Part I - A Killer is Born
‘Grieve not that I die young. For I am ancient
After a life-long affinity with despair.’
- Gerhard Schneider, Poet. Bergsburg (1699-1717)
“Thieving little shit!”
The boy weaved through the sweating, market throng, his ragged clothes whipping furiously in the maelstrom of his passage. He flinched suddenly as an apple flew past his head at considerable speed, his elation at having evaded the missile swiftly turning to sympathy for the unfortunate woman in his path, as she caught the ripe fruit full in the face. He snatched a glimpse of her falling back - arms spread wide - a look of uncomprehending shock on her bruised countenance, then he was past her and running. A large hand shot out from the crowd, intent upon snaring him. But the boy twisted away with acrobatic dexterity and leapt onto a barrel - bounding off again before his weight had even settled on the rotten wood.
Without reducing his breakneck speed, Hanz grasped a wooden scaffolding pole and swung himself onto the tarpaulin roof of a bemused oil seller’s stall. Beneath him the huge, pursuing trader flew through the air aiming desperately for his legs - found thin air - then smashed into the stall, sending tins of oil crashing over the cobbled roadway.
Safe for the moment, Hanz paused for breath and offered the enthralled spectators an ironic grin.
To his left a large, ornate tower, topped with a four-faced clock, dominated the skyline, casting a long shadow across the heavily populated square. The market was enclosed by rows of looming, gothic buildings, from which a multitude of packed washing lines gave the impression of some grubby, half-hearted celebration.
A strange fusion of laughter and curses followed the boy, as he shimmied skilfully up a drainpipe and disappeared onto the roof of a crumbling block of buildings high above the market square. He squinted involuntarily as he burst from the cool shadows into the glaring, late afternoon sun.
Charging over the rooftops he felt, rather than heard, the clatter of arrowheads striking the slates in his wake.
That’s a bit over the top - he thought, as he quickened his pace.
A sequence of co-ordinated whistle blasts suddenly filled the air, and the boy knew that the Watch had taken up the pursuit.
Not that way then, Hanz - he skidded, stopped, and then slipped painfully on a set of broken roof slates.
Breathing smoothly, in an attempt to reduce his racing heartbeat, the boy licked at the perspiration glistening above his top lip; listened briefly to the whistle blasts emanating from the streets below; and then grinned to himself as he deciphered their meaning.
Buggers think they’ve got me eh - He bolted suddenly in a new direction, his eyes remaining fixed on the roof ahead, while his brain analysed patches of slate and debris; every cracked tile could mean his death; each loose slate could mean capture. All this was done at horrific speed, a short lifetime of necessity imparting a skill so seemingly effortless as to appear instinctive.
He increased speed fractionally as he approached the rooftop’s edge, and then leapt into nothingness, his small figure silhouetted momentarily in the blazing sun. A panoramic view of the street below flashed across his vision - the rush of wind distorted the shout from a startled Watchman - a flash of colour from the tarpaulin awnings below him, and then he slammed onto a balcony on the top floor of the opposite block of buildings.
Ignoring the bone-jarring shock of his landing he leapt for the gutter above his head and swung himself onto the roof. A final sprint now, he knew, one last dash before his lungs burst, and he was free.
The Watch, never considering his mad leap possible, had sealed off the last block of buildings and would have no time to relocate. He forced his thin, aching legs into a sprint and sped across the rooftops, the sounds of pursuit growing fainter as he progressed.
As the immediate danger subsided, so his adrenaline ran down, and he felt the first stab of pain from his torn feet.
I must steal some shoes this summer!
Following a much-rehearsed route along the rooftops, he eventually reached a cracked row of guttering on the far side of the block. Lowering himself gingerly over the edge, now incongruously aware of the long drop, he climbed slowly down into the cool, gloom of Splinter Alley. With a backward glance and a broad grin of triumph he dropped nimbly to the street; and sauntered away tossing a shiny red apple into the air and catching it as he disappeared into the perilous ‘safety’ of Helmsberg.
The boy was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, whipcord thin, and as filthy as a rat. His knotted sandy hair swept down over his face, obscuring startling green eyes, and strong, angular features. Layers of grime concealed a deeply tanned complexion, and almost masked the small scar twisting his top lip into a sneering aspect. The boy’s torn clothing revealed a lithe, muscular torso; the absence of even a trace of fat a testament to the desperate struggle for survival on the streets of Bergsburg.
He was soon deep in the gloomy alleyways of the poor quarter of the district, and he stuffed the apple, out of sight, into his worn pouch. Teeth marks on the faded pouch was evidence of a harsh, starving winter when he had clung to life only by sucking the paltry nutrition from its tanned leather.
A rotting, damp smell pervaded the narrow streets. The constant lack of direct sunlight had prevented the evaporation of liquid sewage for many years; and a foul, damp sludge had eroded the foundations in front of the buildings, causing a slight subsidence that made the streets loom claustrophobically over the alley, adding to the dismal feeling of crooked unreality that dominated the slums.
He stopped about halfway down a filth-strewn alley, and dropped to one knee, pretending to check his foot for splinters. A swift glance around satisfied him that he was alone; then he was up in a flash, and through an obscured, narrow hole in the wall to his left.
Tumbling into a large, derelict room, he rolled forward and landed in a crouch, like a feral animal alert for signs of danger. The air inside smelt musty and rank, although the floor and walls had been swept clear of debris, indicating an obvious effort to make the space habitable. A pile of tattered blankets filled one corner and a single shard of light, from the broken roof, illuminated a gaggle of small, filthy children who were huddled together, peering anxiously at the intruder, as he burst into their midst.
Hanz stood up and smiled in greeting as he walked towards the group, stepping carefully over a splintered beam that lay at an acute angle from the ceiling to floor. A battered, wooden bucket stood in the shade, the feeble light adding a kind of gloss to the water slowly stagnating inside it.
The children shuffled forward to greet him. He playfully cuffed one of the boys, who had sneakily tried picking his pouch. Reaching quickly down he scooped up a small bundle of rags that giggled happily as he gently raked the ribs of the small girl inside. Then, ignoring the questions and small, tugging hands, he pulled away and ladled a large mouthful of water from the black-tarred bucket.
Having sated his thirst with the tepid fluid, he turned again to the group of children.
“How is she?” His voice was eerily resonant in the spacious room.
A girl of perhaps fourteen summers rose from the shadows and stepped forward to meet him. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied with a dirty yellow ribbon. The unhealthy pallor of her skin oddly matched the faded material, and her eyes were tired: bloodshot.
Hanz felt sick with fear as he looked at her - she’s looking weaker every day.
“She’s asleep now, Hanz,” the girl’s voice betrayed her exhaustion, “It was another bad night though…I don’t know.”
“Did you get anything, Hanz?”
Hanz turned to the enquirer and grinned; a small boy, somehow grubbier than the filthy faces around him, was staring eagerly at the bulging pouch, his small tongue licking hopefully at cracked lips.
“I did Orf…but not much,” he produced the apple with an apologetic glance at the older girl, “you’ve got the knife Greta, share this out…I’m not hungry.”
Greta snatched the apple, “You’ll have some Hanz. What will we do if our hunter starves? Now, don’t be so bloody stupid!” A thin smile belied her angry tone, and he nodded once with sheepish acquiescence.
Leaving the girl to organise their modest meal, he crept towards the largest bundle of blankets.
His face assumed a concerned expression as he gently felt the forehead of a tiny girl huddled in the gloom. The small and frail figure moaned softly; so he withdrew his hand, wiping the thick sweat from his fingers as he did so. The girl’s skin had an unhealthy, waxen quality that he had seen too many times before, and he felt his stomach rise to his throat as he scrutinised her decrepit countenance. Her porcelain features were etched with torment, and the constant streams of sweat had cleansed her face of the grime so evident on the faces of her peers.
Oh Julia, you’ve fought so hard little girl…so very hard.
Greta, who offered him a segment of the apple and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, joined him at the girl’s side, “She has spirit Hanz… more than most.”
“I know.” He forced a smile he did not feel, took the small piece of fruit, and moved away.
Hanz hated others seeing him eat; the legacy of a lifetime spent concealing food.
As he walked away from the children, the sound of them hungrily gnawing at their portions of the apple filled him with an intense sadness and rage.
He settled on the opposite side of the room; his back felt cool against the rough, brick wall, and he popped the small segment into his mouth, savouring the rich juice that caused an almost alcoholic giddiness with its intoxicating flavour.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a life without hunger or deprivation. He was getting bigger, he knew. His slight frame was still stunted from malnutrition, but he was strong and fit. The local juvenile gangs had long since ceased harassing the boy; even much of the adult criminal element treated him with wary respect.
He opened his eyes and stared at the shadowy, thin frame of his friend, Greta. He marvelled, as always, at the sharp, almost aristocratic lines of her face. A lifetime of desperate hunger had eroded much of the dormant beauty and elegance in her physical appearance. Although, her gentle ministrations to the small children huddled round her, indicated a sweet humour and comeliness that belied her impoverished exterior.
She had, so far, contrived to restrain the tempestuous anger in his soul; always counselling against the more desperate methods of survival that, he thought, were necessary in their grim, dangerous lives.
The underworld in Helmsberg lived by strict and deadly rules; an aptitude for swift violence was rewarded with grudging respect; weakness was punished with pain and death. The streets offered no compassion, leaving the frail to die in the gutter and the moderately stronger to pick at their bones.
He had already been approached by a few of the local prospectors, but if he joined the dubious safety of their ranks who would be left to look after Greta and the small group of stray children in their charge?
He remembered a whispered conversation with Greta one hungry night: she had vigorously preached against his desire to use more forceful means in procuring food; arguing that to steal food was one thing; taking food from those who had plenty was fair and just, but to take a life was to take something that you could never give back.
He clenched his fists - What of our lives? Greta lives in a fantasy world…a world in which the meek are rewarded, and good things come to those who wait.
