The Iron Quill - The Price Of Progress : The Printers Mark

[JackDawInChains]

*

 

This far out into the Industrial District the cost of boom and bust expansion in Malifaux began to show. Rotting tenements warred with gutted warehouse shells to see who could spread more decay and detritus across the streets. Windows leered empty in toothless smiles, glass and lead stripped out for the meagre coin it would bring at the scrapyards. What remained of the cobbled roads was ankle deep in ash and other rubbish, stirred to a paste by the thin rain that fell in miserable sheets from an iron-grey sky. Grayson Creel scowled into the wrap of black silk covering his mouth as a thin trickle of water crept down the back of his neck. Under normal circumstances, nothing would bring him out to this side of Malifaux, not while bigger game lurked in more affluent areas. This time though, the prize on offer was too much to pass up. Hunching himself deeper into his greatcoat and settling the weight of the crossbow slung on his shoulders, Creel strode off into the filth-caked streets.

 

The square loomed ahead, an empty hole in the brick fabric of the streets. Indistinct in the greying rain-flecked light, the gutted warehouses and stockyards ringing this deserted and long-dead piece of Malifaux were looming presences, hemming Creel in. The rotting timbers of an abandoned cart filled one corner, timbers swollen with rot, green-furred with moss. Creel scowled again, assumed he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. But no, there at the far end - a faint dirty yellow light struggling to provide any illumination. Moving closer across the decaying square, Creel could make out dirtied windows still holding glass and a heavy door. A weather-beaten and rusting sign swung precariously above the doorway, elaborate script barely legible under the rot-yellow lamplight.

 

Proude & Locke, Printers & Illustrators of Repute.

 

So, right place after all. Creel sniffed, tasting ash and decay and stepped up to the door. The heavy knocker was wrought in the fanciful shape of a lion, proud mane now spotted with rust that flaked away as he brought it up. The impacts sounded strangely muffled, as though it were hitting wet wood rather than dark iron.

 

Long moments passed in the sheeting rain before the door was slowly pulled open on protesting hinges. More of the jaundiced lamplight spilt out from the hallway before it was blocked by a giant of a man. A grey woollen suit strained to contain the huge frame beneath, huge dark-haired hands erupting from frayed cuffs. The man's face was covered from the nose down by a dark cotton rag, stitched at the sides to keep it in place, while smoked glasses covered his eyes. Oddly, a tattered bowler hat perched atop the brute's shaved head, clearly several sizes too small. Creel pulled his own silk kerchief down.

 

"Grayson Creel, office of the Guild. My presence was requested."

 

He might as well have been talking to a statue. There was no response, no flicker of movement from the giant in the doorway. Clearing his throat, Creel tried again, injecting a note of menace into his voice.

 

"Am I understood? I have permitted by the Guild to investigate a matter of pernicious haunting affecting these premises, after its owner petitioned the Governors offices directly. Am I addressing Mister Proude or Mister Locke?"

 

There was a commotion from behind the impassive brute. Finally, the suited giant moved aside, revealing a smaller, thinner gentleman behind. Clad in a dark mourning suit, shirt collar and cuffs in dire need of bleaching, the newcomer peered at Creel with red-shot eyes that glittered in a thin sallow face. Ink spots marred the pale cheeks, creeping all the way from his jawline to the lank dark hair that was plastered atop his head. A lizard-quick smile flashed across fleshy lips as the gentleman thrust out a long-fingered hand in greeting.

 

"Ah! The Governors man! Excellent, most excellent. Please excuse my companion - a man of few words, Mister Keye is nonetheless dear to me and essential to my well-being. Erasmus Locke, at your service."

 

Wrong-footed for a second by the left hand that had been offered to him, Creel gathered himself quickly and took the proffered hand in a shake that while quick, was still too long for the clammy skin that he felt.

 

"A pleasure, Mr Locke. May I enter? I gather there is work here for me."

 

"Oh! Surely, surely, please do enter. We are quite beside ourselves here, quite unable to continue with our work while this vulgar haint affects us."

 

Locke ushered Creel inside with quick twitching movements, the giant Keye moving aside and closing the door behind them. Cocooned in the sickly yellow light, Creel glimpsed the withered right arm clutched tight against Locke's thin chest. Wrapped in a bronze and iron armature which extended fully over his pale hand, his fingers bore thin pen-nibs in place of finger-nails. Moving quickly through the entrance hall and down further corridors bearing flaking plaster and faded posters on the walls, Locke held up a constant monologue on his family’s history in the printing and illuminating business, both here in Malifaux and Earthside. Creel only half listened, making the appropriate noises of agreement and commiseration when needed, all the while his mind furiously working as he tried to fathom where exactly the prize that Fallon had talked up was.

 

Locke came to a sudden halt before a door no different to the dozen others they had passed already, Keye a looming presence behind them. The scarecrow printer turned to face Creel, left hand massaging the withered twig of his right arm. That lizard-quick smile flashed again.

 

"And so here we are, quite unmanned and undone by the unquiet shades that plague us. "

 

"Mister Locke, if I may? I am an Exorcist of the Guild. There is very little I have not seen or dealt with when it comes to haints. If you would just step aside, I can assay the situation and do my job."

