Darkfall: Shadows of the Deep, page 6
He stopped. That’s too much. In his excitement, the Crimson Lord had gotten carried away. Now he worried he’d sounded too eager, too outlandish, and had pushed her away again. However, the furrow on Assandra’s brow looked to be one of deep contemplation.
‘I can offer you freedom, Assandra,’ the Crimson Lord said. ‘I swear it on my life.’
Then he waited. The wytch stared down at the ground. He could almost see her mind working, mulling over his offer and weighing the risks. Eventually, she looked up.
‘I’ll go with you,’ she said. ‘But I make no promises. I’ll listen and see what you have to show me. If I’m not impressed, you’ll never see me again. Ever. And if I get even the slightest feeling this is a trap, I’ll kill you. It will be drawn out and painful. I swear it.’
Another smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘One final thing,’ the wytch went on. ‘I want to see you. Drop the hood and show me who you are.’
The Crimson Lord had expected this. He knew trying to talk his way out of it would ruin any fragile trust he had built. But would she recognise him? It had been a long time, and his face and body carried a lot of heavy scars and disfigurements now—none of which he had the last time he’d seen Assandra. Perhaps they would be enough to fool her.
He lifted his hands to the hood. ‘That is fair,’ he said. ‘What you see may shock you. However, I urge you to remember what I told you, because it’s all true, regardless of who you see under the hood.’ The Crimson Lord then pulled down the covering.
She recoiled at first, clearly surprised at his scarred appearance. It was a common reaction, and he’d grown used to it. Then she narrowed her eyes and leaned her head forward, taking in more of the details.
Her face then fell in surprised recognition. He held his breath. It took Assandra a while to speak. ‘That… that’s impossible! You’re dead!’
‘No,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘Though your sister did come very close to killing me.’
Assandra shook her head. ‘F… Father?’ she asked, breathless.
He nodded.
CHAPTER TEN
‘You’re asking me what the next step needs to be?’ Jack asked, confused.
‘I’m asking for your opinion, yes,’ Max said. ‘While you’re here with me, you might as well make yourself useful.’
Jack cocked an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t this your field of expertise? Are you really going to take strategic advice from a Deathborn?’
Max smiled. ‘Just humour me. If the suggestion is no good, I’ll be sure to tell you.’
Jack scratched at his head, feeling a little blindsided. After taking a breath, he tried to think it through logically, vocalising his thought process as it developed. ‘Well, we need to find out more about this Skivington company. And I don’t think walking in through the front door is a good idea.’
‘I agree,’ Max said.
‘So… we ask around. Some of the locals will know about it, and we can hopefully find out a little more that way. Maybe we can learn how big they are, how they operate, that kind of thing.’
‘Very good,’ Max said. ‘So, who do we ask? Do we just walk out to the street and stop random passersby?’
It was clear Max was being sarcastic. Jack ignored it, however, and continued on: ‘It makes sense to find somewhere a lot of locals would gather to talk. Preferably somewhere liquor is served, so inhibitions are lower.’
‘That makes a lot of sense. So, you’re suggesting we pay a visit to a public house to see what we can find out?’
‘Exactly.’
Max gave him an encouraging pat on the arm. ‘As good a place as any to begin. Tell me, can you hold your liquor?’
‘I used to be able to,’ Jack replied. ‘But I haven’t done a lot of drinking over the last few years.’
‘Then go slowly,’ Max told him. ‘I don’t want to have to carry you back here.’
‘We’re going now?’ Jack asked. ‘It’s only noon. Do you think people will be drinking this early?’
Max gave a laugh. ‘Jack, this is a town of fishermen. They fish, eat, sleep… and drink. If the pubs are open, we’ll find people inside. Come on, we’ll have a walk around town to try to find somewhere suitable. I’d ideally like a place a little farther away from the Skivington warehouse, so it isn’t full of their workers. I don’t want to be noticed asking questions about them.’
And so, with a plan formed, the two men left the doss house and wandered the streets of Whitby. Jack had travelled to many towns and villages in his time, but he hadn’t frequented too many on the coast, and Whitby certainly had a distinct feel to it. For one, the great abbey that stood atop the high cliffs to the east side of the town was an ever-present feature, looking down over the settlement and visible from most places. Brick and stone buildings were mixed together almost haphazardly throughout the town, with steps in the many terraces, which were the predominant construction form. Narrow alleyways cut through the lines of buildings, and the roads and pathways were a winding maze up and down the undulating land.
The two men moved over the bridge to the east side of town. As they crossed, Jack looked over the edge and watched one of the smaller sailing vessels glide under the archway beneath him.
They pushed deeper into the town, then turned left to head up a relatively busy cobbled street with houses and shops on either side. The shops there had large windows that showcased some of the goods inside, including places for clothes, jewellery, food, and books. Eventually, the space opened out into a square, and central to that square stood an interesting stone structure held up on pillars at its corners, and an enclosed, spiral staircase in the middle, which gave access to the internal space upstairs. A small clocktower protruded from the roof. After moving into the square, which contained market stalls, Jack was able to see the front of the building. There was a large window with three arches at the head looking out over the square. A plaque on one of the pillars identified the building as the town hall.