It was nonsense - the meek are stamped on utterly, and if you waited long enough the only things that would come to you would be sickness, fever, and death. Enough!
He would go out tonight and take what they needed.
Greta turned suddenly and caught his gaze. The look of anger in his expression must have betrayed his thoughts because her face assumed a demeanour of such exquisite sadness that he was sure his heart must break. Thrusting his sorrow aside, he stood abruptly and stalked to the small hole in the wall, “I’ll be back later…keep the knife to hand.”
“Where is Hanz going, Greta?”
Hanz climbed through the hole and dropped silently back into the alley. He picked his way through the filth and walked purposefully away, through the twisting, narrow streets - alert, as always, for any hint of danger. He passed two cloaked men sat outside a hovel, and felt their scrutiny as they assessed, recognised, and then discarded him from their thoughts.
Last summer they would have thrashed me for the hell of it, he thought - bastards!
He walked for about twenty minutes, through the densely packed slums, then over the eerily desolate scrub of Helmsberg Hill.
The boy was subconsciously aware of the rapidly lengthening shadows; evening came early to Helmsberg with its deep and narrow streets. Back into the alleys - though out of the slums - he now perceived grim and silent men passing him in the shadows.
A fat, red-faced woman called out to him from a darkened doorway; she leered and raised her skirts, then cackled with laughter as he scurried on through the streets. Hanz approached a dogleg in the alley and noted the silent, watchful men stationed either side in the shadows. Raucous laughter and the sound of smashing pottery told him that he was near his destination.
As he turned the corner he flinched back to avoid a bloodstained figure spilling onto the street. A heavily scarred man followed, from a doorway to his right, and delivered the figure a sickening kick to the head. He skirted the incident and stepped through the doorway into a large, smoke filled hall.
The room’s high-beamed ceiling hung heavy with sweat and smoke, and he quickly scanned the occupants noting small groups of rough looking men and shabbily dressed women. A group of dwarfs were singing loudly in the centre of the room, swinging overflowing tankards of ale, and drunkenly embracing a cackling wench whose skirts had been pulled up to reveal filthy, white pantyhose and thin, scabby legs. The cavernous room had been furnished with battered tables and chairs, some of which were upturned, broken, and littered amongst the smashed pottery, spilt beer, and general detritus on the floor. There were perhaps sixty people in the bar and they all looked the type to happily smile into your eyes - as they slit your throat.
He stepped aside as a black-bearded giant of a man vomited on the floor next to him, and then clapped him on the shoulder with a watery-eyed, mumbled apology. He nodded and moved forward into the room, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
He spotted him in the corner; a thin dark-haired man whose huge moustache was waxed into severe points that protruded from either side of his face. The man met his scrutiny and nodded once, the thin smile of greeting not replicated in his cold, reptilian eyes. Hanz pushed through the throng and approached the dark man’s table, aware of the space surrounding the crime-lord’s vicinity in the packed room. The table seemed frail and expensive next to the battered appendages that otherwise furnished the bar. A huge leather bound ledger lay open in front of the man, and he closed it quickly as Hanz approached. The boy perceived a glare of annoyance from an evil looking, tattooed man also sat at the table; but he ignored the animosity and sat down on a stool, maintaining eye contact with the crime-lord as he did so.
“Hanz.” the man’s voice was cold and deep like grating glass, “It’s been a while…you’re still alive then?”
The question was rhetorical and the boy took a seat without answering.
“I’m surprised to see you here boy; I thought your young girlfriend didn’t approve.”
Hanz glanced at the tattooed man and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“He’s fine boy. What do you want?” The dark man managed to make the statement interrogatory while, at the same time, inflecting his voice with a complete lack of interest in any possible answer.
“I want to do a job Oscar…in Helmsberg.”
The man stared at Hanz for a few seconds, the force of his cold, appraising scrutiny causing the hair to rise on the boy’s neck.
“I see…do you have something in mind?”
Hanz shuffled forward, “I’ve been casing a house for a few days now; the rich bastard that lives there owns a few warehouses in Kaistrasse. I’ve seen him load a wagon with caskets each week, and then drive it down to Pottplatz, probably to deposit goods with the merchants there. His next trip is due tomorrow morning…I’d like to see what he hoards all week. His doors and windows are barred, but I’ve checked out the chimney; it's wide enough for me, and there’s been no smoke from it all summer.”
“What about security?”
“He has a guard; a mangy old sod with a rusty sword and a limp…no problem at all.”
Oscar sat back and looked thoughtful for a moment or two, then said, “I have two problems with this Hanz: firstly, if he has a warehouse in Kaistrasse, then he is almost certainly paying protection to the Hovenbachs. Secondly, and this follows on from the first, we need to be sure that he never gets the chance to squeal about this to the Hovenbachs. Last I heard Hanz, you were yet to kill a man; are you ready to do what must be done…to do this job right?”
Hanz stared steadily into the crime-lord’s eyes. He ignored the sudden image of Greta, appearing sorrowful and beseeching in his mind’s eye. “I am more than ready Oscar, I promise you that.”
The man’s icy gaze was suddenly distracted as a fight broke out at the bar. He watched dispassionately as a dwarf was bludgeoned unconscious by one of his drunken companions. When he looked again at Hanz he nodded slowly, “You’ll be needing a weapon I suppose?”
The young boy shook his head, indicating the affirmative.
Oscar snapped his fingers once and a large figure, previously almost unseen in the shadows behind him, stepped forward drawing a long knife from his belt. Taking the knife, the cold-eyed man offered it to Hanz, and as he reached to take it said, “Bring the booty and this blade back to me. I’ll give you a cut, and I’ll have another job for you in a few days. After this Hanz, there’ll be no going back…you’ll work for me…understand?”
“I understand,” Hanz did understand; if he took the knife then his life was no longer his own; he would belong to Oscar. He would become just another footpad in the petty crime-lord’s army of villains. But what other future did he have?
Greta had spent a winter teaching him his letters. What was the point in that? The only things he had read since were the tattered street names hammered onto posts in the city; he already knew all of the streets anyway, what use were names? Besides, he was too tired to struggle anymore; his whole life had spiralled towards this point. He had survived a brutally harsh childhood with no prospect of escape from his grinding poverty. His apprenticeship on the streets had prepared him for no vocation other than villainy. If such were to be his future, then so be it. Greta would see sense when he returned with money for food, and perhaps some medicine for Julia.
Hanz took the knife, nodded once to Oscar, and then stood, hiding the blade in his ragged shirt, the metal cool against his bare skin.
Oscar watched as Hanz stalked away, disappearing quickly into the smoky throng. “He’ll be one to watch in the future Boris. Mark my words…he’s got the rage in him, no question - and it’s growing every day.”
The cold-eyed man was silent for a few minutes, his flat countenance betraying none of the calculations ruminating in his mind. “I think I may have a job for you tonight my friend…not a nice one mind - but necessary.”
His tattooed companion remained silent as Oscar tapped the table thoughtfully then snapped his fingers at a passing barmaid, who immediately scurried over and sat on his lap, her fearful expression quite visible through a grinning façade.
‘All changed, changed utterly
A terrible killer is born’
- Gerhard Schneider, Poet. Bergsburg (1699-1717)
Claude Runcible was a large man, whose only vice began, and ended, with a good meal.
Belching loudly he pushed the empty plate away and drummed with satisfaction on his substantial midriff, “I do enjoy a nice portion of ham, Otto. That mustard was exquisite…do we have any more? No? A pity…Oh yes I have a small hole that might be filled by that cheese. Just a little mind you…Oh, perhaps a larger slice…that’s the ticket…and perhaps a small dollop of cream; I am partial to a dollop of cream, Otto; it’s a weakness of mine I’m afraid.”
The man’s heavy jowls wobbled slightly as he devoured the cheese, and his fat fingers squashed the crumbs on his plate, scooping up the remaining cream with practised efficiency. He sat back with a contented sigh and mopped at his sweating brow with a large napkin.
Herr Runcible lived a comfortable life and he knew it. A series of shrewd business moves and a few lucky deals in his youth had ensured a future of sustained, relative ease - a fact that was never lost on the aging man. His happy existence had been marred some twenty years ago by the death his beloved wife, Vera.
Vera Runcible had been a woman of such charitable goodness and virtue, that the old man had never yet, let a day go past without mourning her absence. During her life, she had worked ceaselessly to provide care and safety for the city’s teeming orphans. She had set up soup kitchens and refuge centres throughout the district, and spent many long nights caring for the countless sick and dying children. She had displayed a tenacious vigour in petitioning the Council of Five for a change in policy toward the care of the strays and waifs that seemed to increase exponentially as each year passed. At the time, Runcible had humoured his wife, funding her altruistic projects out of love for her, rather than any sense of civic duty.
When she had begun her long and feverish demise, he had neglected the charity work in favour of remaining constantly at her bedside. His lonely, heart-breaking vigil had consumed all his energy and any enthusiasm waned, in sympathy, with her rapidly declining health.
For many months after her death, he had existed as a broken man; no longer caring for any business venture, and even losing a substantial amount of weight as his interest in food evaporated. Having made his fortune many years before, Runcible could have perpetuated that existence until despair had claimed his own life through self-neglect or suicide.
However, almost a year to the day after his wife’s death, Claude was staring, unseeing, from his parlour window into the streets below, when his dormant brain had registered a rough, throaty coughing from the gutter outside his home. After ignoring the sound for a few minutes, his derelict curiosity got the better of him, and he left the house - for the first time in weeks - to investigate. He found, laying on the rain-lashed cobbled street, outside his front door, a pitifully thin child shivering in the cold.
He carried the frail girl into his home, and over the next few months, began nursing her back to health. He found that as the small girl slowly returned to health, so his energy and zest for life resurfaced. The girl’s appalling cough, and her frightful decrepitude at first receded, then disappeared altogether, till she was as full of life and energy as any of the children that proliferated the more privileged families in the district.
