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Ordesky’s nervous hands prised enough of the board away from the glassless window for him to catch a cowardly glimpse outside. A baleful moon, large and low, pondered above the rooftops of Never and the very air of the night steamed with the cold of winter. Old dirty snow covered the cityscape, mirroring the icy patina of the moon so that everything looked grey and silver and cruel.
Of people he saw none and he felt truly relieved and yet sad. He struck an arm through the opening and made a sound. Nothing too brave, just a whimper loud enough to attract immediate attention but nothing and no one came to investigate. Not even a hungry city fox. “Must be safe,” he muttered and quickly retracted his arm.
The hard snow outside Ordesky’s window was crisscrossed with footprints as two nights ago men had gathered outside. They had wanted him for they’d called his name to the dark but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared. They’d laughed and joked and spat when their moods turned to frustration. They could’ve forced the door down but they weren’t sure if he was inside and the old building was a warren of dark rooms. It was haunted too, so the stories told. Ordesky wasn’t scared of ghosts for he’d perpetrated most of those stories, but he was scared of flesh and blood and cold steel.
For two weeks he had been holed up inside the derelict factory. A better man would’ve summoned the courage to leave by now, but Ordesky was a coward. Some point soon he knew his hunger would overcome his fear and he would, like a rabbit, pop a head outside his burrow, but not yet. He wasn’t mad enough with hunger to risk sticking his head out just yet. So he put an eye back to the window and, again, saw nothing but the night.
It was too quiet. Never was calculatingly quiet at times, when schemes and ruses were being thrashed out, but the stillness of the recent nights troubled Ordesky for it was unnatural for a city to be so calm. Had everyone died? Slipped away one night when Ordesky had been rocking himself to sleep in the vaults of the old factory.
He should be brave and take a step outside. He should go before he starved to death and became one of the ghosts he purported to haunt the derelict building. But he wasn’t quite brave enough, and he slunk back from the window when he recalled the Turned.
Where they’d come from Ordesky didn’t know but his life had been changed with their advent. First the King had died and then the Turned had appeared in the city. Not long after that large men with broken teeth came looking for him and his name was bandied around every spit and sawdust tavern and street corner. It quickly became too dangerous to be Ordesky so he’d headed towards the old factory to hide in its labyrinthine darkness and slammed the door shut hard when he got there. Separated from the real world he soon lost all sense of time. Long minutes turned into hours, hours into days. To the hiding Ordesky Never streets seemed preternaturally quiet. This unsettled him more than the knowledge that bad men were looking for him. A quiet Never was unheard of. What was going on?
Most cities arose from commerce. High stone walls and portcullis gates were erected to protect traders from bandit attacks. A blossoming economy encouraged more commerce which in turn necessitated higher walls and stronger gates and so a city evolved, grew larger. Never was different to other cities as it was built from a defensive perspective rather than a commercial one. It was commonly referred to as the last bastion of civilisation before the wild northern lands. It was built to kill northern men, to keep them out. Ordesky had never seen a northern man, even from atop the high walls of the city facing the purported frozen sea. He dwelt in the belly of the city, in its shadows. He lived in the forgotten parts obfuscating the law and any other unwanted attention. He frequented the derelict buildings such as the now defunct factory where the armaments for the city had once been made. Back when it had to posture more to keep the barbarians away, had more of a military presence. But Never had been free from outside dangers for decades, unlike Ordesky. Tonight Ordesky was a marked man.
What the thugs wanted with him he couldn’t guess. He was a fence, sold stolen goods on and so he wasn’t tempered to be rough. He couldn’t look after himself.
But he had to brave the outside soon or he would starve to death. He had to leave tonight.
Ordesky had used parts of the old factory as refuge before so he was familiar with its crumbling walls and dank passageways. Its network of cell sized rooms that reeked of ammonia. Its lofty, echoing darkness that interlocked the warren of rooms together.
He navigated the ruins with a deftness a stranger to the factory would find fatal and the sound of his footfalls passing through the empty rooms had a haunting familiarity to them. No doubt born from the fact that for days he had heard nothing else.
“I’ve got to leave,” he muttered. “I’ve got to find food and I’ve got to find him.”
