Father of Monstrosity

Veks heard the battle taking place three districts away, and though the whispers warned him not to go, he went to investigate, as he knew from the direction that it was happening near the Boy’s lair.

He wondered if it was lingering gratitude that drove him or some other unidentified desire, but whatever the cause, he gave in to his curiosity.

While he had expected something pretty devastating to be the cause of the cacophony of destruction, he had not expected to find half of Market West totally destroyed, three of its four bridges collapsed, and the remaining one being so congested with people that guards could only watch from afar, while buildings were toppled and earthquakes shook the city for kilometres.

It had been a mistake. The biggest mistake of his entire career as a Fleshcrafter.

Holm and his bone construct were gone, reduced to dust and imperceptible fragments. The Residential District, particularly the area near his first laboratorium, was a devastated crater, his well-disguised bakery servants there surely gone too, and all but the outermost buildings in the northern section of Market West was a ruin that seemed as though the aftermath of a years-long siege.

“Who do you think is winning?” Veks asked.

The Thief found them on the rooftop of a tall house in Breadbasket where Heskel had brought Jakob before his hideout was caved in.

“Mercilla,” Jakob replied without a doubt. “She’s a Viscountess of Voracity, while Raleigh is simply a Squire-Lord of Devastation.”

“The tiny red one is …”

“Raleigh.”

“Gotcha. Looks to me to be putting up quite a fight, honestly.”

Veks was observing the mayhem through the telescope he had stolen from Jakob after he had been remade, and which Jakob himself had stolen from a fisherman.

“He is not weak, but—”

“Mercilla is impervious.”

“Exactly.”

“That blob-thing is the Viscountess-lady?”

“Yes.”

“And you made the body?”

“Yes.”

“And basically gave it to a super-powerful Demonette, because the contract that was supposed to make her subservient was interrupted?”

Jakob let out of vent of spent air in frustration.

“Sorry, boss. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.”

“I had no other option. He wanted the tomes.”

“Raleigh did?”

“No, my Grandfather. He sent Raleigh here.”

“Your…? Wait, is he the Underking?”

Heskel grunted disapprovingly.

“He hates that title,” Jakob explained.

By late evening, the people who had been able had fled from the district into Breadbasket and beyond, the majority hiding-out in Westgate, while the guards there struggled to maintain order amongst the thousands of displaced citizens.

With the only entryway into Market West cleared of people, the Adventurers’ Guild sent in many of their heavy-hitters to try to kill the two warring demons, or at the very least weaken their vessels, while Royal Guardsmen cordoned off the district. The Guild was to no avail however, and lost twelve of their highest-ranking mages within an hour, before the rest retreated.

A little after midnight, the destruction and unceasing fight came to an abrupt conclusion, and there was an eerie quiet blanketing Market West and its neighbouring districts.

Hoping to find both demons dead or catch the victor during a moment of weakness, the Guild sent in another team of mages, alongside a large unit of guardsmen. Not a single one of the people who entered were ever seen again.

“So… what now, boss?” Veks asked contemplatively.

“You are no longer beholden to me. Do as you wish.”

“Eh, I tried it on for a bit, but freedom is a bit boring, truth be told. With you, it seems life will continue to be entertaining, plus, I burnt through the coins you gave me.”

“Are you not a thief? Steal whatever you desire.”

“You don’t get it, boss.”

“I suppose I do not. Then, to answer your question, we head towards Market North. The richer districts will be more difficult to blend into, but I want to get into the Adventurers’ Guild. With that many mages at their beck-and-call, they will have knowledge that I can put to better use than their limited imaginations would ever consider.”

Veks looked at the satchel within which was the few items that Heskel had managed to save from the decimation of the lab. None of it was worth anything to him.

“Of all the things to save, you picked nothing that can persuade the guards to look away, just dusty books, flower seeds, and some random tools…”

“Considering the haste with which he had to gather the items, I believe he did quite well.”

Heskel grunted in annoyance. He was not used to running from a fight, but, then again, he probably did not stand much of a chance against two demons settling millennia-old grudges.

“And the flasks of that blood I found for you?”

Jakob clicked his tongue in frustration. The sound ominous, like the crack of a bone, thanks to his mask.

Veks took this rather well, but, then again, he had skimmed some off the top of the amphorae and was holding the Demon’s Blood in a safe place, wondering what sort of reward it might fetch him from the Fleshcrafter, if he just ‘happened’ to find it for him when he needed it most.

“So, how do we cross the gate-bridges?”

“We will figure something out,” Jakob assured him.

They continued walking through Smogtown for a bit, then Veks suddenly stopped.

