard work you're unable to complete."

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