When, finally, he subsidised her entrance into a local college, he knew that he had found his purpose in life. With a prayer of thanks to his beloved wife, he set about reconstructing that good woman’s works with an enthusiasm bordering on fanatical. Runcible re-established his declining merchantile activities, and channelled the majority of his capital into a plethora of orphanages and soup kitchens throughout the city. His previously subdued appetite returned with a vengeance. Although now, anything the man ate was replicated and dispersed throughout the city, in wagons loaded with caskets, to the small children so desperately in need.
Of course, he knew that many children continued to suffer and die, unable to reach his charity, or benefit from his benevolence; but he was determined, that in due course, he would win funding from the Council of Five, and would then turn the city into a beacon of hope for the poor of the Empire.
It was with that happy thought that Runcible bade his retainer goodnight, and dragged his voluminous frame to his bedchamber; a portrait of his beloved, beautiful wife the last image in his eyes before he fell asleep.
He awoke - What was that? He listened intently for a few minutes; then, hearing nothing more, chuckled at his own nervousness, and shifted his substantial weight into a more comfortable position; intent upon going back to sleep.
A strangled cry startled him once more, and he sat up as quickly as his bulk would allow, “What was that…Otto?”
Damn it, where is that blasted man, my spleen will cease to function at this rate…can’t get a decent night's sleep…that cheese, playing havoc with my digestion… “Otto!”
Runcible groaned as he pulled himself from the bed, floorboards creaking mightily as they braced to take his weight. He drew a breath, intending to call again for Otto, when a shifting shadow in the gloom of his hallway caused the shout to die on his lips, before it had time to achieve audible substance.
“Who’s there?” Claude’s attempt at an officious tone could not disguise the quaver of fear in his voice. As he reached for the tinderbox on his bedside cabinet, he noted with self-loathing the uncontrollable tremor in his hands.
The old merchant had never been a brave man; he had always avoided conflict, preferring instead, a reasoned debate with, hopefully, a satisfactory conclusion to any dispute for all parties involved. His wife had always been the brave one. He inwardly berated himself as he remembered her calm courage in the final stages of her illness.
“Who is there? I demand that you show yourself!”
With an effort he steadied his hands just long enough to light the wick of his bedside lantern, then he squinted painfully as the room was suddenly illuminated with an orange, flickering glow.
He yelped suddenly in fright as the incandescent light fell across a grim-faced man, standing motionless in the doorway of his bedchamber. Covering his mouth with a flabby, shaking hand, Runcible peered anxiously at the thin, shadowy figure. Subjecting the intruder to closer scrutiny revealed that the man was in fact a boy. However, the boy’s flat, hard features dispelled all notions of weakness in his youthful exterior. A small scar twisted the youth’s lip into a contemptuous sneer, a demeanour replicated in his cold, cruel eyes.
Runcible felt weak at the knees as he dragged his eyes from the intruder’s reptilian stare, and perceived, for the first time, the huge, bloodstained dagger pointing spear-like at his protruding gut.
“I have food here young man…if that’s what you want…Otto!”
“Otto’s dead fatso. Whose blood do you think this is?” The boy’s voice was steady and cold. His lean body tensed like whipcord leather; the energetic tension in the boy evidence of a horrible power lurking in his slight frame.
Runcible closed his eyes, his mind a swirling torrent of sadness for Otto, fear for the orphans, terror for himself; but also an unexpected joy at perhaps finally being reunited with his beloved Vera.
Hanz watched as the old man closed his eyes, and then struck savagely with the blade, thrusting into the easily yielding flesh till only the hilt protruded. At the last moment he remembered to twist the blade before it was caught fast by the fat man’s gut. He gritted his teeth and grunted as he ripped the blade up through the merchant’s stomach; and felt a warm wetness as the man’s blood soaked his arm to the elbow. The dying man opened his eyes wide in agony, and gripped Hanz by the arm with a strength borne of desperation. The boy twisted the blade again, and then tore it free, letting the blood-soaked, corpulent body crumple to the floor at his feet.
Hanz felt nothing as he stared at the corpse, and he stepped back to avoid the slowly spreading puddle of blood oozing towards his feet.
He stared intently at the fat merchant’s face, and was disconcerted to see what looked like…a smile on the man’s lips. He shrugged then turned away - let’s see what the bastard's been hoarding all week then.
Outside in the streets below a small boy coughed weakly, and then sobbed in pain at the pangs in his empty belly. A group of prospectors passed the boy and quickly averted their eyes - lest to acknowledge the child’s existence would be to accept responsibility for his destitution. Once safely beyond sight or sound of the dying waif, they resumed, once again, their gay laughter and talk; pointing out to each other the beautiful luminescence of the night’s full moon.
Sometimes, in Bergsburg, mistakes are made…
Part II - Escape from Bessenitz
‘I never saw a brute so callow and raw
He must be wicked to deserve such pain’
- Gerhard Schneider, Poet. Bergsburg (1699-1717)
“Hanz…I’ve known you for years boy…don’t do this to me…I need a few more days that’s all!”
The wretched man’s face was contorted with fear. A livid bruise was forming around his right eye already; I had caught him a wicked clout. Tears began streaming down his leathery cheeks, a trail of snot was leaking from his ruby-red, alcoholic's nose, and he shielded his face with shaking hands.
My companion snorted with contempt at the debtor’s pathetic entreaty, and to be honest, I had to agree with the sentiment - or rather, the lack of it.
“Now Freddy please,” my tone adopted a reasonable inflection, albeit moderated with implied threat, “You know the rules: You borrow from Oscar, then you repay Oscar; on time; and with the interest agreed at the time of transaction. You’re a big boy Freddy, and it pains me when I have to resort to these methods, but you’re on my patch; you’re my responsibility. If I go back to the Boss tonight, without the crowns, then it’s my arse on the line. Not to mention my reputation…if word gets out that I’m going soft then what’s next eh? Maybe another gentleman, in a situation not unlike your own, will choose to default - then another. Where does it end eh, Freddy?”
I watched in disgust as the terrified man dropped to his knees, and began to paw at my stiff, leather boots. His shoulders hunched then vibrated as he was overcome with wracking sobs, and I cringed inwardly as a long string of snot laced itself to my shiny, left boot; I’d only just bought the damn things and he was blubbering all over them!
“Want me to finish the bugger, Hanz?” my companion shuffled forward eagerly, an ugly wooden cosh gripped tightly in his fist.
My partner had every reason to be eager; this was his first outing with me, and he was desperately trying to impress. His malignant, brutal demeanour was typical of a score of young thugs in the district. The only caveat that set him apart, and increased the malevolence of his appearance, was the horrendous scar tissue that distorted most of his body and face.
Heinrich the Scab had been badly burned as a child.
Standing well over six feet tall - he towered over me - his thick woollen cloak could not obscure the thick knot of muscle bunching his shoulders, or the rippling cordage beneath the scarred, hairless flesh on his forearms. Both ears had been burned away, leaving raw, twisted holes on either side of his misshapen head; gaping, flared nostrils, positioned somewhat out of sync with the centre of his face, lent his gruesome visage a swine-like aspect, that, to be frank, he could have done without; his eyes added a final dimension in horror to the man’s appalling countenance; both sets of lids had been burnt away, leaving a pair of insane eyes glaring perpetually from sunken, blood-red sockets.
It was rumoured that Heinrich the Scab never slept - that he just existed…constantly.
A wide-brimmed leather hat topped the monster’s head, and, mercifully, concealed much of the damaged physiognomy in perpetual shadow - he never took it off.
The trauma of his injuries, coupled with the inevitable social ostracism that followed, had conspired to create, easily, the most noxious and perverse man I had ever met. Now I’m no angel, it has to be said, but this guy was evil personified. He was as vexatious to the spirit as he was, undeniably, useful to have around - especially in my line of work.
Tolerate him? Yes…barely.
Like him? Not a bit.
Trust him? Never!
“Let’s see what the old boy can come up with first, Heinrich.” I said, noting the look of dejected disappointment on his mangled face - at least I had to assume that the violent distortions that erupted on his visage had, in fact, indicated dejected disappointment, but it was difficult to be sure.
I wasn’t too concerned about obstructing Heinrich in the course of his pleasure; the big psychopath was dangerous, no doubt about it. But, I wasn’t known for my sweet and gentle nature either; the fact that a thug of Heinrich’s obvious capabilities was prepared to follow my lead, was a testament to the respect that I now commanded on the street.
It was four and a half winters since I’d started working for Oscar; the memory of that warm summer night was still fresh enough, even now, to cause me physical pain. I hadn’t killed anyone since that night, although no one, yet, had been foolish enough to equate that fact with weakness; I was quick with my fists and virtually unbeatable with a knife, and brutal enough to remove the toes, fingers, or thumbs of anyone that upset me.
It wasn’t any squeamishness or moral dilemma that made me resist that final act of violence - I had ordered it often enough - rather, it was that I couldn’t bear to be reminded of that night…not so much the killings…as what had happened after…
Anyway, there was no point in dragging that up here; I had work to do, and money to make.
“Can you count Freddy?” my voice was almost jovial. I absently noted that it had begun to snow again.
“Whaa…sniff…yeah I can count Hanz” the debtor looked up at me hopefully, and wiped at the tears and snot now encrusted on his face.
“That’s good Freddy - because I can count as well.” I drew my knife and crouched beside the man, then grasped his wrist in a vice-like grip - hearing, with satisfaction, a painful sounding crack.
“I can count your fingers Freddy.” I touched each digit in turn, with the blade, as I counted out loud, as if to a child, “one…two…three…four…and, a thumb!”
As I counted his last appendage, I made a small incision into the flesh at the base of his thumb, the razor-sharp steel slicing easily into skin. He yelped, more in fright than pain, I think, and I held his arm steady as he flinched away automatically.
