A small cell. Rope and bed, table and chair. Ingiz drowsily scrubbed on her hands and knees. The bucket's water was pink with bone, blood, nervous tissue. Bim's nervous tissue.
A mother shouldn't be asked to beat her own son. A mother shouldn't be asked to kill her own son. A mother shouldn't be asked to clean up the stains afterward. She scrubbed. The loam was almost yellow again.
Ingiz cocked her head, halted in mid-stroke. She thought she could hear something. She listened carefully. Nothing. Silence.
Then the north door slammed open, nearly ripping from its frame. Ingiz's hair whipped in the sudden fierce gale. The bed lifted from the floor, spun around her, slammed against the ceiling, slammed again, and shattered.
The wind was gone as suddenly as it had come. Wood chips littered the floor she had just cleaned. The space that had been under the bed was curiously dusty. Ingiz's dull eyes drooped. She wrung out her brush in the bucket's grisly solution. Where her brush scrubbed at the dirt, it left a trail of carrion, filthier than the dust it replaced.
When she was done, she rose with bright fresh eyes. How had she been ignorant of it for so long? How could she have tolerated it for so long? How could anyone else stand it? Everywhere. Lanterndark was squalid, grotesque. The walls dripped with gore and vomit. She wouldn't sleep until it was done, even if that took forever, and it might. She peeled off her foul wet robe and returned to her hands and knees. "Filth. Scrub away the filth. Make it clean." She laughed and wrung out her brush again. "Scrub away all of the beautiful filth."
* * *
The bridge retracted with barely a squeak. Before Tosid, the northeast gate was raised; behind him, the black blocks of the iron road shimmered with heat.
Three iron arrows lay in the trench under the bridge, yes, as well as four morningstars, six breastplates, and sundry refuse. The transfer hadn't been as simple as Tosid had anticipated. If he could figure it out, more iron than this would soon litter this trench. Iron, and blood, and bone.
But it wasn't working. The iron ramps were covered with the fine dust, but the dog chained under the bridge was covered only in the goblin blood that it had brought there. More than six months running around in the dust unaffected. The mongrel had whined the whole time. Tosid couldn't figure it out. Was it the ramps, the mud? That hadn't stopped Ingish from dying. Was it because they were constructed? Was it because the dust was diluted from the buckets of water Tosid had used to transfer it to the ditch? Was it some combination of factors? Tosid cursed and spat.
"We'll be managing it from here." A rough voice, gravelly, not one that Tosid recognized.
Tosid spun. He hadn't noticed the five dwarves approaching along the iron road. They'd either moved quickly while Tosid had inspected the bench, or they'd snuck up on him, which was impossible. The five were clothed finely, their decorated cloaks smooth, woven recently. The one in front wore a mask fashioned from the skull of a minotaur. That one stepped forward and spoke again. "You are no longer required on this project, Tosid Tithlethonol Istiktadar."
* * *
The office was magnificent. Sterling silver weapon rack, armor stand, chair and table. An exceptional sterling silver statue of herself being appointed expedition leader stood behind the throne. The throne itself was only of marble, but it wasn't just any marble throne-- it was Tabarosod, the Faithful Bone. It was an office fit for a goddess. Kol ran her fingers across the throne's menacing marble spikes.
Above, the builders were laying the steel ceiling over her future bedroom. She could hear them working. The tower was almost complete, would be by the end of winter. The iron road and the marble road were finished already. The willow road would take more time. Willow wasn't indigenous to the Tragic Fields.
The hatch cover slammed into the marble floor, interrupting Kol's thoughts. It was never locked, but the dwarves of Lanterndark knew better than to enter without knocking. Five dwarves climbed up the steel stairwell, armed and armored from Lanterndark's aresenal, but Kol didn't recognize any of them. The tallest wore a horned bone mask and carried Veilbrush. Where Veilbrush touched the ceiling, it etched the ceiling with a disturbingly discordant sound.
Kol gathered her wits and smoothed her skirts but remained standing. "You must excuse me! It has been so long since we've been blessed with migrants. If I had known, I would have greeted you at the gate. I see you've already helped yourself to our hospitality? Excellent."
The dwarf in the mask stepped forward and sat across from Kol. This informality made her uncomfortable. With four standing, she was uncertain of protocol, but she eased herself into her throne hesitantly.
"I'm Zasit Rigothroder." The dwarf's voice echoed behind his mask. "We're here for the queen. The queen of the Mechanisms of Wetting."
"I'm sorry? There is no queen."
The five dwarves didn't answer. Ten dull eyes stared at Kol.
"Do you mean me? Am I the queen now?"
The masked dwarf leaned forward, laying Veilbrush on the table. "Are you the queen?"
"I'm-- I'm the Duchess."
Zasit rose. "We're here for the queen. The queen of Lanterndark." The five dwarves filed down out of Kol's office. Zasit was the last. He didn't even close the hatch cover as he went.
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Topic: Project: Most Dragon (Read 14774 times)