 

Punctuating his short speech by unslinging his heavy crossbow, Creel nodded at the door.

 

"Whatever is in there, it will be dealt with."

 

Something twitched under Locke's eye.

 

"Capital, capital. Man of action eh? Wonderful. I myself bend more to the theoretical than the practical, but then where would we be if we all had our noses in a book eh?"

 

Locke let out a thin grating laugh. Wincing, Creel motioned at the door with the tip of the crossbow.

 

"Mister Locke? The door?"

 

Stammering apologies, Locke swiftly unlocked and opened the door, revealing a wide workspace filled with huge dark iron printing presses illuminated in pools of the same jaundiced light as the rest of the building. Most of the gargantuan machines were silent, draped in dirty sheets, but a half-dozen were manned and active, churning out sheets of thick rag-paper covered in dense blocks of text. Moving in slowly, crossbow held up, Creel tried to ignore the noise created by the presses. There were maybe two-dozen workers, all clad in frayed layers of cotton, faces covered by cracked goggles and glasses, wrapped around with more rags. Their movements were stilted, almost as repetitive and automaton-like as the presses they tended. Locke waved a hand at the rag-covered workers.

 

"Precautionary measures. A lifetime alongside the paper-dust and ink-stains makes for poor lungs. Our very own Mister Keye bears the wounds of a lifetime print-man, ink is in his very blood you might say!"

 

Again that awful grating laugh. Shaking his head, Creel stalked through the machinery, searching for any sign of his prize. Finally, after what felt like a fruitless hour of searching, he turned on Locke, anger taught in his voice. There was no haint here, real or otherwise. And certainly not the easy pickings that Fallon had talked up.

 

"Is this a joke? Am I here on some grand jape, Mister Locke? It is a dangerous thing to waste the Guild's time."

 

Rather than the fear that he expected to see on Locke's thin face, Creel instead saw something approaching amusement. The lizard-grin appeared again, creeping slower this time.

 

"A joke? Mercy, no, Mister Creel. This was a test. Two tests, in point of fact. The first, I am sorry to say, you failed most abjectly."

 

Locke's long-fingered left hand pulled a softly glowing small oval from his waistcoat pocket, dropping it to the dusty floor and crushing it under heel. The glow died and the workers dropped like string-cut puppets and Locke sighed heavily in release.

 

"Ah, so much better. You have no idea of the strain it takes to animate that number of corpses so, regardless of the basic nature of their movements. I’ll ache for days, you know. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, the first test. You failed."

 

A scuff of movement from behind brought Creel spinning round, crossbow already firing. The heavy bolt struck Keye in the throat, tearing through and taking the cotton rag with it. Creel had seconds to register the grey meat-wound where Keye's bottom jaw and throat should be before a huge fist hammered into his face. Falling, nose shattered and tasting his own coppery blood, Creel fought against the greying edges of his vision as Locke spoke again.

 

"Exorcist of the Guild indeed. Any true Exorcist would have sniffed out my dear Mister Keye straight away. But you sir, you are merely a charlatan, a mountebank thief and fool masquerading as one, are you not? Yes, your man Fallon told us everything. The second test, Mister Creel. You passed most admirably."

 

The grating laugh was the last thing Creel heard before a heavy boot erased any scrap of awareness he may have still had.

 

*

 

A thin stream of vomit spattered into the cracked porcelain of the wash basin, shot through with blood and ink. Locke collapsed to the floor, wracked with tremors, sweat- soaked shirt clinging to his bony frame. His right arm shook within the heavy brace, withered hand contorted into a palsied claw.

 

Thick paste-board cards lay spilt around him, crowded with insanely detailed illustrations, a madman’s Tarot still unfinished. Ink still wet, the card of the Fool was clutched in Locke's left hand, the screaming face of Grayson Creel marked upon it. As the impassive form of Keye loomed over his twitching and fitting employer, Locke could only mutter the same words over and over again in a lunatic refrain.

 

"Six more, six more only, six more, only six more...."

 

 

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Word count - 1749

Mystery ingredients used - Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

                                           Industrial Zone

                                           An Incomplete Deck Of Cards

[Cavalierartist]

Great story. Your characters are distinctive and the print house is a unique setting. I'd love to see Locke as a master.

[vinush]

I love it. I figured out that the workers were undead straight away, but it was still a most excellent story.

 

One question - what is a haint?

 

Vinush

[JackDawInChains]

Thanks chaps, your comments are much appreciated. Vinush, the term "Haint" is just another name for a ghost or haunting. Comes from the southern US states I think, but I've always thought it has a nice Victorian feel to it and works beautifully in Malifaux.

[Treemonkey]

Cool story! 

 

By the description and actions of the two (Locke and Proude), I had thought it was Graves and Tannen, rather than a unique resurrectionist and his re-animated friend.  Might be personal bias though.  Once I came to realize they weren't who I thought they were, the story really clicked and was very cool!

[Nikko Andass]

Wonderful story! I agree with Cavalier -- Locke would be an intriguing choice as a master -- Arcanists/Ressurectionists, I presume? An appropriately disturbing epilogue to finish it off, too.

 

Well done, sir!

 

- Nikko