A reputation, I’ve found, is an extremely useful tool in my trade; a modus operandi, that is strictly adhered to, can sometimes negate the need for excessive violence. Frederick Baussen knew me well enough; he had seen the resulting disfigurement that invariably followed one of my less than social visits to debtors, and he was no doubt contemplating the increased hardships of a life without fingers.
I ignored the sound of Heinrich’s throaty cackling and looked into Freddy’s eyes, my cold stare reflected in their wide, terrified luminance.
I whispered now, “The money Freddy. No more excuses…stop snivelling now…I know you’ve got it man.”
He closed his eyes tightly, as if to repel my malevolent intent, and then released a shrill, keening whine of fear.
I shrugged, and the blade flashed once in the moonlight; suddenly the crisp, white snow at my feet was red with blood, and the debtor’s scream reverberated through the alley.
Trudging through the snow, I tried to ignore Heinrich’s increasingly disaffected moaning. The big oaf was obviously still put out that I had prevented him from murdering Freddy after he had given us the crowns.
“He was taking liberties Hanz. Now I know you’re in charge, but…it’s dangerous, that’s all I’m saying…Folk might start getting the wrong idea…you know…I’m not saying you don’t know your business, don’t think that…but, well it’s just dangerous…”
And so it went on.
I did think about educating the fool in forward thinking and the absolute certainty that Frederick Baussen would, someday soon, be back in debt to our nefarious company, but I disregarded the notion after reflecting that his dilatory intellect would be singularly unable to cope with the intricacies of commercial enterprise.
Instead, I scooped a handful of silver shillings from my pouch and thrust them into his hand.
“I won’t be needing you anymore tonight Heinrich. Here, get the woman in your life something nice, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I said, wondering if the irritation I felt was obvious in my voice.
Ignoring the, obviously bachelor, man’s glare, I walked away without a backward glance and pulled my cloak tightly round my throat, hot steam swirling from my mouth in the freezing, night air.
The streets of Helmsberg were largely empty, although a few, dubious looking, characters crunched through the snow huddled in cloaks or blankets with their eyes set firmly on the path ahead.
The wider streets in the district had a softly glowing blanket of snow covering them, making the city appear clean and fresh - to less cynical eyes at least. And the sharp, thin air revealed a beautiful night sky, the half-moon almost outshone by a myriad glimmering stars like silver pinpricks in a vast velvet blanket.
Entering the claustrophobic poor quarter of the district, I experienced a, not so subtle, shift in perspective as the clean white snow turned to muddy slush and treacherous black ice. The narrow, winding alleys prevented an even covering of snow; it was as if even nature itself could not penetrate the dismal decrepitude of the slum.
I nodded a terse greeting to a gang of hoodlums I recognised, standing in the shadows at the entrance to Ranlweg. They muttered an unintelligible response, and then resumed their whispered conversation, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands to ward off the cold. They were Kreuzer boys mostly, although I thought I recognised a Hovenbach enforcer in their midst…strange, but not entirely unknown.
Leaving the group behind, no doubt plotting some poor bugger’s misery, I turned left and proceeded toward the eastern side of Ranlweg, gritting my teeth against the strong westerly wind that channelled furiously through the street.
The Ranlweg was noticeably busier than the previous leg of my journey - even the biting cold, seemingly, unable to discourage some late-night revellers and other nocturnal residents from going about their business.
A short dogleg in the street led me to my destination, and I stopped outside the Longroom - an unofficial name for a nameless den of iniquity - stamped snow from my boots then pushed aside a thick rug, that bore a chalky, white cross and was hung across the doorway.
I nodded to a bullish looking thug, stationed just inside the doorway, and entered the building.
I had spent my life, it seemed, returning to this tavern, but the place held not even a modicum of homespun appeal.
The outrageously high ceiling was crossed with black beams, over which were hung dim, flickering lanterns tied with hemp and attached to iron rings behind the bar.
The bar itself ran the entire length of the room and had been hewn from a single oak. The wood had been imperfectly treated and was, in places, sprouting small shoots and clumps of moss. About a third of the way along its length there was a rusted axe-head buried deep into the wood. If one were to look closely enough it was still possible to see the clumps of brittle hair pinned to the bar, left there - for posterity perhaps - after a wild night in which Krazak the Insane had removed his brother’s head with one mighty, dwarfen blow.
The room was somewhat emptier than usual; about twenty or thirty people scattered around battered tables; the penetrating cold seeming to sap the energy from their conversation as they all huddled in thick blankets and muttered quietly into the gloom.
I returned a greeting; nodded to a shivering barmaid, then walked the length of the long bar towards the rear of the room.
The Boss was sat at his usual table playing cards with three heavily wrapped men and a robust, handsome looking woman - all of them were known to me. One of the men was an old acquaintance of mine from my burgling days; his sharp, aquiline face was pale in the low light, and he offered me a toothless grin that I reciprocated briefly. To his right, and opposite the Boss, sat an iron-haired tough whose advanced age was belied by the thick muscle that corded his neck and the tiny, piercing eyes that glared from beneath bushy, white eyebrows. The older man’s flat, hard face betrayed no indication of greeting for me, and nor would I expect it to; he was a cold killer whose reputation as being indestructible had evolved to almost mythical proportions since long before I’d been born.
The third, and most evil-looking of the men, was sat to the Boss’s left, although at a slight angle on the corner of the table - presumably to prevent any cheating during their game - his thick woollen tunic covered most of his torso, but a dull green tattoo, of some indistinguishable reptilian creature, could be seen snaking from beneath the tunic and onto his neck, then round and up the back of his bald head, finishing with a long forked tongue that writhed down the centre of his face. His squat, pug-faced features were locked into a perpetual scowl that seemed to deepen as he observed my presence. He was Boris; I hated him.
The handsome woman was sat at the left hand edge of the table, as I looked at it. Her cloak and tunic indicated some level of material wealth, and her weapons - of which she had many - were all bright with polish, discerning a high level of expert maintenance that, one could only assume, would be backed up with an equally proficient skill in usage. I had always found it difficult to decipher people's ages - I didn’t even know my own - but I would guess that Katrina was in her late twenties, or early thirties; no one I knew had ever asked her - a policy I certainly didn’t intend to violate. She had only been in the district for a couple of years, arriving with a group of grizzled adventurers on some harebrained quest that had obviously petered out. They had left; she had stayed. Although, what relationship she had with the Boss, I had yet to discover.
Oscar was easily the most important man at this table. His ice-cold reptilian stare and heavily waxed moustache seemed almost caricature, adorned, as they were, on a pinched, leathery face. His high cheekbones appeared deceptively brittle as they jutted at sharp angles, lending his visage an oddly, triangular aspect. Thick, black hair was swept back from his face and tied with cordage; its length was such that it actually touched the floor when he was sat down.
I almost shuddered in sympathy when I realised that, in a show of contempt for the freezing weather, Oscar had chosen to wear only a loose, short-sleeved tunic with thin breeches, and his cloak hung, unused, over the back of his chair. The man appeared completely unaffected by the cutting, winter chill, adding a new dimension to his chimerical assemblage.
“Have a seat Hanz…you’ve arrived in the nick of time.” Oscar’s thin face creased in a rare smile.
“For the love of Shallya!” Boris banged his tattooed fist upon the table, “you’ve been winning all night Oscar. I was just about to win my crowns back…the cards stand Oscar, the cards bloody well stand!”
Great, I thought, now I’ve given the walking art gallery another reason to hate me.
Oscar chuckled and motioned to Gustav - my old burglar acquaintance - to collect the cards. Boris banged the table again in disgust and stormed off to the bar, clouting a young serving boy hard on the head as he scurried past.
Oscar ignored him and fixed me with a sharp glare, all traces of humour evaporated, “Did you get it all Hanz?”
I placed the pouch of money on the table, along with a set of gold necklaces that glittered brightly in the lantern’s flickering glow.
I watched tensely as Oscar pursed his lips at the necklaces - gold was never in short supply in Bergsburg and was therefore not always easy to shift. He seemed to accept the offering, however, because he nodded to Gustav, who scooped the booty into a larger pouch and then disappeared into the darkness at the very rear of the bar.
Business over, Oscar offered me a bottle of wine from a stash by his feet - which I accepted gratefully.
“You shouldn’t give the boy that stuff Oscar…it’ll end up putting hairs on his chest!” Katrina’s rich, melodious voice filled the bar and I could feel a hot flush burning my cheeks immediately. I hated to be referred to as boy, especially by the adroitly capable - not to mention - unnervingly attractive Katrina. Oscar and the iron-haired Rutger chuckled at my embarrassment and both took long drafts from their own bottles.
Oscar finished his bottle, then spat a wad of residue onto the floor and said, “How was the Scab tonight then?”
I thought for a moment before replying, “He has his uses certainly. Nothing delicate though, or anything requiring excessive brainpower.” I took a pull from my bottle before continuing, savouring the sour liquid as it settled in my gut, “He needs to be supervised at all times in my opinion…too much of the psycho tendency to be let lose on his own - could be bad for business.”
Oscar nodded and reached for another bottle. He always seemed to ask my opinion about such matters. Never about anything too important, of course, but the smaller, more delicate matters - he definitely valued my opinion.
He had remarked once that my flowery speech and sharp brain had more to do with my years of association with Greta than with anything else. Perhaps he had perceived the sharp physical pain that the mere mention of her name had wrought in me, because he hadn’t mentioned her since.
Rutger turned his tiny, dispassionate eyes to Oscar and spoke in a deep, dead-pan growl, “I killed the Scab’s father…did you know that?”
Oscar looked up in alarm - or was it just irritation?
“Is that likely to be a problem?”
“No, not likely; the sick bastard set fire to his own child for stealing food from his plate when he fell asleep. I reckon the Scab would thank me, if he knew.”