The busy market around them had some small stalls serving food, the majority of which was—unsurprisingly—seafood, meaning the smell of fish and other sea creatures hung heavy in the salty air. Looking around, Jack saw there was a small pub nestled in a corner. He was about to suggest they try it, but then Max caught the arm of a man passing by.
‘Excuse me,’ Max said, and the fellow who was passing turned with a surprised expression. ‘What’s the best public house around here to get good and soused in?’
‘Duke of York might suit your needs,’ the man replied. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Carry on up Church Street. It’s near the steps that lead up to the abbey.’ He gestured back to the narrow road that Jack and Max had previously been navigating.
‘Thank you,’ Max said, ‘much appreciated.’
With the recommendation in hand, Max led Jack back to the cobbled street. At the end of it, Jack spotted the pub in question just at the point the road curved away to the right. Through a gap in the buildings along that curve, Jack saw the beginning of the weathered stone steps that rose up to the cliffs, surrounded by an overgrown grassy verge. A couple of men were seated at tables outside the Duke of York, and both were wrapped in long coats. The two-storey pub had a small lean-to roof at ground floor just above the entrance. It sloped back towards the main structure, acting as a canopy to protect anyone drinking outside. The building was fairly wide, especially compared to most Jack had seen in the town, and had uneven white render to the walls, along with a thick mass of wall-climbing shrubs around a small window.
Jack followed Max inside, though both had to stoop their heads to fit beneath the head of the doorway. They found themselves in a relatively dark area. The window in the front didn’t let in much light due to the foliage around it, so the pub was instead lit with candles and some wall-mounted lamps.
There was a relatively small bar to the right, and the rest of the room was taken up with tables, benches, and stools. The air, which swirled with a blue-grey smoke, had the stale odour of old beer mixed in with tobacco. Jack counted seven people inside, along with a barman who was dressed in a shirt and open black vest.
As Max had said, the drinkers all looked to be fishermen, with weathered, wrinkled skin, cracked and calloused hands, and all sporting either thick stubble or full beards.
Max motioned to an empty bench pressed against one wall with a table before it. ‘Take a seat,’ he told Jack. ‘I’ll get us something to drink.’
Jack sat down on the hard, uncomfortable bench, which was devoid of any padding. There were muted conversations in the room, and everyone seemed to be minding their own business, with no sideways glances cast in his direction. He guessed Whitby was big enough to get a lot of strangers passing through, or arriving intermittently for work.
Looks like I don’t need to worry about my face fitting in with the locals.
Max soon returned with two drinks. One was a glass tankard full of a thick, nut-brown-coloured liquid that had a frothy white head. The other, in a much smaller glass, had a few fingers of amber liquor inside. Max set them down and slid the larger drink over to Jack.
‘Ale?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes.’
Jack nodded to the other drink, which Max held. ‘Whiskey?’
‘Brandy,’ Max corrected him.
‘So I get the cheap ale, and you get the good stuff?’
‘You said yourself you weren’t sure if you could hold it, so the ale is safer. Take your time with it. Besides,’—he took a sip of the brandy and gave a subtle grimace—‘this is far from the good stuff.’
There were two men seated on the bench next to Jack and Max, both silently enjoying their drinks. They were of average build and wore thick wool jumpers. One had a dark grey wool cap with a few holes in it, and his grey beard was flecked with black. The other man was bald, with grey stubble and noticeably large ears with drooping lobes. It was hard to place the age of the pair, since their faces were creased with lines, but their builds were strong and sturdy.
Max leaned in closer to them. ‘You fellas work around here?’
The man with the hat cast his grey eyes over to Max. After a moment’s pause, he gave a nod.
‘What is it you do?’ Max asked, as if it wasn’t the most obvious question in the world.
‘We fish,’ the man replied in a gruff voice. ‘My brother and me.’ He nodded over to the other man sitting with him.
‘You sound local. Lived here long?’
Another nod. ‘All our lives. Since we were bairns.’
‘You work for one of the companies in town?’ Max asked.
The man raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘There a reason you’re takin’ an interest in me and my brother?’
Max smiled and shook his head. ‘No, but my friend and I are looking for work. Wondered if you knew of anyone who was taking people on?’ He then extended his hand. ‘I’m Max, by the way.’
The man raised a bushy eyebrow as he regarded the outstretched hand with suspicion, but eventually shook.
‘Geoff,’ he said, and then motioned over towards his brother. ‘That’s Walter.’
‘Pleased to meet you both. My friend there is Jack. Like I said, we’re hoping to find work. Is the company you work for currently hiring?’
‘Afraid not. It’s just me and Walter. Worked for our da’ until he died, then we took over. We’re a small outfit, barely make enough to get by ourselves.’
‘Especially with Skivington and his goons bullying everyone out on the sea,’ Walter said.
Max gave no reaction at the mention of the company. ‘That a rival business or something?’ he asked.
‘Rivals to everyone around here,’ Walter went on. ‘Seem to think they own the water around Whitby. They block off some of the best fishing areas, so no one can get in.’
‘Really?’ Max asked. ‘They been doing that kind of thing for a long time?’
