Scant lighting crept through a lone doorway, hinting at the contents of a room as dust drifted in lulling encore. A chair propped against the back wall supported a figure rendered imperceptible by the shadows whose eyes glinted in the dark when they cracked open. Hollow knocks agitated the once drowsy ambience rousing the watchmen from their stupor, repeating in a set pattern until it was drowned out by a scraping noise that vibrated the very marrow of one’s being. The floor reluctantly split apart, revealing a staircase that lost itself to the maw of the void. A masked individual stepped out, hoisting a limp body atop his shoulder that seemed to be of inconsequential hindrance to himself.
“Were there any problems while capturing the target,” the onlooker queried without the slightest movement.
“There was an accident with one of the chi-fiends, but I took care of it,” the kidnapper replied, back turned to his questioner.
“And what about the other?”
The man grunted as if he needn’t be asked such a question. “I took care of it,” he growled.
“Just making sure, can never be too careful these days.” The watchman said, showing no signs of offence. “Make haste, our lord been waiting all day, and you know how much he despises tardiness.”
The man left immediately, without even uttering a word of thanks to his compatriot. Murky radiance stemming from sparsely placed lamps did nothing to slow his pace, even at the behest of the jiggling body he carried. His destination was marked by a wide door, defended by another guard much the same way as the last. Their exchange was short, it had to be, the door sliding open, allowing his entry.
Shadows congealed around him as soon as he stepped beyond the boundary, and the sole desk glowing amid the darkness fooled the eyes into taking this for a space encompassing infinity. He knew better than that to believe something so easily deceived, focusing on the ground beneath instead, steadying his nerves. With a renewed mind, he waited for his presence to be acknowledged. The silence was deafening, one he sorely wished would come to an end, as odd as that sounded.
“Bring him to me,” a voice echoed, shaking him free of quietude’s duress. He knew not to speak in compliance; the lord was mole-born after all. Doing his utmost to remain silent, he walked to the desk that appeared intent on remaining beyond his reach. After what felt like a disproportionate amount of time, he stood before the table and carefully offloaded his cargo, resting them on the cold hard floor. He watched with unease as the ground writhed, encasing the captive in a layer of earth that seized control over their body, standing them upright. The man fumbled in his pockets, taking out a small bottle he uncapped and brought under the captive’s nose, who enlivened almost immediately.
“Leave.” The man couldn’t have asked for anything better, retreating with a bowed head to the exit. Outside, he exhaled, an unseen weight lifted off his slumping shoulders. He departed, feeling slightly sorry for the boy who would soon come face to face with his worst nightmare. One way or another, The Buzzard always got their pound of flesh.
.
.
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The being brushed by death sat, unmoving, atrophied pupils darting back and forth, observing the stirring captive. Sǫlmundr groaned as he returned to the land of the living, roving through the blackness that clung to all things present. His eye’s widened in horror when they finally adjusted, spotting a wight right from the depths of the Hel, greed palpable in its gaze. It sported a widening grin drawing pleasure from the boy, who thrashed and squirmed in his stone coffin, crying for help. None would answer his pleas, something Sǫl clued in on quite quickly yet didn’t cease till a crushing force willed it so, squeezing the life out of him.
“Apologies, my hearing is a bit… sensitive,” the creature winced in a mocking tone. “I assure you I harbour no ill will, though drastic measures had to be taken on account of the extenuating circumstances.” It adjusted the nearby lamp shutter, exposing more of its flame, brightening the surroundings by a margin.
The new illumination unveiled the full extent of their features. Skin as white as chalk yet possessing the pulse of life made up the base palette for a man long in years. His hair was of a similar colour, if not slightly more yellow, sand and dirt clumped in otherwise unruly locks. Two opaque eyes housing a pinkish centre glowed in the sub-light, something Sǫl found unsettling, to say the least. He had an elongated face accompanied by a narrow nose and thin lips. It came as no surprise how he was mistaken for an unearthly apparition.
“That should help you above dwellers.” His smile was crooked and unsavoury and did little to appease the boy’s runaway mind that threatened to break free from its cage once more.
“Why,” was all the child managed to murmur when his constraints loosened—just enough to talk and not break free—swallowing copious mouthfuls of air. His question was not so much for his captor as it was for himself. Why was his life fraught with hurdles and thorns not of his own doing?
The ghost’s cackle came out as more of a throaty wheeze than a genuine laugh, setting the hairs on Sǫl’s neck upright. “First timers never fail to amuse me! But firstly, introductions!” He shot up, leaning over the desk separating the two till the boy could tell apart the strands of whitened hairs cascading off his opponent’s scalp. “Hailing from the Third Hollow. Fourth of the line of Augnlaus The Unperceived! Valdarr, The Buroughlord Of Carrion!”
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Silence pervaded the room as the kidnapper ended his grandstanding, waiting for the obligatory gasps of shock and awe he was used to. His brows scrunched together when no sweet words, dipped in praise, alighted his ears. The boy had not strayed from his initial poise in the slightest, the revelation causing some confusion for the proclaimer. “Have you by any chance never heard of me?” he said, pushing down the shame he now knew.
