A preview of 'Greenstone and Ironwood' - Copyright, Luke Webster, 2007
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to the basement was not advertised. It took much hunting and questions
for the way to be revealed. It was the sociopathic Fred that offered
the way. Dead had to wind his way through the mazelike rooms that beset
the keep, minding his step past crazed lunatics and threatening dead
eyed starers.
They found a guard standing before a heavy chained door, a constant grin on his face.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a high-pitched chortle.
“I’m on a mission from the king.”
“Then you must know the password,” tittered the guard. Ghost took a closer look at the man, there was an odd light in his eyes, too wide and unstill. He leaned on a rusty bar that doubled as a weapon. The most disturbing feature was the stump at his groin where a penis would have once hung.
“He’s not wearing a cloak,” Ghost realised, “he mustn’t be part of the king’s guard.” Dead understood.
“Tell me who has the key,” he demanded, “before I splinter your skull.”
The crazed man’s lips rose in a deprived smile. He leaned forward.
“Then splinter it,” he whispered with a chuckle.
Dead didn’t object, slamming a wide fist into the man’s skull, sending him sprawling through the mould-addled ground. He lay spread out, unmoving.
“That was quick,” Ghost noted, unable to take his eyes from the withered stump that prodded outwards, “though you didn’t find out about the key.” His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of snapping metal, Dead tearing the chains from the door with little effort.
“You can be efficient when you need to be.”
The basement was dark, a rare bulb still existing to hum out its last light. Dead stumbled in the darkness, knocking over discarded waste. He was sloshing through dark puddles, each step greeted with a splash. It was quiet, the screams and ravings of the main keep left behind, only the ominous drip of pipes and the occasional distant scrape of metal to be heard.
“This has to be a joke,” Ghost commentated, “We’re not going to find anyone alive down here.”
Dead wanted to agree with him. He was experiencing an odd feeling, not fear, but a discomforting sensation.
“This is a place where dead people come to die,” he stated.
“Let’s turn back then.”
Dead shook his head, he needed to press on, as if his promise meant something. He had sworn to fulfil the oath and that did not slip from his memory like so many thoughts. It was an anchor in his mind, something to retain when all else was forgotten. He knew he could not abandon the pledge.
They spent a long time sludging through the pit, hopping from one light source to the next distant one, missing rooms and corridors that hid in the dark recesses between them. They were being led, unknowing, to their fate.
The scrape of metal became louder as they pressed forward, the shriek cutting through the silence and echoing past them. Ghost wanted to retreat, to forget about the mission, but he was linked to Dead. For someone that had already passed over he was displaying an impressive amount of fear.
Dead fell, his feet caught in a metal chain discarded at one stage. He looked at it though the dimness, noting the heavy shackles at the each end. The pair looked at each other without answer.
A rounded corner saw a strong light ahead. They progressed, each minding to be quiet. The scrape came again, near on top of them. There was a large chamber ahead, the light coaxing them forward. More shackles hung overhead along the corridor, their chains brushing Dead’s clagged hair as he passed.
They entered the chamber, lit by several bulbs stationed around the walls. Several naked bodies hung from shackles welded to the ceiling, pieces of flesh and organs removed. Ghost did not speak, the horrors of before did not match. A hemp sack hung from one anchor, a steady beat of gore dripping out. Around the room there were corpses impaled on rusty poles embedded in the cracked stone floor, the figures contorted as they writhed to death.
The fear that Ghost felt came from the energy in the room, he was in tune with it to an extent. As the spirits had passed over in anguish and despair they left an aftertaste, like bitter fruit, that Ghost could taste in the back of his mind. Dead sensed something too, unsure of his own emotions. The mutilated corpses and rotting meat triggering memories inside his own brain.
A steady rasping followed them as a figure stepped out from their corridor, a blade dragged along rusted pipes.
