The auction was held at a decrepit Cold War missile base, marooned in a pinky-red desert. Julian Cheng looked up from his laptop. ‘This reminds me of the movie where Jason Bourne is trapped on Mars and grows potatoes.’

Rolling my eyes, I saw a bunch of SUVs, parked by two medium-lift helicopters. The other bidders were early. ‘Julian, ain’t that the most unholy tail-gate party you ever saw?’

‘They’re only putting food on the table, Mitch. Just like you and me.’

‘Fair point,’ I replied. I trafficked weapons. I wasn’t – by any objective standard – a good person. Nonetheless, I’d never considered myself a super-criminal. It was a positive variety of imposter syndrome. Anyhow, I was a humble guy, making his way in a cruel, heartless world. Like Han Solo, except I’d traded the Millennium Falcon for a Toyota Hilux. Although, as an illicit weapons acquisition specialist, I know Han’s blaster was a modified broom-handled Mauser C96. Yeah, I’m a hoot a parties. ‘Right, shall we see what the deal is?’ I said, getting out of the truck.

‘It’s gonna be another fucking drone,’ said Cheng mournfully. He dusted cookie crumbs from his tee-shirt. ‘It always is. Why else am I here?’ Cheng was a former ordnance tech on Predators and Reapers. Helping Uncle Sam put warheads on foreheads. Which is to say he helped blow up a farmer, some livestock and a wattle hut.

The future was drones, right? In fact, I saw one of the little bastards, buzzing overhead like a blocky Minecraft bee. Zipping up an old Schott jacket over my plate carrier, I saw the facility’s gates open. ‘There’s Olaf,’ I said.

Olaf Loeb was, depending on who you asked, Swiss-Iranian, Turkish-Latvian or German-Armenian. A global citizen, with a perma-tan, twinkly eyes and really great hair. Pushing seventy, Olaf radiated positive vibes. Like a quarterback, dating three cheerleaders who were all cool with the arrangement. He was the single most accomplished underworld arms dealer in the history of underworld arms dealers. ‘My friends!’ he said, looking super-cool in a white safari suit. ‘Welcome to Kazakhstan.’

We all took turns shaking Olaf’s hand. I checked out the competition. The Albanians were there, because of course they were. Forget the track-suited hoodlum stereotype. Top level Shqiptare were squared-away, dressed head-to-toe in coffin black Prada. The Lancehead cartel from Venezuela were represented by two twitchy goons wearing Hawaiian shirts. The half-dozen Russians from the Black Ravens Battalion (yes, that really was their name), looked exactly what you’d expect a bunch of Warhammer 40K-obsessed Slavic mercenaries to look like. They stood eyeing three Americans from a blue-chip PSC. Two dudes had operator beards and scruffy hair. Ex-SEALs, freelancing in-between book tours. The other, the only female present, was a frosty-looking blonde rocking Levis and a cute Ralph Lauren field jacket. In my mind’s eye, that was her name from now on. Frosty. The last bidders came from an unholy alliance of Columbians and Scotsmen, who operated out of Dubai. The Columbian was a ratty-eyed dude called Manny. He was okay. The Scottish dude had red hair. So damn red, you’d see it from space. He wore a soccer shirt, army boots and was covered in Viking cosplay tattoos. I should know, because I’ve got a sleeve myself. It was a Marine Scout Sniper thing, back in the day.

Inside the base was a security checkpoint. Olaf used Gurkhas – Nepalese ex-soldiers – for muscle. Gurkhas are small and polite, like super-deadly hobbits. They confiscated our phones and electronics and searched us like cops do, pushing and squeezing our arms and legs. ‘Take off your plate carrier, Sir,’ said one, pointing at my armour.

I shook my head. ‘You can scan it, but I always wear my plates,’ I replied.

‘He does,’ Cheng agreed. ‘It’s a superstitious thing. Not a cross-fit accessory.’

‘This is forbidden,’ the Gurkha replied matter-of-factly.

Olaf appeared. ‘Mister Loomis is fine,’ he said.

‘Yes Sir,’ the Gurkha replied, snapping to attention. I strapped my armour back on, feeling naked otherwise. Been the same ever since that gig in Syria. I only wore her at work, of course. I’m not weird. Oh, and her name was Sandra. Yes, I had a name for my plate carrier. Don’t you? ‘Thanks, Olaf. You good?’

Olaf’s eyes were twinklier than the Christmas tree at Macy’s. ‘I’m trading quality merchandise to discerning customers,’ the arms dealer replied. ‘Apart from love, good food and optimal gut health, what more could a man desire?’

‘For JRR Martin to finish a fucking book?’ said Cheng.

‘I will be selling nano-tech light sabres by then, Mister Cheng,’ Olaf chuckled. ‘Now, come inside. It’s time for tea.’

We all stood in a bunker, lit via a gaping hole in the roof. Pretty waitresses wearing harem pants and sparkly waistcoats served tea – orchid, lemon and mint. There were pastries and cookies. Music played, old-school electronica. Cheng said it was a band called Kraftwerk. The Albanians discussed encrypted comms systems with the Venezuelans. The Russians indulged in trash-talk with the Americans, while the Scotsman flirted with a waitress until Frosty intervened. She said something to the waitress and smiled. Go sister. ‘This is cute,’ said Cheng, mashing baklava into his piehole. ‘Everyone playing nice.’