Oscar frowned, “Maybe, but lets just make sure he doesn’t know eh. He might come in useful someday…for frightening children or something…I don’t want him hacked to bits by you when he pursues some stupid revenge mission.”
For an instant I saw Oscar’s gaze flicker to me when he said that; I detected something strange in that look…it couldn’t have been fear…but…something.
I disregarded the thought as the conversation drifted towards mundane events that had occurred recently in the city - the increased Watch patrols in Pottplatz; and the arrival of a new pit fighter who was demolishing all-comers at the ‘Rat and Shovel’.
As the night wore on my consumption of the strong wine, supplied liberally by Oscar, led inexorably to a state of confused inebriation; the conversation became an incoherent sequence of staccato non-sequiturs. The last thing I remember with any lucidity was Katrina’s rambling tale of beastmen and monsters lurking in The Forest of Shadows; her deep, mellow voice was strangely comforting and at odds with the pernicious content of her story.
Eventually, the sound of carts trundling past in the street outside indicated the break of morning, and I staggered to my feet clutching the small purse that contained a small fraction of the night’s takings. The majority of the loot would line Oscar’s pocket, I knew, although even he had to kick a portion up the street to the Kreuzers.
Bidding my ‘friends’ good day, I staggered out of the bar and squinted in pain at the bright morning glare.
Outside, the moderate reduction in temperature had the agreeable affect of sobering me up slightly, so I crunched, unsteadily, towards the northwestern side of the Ranlweg, grunting drunkenly at the steadily increasing flow of people filling the street. It was at this early hour that the Ranlweg became a thoroughfare for the traders carting their wares - primarily foodstuffs and other essentials - to the districts main square - Pottplatz. For most of the day, and all of the night, Ranlweg was considered far too dangerous for careless passage.
Tired and drunk, I allowed the throng to sweep me past ‘Magnus’ Kreuzer’s shady encampment and onto the Pottplatz proper.
The snow covered square shimmered brilliantly, and the tightly packed assortment of stalls was already taking shape. I comprehended blearily the piercing shouts of traders as they hastily erected their tarpaulin awnings and spread their wares upon flimsy wooden carts in preparation for the busy day ahead.
Trudging west across the square I thought longingly of my cot in the grotty digs that I, reluctantly, called home, in the slums behind the Schwarzmauerstrasse.
A sudden flash of movement and a roar of laughter from the nearby traders attracted my eye, and I chuckled at the sight of a Halfling, flat on his back, with a tray of eggs covering his ruby-red face; the black ice, obviously, treacherous even for his leathery, padded feet. I watched the embarrassed Halfling stagger to his feet as I passed then turned my bleary gaze to the front.
“Good morning Hanz”
“Whoa!” I stopped and stumbled drunkenly as a team of burly Watchmen, their grinning, bearded faces leering through my distorted vision, suddenly blocked my path.
“What a fine morning it is Ratboy. Going anywhere nice?”
I glared blearily at the team of large men and attempted to marshal my faculties sufficiently to make sense of this new, and unwelcome, situation.
They were all heavily armed, and dressed in the dull grey livery of the City Watch: thick woollen hoses and leather jerkins adorned with a distorted depiction of the Roland coat of arms; large grey, wolf skin cloaks that hung nearly to the icy floor, and their heads were topped with leather caps that partially obscured the bearded faces scrutinising me with wary contempt.
I attempted a nonchalant grin - knowing, that in my inebriated state and in the biting wind, it would resemble a skeletal grimace.
“Morning…home…bed…what?” My voice was barely coherent, I knew. And I struggled to decipher what this unusual harassment could be about.
“Had a good night then Ratboy? Been in the Longroom for most of it eh?”
I nodded wearily, fighting against the sudden, violent urge to vomit over my inquisitor’s boots.
The Watchman that had, so far, conducted this tiresome dialogue was an evil-faced thug with a pockmarked, leathery face under a sparsely thatched, grey beard. His small, beady eyes bore into me with an undisguised malice that I began to find, more than a little, unsettling. I didn’t recognise the man, although his jaundiced face was somewhat familiar, and for some reason this added to my unease.
“What about…oh, I don’t know…close to midnight last night? Were you in the Longroom then, or elsewhere perhaps?” He said, grinning at his crew and indicating my obvious confusion.
Shit. I racked my muddled brain; where was this leading? To be honest, I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d been. I’d been with Heinrich most of the night, collecting in the Krutz area.
I shrugged and began glancing nervously around, weighing up my slim chances of flight. The Watchmen must have noted my intent, because they began to slowly encircle me, their hands gripping the pommels of their heavy, wooden cudgels.
Undoubtedly, it was my drunken state that prevented me from seeing the punch - slow and poorly thrown as it was. The grey-bearded Watchman caught me a glancing blow on the jaw, and I staggered backwards, more in sympathy with my inebriation than the heaviness of the blow. I snarled bestially and lurched forward, violent intent contorting my drunken countenance. But, before I could reach my assailant, rough hands grabbed me from behind and I felt a sharp blow to my kidneys that doubled me over in pain.
“My name is Baussen, Ratboy. Mean anything to ya does it?” Said the Watchman, his face twisted in rage.
He punched me again; this time the blow was harder and I saw black stars flash in front of my eyes.
“Cut my brother’s thumb off would you!”
Realisation dawned as a series of vicious blows hammered me to the floor.
I couldn’t believe it, that drunken, gambling loser Freddy Baussen had a brother in the Watch!
I tried to curl into a ball, as the blows rained down upon my head. I was dimly aware of a small crowd forming around the melee, as I began to drift into bludgeoned unconsciousness. I felt bile rise in my throat, and I lurched forward, my last lucid thought was satisfaction as I vomited over my assailants stiff, leather boots.
“Filthy little basta…”
I shivered violently as I regained consciousness.
Groaning painfully, I tried to open one eye, but a sharp stabbing pain made me think better of it, and I retreated once again into a dark, embryonic solace.
I awoke to a biting cold whipping across my bruised body, my feet were like blocks of ice - where were my boots?
I could feel a violent rocking beneath me, and the squeal of metal on metal sent shivers down my spine. I could smell a pungent animal odour fused with the stench of stale wood, and I could hear low, murmured dialogue from somewhere above my head.
I was on my back with my arms pinned beneath me; they felt numb and restricted, and I tentatively tried to relieve the painful sensation by moving them from my back - they were stuck fast. I belatedly realised that I was trussed and bound securely; I could feel no laxity in my bonds at all.
Slowly opening one eye, I squinted at my surroundings and realised that I was in a slowly moving cart, along with at least three of the burly Watchmen that had attacked me in the square.
I was on the floor of the cart and tied up like a prize goose. The Watchmen were sat, talking, on the low bench to the right of my head. So far, they hadn’t noticed my consciousness, and I thought it best to maintain that situation, so I lay quietly and squinted my eye further until the restricted panorama adopted a grey, slit-like aspect.
Just above the cart’s low, wooden side, I could make out the tops of grey, snow covered buildings that rocked into and out of view with the vehicles violently shaking passage.
I discreetly studied the roof slates for a moment, a lifetime of rooftop reconnaissance quickly revealing, if not my exact location, then a rough idea of the general vicinity. Grey tiled slate - cracked and decrepit, the absence of guttering, and small holes instead of chimneys; I was in Sudentor - or near to it, definitely.
Sudentor? Why Sudentor?
I struggled to make sense of the situation, my tired brain sorting through a variety of conclusions to this odd and disturbing enigma.
Sudentor?
My answer came suddenly, and I felt a shudder of fear as a huge, grey-stoned building rattled into view.
Bessenitz!
‘Stone walls do not a prison make
But they serve until a coffin is found’
- Gerhard Schneider, Poet. Bergsburg (1699-1717)
The building was classic prison architecture. No signs were needed; everything about the place screamed ‘Prison!’ as soon as you saw its tall, dark walls.
I felt my heart sink as we approached the huge, iron-banded gates - they stretched the height of twenty men and were topped with rows of evil-looking spikes, fashioned perfectly to leave only a fractional gap between the top of the gate and the arched stone wall.
The prison was basically a series of interconnected towers. Each tower was as featureless and impenetrable as the next, and the only inconsistency in their blank exterior were the narrow slits, carved, at intervals, into the thick stone. The slits were too narrow to be considered useful for the attraction of light; it was more likely that their primary function was to ventilate the tiny cells that proliferated the building, keeping alive its unfortunate inhabitants just long enough to see them swinging from the gallows that lined the road outside the gates.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Last night’s wanton excesses were fading quickly into unreality, and my earlier inebriation was transmogrifying into an acute, pounding hangover. Of course, the blows I’d sustained, from that bastard Baussen, had not helped my malady at all; I could feel the lumps on my head swelling enormously as the cart rattled towards Bessenitz.
From my uncomfortable position on the deck of the cart, I swallowed apprehensively as I observed the huge gates creaking open like the black jaws of some ancient, granite monster.
We trundled through the gates, along a short, narrow alleyway, and then into a large courtyard area. From my prone position I could just make out a row of stables to my right, before the cart swung round and squealed to a halt.
I lay there silently, my apprehension escalating, as I listened to the muffled exchanges between the Watchmen and, I guessed, my new custodians - the notorious jailers of Bessenitz.
Suddenly, the cart’s rear trap crashed open and I felt rough hands grip my ankles, before I was unceremoniously dragged onto the courtyard’s gritty floor. I tried to relax before striking the ground, but the four-foot drop still managed to thump the wind from my lungs - adding a new line of misery to my rapidly increasing monologue.
Gasping for air, I was hauled to my feet by two filthy, excruciatingly ugly men. Their bony fingers betrayed a horrible strength as they dug painfully into my armpits. Bizarrely, I was almost glad of their support; my legs felt numb and feeble, and left to stand of my own volition, I felt, I would have been as unsteady as a newborn lamb.
I forced my aching brain to function - I needed it to encapsulate as much information as possible before my inevitable incarceration began in earnest.