‘A little while,’ Geoff said. ‘Company used to be Chambers & Co. not too long ago, and they were fine back then. But that Skivington fella came in a little while back and things changed. He brought a lot of money, people say, and their fleet quickly grew. He used to be a private banker to some really wealthy people and built a small fortune.’
‘Why he chose to sink it into a fishing company in Whitby is anyone’s guess,’ Walter added. ‘People here scrape by, for the most part.’
‘Skivington & Co. sound pretty cut-throat,’ Max suggested.
‘That they are,’ Geoff said and drained the last of his ale.
‘Take on a lot of people, too,’ Walter added. ‘Though they tend to target a certain kind of man.’
‘Thugs,’ Geoff clarified. ‘Pick up those who are handy with their fists, or have no other options.’
‘Imagine a group operating like that,’ Jack said while eyeing Max. ‘No morals at all.’ He rubbed at the tattoo on his forearm—his brand from the Deathborn. Max, however, ignored the comment.
‘You could find work with ‘em, I reckon,’ Geoff said. ‘Provided you’re willing to sell your soul.’
Max gave a firm shake of his head. ‘I don’t think we’re that desperate just yet.’
Jack noticed the expression of the two men softened. Clever.
‘I think I’ve seen one of their buildings,’ Max said. ‘Up on the harbour.’
‘Aye,’ Geoff said with a nod. ‘Though I think their boss lives out at Kettleness. The workers mostly live up there as well, I hear, and they travel to and from Whitby each day.’
‘All the workers live in the same place?’
‘That’s the rumour. Kettleness ain’t a big place, not anymore. Years ago, half the settlement slid into the sea when the cliffs there collapsed, so there’s not much left anymore. Skivington owns most of it now, if not all of it. So, the people he hires just live out there in the housing he gives them. Word is, the conditions… ain’t grand.’
‘Kettleness is close to Whitby?’ Jack asked.
‘Not too far,’ Geoff responded. ‘Couple of hours' ride or so.’
Max nodded. He then motioned to Geoff’s empty tankard. ‘Let me get you both another drink,’ he said.
The two brothers cast each other a quick look. ‘We’d be most appreciative of that, fella.’
‘My pleasure,’ Max replied.
After a few minutes, he’d resupplied them both with another pint, along with a few fingers of brandy each.
‘You’ll have us pickled before long,’ Walter said with a gleeful smile when Max set the drinks down.
Jack and Max spent the rest of the afternoon getting the brothers sufficiently drunk, loosening them up and mining them for every ounce of information they had on Skivington, Chambers & Co.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
You should have stayed home, Assandra told herself. This is dangerous.
She rode on horseback, side by side with the Crimson Lord. The shock of learning her father, Vernon Freyer, was actually alive still hadn’t completely sunk in.
The initial shock following the revelation had left Assandra in stunned silence. Vern had quickly tried to give an explanation, sharing about how Cora, in anger, had tried to kill him—giving him the horrific scarring he now bore. But… she had not quite succeeded. Unbeknownst to Cora, Vern had managed to escape and hung on to life. However, Vern stressed that Cora’s anger had been misplaced, and once he’d been allowed to explain himself, Cora had then decided to help him.
Assandra still wasn’t sure what to think. Her world had already been shaken in the last few days, and in some ways this development felt like just one more earthquake in her life. When Vern had once again asked if she would still follow him, Assandra had nodded, almost without realising she was doing it. It was then she understood just how badly she wanted answers.
After gathering some supplies, Assandra had mounted her horse and followed Vern a short way to where he had his own horse tethered. Then, they’d headed north, joining a small road that headed up the coast. They rode mostly in silence.
‘Where are we going?’ she eventually asked him.
‘A small hamlet called Kettleness,’ Vern replied.
‘What’s at Kettleness?’
‘I have an… associate… out there. Someone who’s been helping me. You will learn a lot. Including more about the spawn.’
‘What are they?’ she asked. ‘Are they supernatural somehow? Because I’ve seen the effects of its blood, and I also saw that they were used in the monolith out at Dalby. They’re like no animal I’ve ever known.’
‘Supernatural is a strange word,’ Vern said. ‘Especially with what we’re dealing with. What is not natural to our world might seem supernatural, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t natural somewhere else.’
She frowned in confusion. ‘You’re talking in riddles again.’
Though his hood was again raised, she saw him nod. ‘I apologise. Again, it’s because your eyes aren’t fully open. When they are, what I say will make perfect sense. Until then, however, I’m afraid my responses will likely all sound that way. Just know that I am being completely honest and open.’
Assandra wasn’t sure she believed it. One thing she couldn’t deny, however, was that part of her certainly wanted to believe it. Still, there were other, more direct questions she could ask, and those could not be sidestepped with confusing language.
‘All these years,’ she began, realising she was actually nervous. ‘You never sought to find me. I thought you were dead.’
‘I know,’ he replied, voice soft. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I truly did want to see you.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re right, I don’t believe it. You say you reconnected with Cora, yet you couldn’t make the day or so travel to see me? Because you knew where I was. You and Cora used me to keep the flow of the spawn coming.’