“You don’t like it, do you?” came a sadistic voice. Both turned. Before them stood a naked, bloated man covered in filth. Dried blooded congealed over his genitals and thighs with streaks slashing his chest. His right arm was a stump at the elbow, the hand replaced with a spike, its end sharpened to a crude blade.
“You Louise?” asked Dead in his expressionless tone. The fat man laughed, spitting phlegm.
“So, the crippled king sent you,” he wiped his chin with his remaining backhand, “there is no Louise I’m afraid.”
“Shit,” cursed Ghost.
“Who are you then?” Dead asked, finding a strange interest in the man.
“People don’t ask me my name,” he admitted, “and I don’t tell them.” He stepped forward, frustrated by the lack of emotion. “I’m the king’s lapdog, so to speak. He likes to send me scraps. That’d be you.” Another step.
“You can’t kill me,” Dead told him, “I don’t live.” The fatman laughed, a bellow that wept with more spittle.
“I know,” he grinned, “no one does.” He moved with unexpected speed, the spike thrusting forward, its sharp point burying deep into Dead’s round belly. There was a gush, yellow liquid erupting from the wound and spewing forth in a jet. Dead felt instant release as the liquid emptied from him, a colony of maggots leaving their host. It came out strong, blinding the fatman whose single hand tried to shield the rotting stream.
“Kill him,” Ghost ordered, snapping Dead from his second of relief. Dead complied, barrelling into the man and pinning him down. There was a struggle as they fought to kill each other. Dead stood, grabbing the spike in stern hands, his foot pressed on the other man’s chest. There was a yell of agony as the weapon came away, sucking out flesh and bone that had formed to the metal.
Dead hovered over the cowering man, his remaining arm pressed to the stump to slow the gush of liquid. Dead wanted to say something cruel or witty, to mark his final moment with torment befitting the man, an honour to a psychopath. But there was nothing. His mind had failed again. Frustrated by his own inability, Dead roared, ramming the spike down onto the weakened man’s skull. It struck the forehead, scraping along the bone and down the side of his head, pinning the ear to the stone floor.
“Do it properly,” the murdered growled, assigned to death, a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dead did, the spear didn’t bounce the second time, again on the forehead. The metal pierced skull and then brain, causing wild convulsions that knocked Dead over. He watched the twitching from the ground, still seeping fluid and maggots himself.
“Dead, open yourself up,” Ghost told him. Dead looked surprised and confused. “You’re rotting from the inside. I thought it was happening before, now I’m sure. Your body isn’t using its organs so they’re rotting. They need to be removed.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Dead didn’t like the idea. The scars from the last time he was opened still unhealed.
“Use that pole you planted in that crazy arsehole’s head.”
Dead tried to remove the spike, held in by suction, the brain holding to it. He put weight on the spear but the head moved with it. Next he pulled the whole head back then slammed it down, trying to crack open the skull. Three times he was unsuccessful.
“Hold his head still with your foot,” Ghost suggested, feeling strange to be giving advice on weapon removal from a corpse. Dead followed the advice, planting a foot over a gaping chin and trying to force the weapon free. It still held. He forced his foot hard up against the metal and leant down on the spike, using his force as a leverage point. Veins bulged in his neck as he rested his whole force on it. There was a crack and the spike flew out along with fragments of skull.
“That was harder than it looked,” Ghost admitted. Dead looked at him with angry eyes as if to point out that he had done all the work.
“Time to open yourself up,” Ghost continued, oblivious.
Dead struggled with the spike, holding it with wet hands as he tried to saw himself open. Starting with the pre-made hole, he cut upwards for near an hour, his arms heavy from fatigue. He had opened a hole large enough to get both hands in. Ghost ordered him into the light and peered inside, trying not to be sick.
“You need to take everything out,” he gasped, returning upright.
“Everything?”
“Yeah, it’s all rotted, lungs, guts, heart. You’re a maggot farm. Remove it all.”
Dead looked worried but paid faith in his companion. With clumsy hands he worked on tearing out his innards, the rotting organs coming away with enough force. They collected in a heap, at home in the chamber of remains.