Once outside he would take the back ways to the Old Quarter of the city. He had some friends there, friends who had muscle and who could protect him.
He ducked through a hole in a wall and was directly in the lobby of the old building.
It was a wide space and, where slithers of moonlight stabbed through the cracks in the main doorway, the cool walls of the hall glistened with silvery fire.
It was an enchanting sight to behold and he let out an audible gasp but then he thought he heard something behind him and he turned sharply. Rats, that’s what it was. Big black rats the size of cats. The old factory was plagued with them. A dull pain across his guts and he put a hand over his belly. “I’m hungry,” he said to himself. He had been doing a lot of that these past two weeks, talking to himself. But he’d got himself really scared all over again and now he doubted whether he had it in him to escape tonight at all. If it weren’t tonight then he never would leave the factory. His strength was waning fast and with every missed meal he was getting weaker. “I’ve got to leave,” he said again, reinforcing his will.
There were four heavy bars locking the double door fast and Ordesky struggled to move each in turn. What made the labour harder was the cold had frozen several of the bars in position. He hit at them with his hands and shoulders until one after the other finally gave and fell heavily to the ground with an echoing bang.
“I’m so hungry,” he whimpered, tugging hard at a door and slowly it groaned open.
“Hello Ordesky the Mouse,” said a thug, slapping a foot in to stop the door from falling shut. Others appeared, forcing both doors open with their broad shoulders and cudgels the shape of willow trees.
“Nice place this,” two men hoisted him up and carried him back inside the hallway. The doors were temporarily shut to bar unwelcome attention. A snap of a finger and a firebrand was brought close to Ordesky’s face. “We’ve waited a long time for this moment. Lesser men would’ve given up by now but I know you, Ordesky the Mouse. I know you well.”
“What do you want?” Ordesky didn’t object to the name-calling. A man of limited valour got used to such persecution. “I haven’t stolen anything.”
“You’ve stolen plenty but that’s not why we’re here.” The lead thug took an exaggerated look around. “I understand the armaments for Never are made elsewhere these days. Shame to let such a place go to ruin. But Ordesky’s claimed rights to it, ain’t he?”
“There’s nothing here, I swear it,” Ordesky spluttered.
“Oh, I know that. You ain’t got the intelligence to nick something worthwhile. Besides, you ain’t been outside for two weeks.” The thug leered closer. “Lost a lot of weight ain’t ya.”
“I saw Turned.”
“Turned,” the thug laughed and his cronies joined in too. They had about four teeth between the lot of them, Ordesky counted them. Panic could centre the mind like that; make it focus on insignificant details.
“They were gone an hour after they turned up. Poor old Ordesky the Mouse, he ran and hid when there was no occasion to. No, the Turned took what they wanted and were gone, or rather didn’t find what they wanted. That’s why we’re here.”
Ordesky squirmed, “I haven’t got anything.”
“We know that,” the thug drew a slap across the top of Ordesky’s head. “Shut up talking and listen. A lot’s happened since you've been cooped up in here like some woman too afraid of her own shadow. A friend of yours has gone walkabout with something my boss has a keen interest in. Trouble is we don’t know where your friend’s gone. You begin to understand our dilemma?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Come on Ordesky, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Maver Kane thinks you do. Maver Kane owns Never now and your master, Flendin the Blade, had better not be coming back from wherever he’s gone or there’s gonna be trouble. Now you be nice and come quietly and I’ll control my instincts to cut your liver out. The sooner we’re far from this creepy place the better I’ll be feeling. It’s haunted here, or didn’t you know that. Lads, help our guest to walk, he seems to have fainted.”
––––––––
The moon was big and low. It rested above the hilltop Hunger stood upon and, as a tiny figure against a glowing starry background; he reached out a hand to touch it. Its proximity was an illusion but he still had to try. It was so beautiful and so ethereal. Suspended in the sky like the omnipotent eye of a god, never blinking as it scoured the night. But scoured for what? The Tracker pulled his hand back and almost wistfully set about his task. He was three miles out of Bush. Having travelled all day and for most of the night he had covered a measly three miles. Hunger was slow moving but relentless and set off again to find the woman. His brief dally with the moon wouldn’t save her. Thump, the ground rumbled with the weight of his footfalls and everything within a one-mile radius of him shook.
