The Hogman's Homunculi and the Angelwing Massacre: Chapter Five!
Ever wanted to know the best way to distract a croak devil before it eats your baby gorts? Read on to find out! Clue: it's either tempting it with a baby or using interpretive dance.
We last saw our mysterious old amnesiac wandering out of Gallmore Wood in chapter two (I think), before being attacked by a mysterious assailant. Find out below what the fuck is going on. Trigger warnings for strangles, croak devils, skunts, tapeworms, overly fussy assassin’s guild Terms of Reference, suspected incest, child neglect, bruncle laziness, breakdancing, exposition-related in-joke.
Oh yeah, and someone buy my new novel, for fuck’s sake.
Chapter Five: The Old Man and the Skunt
The old man whirled with the attacker latched to his torso, the pair like drunken dance partners. He pirouetted with a nimbleness belying his age, shook as if in a palsy but the wretch clung on. Its hands were clamped about his throat, heels in the small of his back, as if it had fallen overboard on a wild ocean and the man were a passing lump of driftwood.
He was about to throw himself to the ground on his front to squash her, when he realised that the girl—for it was a girl of no more than twelve who attacked him—was doing him no harm whatsoever despite her best efforts. She reddened and gritted her teeth as she squeezed his muscular neck, but he breathed perfectly normally, breathing more easily than she was, in fact.
“Yoiks,” he said, “exhale child, afore thine ichor spills from yon lugholes. What be it ye hankers for?” He was taken aback realising he had spoken Low Denovian, the dialect of lowly underlings.
“To watch the light die in your eyes, skunt,” she hissed.
“Quell thy labours, little ‘un. A career in murder becometh not such a fairfaced little maiden, I trow. What ails thee?”
The wild light in her own eyes dimmed not one iota. “Express yourself in more eloquent terms, skunt, and patronise me not or your death will be a slow one.” Her accent betrayed good breeding, despite her wild hair and the ragged summer dress which looked ready to fall apart.
The amnesiac sighed and cleared his throat. High Denovian, then. It was not his native tongue, he realised, but he believed he was fluent enough. The pressure on his throat eased slightly.
“Alright youngling, alright. What be the matter with you? Why did you attack me?”
He was confident that if need be, he could subdue her physically. The thought gave him no pleasure but plucked a string within him; the concept of calming angry creatures was tantalisingly familiar, like a whiff of an old flame’s perfume.
She sighed and spoke to him in more conversational terms, though her hands remained in position.
“I wish to commit murder and you’re as good a victim as any. No offence, granddad.”
“Naught taken, but perhaps you could commit somewhere else, wee one, for I have places to be.” He resumed his walk towards the village of Hightail with the child still attached to him.
“Places to be? Look at you, you’re a hobo, lower than a skunt.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“If you must know, granddad, the mindless strangling of a serf or skunt is a prerequisite for full membership of the Order of the Dancing Blade. One of them anyway.”
“There be other prereckerzits to joining this order then?”
She licked a thumb, momentarily moving the other hand to his shoulder, and vigorously wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead like a publican removing a stain from a glass. Her hands returned to his throat.
“Oh yes. Full membership of the Order will only be considered if at least one of the following heinous murders is completed by the applicant to the satisfaction of the Order’s Applications Subcommittee. One: mindless strangling of a serf of skunt. Applicant must witness light of life extinguishing in victim’s eyes. Two: murder of a serf or skunt by lingering poison. Period between first symptoms and full brain death must be at least forty-six minutes. Three: murder of a serf or skunt by wizard’s sleeve.[1] Four: killing of a serf or skunt by crossbow from a distance of at least one hundred yards. Bolt must penetrate a vital organ or genitalia, and death must occur within three minutes of penetration.”
“Sounds like this order of yours has a dim view of serfs and skunts.”
“Oh, not at all,” she said brightly, giving his throat a friendly squeeze. “The Order are champions of the common man. But killing anyone more notable than a serf or skunt is beyond the skill of an applicant. Such a highly skilled assassin would likely be working freelance already.” The corners of her mouth turned downwards, making her appear even younger. “I’m only an honorary member of the Order at the moment, just a mascot really, but I’m going to prove myself. That’s why I need to kill you.”
“Must you, really?”
“Well, there are other ways to join actually, one doesn’t have to commit murder, strictly speaking. But I want to impress Lord Silverbirch when he returns.”