They found a guard standing before a heavy chained door, a constant grin on his face.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a high-pitched chortle.
“I’m on a mission from the king.”
“Then you must know the password,” tittered the guard. Ghost took a closer look at the man, there was an odd light in his eyes, too wide and unstill. He leaned on a rusty bar that doubled as a weapon. The most disturbing feature was the stump at his groin where a penis would have once hung.
“He’s not wearing a cloak,” Ghost realised, “he mustn’t be part of the king’s guard.” Dead understood.
“Tell me who has the key,” he demanded, “before I splinter your skull.”
The crazed man’s lips rose in a deprived smile. He leaned forward.
“Then splinter it,” he whispered with a chuckle.
Dead didn’t object, slamming a wide fist into the man’s skull, sending him sprawling through the mould-addled ground. He lay spread out, unmoving.
“That was quick,” Ghost noted, unable to take his eyes from the withered stump that prodded outwards, “though you didn’t find out about the key.” His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of snapping metal, Dead tearing the chains from the door with little effort.
“You can be efficient when you need to be.”
The basement was dark, a rare bulb still existing to hum out its last light. Dead stumbled in the darkness, knocking over discarded waste. He was sloshing through dark puddles, each step greeted with a splash. It was quiet, the screams and ravings of the main keep left behind, only the ominous drip of pipes and the occasional distant scrape of metal to be heard.
“This has to be a joke,” Ghost commentated, “We’re not going to find anyone alive down here.”
Dead wanted to agree with him. He was experiencing an odd feeling, not fear, but a discomforting sensation.
“This is a place where dead people come to die,” he stated.
“Let’s turn back then.”
Dead shook his head, he needed to press on, as if his promise meant something. He had sworn to fulfil the oath and that did not slip from his memory like so many thoughts. It was an anchor in his mind, something to retain when all else was forgotten. He knew he could not abandon the pledge.
They spent a long time sludging through the pit, hopping from one light source to the next distant one, missing rooms and corridors that hid in the dark recesses between them. They were being led, unknowing, to their fate.
The scrape of metal became louder as they pressed forward, the shriek cutting through the silence and echoing past them. Ghost wanted to retreat, to forget about the mission, but he was linked to Dead. For someone that had already passed over he was displaying an impressive amount of fear.
Dead fell, his feet caught in a metal chain discarded at one stage. He looked at it though the dimness, noting the heavy shackles at the each end. The pair looked at each other without answer.
A rounded corner saw a strong light ahead. They progressed, each minding to be quiet. The scrape came again, near on top of them. There was a large chamber ahead, the light coaxing them forward. More shackles hung overhead along the corridor, their chains brushing Dead’s clagged hair as he passed.
They entered the chamber, lit by several bulbs stationed around the walls. Several naked bodies hung from shackles welded to the ceiling, pieces of flesh and organs removed. Ghost did not speak, the horrors of before did not match. A hemp sack hung from one anchor, a steady beat of gore dripping out. Around the room there were corpses impaled on rusty poles embedded in the cracked stone floor, the figures contorted as they writhed to death.
The fear that Ghost felt came from the energy in the room, he was in tune with it to an extent. As the spirits had passed over in anguish and despair they left an aftertaste, like bitter fruit, that Ghost could taste in the back of his mind. Dead sensed something too, unsure of his own emotions. The mutilated corpses and rotting meat triggering memories inside his own brain.
A steady rasping followed them as a figure stepped out from their corridor, a blade dragged along rusted pipes.
“You don’t like it, do you?” came a sadistic voice. Both turned. Before them stood a naked, bloated man covered in filth. Dried blooded congealed over his genitals and thighs with streaks slashing his chest. His right arm was a stump at the elbow, the hand replaced with a spike, its end sharpened to a crude blade.
“You Louise?” asked Dead in his expressionless tone. The fat man laughed, spitting phlegm.
“So, the crippled king sent you,” he wiped his chin with his remaining backhand, “there is no Louise I’m afraid.”