“I have an idea!”

In a way, it was disturbing how easily the Boy agreed to his plan, as he had expected some pushback. He was strangely naïve, while also callous and cold, but then, he was so very young, and given who his paternal role-model was… perhaps it was no odd thing he had turned out this way.

Wearing the stolen Magister’s robe that he had looted from the Demonologist, Veks walked in front of Jakob and Heskel, as though the latter two were his strange-looking personal assistant and monstrous guard.

What surprised the Thief most, was that his hare-brained plan actually worked perfectly, as the guards seemed to respectfully allow the trio passage without even checking their identities or credentials, at least not until they reach the Haven district, two districts over from Market North. It seemed Magisters from the Mage Quarter were scrutinised quite diligently by the clergy of Haven, one of the areas of Helmsgarten dedicated to the worship of the Eight Saint.

They looked on as a Magister held up the queue of people passing across the gate-bridge into Haven, while four guards in white robes over silvery chainmail searched the man’s belongings, paying particular attention to what sort of books he was transporting.

“Should we risk it?” Veks asked in Chthonic, to keep the people nearby from turning them over to the guards.

“We can simply kill them and pass through.”

“I don’t think angering the Church of the Eight Saint is a wise move. You wanted to stay inconspicuous, hence this,” he replied, indicating his ridiculous robes with the hood that made it barely possible to see and the sleeves that were so over-long that he had to roll them up to his elbows just to be able to use his hands.

Heskel nodded, surprisingly agreeing to Veks’ advice.

Seeing the Wight also advocate for subterfuge, made Jakob relent his impatient approach. “Very well, we move around. It may be a short detour, but if you say that is the wisest choice, I shall listen to your advice.”

Veks was unsure why, but the acknowledgement made him feel proud, even though a kid who was at least four years his junior had been the one to give him praise.

After breaking away from the rapidly-lengthening queue to Haven, they went east through the Meat Market, Helmsgarten’s most well-known slave district. It was a bit off-putting how much the Boy was talking about the slaves and their features, as though he was a farmer looking to breed the optimal cattle or a butcher trying to precure the best slices of meat. It took a special sort of callous disregard for human life to view people in such a manner, but Veks found himself nodding along, as though he too shared the opinions, while the voice telling him it was insanity grew quieter-and-quieter.

When the gate-bridge leading north to the Jewel district came into view, a beautiful woman ran screaming out in front of them. She clutched Veks by his robes, pleading with him to save her.

Without any prompting from the Boy, he already knew enough to see that the runaway slave was no fit subject for the Fleshcrafter’s machinations. With his clawed right hand, he gripped the woman by her throat and lifted her off of him. Her pleading immediately froze in her lungs when she got a peek at his face, before he tossed her aside, and the trio moved on.

“You could have kept her, if you fancied,” Jakob told him.

“She wasn’t my type,” Veks simply replied. “Besides, you need subjects who are taller and naturally athletic, right?”

“Indeed.”

From the opulent Jewel district, they passed north again through the beautifully-maintained Park of Delights, where blossoming trees and flowers lined the many quaint pathways.

From the Park they headed west, reaching the Noble Quarter, where the colourful aristocracy flaunted their wealth in public and frolicked in cafés. There was an abundance of slaves here, but, despite their humiliating circumstances, they looked well-fed and content, unlike the poor sods in Market West, who had all been in some state of impoverishment and often were the possessions of violent people.

Unlike Veks, who almost drooled at the abundant wealth on display, Jakob had no interest in the noble-born, as they were generally out-of-shape and overweight from a life of excess and indulgence. Apparently, he had heard from his Grandfather that proud people were more difficult to turn with the demonic Ritual of Abeyance, as a quirk of the spell was that the Invoker actually had to be at a higher stature than the person they wished to enslave, and getting an aristocrat to view him as someone to be respected seemed a pointless waste of time. It seemed he would rather stick to the easily-bought-and-easily-forgotten slaves, whose very nature was to be subservient.

The Thief was weighed down by the many shiny trinkets, rings, coinpurses, and necklaces he had stolen by the time they reached the gate-bridge to Market North, but he kept up the ruse of the Magister-in-a-hurry that had gotten them across every checkpoint thus far, even though the guards seemed uninterested in even checking the aristocrats who passed back-and-forth. They likely did not believe there could be any danger in this part of Helmsgarten, doubtlessly because of their proximity to the clergy and their Holy Guard Corps based in Haven next-door, not to mention the Adventurers’ Guild whose headquarters lay three districts over.