Hat, given a life of its own, span vigilantly around on his head. Its rim ruffled up one end so that, conceivably, there could be an eye nestled underneath peering out. It seemed that, just like the moon, it was scouring for something too.
There was a shack up the other side of the hill, half hidden by some old trees and the dark of the night. Hat spied a feeble smoke oozing from the chimney and a pale light shone in the window. Hat pulled tight across the crown of Hunger’s head.
“Stop that, I see it too,” said the Tracker. “She took the meat there, into the hovel.” They had been following the woman since leaving Bush. Wherever the Golem went people avoided him, gravitated away from him like a starburst of matter escaping a dangerous and all-consuming nucleus only, invariably, some were captured, drawn into his destructive path. Others, like with this woman, were singled out and hunted for she had meat and he’d seen it.
There’d been many people on the road out of Bush and they had all run away from him. This woman thought she had eluded him and his hat but she was wrong. He was a Tracker and therefore always found his quarry and the woman was doomed.
“This is the one. This is the hovel.” The shack shook visibly with his approach. The branches of the nearby trees juddered together, rustling a warning. A female face came to the window then hurried to draw the bolt fast across the door.
“Stop her,” said Hunger and Hat leapt off of his head.
It spun towards the door, shattering the wood as it powered through it.
A barrage of slow, powerful steps and the Tracker was inside too. The woman was wailing, stepping back from Hat as it approached her menacingly. Hunger should call it to heel but he knew that it wouldn’t hurt her, not without his command.
There was a bundle by the fire, unremarkable save for the life force Hunger could sense emanating from it. It was a child wrapped up in blankets. Hunger moved towards it and the dirt floor concaved with his gigantic weight. “Be the meat,” Hunger uttered excitedly, struggling to move forward in the loose earth. Bits of the shack fell down around him as he thrashed about but he persevered, throwing parts of the crumbling house off as it came crashing down around him. “Be the boy,” he guttered and fervently he reached out with excitedly flinching hands.
He liked imperfection, liked to build upon it. He reached out, grabbing the child by its covers and rolled it towards him. It had been quiet but now he held it, it started screaming. It was a boy, around seven years old. Hunger pulled the blankets away revealing that the boy had no legs.
“Please,” whimpered the woman. Hat had her backed against a wall. Whenever she tried to move Hat mirrored her, blocking her in. “Please not my son. Leave him alone.”
Hunger brought his staid motionless face close to the boys and, with an unmoving mouth said, “You’re beautiful, you’re perfect.”
“Please don’t hurt him.”
“Kill the mother.”
Hat stiffened at the order. It sliced its razor brim across the mother’s legs and as she toppled over Hat snapped down fast to smother her. Whatever constituted teeth or lived inside Hat gorged upon the mother and soon dark blood pooled out from beneath the rim.
Holding the cripple excited Hunger and he couldn’t wait to consume the child’s soul.
Those many hundreds already trapped inside his hollow body became agitated at the advent of more death and in objection they jittered around, banging and clanging and wailing. Each time a soul careered into the ceramic sides of the Tracker a delicate chime peeled, just discernible if not for the screaming boy and the gorging sounds of Hat. Finally the Tracker found the pain of his hunger maddening and he yelled at Hat to take the mother outside to finish her. “The sound of you slaking is like a point of pain in my head,” he ranted.
Red wet bits of the mother were trailed from beneath Hat as it slinked off.
“Mama,” the boy screeched after his dead mother and Hunger, near breathless with excitement, clutched him hard to his chest. “First I have to kill your previous life, your memories,” he said, sinking three fingers into the boy’s head and the child gasped and turned rigid. There had been a light in the child’s eyes that, even as the Golem watched, faded and died.
Hunger retracted his fingers and brain and corpuscle gloop dripped from the digits. He put one hand on the lower jaw, the other on the upper and ripped the top half of the skull free. Leech-like veins and warm blood erupted from the vicious wound and the Tracker laughed as it splattered across him.
“I see your soul reaching up for heaven but I breathe it in and it is a part of me now.”