The courtyard stood at the centre of the prison, surrounded on all sides by the building’s sheer, dark walls. I quickly estimated the area to be thirty to thirty-five paces square, although, with my brain feeling like mush, it was just as likely to be double or half that figure.
The huge gates were now to my right - which was south - and were flanked by the towers that I had noted during my arrival. Two more identical towers to my left completed the symmetrical ensemble. The towers were conjoined by the monstrous, immutable, stone walls, that seemed to plunge the courtyard into its own impregnable, tiny world.
I noted that the stables, now in front of me to the east, reached only a quarter of the wall’s height. The only way in or out, that I could fathom, were the immense gates that now appeared firmly and resolutely shut.
Each tower had a sturdy looking door facing the courtyard, and these were the only obvious entrances into the prison itself.
When I noticed a final item of detail I shuddered, and rather wished I’d missed it; to my left, in the middle of the yard, was a small metal grating, all of five paces square.
Made out of black, rusted iron, it comprised several sections. The actual grating was of a strange and intricate pattern, and the darkness in the pit below was impenetrable, although I could see bony fingers with split, filthy nails desperately trying to gain purchase on the narrow metal grill. The barely audible moan of despair that filtered through the grate made me determine never - if I could help it - to end up in that pit.
A sudden blow rudely prevented any further inspection of my surroundings. And I doubled over in pain, vomiting the remainder of last night’s excesses onto the ground. A heavy boot to my rear pitched me forward into my own detritus, and I tucked my chin into my chest, as an avalanche of kicks began thundering down onto my body and head.
Through a blur of legs and booted feet, I perceived the huge gates swinging open, and the cart, carrying the grinning Watchmen, rolled out of the courtyard disappearing onto the road beyond.
As the gates shut again, this time with a decidedly frightening finality, I felt myself begin to lose consciousness through the incessant hail of blows. I struggled to remain lucid as a final kick sent one of my teeth splintering from my mouth, and I could see the blood pooling, slowly, onto the ground in front of my battered face.
I must have passed out briefly, because suddenly I was on my feet and being dragged bodily towards the doorway of one of the towers.
I struggled to think coherently - it was the one to the northeast, I think. Yes, definitely - the stables were on my right.
The two jailers carrying me stopped at the heavy looking, wooden door, and a third rummaged through a large ring of keys until, finding the correct one, he unlocked the door and swung it inwards with a loud crash.
I tried to distinguish the key from it’s companions on the ring, but they all looked very similar - just blunt, iron implements daubed with the black dubbing that seemed to coat all metal objects in this place.
I was dragged inside the tower, wincing in pain as my bare feet slammed against the stone doorstop on the way.
Inside, the stale gloom was immediate.
The jailers carried me into a long corridor, lit, at intervals, by ancient wax candles.
The wax had melted into a bizarre, shapeless mass that clung to the walls like some parasitic entity - unintelligent but alive, and riddled with a timeless malice that transmuted to the very foundations of this grim, foreboding place.
My vision, once again, became fuzzy and tunnelled as unconsciousness loomed in my brittle mind. Fighting to remain lucid, I concentrated on my battered body, trying to ascertain the extent of my injuries.
Well, nothing appeared broken, but everything that could have been broken was painfully bruised.
I knew full well that the further I sank into this nefarious system, the more difficult it would be for me to escape; but in my battered and bonded state, I could no more extend any influence over the course of events than a newborn baby could clean its own behind. I would have to ride this out, see what happened, and then hopefully formulate some kind of plan before this place killed me.
We reached the first of several flights of stairs, and my escort dragged me up them, careless of my battered feet slamming against the stone steps. I wearily counted twelve steps to each flight. And noticed a single, narrow corridor snaking away on each level as we gradually worked our way upward.
The sweating jailers dragged me up nine flights of steps - their rancid breath very nearly knocking me out before my own physical decrepitude had the chance.
On the ninth floor of the tower, we left the stairwell and proceeded - south, I think - along a dark corridor. The route was lined, on either side, by small blank doors that boasted heavy looking bolts, painted, as usual, with the obligatory dubbing.
I counted eight pairs of doors, before we finally stopped; my laboured breathing and the slow drip of water the only sounds in the confined passageway.
The leading jailer turned to the door on the right and kicked it open with a reverberating crash. Without ceremony, the two men who had dragged me up here, flung me head first into the cell, then followed me in and began cutting away at the bonds around my raw arms.
I was in a tiny cell, no more than four paces square and just below a man’s stature in height. There were no windows and I realised that the slits I’d seen, whilst approaching the prison, must be located between cells, forming a ventilation system that allowed the prisoner no viewpoint to the world outside.
However, the system was evidently working because it was draughty and bitterly cold in the room, and I could see that patches of ice had formed on the exterior wall and over a significant portion of the floor.
My captors finished cutting away my bonds, and I winced in pain as the long restricted blood began flooding back through my wrists. My localised freedom, however, was to be extremely short lived.
I was quickly handcuffed, my legs clamped in heavy irons, and then chained to a staple fixed immovably to the freezing floor.
After checking the security of my bonds, the third jailer grunted in satisfaction, and then gripped the back of my hair tightly with his fist. Yanking back my head he thrust his bearded, scabby face into mine; if I’d had any substance left in my stomach then I’m quite sure it would have emptied immediately, as I inhaled the rancid stench of his breath.
“Enjoy your stay filth,” he said, his slow, drawling vocalization indicating a significant level of mental deficiency, “dis is the best room in da house…heh heh. Ave a good night coz…heh heh…you’ll swing tomorrow morning. Its bin set up…heh heh…no trial…you’ve pissed someone off boy.”
I fell back, as far as the chains would allow, as the stunted moron cuffed me once across the head, then followed his halfwit comrades out of the cell. I felt something akin to relief as I heard the heavy bolts slam home and the jailers’ footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
Ok, alone at last. Now what?
I had seldom felt as powerless as I did right now. My last glimpse of the sun, before I had been dragged into this tower, had indicated that it was a couple of hours till noon. I was frozen to the core; my body felt like one colossal bruise. I was bone weary; pissed off; and I had the mother of all hangovers. Now I’d been told that tomorrow morning - nice and early I would imagine - I was to be hanged.
What a day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet!
To hell with it, I was struggling to remain conscious anyway - even in the painful stress position enforced by my restricting bonds. I would sleep…then I’d think of something…sleep first…
I awoke. My first conscious sensation - agony!
A low sob escaped my lips. The cold was excruciating, agonising. My battered body and face had left me adrift on an island of agony, in an ocean of pain.
How long had I been asleep?
A sudden terror gripped me; was I too late? Was it morning already?
I breathed deeply, trying desperately to focus my mind. It didn’t matter; I had to assume that it was not morning, and that I had time to think of a way out of this. If that wasn’t the case, well, then it was irrelevant - and I was a dead man.
I began by reassessing the modicum of information that I had managed to glean during my rapid incarceration.
I was in the northeast tower of Bessenitz; I was on the ninth floor; there were twelve steps to each flight, which meant that I was at least one hundred-and-eight paces from the ground; I was in the eighth cell on the right of the corridor, I thought that there were possibly three more pairs of cells beyond this one; that would indicate that the corridor was approximately forty to fifty paces long.
In fact - now that I thought about it - the length of this cell is about four paces, I hazily remembered being dragged down that corridor, and the doors to each cell were set about four paces apart. Which would indicate, that the walls between cells were either very thin, or that I was wrong and my cognitive skills were utterly degraded - leaving me with no option but to face the rope with as much bad grace as I could muster.
I struggled to recall whether or not my cell had been bolted when we arrived. My memory was extremely cloudy about this detail - maybe I’d passed out briefly.
I stopped thinking about it for a second, hoping to fool my consciousness into releasing the trapped memory.
I thought instead about all the stories that I’d heard about Bessenitz - in my line of work you tended to hear quite a few. I’d even met an ex-inmate - he’d spent six months in the Debtors’ Tower. His description of the cells had sounded pretty dreadful at the time, but nothing like this.
I think I could safely assume that I’d been imprisoned in one of the other towers, probably the one for condemned or insane men, it was called Lunar Tower I think.
I quickly ran through my entire repertoire of Bessenitz tales and was disconcerted to realise that not one of them was an escape story!
Now, was that door locked or unbolted when we arrived. Damn it, it was outrageous - I’d managed to recollect some pretty substantial information about this place, but I just couldn’t remember this minor, but vital, clue.
Ok, another supposition then - the door was unbolted when we reached it.
I cast an appraising eye over the iron handcuffs that, by now, were weighing heavily upon my raw wrists. The shackles were basically two roughly shaped blocks of iron, each end bludgeoned into a curve that fit snugly around my wrists. They were bolted together with a pin that had been filed down to remove any available purchase, and could only be removed with a punch or nail and a hammer; neither of which were immediately at my disposal.
I considered the slight gap between my wrist and the metal, and the embryo of an idea formed in my mind. I didn’t like it, but my options were certainly limited.
The space in the handcuffs was minimal, but hopefully it was enough. I gritted my teeth and began sawing at my left wrist with the serrated, imperfect edge of the iron cuff.
After a few seconds the pain subsided and became just a numb, throbbing ache - I could handle that.
I continued the self-mutilation for a few minutes, until the blood began to flow freely from my wrist. Then, working the viscous fluid around my hand and the metal shackles, I soon began to feel a significant lubrication.
Now for the painful bit.
I squeezed my thumb against my palm and began working my hand free of the restraints, the blood causing my hand to become slicker with each increase in pressure. It was not long before the knuckle of my thumb was grating against the cold iron cuffs and I pulled with all my strength. I grunted suddenly in pain as my thumb nearly dislocated, but my blood-soaked hand shot free of the shackle.
The pain was intense, but my euphoria even more so, and I swiftly turned my attention to the other immured hand.