Market North was akin to West, but with many significant upgrades. The cobblestones were even and laid with care. The weeds were contained, and trees and long lanes of grass separated the pedestrian footpaths from the central road that ferried goods on horse-drawn wagons. The district was almost just one long street with shops, with a few specialist stores like a horse accessorist, a barber, a hair salon, and a vacant-looking apothecary.

The filth river that flowed through all the southern sector was a clean rapid-flowing stream in these parts, the actual effluvia and refuse kept underground in tunnels that connected to the river in the lower districts of Helmsgarten.

As they walked through the main thoroughfare, alleyways hinted of reclusive backroads that would be good for their clandestine activities.

They had only just passed by the Apothecary when a woman ran out of the door, calling after them.

“Magister! Magister!”

It took Veks a moment to realise that he was the ‘Magister’, but then he stopped to allow the woman to catch up to them.

“Magister Hargraves! I am terribly sorry I did not notice your arrival.”

“No harm done,” he said, allowing his voice to fall a few octaves, as he imagined someone with such an imposing name ought to have a deep tone.

“That pleases me greatly!” The woman was very enthusiastic, and not a little bit frightened by his presence and his entourage, but Veks gathered this was a normal response to Magisters in Helmsgarten. “I cannot express how delighted we were to hear that you wanted to take over the Apothecary after Saemuel went to Haven to join the clergy.”

“I assume the payment has already found its way to you?” Veks asked, seizing the opportunity presented to them. The Boy seemed to humour him, so it was worth trying out. And an Apothecary could get away with a lot of otherwise-suspect activities. Like hiding a cannibal in a mortuary.

“Certainly! It arrived a fortnight ago. We have finished preparing the boxes you sent along with the payment, and you should find the bed- and bathroom to your exact specifications.”

“Excellent. And for my companions?”

“I am very sorry, Magister, we were not informed you were bringing anyone else. Last we heard was that you were held up due to some mess in the Mage Quarter.”

“I see,” Veks replied, then improvised, “my latest missive must’ve been lost passing through Market West. I decided to bring a bodyguard and my assistant.”

The lady nodded eagerly, clearly she saw this as good news. Veks guessed that Market North and its neighbouring districts suffered from a shortage of apothecaries and doctors.

“This here is…” he started, pointing at the boy.

The Boy put the palm of his stitched-flesh glove to his chest, the vile ‘fabric’ supple like a sponge and the indent made by his fingers slow to bounce back to its normal state. Even having thought himself grown-used-to-it, Veks could not keep his gorge from rising. “My name is Jakob. I am a Flesh—”

“He’s a surgeon,” Veks quickly interrupted the Boy, before he threw their fortuitousness to the wind.

“And your guard?” the lady asked, taking a frightened step back when the monstrosity settled its masked gaze on her.

“That is my construct, Heskel. He is mute.” He guessed it was common knowledge that Magisters possessed magical beings as their servants, at least, he had often heard such said about them while employed under Toby in Market West.

The Wight grunted something that was quite possibly a warning that the Thief was overstepping his bounds, but he seemed cognisant enough to play along like his Ward.

“Do you have a basement?” Jakob asked the lady.

“We do, but it is kept as storage space.”

Before the boy could explain that he needed a place to dismember people in quiet, Veks replied, “His work is very sensitive to the weather, and often comes with certain smells that would offend the denizens of the district, I’m sure.”

“I see, I will have my servants clear out room for you.”

“Very good,” Veks replied, feeling as though he had a handle on the situation again. “May we have a look?”

“Of course!”

The Apothecary was a two-storey, with a basement and an attic, which, when compared to the Thieves’ Den was quite an upgrade. The façade was an artful amalgam of stone and wood, with metal bars curled into fanciful patterns as window-shutters to prevent break-ins. It had a backdoor that led to a closed courtyard behind the building and an alleyway beyond its wooden walls. The basement had stairs leading down to it both inside the house, as well as in the courtyard, which seemed to please the Boy quite a lot.

The main floor was the shop, where rows of tall shelves stood stacked with herbs, powdered medicine, dried meats, and things in jars. The shop also featured a counter, a small backroom for private consultations and treatments, as well as display cases.

It seemed that whoever ‘Hargraves’ was, he was a Magister quite proficient in alchemy and medicine-making, given the countless plants, hard pills, and powdered drugs the lady claimed he had sent them ahead of his arrival. Many of the items came with labels, written in Novarocian, Llemanian, Octef, and Heimlish. After all, the nobles often spoke at least two, three and sometimes even four languages fluently, and Market North also catered to foreign nobles quite often as well.