“O-Of course I do, Lord Valdarr!” Sǫl fibbed, donning the best persona he could under the trying conditions.
Valdarr’s face fell, sinking back into his seat. “If you did, you would also know I have a knack for separating truth from lie.” The low light cast orange streaks across the raven-haired boy who kept mum after he was outed with such ease. “Whatever, can’t expect a highborn pup to know the ways of the world. Now, who might you be?” Disgruntled, Valdarr retook his seat, entwining his hands before his face.
“Urm.” Sǫl was understandably confused, had this all been one big mistake? What would occur if he wasn’t the person they wanted? Without any other choice, he spoke, “Sǫlmundr Illugason of House Illugi. Warrior… seedling.” The ambient tension turned awkward when Valdarr began nodding his head like an eager student at the feet of their teacher.
“Good, good. Manners are what separates us from beasts. Never forget it, pup.” He was bereft of his previous flamboyant aura, swapped with a cold, calculating calm that synergised with his appearance. “As you might have guessed by my appearance, I am Mole Whistler, born and bred in the depths of Mother Vigrid. We make our living by selling goods across the three strongholds of the valley, so we are, in truth, merchants by trade despite the stories you may have heard. Each city is separated into sections for easier management, and those in charge are called—”
“Buroughlords,” the boy finished, earning another nod from the man himself.
“Correct. You must be wondering where a karl outcast of no real worth comes into play in the grand scheme of things, so let me explain. Business has been hard as of late, as the hunting hounds are upping their patrols and undertaking stricter investigations. This has made it harder for us to get product to our sellers, which reduces the items we sell, reducing the money we make, and inconveniencing me.” Sǫl swallowed. The simmering aura pointed at him promising to turn him to smooth paste at the first sign of resistance.
“While the unrest in our fair city is stoked beyond its boundaries on the orders of bruised egos and misers in way over their head, everyone knows where it began. You.” His bony finger jabbed at Sǫl as if to emphasise the voracity of the claim.
“You were the spark that set things in motion, things that threaten to destroy my business. Thankfully, there is a simple solution to the problem. Expansion. I intend to expand into the other districts to compensate for the deficit. I like to think of myself as an honourable man, you know, spare the weak and all that, but there comes a time when you can’t do it without inflicting a wound upon yourself, and I have no desire to fall on the sword just because the guilty is a few years too young. Do I make myself clear,” he seethed to the boy’s frantic compliance.
“I need someone willing to fence my goods to the local community, and it just so happens your father’s family home is the perfect candidate. A floundering business that sits on the boundary separating the thralls and karls couldn’t be any more perfect. That’s where you come in. I want you to convince them of this venture. I don’t care how; I just want it done.” Valdarr waited for the boy’s response, listening to his heartbeat.
Sǫl mulled over the proposal, finding it impossible to accomplish under the current arrangement. “If I might politely say, it’s going to be hard to convince anyone of anything without offering something in return.” He felt the stone prison around his contract in annoyance before letting up.
“Right you are, and while I will happily kidnap a child to do my dirty work, I am not without honour. They will be able to pocket two-fifths of all profits, double my usual rate, and make personal requests for goods that I will see to if it is within my power.”
“And is there some kind of contract that needs to be signed orrr,” the boy drawled.
Valdarr denied any such guarantee, explaining, “The nature of our dealings relies on trust and word of mouth rather than formal writ. I know neither you nor they have any reason to believe my words, yet I swear that you will find the underworld a more trustworthy ally than the closest of kin and most loyal vassals in time. I only ask that you give us a chance to prove it.”
“If that’s the case, why use me instead of a messenger? I have lost favour in their eyes ever since the incident.” Revealing that he was not as competent as it initially seemed had its downsides, but he had to give himself an out on the highly probable outcome that he failed to fulfil the objective. Rather than coming off as someone who could guarantee success, it was safer to lower the crime lord’s expectations of him in the long term. Besides, if he did succeed, it would be seen as a greater achievement than if it was an assured outcome.
“You owe me, as simple as that. Did you think you could steal from me and not expect someone to come knocking?” Valdarr hissed, the shackles around the boy tightening to the emotions of their creator. “When that worm Kraki told me he had lost two earthbound weapons to a child no less, I was prepared to bury him alive, but his story piqued my interest. Scheming, manipulation and blackmail? I couldn’t have done it any better in a similar situation. Then you spit in the face of the whole karl community without a care for the consequences. That was one of the greatest scenes I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying!”
“It was at that moment I decided to make you mine. I have never been a man of waste, and I have no intention to start now. Take this as your first assignment of sorts. I have high hopes for our newfound relationship!”
Sǫl was in a daze, feeling like a snared animal whose fate was to end up in a bubbling broth. The dismantling of the stone jacket that bound him did nothing to appease his worries, nor did the cheerful goodbye of Valdarr wishing his safe return to the Illugi mansion. Not even a worried Esja managed to move him as he lay on his bed, fiddling with his previously prized weapons, bladed edge at his fingertips.
“They took my money,” he said, taking in the view of a starry valley from the ajar window, cursing the fraudulent land spirit under his breath.