My teeth chattered uncontrollably in the icy chill, but with a hand free I found it much easier to release my other from the shackles. No more than twenty minutes or so after I’d first come round, the handcuffs clattered to the floor and I fell back with a sigh of relief.
Gods but my back hurt; I’d been hunched forward and restrained by the manacles for so long now that even the icy, stone floor felt marvellous to lay down on.
I’m coming for you Baussen, you bastard, I thought, as I lay back and glared at the ceiling.
I allowed myself a brief moment for recuperation, and then I hauled myself back into a - now intensely painful - sitting position and surveyed the irons clamped around my ankles. They certainly looked horribly strong, and it was obvious that my previous trick with the handcuffs would be of little use this time.
The inch thick iron clasps were bolted around my ankles with metal pins that, as far as I could tell, were completely flush with the clasps themselves; without a punch and a large mallet I really couldn’t see how I’d remove them before next week, let alone tomorrow morning - whenever that was.
I thought for a moment.
The chain connecting the two leg irons was about half a pace long. I could shuffle out of here if I had to, so the problem was not removing the clamps themselves - it was removing the irons from the staple embedded to the floor, an altogether simpler task.
To achieve it, I used the handcuffs as a bar and slowly twisted the chain attaching me to the staple, as if it were a tourniquet. With surprisingly little effort, I’d soon stretched one of the links sufficiently to allow the leg irons to detach from the staple on the floor.
Free at last…after a fashion.
I climbed awkwardly to my feet. The abuse of the last few hours had left me severely impaired, and I gasped in pain as I hobbled around the tiny cell, trying desperately to get some warmth back into my body.
Right, and for my next trick…
Clutching the handcuffs, this time as a crowbar or hammer, I approached the rear wall of the cell. Time to see if my estimate was correct.
With a reasonably gentle, inquiring tap, I quickly surmised that the wall was indeed very thin. Elation. I couldn’t believe it.
I drew my arms back, ready to strike the wall with the iron cuffs as hard as my depleted strength would allow.
Would I be heard though? I had heard nothing from outside since I’d woken up. Would there be another prisoner in the cell behind mine? If so, would he be pleased to see me? Probably - an ally would be useful, but I was banking on the cell being empty - one of my many suppositions counted on it.
A loud crash reverberated around the cell as I slammed the shackles into the wall, the impact sending shockwaves up my arms, and gritty dust swirling into my face.
I scrutinised the damage; I had chipped the stonework significantly on my first hit - it was going to work.
I listened. Still there was no sound from either the corridor, or the next cell.
I struck again, then again, and then again.
A huge lump of masonry tumbled into a newly formed hole in the wall. Excitedly I peered inside.
Well, I was right about the ventilation slits; the cell walls were divided by a narrow air gap, which was fed by a constant stream of air from the slits carved into the stone walls of the tower.
Another exhilarating factor was that I could now see that it was night time; there should be no sudden unbolting of the cell door for at least a couple of hours.
I gratefully gulped down the fresh air that was now streaming into the room, even as I shuddered at the sudden wind chill that added to the already bitter conditions.
I smashed into the next cell’s wall with renewed vigour, and was quickly rewarded with a large hole appearing suddenly in the gloom. Another ten minutes' work, listening tensely after each stroke for any hint of investigation from my jailers, and I’d created a hole just large enough for me to crawl through into the next cell.
I dragged myself painfully through the gap, tearing my skin in places on the ragged masonry, and then dropped to the floor, relieved to note that the room was uninhabited and identical to my own.
Now then - was my cell door locked or unlocked when I first arrived?
I shuffled through the gloom to the cell door and felt around it for a purchase. Finding a large knot in the wood I stuck my finger inside and pulled the door towards me. I almost yelped with delight, as the thick wooden door swung gently inwards - it was unlocked!
Gathering the chains, still attached to my legs, I peered through the darkness into the corridor outside. I could detect no movement in the murky passage, and the silence was disturbed only by a constant drip of water - probably ice melting in the marginally increased temperature within the building.
I shuffled painfully out of the cell and gripped the chains tightly to reduce their rattling. Using the dull, flickering light from the stairwell as my reference, I hobbled down the corridor, listening intently for any sound of movement.
I reached the stairwell, and began to descend, slowly, very slowly.
I still had no idea of what to do once I’d reached the bottom. I couldn’t believe that the tower would be unguarded.
As I passed the fifth floor, I heard a muffled chorus of spine-chilling screams emanating from the corridor to my right. Some poor bugger was getting worked over right enough. Callously, I hoped that the perpetrators would maintain the torture just long enough for me to affect my escape; I didn’t need anyone coming down the stairs after me now.
After what seemed like an age of suffering, I reached the ground floor and peered cautiously around the corner. The huge candles were still flickering dimly, their jealous glow illuminating the corridor just enough for me to note its apparent emptiness. I could see the thick, wooden door that led to the courtyard outside, but I was disconcerted to note another doorway, to the right of the corridor, that I had failed to observe on the way in.
Suddenly, I heard muffled voices from the stairwell above, and the sound of booted feet stomping down the stone steps towards me.
Shit!
I shuffled as quickly as I could, heading for the entrance to the courtyard. If it was guarded outside, then I was done for - but with the voices rapidly getting nearer behind me, there was no time for caution now.
As I passed the doorway to my right, I glanced inside and saw that it was a dishevelled living quarter or barrack; a bed, a table, two stools. Then I was past it and hobbling as fast as I could, the sound of gruff voices and footsteps coming closer every second.
I reached the door and grasped the handle - no time to worry about what was on the other side; I lifted the latch and pushed.
Nothing happened…it was locked.
I heard the footsteps turn the last flight of steps, the voices were loud enough to hear clearly now.
“I told you before, Kail, aint I? Too much too soon and they pass out. It’ll be hours before the bastard's awake again. You got a lot to learn you 'ave.”
As the men - three of them - turned the corner I jumped up and extinguished the nearest candle with my fingers ignoring the sudden, fresh pain as the hallway near the door was plunged into darkness.
I crouched in the gloom and held my breath.
I recognised the men as the ones who had facilitated my incarceration. They continued their conversation as they clumped towards me - they hadn’t noticed!
I released my breath, slowly, as the jailers disappeared into the doorway to the right.
What now?
Listening to their grunted and inane conversation for a few minutes, I tried desperately to think of a plan.
The door to the courtyard was bolted shut, so that way was out of the question - unless I waited here, under the presumption that the three men would, sometime soon, fall asleep, allowing me to steal the key.
I was wary of relying on yet another assumption; I’d used too many so far and I was convinced that my luck couldn’t hold for much longer.
So what then? Think!
In my battered and fatigued state I knew that direct confrontation with the burly guards would, no doubt, end badly for me; so I disregarded that notion as soon as it occurred to me.
I replayed my dramatic internment through my mind, searching desperately for some clue - some item of apparently insignificant information that would help to facilitate my escape. I had missed the room on the right, as I was dragged through this corridor - what else had I missed.
I had been imprisoned on the ninth floor of the tower, but I realised that there was at least one more floor above that one - maybe I could find a way onto the roof. After that, I had no idea, but it was a start and I felt that any action was better than none at all.
My mind made up, I gathered the chains tightly to my chest, and crept forward gradually, heading back towards the steps. A small lantern on the table dimly lighted the jailers’ barrack room, and the illumination spilled, marginally, into the corridor; but a small gap remained in semi-darkness, so clinging to the shadows I inched past, desperately gripping the chains and praying fervently for them not to rattle.
Two of the jailers were sat at the table, guzzling some kind of noxious fluid from dirty skins, while the other man lay on the single cot, scratching at his armpit - no doubt chasing lice or fleas. Their conversation had shifted away from the intricacies of correctly applied torture, and they were now debating the relative merits of allowing whores into the prison - for their own usage, of course. Apparently, the Warden was a devout Shallya-worshipper who frowned upon such carnal activity - even as he encouraged the unrestrained brutality of his guards.
As I crept past, I scrutinised my jailers, etching their brutalised features into my mind - I’d carve them up one day…if I got out of this alive.
Reaching the steps without incident, I slowly began my ascent. The guards’ muffled voices grew fainter as I hobbled painfully upwards, gasping as I applied pressure to my cut and bruised feet.
I passed the ninth floor and thought briefly of going back for the handcuffs that I’d left in my cell - thinking that they may come in useful as a tool. But I disregarded the notion - I’d wasted too much time already and I had no idea of how close it was to morning.
There were two more flights of steps above the ninth floor, and I climbed them cautiously, listening intently for any hint of danger.
The corridor leading away from the eleventh and final floor was silent, and gloomier than the ones below. The passage was substantially wider than before, and I noted the absence of cells on this level.
Under closer scrutiny, it appeared to be a vast loft area. Huge, dusty cobwebs clung to me as I struggled forward into the darkness and I felt furry, disgruntled spiders nipping at my face before I brushed them away in disgust.
My eyes were sharp, and usually offered me flawless vision at night, but the further recesses of the large space were completely impenetrable to me. As I shuffled further into the gloom, I began to hear a strange clicking and scurrying sound, emanating from the shadows around me. My bare feet occasionally crunched over large, indefinable insects that released a wet, gooey substance as I crushed them in my wake.
I jumped as I stepped on something sharp and metallic; then, reaching down I felt a number of thick iron nails that had been dropped amongst the dust and detritus on the floor. They were large, about the length of my hand, and I picked one up, feeling it’s ragged, flaking tip - a weapon!
With my hand in front of my face I shuffled onward, cringing as the cobwebs became thicker and more numerous the further I progressed. The clicking and scuttling noises from the darker recesses of the chamber were gaining in volume and intensity as I neared the far wall, and I started to feel decidedly nervous.
I began to perceive small shapes flitting in the shadows and the cobwebs were becoming so abundant that they were now forming a physical barrier to my progression. I hacked at the ragged, sticky strands with the nail, and fought against the steadily mounting trepidation clutching at my heart. I couldn’t turn back now. I estimated that I had about ten more paces to go before I reached the room’s far wall so gritting my teeth I carved into the web and pressed on.