“Lord what what?”
Her brow creased in pitying disdain. “Don’t know much, do you? Lord Silverbirch was the hero of the Weaselhead Rebellion and countless other uprisings and righteous causes. They say he has lost his memory and wanders the land as a vagabond but will return and unite the guilds against the forces of tyranny.”
The man digested this information as they crested a rise. The cobbled road gave way to a steep downward stretch of hardpan, lined by trees either side. He slowed his gait to keep his balance over the gravel, placing his unseen feet with care. A thin mist blanketed the lower ground ahead, and the blue curve of Hypnos peeked above the darkening hills.
Before long, a ramshackle cart slowed as it passed them, pulled along by a couple of sullen shirehogs. The bed of the cart was filled to the brim with shite.
“Hail and well met, both,” the cart driver said atonally, peering at them. He yanked on the reigns and slowed the cart to a crawl. A shirehog farted and the girl laughed nasally, for she was holding her nose against the stink. “Yon skunt be troubling ye, wee miss? Merrily would I run the fiend through with yonder pitchfork if it would liberate thee.” The man reached behind himself to retrieve the pitchfork and waved it around in the air a bit.
“Out of my sight, yokel,” the girl commanded, still holding her nose, “and take your stinking cart with you. My friend and I are parleying before I murder him.”
The man stared for a moment then shook his head. “Ho!” he bellowed at the animals and accelerated away down the track, muttering to himself. “This generation…swear down bruv for reals.”
The amnesiac resumed walking, pulled out his flask of water and drank.
“My I have some?” the girl asked. He assented, pouring water into her mouth while she maintained her grip on his throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You were talking about Lord Silverbirch.”
“Ah yes. The Gliesans call him the Thorn, for he is a thorn in their side, but the empire is no fan of him either because he stands fast against tyranny in all its forms. Some believe he is a wandering amnesiac, others a puppet master who controls all the criminal guilds from the shadows. Humanity First, the Muskovites, the Tea Leafs’ Guild, all of them. Some people say he never existed at all. Those people are fools.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, though the movement was awkward because of her half-hearted throttlement of him. “And what do you believe, er…what’s your name?”
“Harryarna. Call me Harry. I believe the amnesiac theory. If there were a hidden puppet master controlling the guilds, they would be a bit more ruddy organised, one would imagine.”
The man gently plucked the girl from his body and set her on the ground. She said nothing of it and continued her enthused prattling beside him. “Now, Silverbirch will be recognised upon his return by four things: his shock of silvery hair, a bit like yours in fact, his uncanny ability to tame the wild beasts of the land, the besting of mighty human enemies, and the instinctive adoration of his disciples.”
“I see.”
They were quiet for a while until she said, “We’ll be at Hightail before long. Gods, I’m hungry.” An extended pause and a big sigh for one so small. “I really do have to kill you, you know. You’re not a bad sort, really, so I’ll make it quick.”
“Right. You said mayhap ye would not have to strictly murderise to join Order of the Dancing Blade, did ye not?”
“High Denovian, please. But yes. There are other ways but not as good.” She took a big breath and recited from memory. “In lieu of murder, the applicant may commit three or more of the following misdemeanours for consideration by the Applications Subcommittee. One: stealing the helmet of a member of the Queen’s Guard and pissing in it. Two: stealing and brandishing a duke’s ceremonial truncheon or a stealing and donning a Duchess’s undergarments to comedic effect. Three: maiming or poison-induced spastication of a freeman. Four: taming a demon of the Demon Highway.[2] Five: pushing a packhog off a cliff.”
“Now hold on just a minute—”
“I didn’t write the rules. Six: hallucinogenic poisoning of a village well. Seven: daubing ODB in letters at least three feet tall on the walls of the Grand Kastal. Finally, eight: referring a friend to the Order of the Dancing Blade. Note this will only be considered valid evidence upon the referee’s successful completion of the six-month probationary period. The decision of the Applications Subcommittee is final.”
“This Order might be more trouble than it’s worth, I trow.”
She stopped and turned to jab a finger in his chest. “How dare you decry the Order in such a manner, skunt? Who do you think you are? Wait. Actually, who are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I can’t remember nothin’ before I stumbled out of Gallmore Wood, I swear it.”
Her anger was forgotten in the face of such a mystery. “Gosh, really? You don’t know where you’re from or anything?”
