Steven Erikson - The Wurms of Blearmouth

Slipgit laughed, earning a glare from Whuffine, who was struggling to hold onto his smile.

The tall man cleared his throat, and then spoke in passable High Elin. “Well then, let us leave the man to his task, since I doubt our dead comrades will mind. Alas, as we are hale, there will be no throat-slitting just yet.”

“The villagers won’t be any better,” the other man then said, eyeing Spilgit and Felittle.

“Do not be so quick to judge us,” Spilgit said, stepping forward. “Until recently, I was the appointed Factor of the Forgotten Holding, and as such the official representative of the Enclave.”

The sailor raised his brows at that, and then grinned. “A damned tax collector? Surprised they ain’t hanged you yet.”

Whuffine saw Spilgit blanch, but before he could say anything, the Comber cleared his throat and said, “The lord is resident in his keep, good sirs.” Then, shifting his attention to the taller man, he added, “And he will be delighted to make your acquaintance, seeing as you’re highborn and all.”

“Is there an inn?” the sailor asked, and Whuffine noted how the man shivered in his sodden clothes.

“Allow us to escort you there,” Spilgit said. “This young woman with me is the daughter of the innkeeper.”

“Most civilized of you, Factor,” said the highborn man. “As you can see, my manservant is suffering in this weather.”

“A warm fire and a hearty meal will do him wonders, I’m sure,” said Spilgit. “Yet you, sir, appear to be both dry and, well, proof against this bitter wind.”

“Very perceptive of you,” the man murmured in reply, glancing about as if distracted. A moment later he shrugged and gestured towards the trail. “Lead on, Factor.” Then he paused and looked to his manservant. “Mister Reese, if you would, draw your sword and ware our backs, lest this Malazan cavalry officer falter in his wisdom, and do note the knife he hides in his right hand, will you?”

Scowling, Whuffine stepped back, sheathing his knife. “The blade’s for swollen fingers, that’s all. In fact, I’ll be on my way then, and leave you in the hands of Spilgit and Felittle.” And he hurried down the beach. He didn’t like the look of that highborn or the way the manservant was now handling that shortsword with unpleasant ease, and all things told, Whuffine was glad to be rid of them.

Coming down to the wrack, eyes scanning the corpses, he paused upon seeing the ragged bites taken out of most of them. He’d seen the work of sharks, but that was nothing like what he looked upon now. Despite his sheepskin and fox-furs, Whuffine shivered. Glancing back, he saw Spilgit and Felittle leading the strangers up the trail. Could be a bit of trouble washed up here today, eh? Well, I doubt Fangatooth and his golems will have anything to worry about. Still … He eyed the nearest, chewed-up corpse. Some of those bites looked human.

The crabs were marching up from the sea in scuttling rows, and through the moaning wind he could hear their happy, eager clicking.

I’ll set out the traps once they’ve fattened up some.

Hordilo Stinq felt Ackle the Risen’s dead eyes tracking him as, bucket of whale grease in one hand, he walked up the street opposite the King’s Heel. Most strangers did the proper thing and died after being hung, but not Ackle. If Hordilo was a superstitious man, why, he might think there was something odd about that man.

But he had more practical concerns to deal with right now. Adjusting his sword belt with one hand while tightening his grip on the iron handle of the wooden bucket, and doing his best to ignore how the icy wind stole all feeling from his fingers, he set out up the street. The ground was frozen hard, the edges of the wheel ruts slippery and treacherous, the puddles filling those ruts frozen solid. For all of that, Grimled’s progress was mapped out before him in cracked impressions, the golem’s iron boots leaving dents already leaking turgid water that pretty much froze as soon as it bled out. His gaze tracked them up to the front street’s end, where the footprints turned right and disappeared behind Blecker’s Livery.

Hordilo continued on. Those damned golems unnerved him. Ackle was right in that one thing, Hood take him. Offering up a nod and maybe a muttered greeting as one trudged past wasn’t what anyone in their right mind could call a friendship. But they were Lord Fangatooth’s creations, stamp-stamp-stamping his authority on Spendrugle and everyone calling it home, and if any acts of kindness on Hordilo’s part, no matter how modest, could alight the glint of sympathy in such abominations, well, he had to try, didn’t he? Besides, the few times there’d been trouble with some stranger, one of them would show up to sort things out right quick, and that had saved Hordilo’s skin more than once.

So in a way he owed them, didn’t he? And if it wasn’t in a walking lump of iron to feel anything about anyone, Hordilo was flesh and blood, with genuine feelings and even a heart that could break if, say, some hag of a wife he’d once loved went and did the nasty on him, and not just one animal, either, but all kinds of animals, and then told him about it with shining eyes and that soul-cutting half-smile that said she liked what her words were doing to him and besides, Ribble had been his dog, dammit! If something like that had ever happened to him, which of course it hadn’t, why, his heart might break, or at least start leaking. Because a man without feelings was no better than a … well, a golem.

Reaching Blecker’s Livery, he paused for a moment to utter a soft prayer to the memory of old Blecker, since remorse always came afterwards and never went away, when the fury of knowing that Blecker knew everything with his nickering stallion and all, well, that faded after a time, and that ex-wife he didn’t have was a seductive woman when she wanted to be, not that Ribble cared much either way, with his endless panting and witless but knowing eyes, but Blecker himself had seen plenty, hadn’t he, with his damned menagerie and all. But whisper a prayer anyway, because Hordilo knew that that was what a decent man did, but not much of a prayer, since Blecker had never known a thing about decency and nobody had complained much when he swung from the gibbet, except when they saw Hurta riding off on that stallion with Ribble chasing after them, none of them ever to be seen again-oh, there was plenty of disappointment about that, wasn’t there? That said, Feloovil had cleared his tab at the Heel and spotted him free drinks for a whole week afterwards, which was peculiarly generous of her. This was the kind of mess having a wife would have given him, and was it any wonder he was having none of that?

Rounding the livery, Hordilo halted in his tracks. Twenty paces away, Grimled was lying motionless on its back. A large black-cloaked man was kneeling beside it, his hands deep in the golem’s chest. Strange fluids were spraying out past the man’s forearms. A few paces beyond them lay two bloated corpses.

“Hey!” Hordilo shouted.

But the man ripping pieces out from Grimled’s chest didn’t look up.

Hordilo set down the bucket and then drew his sword. “Hey!” he yelled again, advancing. “What have you done to Grimled? You can’t do that! Step away from him! By the lord’s command, step away!”

At last, the stranger looked up, blinking owlishly at Hordilo.

Something in the man’s piggy eyes made Hordilo slow down and then stagger to a halt. He lifted the sword threateningly, but the blade wavered in his numbed grip. “The lord of Wurms Keep will see you hang for this! You’re under arrest!”

The stranger withdrew his hands from Grimled’s chest. They were black and dripping. “I was trying to fix it,” he said in a high, piping voice.