I managed two more steps before horror struck.
Out of the gloom, with horrible speed, a large black shape leapt at my head. I cried out, and swung wildly with the nail as a dark, hairy beast slammed into my face. Its thick, spiny legs gripped the back of my head and I felt sharp fangs rake at my forehead. My brain screamed in wild terror as I realised that the creature was a huge spider - as big as my head - with such an evil, malignant intent glaring in its multitude of alien eyes that I was frozen for a second with sheer paralysing fright. As I began to scream, a writhing, hairy leg forced its way into my mouth, and I bit down on it hard, feeling the crack of brittle cartilage and tasting foul, acidic blood as it flooded down my throat. The creature released a horrible, piercing screech, and it’s frenzied attack increased in intensity. I felt hot, burning saliva flood down my face as the spider tore into me, its snapping jaws raking at my tightly closed eyes. I grabbed at its hairy torso, feeling tough, pulsating sinew under my hand, and it gripped harder at the back of my head, struggling to maintain its purchase.
My mind snapped - the shocking attack seeming to release some dormant, primal instinct that manifested itself in a terrible rage. I was berserk, and afterwards could only dimly recall my actions, as I stabbed and tore at the monster with a snarling ferocity that bordered on pure insanity.
The red mist in front of my eyes receded as I slumped next to the mutilated remains of the huge spider, and I sobbed once in anguish and pain. The lacerations where the beast had bitten me felt like scalding burns already - the Gods alone knew what foul poison was now coursing through my veins.
I knelt for a while, and collected my shattered wits.
The first coherent thought I managed was a solemn oath, to whichever deity might listen, that I would find the Baussen brothers, and then slowly carve them into a thousand, screaming pieces.
After a time, I staggered to my feet and pushed onwards, past the still twitching carcass of the spider and through the tangling cobwebs. I was still aware of scuttling shapes flickering in and out of my peripheral vision, but the unnerving clicking sound had now receded to the furthest reaches of the chamber.
I felt nauseous, and the bite marks on my face were beginning to itch dreadfully. Through blurred vision, I detected a large wall about five paces to my front, and I lurched towards it until I stumbled against its damp, furry stone.
Not knowing what I expected to find, I began following the wall to the right, hugging its slimy surface and feeling for any discrepancy. After about ten shuffling steps, I detected if not a source of light, then perhaps a lessening of the claustrophobic darkness, in the form of a thin strip about a single pace wide on the chamber floor.
I reached the source and felt a tremor of excitement - it was the gap between the floor and the bottom of a door.
The door appeared incredibly ancient: its wooden panels were warped with age, and thick with dust and cobwebs; the iron strips that bound it together were almost rusted to nothing, and as I gave one of them a cursory tug it came away easily in my hand.
I tore weakly at the remaining strips, and then suddenly doubled over in pain, retching dryly as a terrible, sharp pain ripped through my gut. A wave of heat tore through my body and I felt beads of sweat suddenly burst onto my forehead, immediately nullifying the intense cold.
I collapsed.
Moaning softly, I curled into a ball as weird, coloured shapes began to dance and explode in front of my eyes. I closed my eyes but the patterns remained, and the painful nausea grew more intense as the muscles in my torso suddenly clenched tightly. A series of uncontrollable spasms racked my body and I lay there twitching spastically, until a burning, demented darkness descended and a loud roaring like some immense, crashing waterfall filled my ears.
Suddenly it stopped.
I lay there gasping for air, and shivered as the sweat covering my body rapidly reduced in temperature. But the pain had evaporated and my head was clear - well, as clear as it had been all night anyway.
I gingerly clambered to my feet, scarcely able to believe that that was the end of it. The only ill effects that I felt from the poison were the aching of my stomach muscles from the violent retching and spasms, but at the time the agony had been unbelievable.
Cautiously I stumbled back to the door.
I felt delirious with fatigue, and I belatedly realised that I had been suffering from a raging dehydration for some time now. That sudden recognition added desperation to my thirst and I slammed my body against the rotting, wooden door, feeling it crumple easily under my weight.
I tumbled out of the gloomy chamber, and onto a deep pile of drifting snow that was illuminated by the comparatively clear night sky. I grabbed a handful of snow and forced it into my arid mouth, the icy particles quickly numbing my raw throat.
After sating my thirst, I rolled weakly onto my back and gorged on the expansive, heavenly view of freedom that I had fought so hard to attain.
It took a moment or two for me to realise that I was not free at all; turning my head to the left, I gazed out, over the twinkling lights of the city, at a view offered to me by my elevated position on the rooftop of Bessenitz.
I stood looking down at the sheer walls of the prison’s northeast tower. My freedom lay some one hundred and fifty paces, straight down, into the tightly packed city streets below. I clenched my fists and sobbed with impotent anger; when weighed against everything I’d been through, the improvement of my situation was so minimal that I’d have been better served by remaining in my cell.
The splintered door had opened onto a faintly sloping walkway that circumnavigated the northeast tower. To the south and west there was a drop of some twenty paces onto the heavily spiked walls that connected this tower to its identical siblings.
After following the walkway a number of times, cringing in the icy wind, I could still perceive of no way to safely descend the tower to liberty. The icy walls were bereft of guttering or deep cracks, and to jump would be certain suicide; I was stranded and condemned to a freezing death that was no more appealing than the noose.
I would have to go back. I had no choice. Maybe I could kill the guards, with the nail, and take the keys - just walk out of the huge gates and skip away home. I laughed bitterly; more likely, in my dilapidated condition, I’d be bludgeoned to death or overpowered and locked up again until morning, this time with no hope of escape. Still, it was better to go out fighting I reckoned.
I gripped the nail tightly and turned away from the edge intending to stumble back to the doorway, but then stopped…
The nail!
An idea of such insane foolishness struck me that I actually laughed out loud. It was a ludicrous plan - so foolhardy and dangerous that I was immediately convinced of its ultimate success.
I shuffled back to the broken door, my newfound enthusiasm lending a burst of energy that a few seconds before had seemed impossible. Reaching the doorway, I hesitated briefly before entering - the spider’s horrific attack still fresh in my mind - and body. But, I forced myself onwards and entered again the stale gloom of the attic chamber. I shuffled warily through the dark; now somewhat lessened by the pale starlight streaming in through the doorway, and retraced my steps to where I’d found the nail. There were about half-a-dozen identical spikes strewn on the floor and I searched among them until I found the two sharpest and strongest. Then, I turned about and made my way back onto the roof.
Following the walkway, I considered the plan that I was about to implement; it was madness - indeed, I must be insane to even consider it, but the will to survive was a powerful fixation, and I prided myself on being a hard man to kill. The trauma of the last day had left me in a desperately weakened state physically, and I felt fatigued to a point way beyond mere exhaustion. But one last effort, I thought, one final push and then I would have defeated this place. And if I died trying - then so be it; at least I would have died in a manner of my own choosing, and not dancing on the end of a rope, then left for the vultures.
I reached a point in the walkway where the sheer drop led to the rear of the prison, and lay down, reaching as far as I could over the edge, with a nail clutched tightly in each hand. I felt the smooth bricks of the wall and detected where the masonry was separated by rough, sandy cement. Then, taking careful aim, I plunged the nail in my right hand hard into the small gap. The gritty sediment parted easily, and I drove the nail into the wall until about half of its length was imbedded. Then I tugged gently up and down - it held…but would it hold me?
There being only one way to find out, I gingerly lowered myself over the side, supporting my body with my left arm braced on the wall’s broad summit. I gripped the imbedded nail tightly with my right hand, and locked my arm into position as sudden vertigo caused tremors to shudder through my body.
Gods, but I was scared!
Slowly, I slipped my left arm down the rooftop, gradually transferring the weight onto my right arm and the nail driven precariously into the wall.
It held, but the pressure on my wrist was enormous. My strength, in proportion to my slight weight was, luckily, considerable, and I lowered my left arm until it was hanging down by my side, the second nail pointed towards the wall. I drew my arm back as far as I dared then stabbed brutally at the masonry at about waist height, grunting with the effort. The tip pierced the stone but failed to penetrate far enough to support my weight - I drew my arm back once more. This time my thrust forced the nail into the sandy cement, and I ground it in as far as I could, leaving about half of the spike showing, and then tested it gently - it seemed reasonably firm.
I locked my left arm and began unscrewing the first nail from its purchase, painfully aware of the biting southerly wind that, fortunately, drove me against the wall. The first nail slipped away from the stone, and I lowered myself slowly, muscles quivering with the effort, till I was hanging from my left hand.
Feeling gritty sand crumbling over my hand, I wasted no time in repeating the process, and drove the first nail again into the wall.
What followed seemed like a nightmare of timeless agony and fear. Endlessly, stabbing and lowering - the pressure on my tortured muscles never relented, and the burning pain becoming a perpetual factor in my very being. How long I spent descending that wall, I’ll never know. My mind became automaton, the endless physical process and cold, agonising fear the entirety of my universe. On and on I laboured, icy tears streaming constantly down my face; the deeply rooted, animal desire to cling to life, to survive, was my only function.
How many times I kept the nail rooted into the wall by sheer strength and will, I do not know. But, when at last my luck failed and I fell - too tired to scream - I dropped for only a few moments then landed softly into a deep bed of snow.
The southerly wind had forced a substantial drift of snow to collect at the base of the prison’s high walls; I lay there imbedded in a frozen cocoon of feathery snow and laughed until my voice cracked. I could feel a wonderful numbness seep through my exhausted body, as I lay there in the cold, fatigued beyond all imagining - but free!
I had scaled the great, sheer wall of Bessenitz, and in doing so achieved a feat that I have never heard repeated before or since - I had escaped!
Part III - Coming Soon.