Hunger made the Turned. He took the dead and filled them with diabolic magic. Turned them from inert meat into grotesque killers, black and twisted of spirit. The wise wore charms to counter them whereas fools invoked them thinking to control yet the Turned, like their master, were inherently evil and autonomous.
Turned are the shadow at the foot of the bed, the screech in a moonlit wood, the palpitation that quickens the heart to bursting. They are the instigators of the shiver that passes down your spine on a lonely walk down some god’s forsaken alleyway.
They are the nightmare creatures that haunt the old places of the world and Hunger had no understanding of how many souls he had stolen, or just how many Turned he had created. Some were almost as old as he whilst others hadn’t lasted long for they were despised and feared the world over. Brave men set about killing them whilst cowards hid from them and over time most had been destroyed. But now Hunger was making them again and he was calling the old ones out from wherever they had gone to hide: deep in the bowels of mountains, the dark hearts of forests and at the bottom of murky black lakes. Many of these were still faithful despite years of solitude and neglect and he had hunted down and killed those that were rogue; those made insane by the cruel years of isolation. A few survived, scattered, lost, but their number was insignificant.
“I’ve sent a Turned to Claw and more to Black Pots and you, my beautiful young cripple, you’ll go to Never. You’ll be my voice there.” Hunger tossed the child over in his large hands and patted the dead boy like he was a fond nephew. Now the cripple boy was dead Hunger could set about turning him. “Don’t fret my sweet, I’ll be kinder than life ever was to you. I’ll give you legs. Lots of legs.”
––––––––
I lost that bet I’d had with myself as, upon entering the stable, the ox looked up at me. A big heap of smells and scruffiness moved to the side of it.
“Good sleep?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Smidgen pulling straw from his hair. He looked fatter this morning. I shot a look towards the back of the stables again. Yep, the ox was still there. Regardless of how many times I checked it remained there and not inside my companions stomach. Still, he definitely seemed fatter.
“I should’ve brought some food out to you last night.” I felt a tinge of guilt for forgetting him, fatter or not.
“That’s okay,” he huffed back and pulled a yawn so wide I could have sworn I saw hooves at the back of his throat.
“I see the ox is still here.
“Of course,” he sighed wearily and slapped his lips together.
And then it dawned on me. “The horses, the good sable and white ones. Handsome looking beasts I’d an eye on. Where are they?” He didn’t have to answer for their fate was all too obvious. “I wanted one of them,” I moaned. “I can’t believe you. I’d have thought you could’ve gone at least one night without food. And what’s going to happen when the owner finds out? You know you ain’t too popular in Wallop’s and, let’s face it, you were the last person to see those stallions alive.”
“I only ate one of them,” he confessed meekly like a berated child. Then he smiled and his whole face wrinkled right up.
I shouldn’t be so hard on him. Him sleeping with those horses would have been the equivalent of me staying in a jewellers all night. We have all got strengths and weaknesses, every one of us.
“Why couldn’t you have eaten that?” I pointed at the ox, the dumb looking beast that it was.
Smidgen screwed his nose up. “Looked tough,” he confessed.
Well I’d never known him fussy about food before. It saddened me to think of that proud sable and white animal scrunched up in Smidgen’s guts. It had deserved an honourable death.
I turned a shifty eye towards the remaining one, reckoning that it would be mine soon, if Smidgen could control his urges and not eat it.
The once white coat of Wallop’s passed between the slats of the stable and I knew that he was outside listening.
Sneaky eavesdropping bastard, I should grab a hold of him and shake him until he apologised to Smidgen for his intolerant convictions. Little men with little closed minds. I fought the temptation to drag the landlord in by his ears and gestured to Smidgen to keep quiet.
I stole a sly look outside the stable door but couldn’t see much, just the back of the inn. If Wallop was still out there he must have been to the side of the building just where I couldn’t look. He would be planning something for sure. No doubt running off to fetch the Sheriff’s men.
“We’ve got to think fast,” I said quietly. When Smidgen looked confused I thought I’d better explain. “Wallop’s scheming. He followed me down from my room this morning and I’ve just seen him outside. I doubt he normally shadows his guests so he suspects us of something. If you get mistaken for a Turned we might have one hell of a fight on our hands getting out of Claw.”