The language of Octef was the only one that Veks had seen before, but he was aware of the other two and their alphabets, though he only knew that they were the languages of the neighbouring nation-states: Lleman and Heimdale.

Octef, as its name implied, was the language spoken by the Clergy of the Eight Saint, who was worshipped across all of the continent, according to their sermons at least. Having never left the confines of the metropolis, Veks had no way of knowing whether this was propaganda or fact.

“Do you know how to read these?” he whispered to Jakob, when the lady, who had sold Hargraves the Apothecary, was busy ordering her sweaty-and-tired-looking servants to clear out space in the basement.

“Of course,” the Boy replied. “Do you want me to teach them to you?”

Veks considered it for a moment, but then shook his head, the hood of his robe momentarily blinding him as it shifted around. After correcting it, he replied, “I can barely read Novarocian, so you’d just be wasting your time.”

“But you speak Chthonic fluently?” he replied, his voice not betraying suspicion, but merely straight-forward inquisitiveness.

“I don’t know when I learnt it,” Veks replied, realising they were having their conversation in the foreign tongue.

“It took me three years of daily intensive study to master it, and I still learn new things every day, but you wield Chthonic like a natural-born.”

Before the Boy could dig any deeper into the mystery, the lady called them over to follow her upstairs.

The upstairs had a fancy bathroom, with a type of toilet Veks had never seen before, with a pipe that went through the building and straight to the sewers underground, and a bath that was hooked up to running water through similar, albeit thinner, pipes. Below the bath was a compartment for starting a fire to heat up the water within the large tub.

The bedroom held one enormous bed, the size of a dining table for eight, and with two stacked mattresses, a stainless and intact sheet, a duvet filled with pillowy feathers, a top blanket to make it look neat when not in use, and three large pillows.

When the lady asked, “I hope it is to your standards,” Veks almost replied that he had never before seen such luxury, even on his spending-spree with the hundreds of Novarins he had received from the young Fleshcrafter.

After clearing his throat, he replied haughtily, “It will suffice.”

The lady seemed to tense up at the implied insufficiency, but then Jakob changed the subject.

“I will go prepare the laboratorium.”

Veks nodded, but the lady quickly reprimanded the Boy, “Is that any way to address your Master!?”

The Thief froze, as though he was about to witness Jakob’s tail unfurl and pulp the lady against the fine wooden wall of his new bedroom, but, to his surprise, the Boy bowed his head and said elegantly.

“Magister, if you will allow my leave.”

With a dismissive gesture, he sent him on his way, wondering if he would be punished later and sweat dripping down the inside of his stolen robe.

“These creatures are quite amusing,” Jakob remarked after they had killed the two servants in the basement and were busy setting up the various workstations they needed, not to mention clearing ample room for ritual circles on the floor. “So easily swayed to believe falsehoods.”

“They are as automatons, following prepared plans.”

Jakob considered the Wight’s words carefully, wondering if he was quoting something he had never himself heard Grandfather say, or if they were words of wisdom he had come up with. The latter made him somewhat uncomfortable, as it indicated quite a lot of autonomous thought, but then again, the Wight had already acted against his Creator, so perhaps he had evolved beyond his original design. It was simultaneously an enticing and worrying prospect, as Jakob, like any Fleshcrafter, feared his creations turning on him despite the many safeguards that should prevent such a thing in the first place. It was however quite possible that Heskel had disobeyed his Creator by also obeying his initial command to protect his heir, after all, letting Raleigh ‘play’ with Jakob would go against Heskel’s directive.

Jakob took off his scent-mask, letting the coppery tang of the dead men in the corner wash over him, inhaling it slowly as though he was savouring the scent of a flower.

“I need to know that Grandfather won’t find this place.”

“His eyes see far.”

“Then help me blur their vision or hide us from his burning gaze. He will not relent until he has the tomes in his hands.”

Heskel seemed conflicted for a moment, and rightly so, given what he was asking of him, but then he nodded slowly.

With the blood of their recent victims, the Wight began painting hideous runes on the walls; runes so awful that Jakob felt his gaze naturally wander when he tried to focus on them, as though they were the sun and staring directly would burn his retinas.

After about ten minutes, Veks came skipping down the stairs.

“Have you seen—?” his gaze wandered across the room, his eyes twitching as he beheld the symbols, before it settled on the two bodies stacked on-top of each other near some empty crates.

With a sigh, the Thief-turned-Magister wandered back up the stairs, his prior enthusiasm suddenly deflated.

“It seems they already left out the courtyard,” Jakob overheard Veks inform the lady above.

“We will need to soundproof this place,” he told the Wight.