enemies and capturing peasants as slaves, sacrifices, and experiments to satisfy their lust for forbidden knowledge. Erenkirk must be truly desperate if he had resolved to go there, and the Duke mad to authorize an expedition. What information could be so valuable? What crisis loomed over the city of Windmire?
Darvik knew better than to ask such questions. Erenkirk would only answer with his belt.
***
Sangrook Manor loomed before the blood-red sunset, all glowering gargoyles and grimy windows and crumbling brick. The grounds were a hazy memory of once-great splendor. Here and there, a rosebush gleamed through the waist-high grass. Scattered topiaries grasped at their ancient forms like water-logged corpses, bloated and deformed. From atop a cracked stone pedestal, a statue of the old heretic Maldaeron Sangrook, who first dined with devils, watched over it all, while black-red vines clawed at his feet like a demon of the earth trying to drag him down.
“This is an evil place,” said Darvik. “We should leave now and tell Streshim we couldn’t find anything useful here.”
Erenkirk shook his head. “And then what? He’ll just tell us to forget about the duke’s artifact and send us on our way? The holy duke is a paranoid zealot who sees treason and heresy everywhere he looks. You know full well what artifacts are waiting in his dungeon. Apparently, they work so well he needs a new one to help him torture the corpses.” Erenkirk gritted his teeth and shoved his finger in Darvik’s face. “So don’t tell me about failing the duke. I missed my one chance to refuse an order from him when I was your age. There won’t be another.”
“And why am I bound by your mistakes? Why am I also a slave to the duke?”
Erenkirk’s open palm lashed out and landed on Darvik’s ear. “I took you in when your parents left you swaddled and screaming on the streets. I raised you as my son and my apprentice. My burdens are yours, and you will not question me.” He balanced the first blow with another to the opposite ear. Darvik didn’t flinch. From Erenkirk, a slap to the face may as well have been a frown. “Now get this door open before the wolves take us. Son.”
Darvik stepped up to the faded oak door, trying not to think about the special orders the duke had commissioned over the years. The artifact that burrowed itself into a man’s spine and slowly climbed to his brain, paralyzing him inch by inch over the course of weeks. The goggles that showed images of the victim’s deepest fears. A harness that converted blood to acid. He could think of a dozen ways Streshim might torture him to death or insanity, and that was neglecting the conventional methods like hot irons and pliers.
The great doors of the estate were adorned with a relief of swirling, sinister lines. The wood was bare in spots where the deep gray paint had stripped away. The knocker was fashioned after a child’s face and forged of brass, spotty and green with corrosion, as if the child were suffering some disfiguring disease. Darvik wondered if he even needed to unlock the door. Perhaps some thief had already broken in and left the manor unlocked. It had been empty for generations, after all.
Darvik reached out and pushed. The door was solid as a wall. A mild inconvenience, but not a surprise. Every child heard stories of what lurked in this evil place. Some said that the immortal Starcrimson Sangrook still roamed the halls, or that the manor had been overrun by demons summoned by some catastrophic spell, or that anyone who entered would fall to the same madness as the Sangrooks. Darvik had heard a hundred tales about the mysteries of the Sangrooks. Some were even believable.
He rummaged through his sack of equipment until he found the lock-pick. This was no ordinary lock-pick, for what artificer would carry a common tool? No, this artifact was a disk of brass,
Darvik knew better than to ask such questions. Erenkirk would only answer with his belt.
***
Sangrook Manor loomed before the blood-red sunset, all glowering gargoyles and grimy windows and crumbling brick. The grounds were a hazy memory of once-great splendor. Here and there, a rosebush gleamed through the waist-high grass. Scattered topiaries grasped at their ancient forms like water-logged corpses, bloated and deformed. From atop a cracked stone pedestal, a statue of the old heretic Maldaeron Sangrook, who first dined with devils, watched over it all, while black-red vines clawed at his feet like a demon of the earth trying to drag him down.
“This is an evil place,” said Darvik. “We should leave now and tell Streshim we couldn’t find anything useful here.”
Erenkirk shook his head. “And then what? He’ll just tell us to forget about the duke’s artifact and send us on our way? The holy duke is a paranoid zealot who sees treason and heresy everywhere he looks. You know full well what artifacts are waiting in his dungeon. Apparently, they work so well he needs a new one to help him torture the corpses.” Erenkirk gritted his teeth and shoved his finger in Darvik’s face. “So don’t tell me about failing the duke. I missed my one chance to refuse an order from him when I was your age. There won’t be another.”
“And why am I bound by your mistakes? Why am I also a slave to the duke?”
Erenkirk’s open palm lashed out and landed on Darvik’s ear. “I took you in when your parents left you swaddled and screaming on the streets. I raised you as my son and my apprentice. My burdens are yours, and you will not question me.” He balanced the first blow with another to the opposite ear. Darvik didn’t flinch. From Erenkirk, a slap to the face may as well have been a frown. “Now get this door open before the wolves take us. Son.”
Darvik stepped up to the faded oak door, trying not to think about the special orders the duke had commissioned over the years. The artifact that burrowed itself into a man’s spine and slowly climbed to his brain, paralyzing him inch by inch over the course of weeks. The goggles that showed images of the victim’s deepest fears. A harness that converted blood to acid. He could think of a dozen ways Streshim might torture him to death or insanity, and that was neglecting the conventional methods like hot irons and pliers.
The great doors of the estate were adorned with a relief of swirling, sinister lines. The wood was bare in spots where the deep gray paint had stripped away. The knocker was fashioned after a child’s face and forged of brass, spotty and green with corrosion, as if the child were suffering some disfiguring disease. Darvik wondered if he even needed to unlock the door. Perhaps some thief had already broken in and left the manor unlocked. It had been empty for generations, after all.
Darvik reached out and pushed. The door was solid as a wall. A mild inconvenience, but not a surprise. Every child heard stories of what lurked in this evil place. Some said that the immortal Starcrimson Sangrook still roamed the halls, or that the manor had been overrun by demons summoned by some catastrophic spell, or that anyone who entered would fall to the same madness as the Sangrooks. Darvik had heard a hundred tales about the mysteries of the Sangrooks. Some were even believable.
He rummaged through his sack of equipment until he found the lock-pick. This was no ordinary lock-pick, for what artificer would carry a common tool? No, this artifact was a disk of brass,
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