I guessed Smidgen was thinking of Bent when he said, “We can’t just leave.”
“Yes, we can. I want a new coat so we’ll go out and grab one. This is no time for subtlety so we’ll hit anyone who gets in the way. As soon as I’ve got the coat we get back here, swap my nag for that sable and we get away from this place. If Bent’s not back then we go without him.” I wasn’t as tough as I made out. I didn’t want to leave Bent but this place was really starting to feel different, to feel dangerous.
Smidgen started to argue. “It don’t seem right, Flendin. I think it’ll be cruel leaving him behind. No word, no explanation.”
“He’s a fully-grown man, Smidge’,” I couldn’t believe how soft Smidgen was. “He can take care of himself. If we leave without him he’ll understand. He of all people knows what we’re up against.”
“I just don’t like the thought of splitting up. I think we should wait.”
I’d moaned a lot about Bent yesterday. His was a hard character to get a hook into, to get attached to. Above all things it was his distance that annoyed me the most. His tacit nature. The way he always had his face and head covered. Hell, just about everything about him got to me. But the main thing, the big reason was that he scared me. A lot. “We can’t wait forever, Smidge’. Not one of us signed an oath. This little alliance of ours is as fragile as glass.”
“I know. I know.”
“So, if we wait, how long do we give him?” I landed the problem squarely at Smidgen’s feet. I stroked at my beard. It was getting bushy. I’m not sure it suited me but I liked scratching it. The best thing about having a beard was scratching the damn thing.
Smidgen knew that we couldn’t wait indefinitely, but he was torn. That much was plain to read in his fat ugly face. That dumb ox moved across to Smidgen and he patted it.
Shame he hadn’t shown that horse I wanted the same level of consideration.
“We should take a wander down the streets,” he said. “There may be news of him. Slim chance but you never know.”
Smidgen was right. It would also be better than sitting in the stables thinking about all the things that could’ve happened to Bent. I sensed that with enough time the locals could summon up their courage and confront us. I would rather be out and manoeuvrable if that happened and not cornered in the stables with absolutely no room for escape. “Right, we’ll do that then. And we get that coat I like too. Pick up your mace,” I said to him as I moved towards the door. “Remember you ain’t too popular with the locals.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Neither do I,” I lied.
––––––––
Was it my imagination or were we less liked today than we’d been yesterday? The people of Claw moved in packs, like dogs, eyeing us beneath sinister brows and pulled down caps. No sooner had one mob formed ahead of us than another did likewise behind. Some were trying to flank us too by coming over from the side.
I thought I spied the semi-white of Wallop’s coat somewhere in the mix of bodies and I hoped that I’d get to hit him before we left the town for good. Bloody do-gooders. “We’re definitely not liked today,” I said through gritted teeth. If Claw wanted a fight then I was in the right mood for one.
“Do you think this has something to do with Bent?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. That it was to do with him and the way he looked. “No,” I said, “I can’t see how. Unless he’s done something real bad and we’re guilty by association. You did bring your mace, right?”
“Yes.”
“Get it out then.”
Four men jumped down from a suspiciously inert wagon and landed in front of us. They had black teeth, blistered skin and each held an old hand-axe. On each of their tabards was drawn a crude image of a claw. These would be the Sheriff’s men, or crooks he had hired to do the dirty work. Smidgen brought his mace sidelong into one man’s head, sending him whirling into shop-fronts clear across the other side of the street. The remaining three backed off. No one could hit as hard as Smidgen, no one. That man would be dead, sure enough, but he had obviously shit for brains if he thought he could intimidate us. I pulled my sword out from my back-scabbard; cut it through the air a couple of times as a warning, indicating to the stupid that I too could fight. Smidgen roared; it hurt his throat every time he did it but it was an effective deterrent and the space around us doubled in an instant.
But then something roared back.
“What the...” I managed to say before Smidgen loomed close to smother me. In that instant something struck him hard, forcing him back a step or two and he let out a wheeze. Whatever was attacking us had hurt him and Smidgen didn’t hurt easily. I fought myself free of his protecting arms to catch a look at our assailant.