“Not an inklement.”
“Gosh. Well, you’re obviously not a Gliesan so you’re not from Daeryuk or Tairiku. We humans live here on Cartreffi, although the Gliesans have got an exclave here called Dareun.”
“I’m definitely human, I know that much.”
They ascended onto windswept open plains and along a high ridge where the track was reduced to a rocky trail which threatened to turn their ankles, then back down into a lightly wooded valley where the odd farm was dotted about. Along the way she regaled the poor amnesiac with facts and figures about the world of Lemuria: history, culture, biology, on and on in excruciating detail. He learned of currencies, signature foods of the various duchies, architectural fashions, weather patterns, wars, constitutional matters, topography, idioms, clothing, folk tales, taboos, music, festivals, beliefs and legal matters. He was mighty impressed by the breadth of her knowledge and pedagogical energy, but by the time they neared Hightail, his eyelids were as heavy as his feet.
A scream from somewhere ahead snatched him back to full awareness. They looked at each other then broke into a run to find the source.
Near a hectic tin shack a little herd of baby gorts was cornered against a drystone wall by a huge croak devil.[3] The fluffy gorts bleated piteously and their fragile legs shook in terror. One or two made abortive attempts to flee, but the predator matched their every move, dancing side to side as if performing a jig to fiddle music. It was toying with them, enjoying itself.
A skinny old woman jabbed and swiped at the beast with a broom to no effect. “Away with ye, merdivorous hellbender,” she roared, the volume of her cry belying her wizened frame, “appease thy cravings elsewhere or nary a scrap of hide will evade my cauldron!” She whacked the animal with all the force her shrivelled arms could muster but it ignored her completely.
Faster than human eyes could comprehend, the croak devil’s sticky tongue shot out and a baby gort simply disappeared. It was like a magic trick.
“Magnificent beast,” whispered the amnesiac.
There was nothing wrong with the crone’s hearing, for she whirled in their direction. “Skunt, child, assist in the redeeming of mine gorts or kindly fugg off!” She spat on the ground, turned and hammered on the wall of the tin shack. “Gadriiic!”
“It’s a bit rich her calling you a skunt, if you ask me,” Harry said.
A hatch opened halfway up the tin wall and the filthy visage of a child of indeterminate sex appeared. “What mam?” it said.
“Fetch the baby.”
Gadric’s face disappeared, then two little arms emerged from the hole, clutching a wailing baby, also of indeterminate sex.
The woman snatched up the infant and brandished it before the croak devil. “Mind me now, hellbender. A nice juicy babe would assuage thee, I trow.” She swayed the baby around as if using it to paint a large invisible wall. She had caught the monster’s attention. It turned to her, the gorts forgotten, saucer eyes were locked on the baby.
“Ah,” the old woman crooned hideously, “beguiled by mine savoury little ‘un, are ye? Fetch!”
With no further ado, the woman hurled the child in the general direction of the road. The croak devil sprang towards with mouth agape and the babe was gone.
“Flee, gorts! Into thy shed!” the woman shouted. To her horror, the traumatised animals remained frozen in place and the unsated predator stalked back towards them. The woman emitted a wordless bellow of frustration and a small metal thing which may have been a primitive chimney clattered from the shack’s roof.
“Back woman,” the amnesiac said, “cease thy useless antagonism.” The man approached the croak devil slowly but in a fluid gait, making no sudden movements. It turned to him and hunched low as if to spring and let go a hiss of warning.
The man raised a palm to it and continued his approach until he could have reached out and touched it. He had no idea what to do next, for by means fair or foul his memories had been locked somewhere within him, but profound skills stood fast in an unbreachable redoubt of his mind. They came to the fore now.
“High,” he whispered, a finger held aloft. Then louder. “High high high.”
The beast shuffled on its six feet and grumbled, uncertain now. It swiped a paw at him and dodged like a martial artist.
“Ha haaah!” the man shouted and performed a series of enthusiastic star jumps. The croak devil growled, opened its maw and displayed the sticky mass of its lethal tongue. The man’s performance continued regardless; he adopted a mannequin stance and gyrated his arms and legs in a stiff robotic dance. He turned to face the beast side-on and moved his feet with mesmerisic smoothness to give the impression of walking forward while actually moving in the opposite direction. The eyes of the beast followed and it whined and retreated to squat on its rear and middle haunches.