“Shit,” cursed Ghost.
“Who are you then?” Dead asked, finding a strange interest in the man.
“People don’t ask me my name,” he admitted, “and I don’t tell them.” He stepped forward, frustrated by the lack of emotion. “I’m the king’s lapdog, so to speak. He likes to send me scraps. That’d be you.” Another step.
“You can’t kill me,” Dead told him, “I don’t live.” The fatman laughed, a bellow that wept with more spittle.
“I know,” he grinned, “no one does.” He moved with unexpected speed, the spike thrusting forward, its sharp point burying deep into Dead’s round belly. There was a gush, yellow liquid erupting from the wound and spewing forth in a jet. Dead felt instant release as the liquid emptied from him, a colony of maggots leaving their host. It came out strong, blinding the fatman whose single hand tried to shield the rotting stream.
“Kill him,” Ghost ordered, snapping Dead from his second of relief. Dead complied, barrelling into the man and pinning him down. There was a struggle as they fought to kill each other. Dead stood, grabbing the spike in stern hands, his foot pressed on the other man’s chest. There was a yell of agony as the weapon came away, sucking out flesh and bone that had formed to the metal.
Dead hovered over the cowering man, his remaining arm pressed to the stump to slow the gush of liquid. Dead wanted to say something cruel or witty, to mark his final moment with torment befitting the man, an honour to a psychopath. But there was nothing. His mind had failed again. Frustrated by his own inability, Dead roared, ramming the spike down onto the weakened man’s skull. It struck the forehead, scraping along the bone and down the side of his head, pinning the ear to the stone floor.
“Do it properly,” the murdered growled, assigned to death, a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dead did, the spear didn’t bounce the second time, again on the forehead. The metal pierced skull and then brain, causing wild convulsions that knocked Dead over. He watched the twitching from the ground, still seeping fluid and maggots himself.
“Dead, open yourself up,” Ghost told him. Dead looked surprised and confused. “You’re rotting from the inside. I thought it was happening before, now I’m sure. Your body isn’t using its organs so they’re rotting. They need to be removed.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Dead didn’t like the idea. The scars from the last time he was opened still unhealed.
“Use that pole you planted in that crazy arsehole’s head.”
Dead tried to remove the spike, held in by suction, the brain holding to it. He put weight on the spear but the head moved with it. Next he pulled the whole head back then slammed it down, trying to crack open the skull. Three times he was unsuccessful.
“Hold his head still with your foot,” Ghost suggested, feeling strange to be giving advice on weapon removal from a corpse. Dead followed the advice, planting a foot over a gaping chin and trying to force the weapon free. It still held. He forced his foot hard up against the metal and leant down on the spike, using his force as a leverage point. Veins bulged in his neck as he rested his whole force on it. There was a crack and the spike flew out along with fragments of skull.
“That was harder than it looked,” Ghost admitted. Dead looked at him with angry eyes as if to point out that he had done all the work.
“Time to open yourself up,” Ghost continued, oblivious.
Dead struggled with the spike, holding it with wet hands as he tried to saw himself open. Starting with the pre-made hole, he cut upwards for near an hour, his arms heavy from fatigue. He had opened a hole large enough to get both hands in. Ghost ordered him into the light and peered inside, trying not to be sick.
“You need to take everything out,” he gasped, returning upright.
“Everything?”
“Yeah, it’s all rotted, lungs, guts, heart. You’re a maggot farm. Remove it all.”
Dead looked worried but paid faith in his companion. With clumsy hands he worked on tearing out his innards, the rotting organs coming away with enough force. They collected in a heap, at home in the chamber of remains.
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Greenstone and Ironwood is a dramatic fantasy novel set in an
industrialised world. Follow the mystery of a dead man as he tries to
piece together his past. Witness the crumble of the state as murder and
intrigue tear a city apart in an original and fascinating
setting.
To subsribe to the story and receive an email notification when it is released then all you need to do is click here.