In a moment of confusion three of the Sheriff’s men thought to challenge us but Smidgen was too quick. That giant mouth of his drooped open, he turned, scooped them up and swallowed them down hard. Then came that roar again and I saw it, the creature, standing the other side of the street from us. People were panicking, running any and every way. If they thought Smidgen and I were the reason for their misery then they were wrong as this thing was killing any who got too close to it.
It was a Turned and its name was Silhed. It looked human but the things body was filled with a gas it could vent from one part of its anatomy to another. As I stood and watched, Silhed’s chest deflated as it directed gas into a fist rapidly taking on the proportions of a house. It came swinging towards us and, for the second time that morning, Smidgen took the brunt of the hit.
Thanks to Smidgen I rolled clear but I heard a terrible crack as he took the full force of the punch and was sent slamming back through the row of shops.
Gas moved to Silhed’s head, which puffed up like a bladder. Buoyed by its inflated cranium, it left the ground and floated up to rest on a rooftop. It was out of my sight now though I could hear it trampling on the roof tiles above us. Smidgen stirred and I took comfort that he wasn’t seriously hurt and I hurried over to dig him out.
Claw residents, those with sense remaining in this new adversity, started a small fire with which to light torches.
“They mean to burn us all,” said Smidgen, rising from the detritus of the shop front with the aplomb of a rock. Sure enough darts of orange, red and black zipped past our heads and into the wrecked shop. Immediately a thick smoke built up around us and I pulled at Smidgen meaning for him to break into a run.
We tore off down the centre of the street ramming people too slow to get out of our way. A roar from somewhere behind us and Silhed, lost in all the smoke, glided down from the rooftop to give chase. Vented gases from its swollen head surged to its legs and as they became bigger so it ran faster. It was upon us in a heartbeat, wrenching Smidgen away from me with a hand smaller than a child’s and I saw Smidgen fall away.
I lashed out with my sword, slicing Silhed open across the face, chest and stomach. Gas gushed from the wounds I’d dealt it, not blood, and I hoped a flaming arrow would find him in all the confusion. One didn’t, but Smidgen reared back up and swung his mace with both hands.
It was a powerful strike. Displaced air washed over me and when I looked next Silhed was gone, sent whirling back up the street. The moment the Turned hit the burning shops it exploded, destroying the rows of buildings either side of the road and many more besides.
It rained wood and mud and worse and in the confusion Smidgen and me hurried back to the stables. It was time to leave Claw.
The explosion had a far bigger radius than we could ever have imagined. Right at the other end of town and Wallop’s was leaning at a peculiar angle to the ground. Around the back of the hostelry and half the stable roof had collapsed killing that sable and white horse I’d a mind to stealing. Our two nags, ugly beasts that they were, were fine as was that ox.
We saddled up as fast as our fingers would work. Both of us were streaked in blood and half blinded with soot and personally I was scared to death. My heart raced in my chest and I just wanted to sit and catch my breath but it wouldn’t take long for the locals, those that had survived the Turned and the explosion, to come looking for us. And they’d be angry, so we worked quickly. Next time, I said to myself, get the saddles fixed on before we go causing trouble down the town.
“Come on Smidgen. Hurry up will you.”
“What about Bent?”
I’d been dreading that question coming from Smidgen. In truth I didn’t know the answer. We had to leave Claw. It wasn’t just the locals that were the problem. Where there was one Turned there could easily be another. So we were to leave Claw and go where? Black Pots? I had to get there but a thousand doubts and fears were beginning to form in my mind. Turned, there had to be Turned in Black Pots. It was such an obvious strategy to put some there. Besides, hadn't that old man, thieving git that he was, hadn’t he said 'Pots was full of them? But I’d never know for sure unless I went there.
“He’ll follow if he can,” I said.
The moment we left the stables the doors folded in upon themselves and collapsed. The sky above Claw was thick with a dark smoke so Smidgen and I left unnoticed.
“I can’t believe it. No new horse and no new coat,” I moaned whilst behind us Claw continued to burn. It should be easy for Bent to follow us, the amount of carnage we left behind.