The amnesiac took off his jerkin and whirled it about his head and spun around on the spot, hooting and whooping.
The croak devil whined and cocked its head to one side, eyes darting. The man’s performance continued until eventually, the predator gave a hoarse bark and lay on its side, head arched back to expose the massive throat.
The amnesiac calmly put his jerkin back on, approached and kneeled before the subdued animal. “Hush now, lady. Peace.” He tickled the pallid throat, with just a finger at first, gradually increasing the force until he was kneading it with his knuckles like a huge lump of living dough. The beast whined, made a bleating gurgling noise from deep inside itself, and heaved. The gort and the baby were spewed out almost as quickly as they had gone in, bathed in thin yellow stuff. They were both unharmed, for the gort skipped away to its fellows and the baby squealed in outrage.
“Be off now,” the man murmured, and the croak devil obediently got to its feet and stalked away.
Harry patted the amnesiac on the back =and grinned up at him. “Well done, mystery man, you showed that rotter.” Her eyes grew wide then as a thought struck her, and she stared after him as he picked retrieved the baby and it handed it to its mother.
“Tend better to thy babe, old woman,” he told the woman sternly. “Thou wouldst tempt yon beastie with thine own blood and flesh?”
The woman flung up a dismissive hand. “Old woman? I’m twenty-eight if I’m a day, and I’ll take no lectures from a Herbert such as thee.[4] I would fain lose a babe than a gort. Yon gorts be mine livelihood, babes is a burden what demands milk and gives nowt in return.” She banged on the shack again. “Gadric, rouse thy bruncle for his supper.”
Godric’s face appeared in the hole again. “But ma, little Jethro’s got a big worm hanging out ‘is bum.”
“Pull it out and add it to yon cooking pot then, moron.”
She turned to Harry and the man and performed what may have been the most sarcastic curtsey ever performed in all Lemuria. Without a word, she opened a door in the shack and disappeared inside.
Harry shrugged and grabbed a carrot from a pile on a tree stump beside the shack. She rubbed against it against her thigh, crunched a piece off and began to chew. “Well—” she said, but was cut off by a cry of pain from the man.
He doubled over, clutching his abdomen, his face contorted in pain.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Have ye poisoned me, missy?” the man managed between shallow gasps. He bent over with his hands on his thighs.
“No, I haven’t figured out how I’m going to kill you yet. Want some water?”
“Nay, nay. I’ll be fine, just tarry a smidgen…”
The cramping was worse than the first time back near Gallmore Wood, and the nausea which followed was more prolonged. He wretched and spat a yellow gob into the dirt. He remained stopped over for time, groaning and hissing, until eventually straightening gingerly.
Harry looked up him up and down. “Are you sick?”
He wiped his mouth. “No idea, little ‘un. Could be the wasting disease for all I know. Can’t remember nowt can I?” He’d not intended the comment to come out so harshly and he softened his tone. “Don’t mind me, I’m a mean old gort, I’ll be fine.”
She faced him with a serious expression pinching her little features. “Well I hope you’re feeling better. You’re very brave, you know.” She took his hands in hers and examined them closely, the tough callouses, the scars and abrasions, the knuckles like the knots of an ancient tree. “Lord Silverbirch was a simple farmer, before circumstance forced him to fight for justice.”
She looked into his eyes and a decision was made.
“Balls to Hightail, granddad, to the lair of the Dancing Blade!”
[1] Wizard’s sleeve is a large carnivorous plant. A large, fleshy tube sits atop a stumpy trunk. The plant gives off the rank odour of carrion, which attracts scavengers to enter the tube. At that point, the tube contracts and the prey is slowly digested.
[2] The Demon Highway is the remains of a colossal expressway left by the lost native rulers of Lemuria, the Brodorion. The highway is populated by demons, which were recently discovered to be the small semi-domesticated felids familiar to the homes of Old Earth. The highway leads directly to the Forgotten City, a conurbation beneath a vast dome, now populated solely by robots.
[3] A hippo-sized predatory amphibian, native to Lemuria. While superficially resembling the frogs and toads of Old Earth, particularly the large vocal sac, bulbous eyes and wide mouth, the croak devil is a warm-blooded creature, capable of rapid locomotion by means of six digitigrade legs.
[4] Herbert is a derogatory term for a skunt with ideas above his or her station.
One of the few things on Substack I forced my wife to read, too. Funny as hell.