‘We’ve only just arrived,’ I said, checking the G-Shock strapped on my wrist.

The music stopped, interrupting a song about robots. Olaf appeared, flanked by two smartly-dressed Asian guys carrying ruggedised laptops. ‘For safety reasons, please stay behind the rail,’ said Olaf. The Gurkhas appeared, directing us behind a rusty metal barrier. A rat scurried over a Russian’s boot, making him jump. I laughed, and the Russian shot me a look. I blew the motherfucker a kiss. ‘Behold!’ Olaf announced, like a circus ringmaster. ‘The apogee of fifth generation warfare. Novel solutions, for hitherto intractable tactical problems. The white heat of autonomous weapons platforms, unhindered by the glutinous mediocrity of ethics!’ Then, slowly, a hatch in the floor rumbled open.

Olaf grinned, like Liberace by-way-of Steve Jobs. Lights flickered, revealing a dungeonlike maintenance area. In the middle stood a machine, resembling a bundle of scaffolding poles clustered around a dull metal chassis. It was black and grey and taupe. Urban camo. I looked at Cheng and made a WTF face. ‘Looks like some kind of unmanned ground vehicle – a UGV,’ he replied.

Servos whispered and a power source hummed. The poles began telescoping, extending like articulated chopsticks. ‘It looks like a bug,’ I said. ‘Crossed with a panzer tank.’

Cheng nodded. ‘Either that, or the world’s most disappointing Transformer. Minimus Prime.’

Olaf spoke into his mic. ‘Let me introduce the FUNNELWEB UGV,’ he said, pointing a bejewelled finger into the pit. ‘A cost-effective platform, delivering multirole effect across low-intensity battlespaces.’ I hated defence talk BS. He meant FUNNELWEB was cheap, adaptable and designed for skulduggery.

‘I don’t see any weapons,’ said Cheng, looking unimpressed.

‘Payloads, Mister Cheng?’ Olaf continued, smiling. ‘Observe!’ Suddenly, a trio of quadrotor delivery drones descended through the skylight above us. Each carried a pod, slung beneath steel cables. Two hovered above FUNNELWEB, their payloads attaching themselves to gimbals on the UGV’s spine. ‘We offer multiple ordnance options, both lethal and nonlethal,’ the arms merchant explained.

With a metallic snap, sounding like a dozen M4’s locking and loading, FUNNELWEB’S weapons swivelled into position. Arranged at one end of the pit was a tunnel, filled with a variety of targets. Including, alarmingly, a live goat. ‘Cool,’ said Cheng.

‘No it ain’t,’ I said. ‘I ain’t a huge fan of goats, but that’s cruel.’

‘No, FUNNELWEB, you asshat,’ Cheng sighed. ‘The drones allow for remote arming. Massively reduced operator risk. Man, gimme a couple of these motherfuckers and I could rob Fort Knox. I’d get away with it, too.’ I dug the idea of robbing Fort Knox. I was more about heists than narcotics or politics. There I go again. First I was Han Solo. Now I was pretending to be Robin Hood.

‘Before we begin,’ said Olaf, nodding at the laptop dudes. ‘We shall demonstrate a key element of FUNNELWEB – the AI control module. It can attach to, and control, any FUNNELWEB series variant. The rest of the UGV is, essentially, disposable.’ The third drone descended, its payload an arrowhead-shaped block of ceramic armour. To me, it looked like the nose of an attack chopper – all optics and hatches and warning signs. Olaf sounded prouder than a new father at a maternity ward. All he needed was whisky and a cigar. ‘FUNNELWEB is operated via an intuitive suite of mission prompts. It’s fully capable of nonviolent target discrimination.’

‘Wow, that’s smart,’ said Cheng, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the pit.

‘What?’

‘The AI pod’s self-extracting. Olaf’s probably keeping it quiet for a big reveal, but see those panels on the side of the arrowhead?’

‘Yeah?’

‘When I was in the air force, I saw something similar at the Lockheed-Martin skunkworks. Integrated motors. Retractable rotor blades.’

‘Which means?’

Cheng looked at me like I was dumb, which I probably was. ‘The AI arrowhead’s the most valuable component. If the chassis is compromised, the fucker can fly away remotely. Self-rescue. It’s darn tricky to implement.’

‘D’you reckon it’s Chinese?’ I said. Ain’t everything nowadays?

‘Dunno?’ Cheng replied. ‘Too obvious. Loads of folks working on this stuff right now.’

The music reached a crescendo, then stopped. All eyes were on Olaf, standing in the spotlight’s glare. ‘Now,’ he said, his mane of silvery hair looking better than ever. ‘The firepower demonstration.’

‘Ah,’ said Cheng, a smile forming on his slab-like face. ‘The money-shot.’

Which was when Olaf’s head exploded.

FUNNELWEB raked the balcony with cannon fire. One of the Albanians was cut in half like a sack of offal, reminding me of an unfortunate door-kicking incident I witnessed in Sangin. So we all hit the deck and scrambled for cover. Of which there was none, so I decided to tiger-crawl behind the Russians. They were super-jacked pieces of steroid-primed muscle, right? ‘Cheng!’ I called. My job, ultimately, was to protect Cheng. He was smarter than me and, therefore, more valuable. Cheng crawled towards me as bullets raked the walls. The Scotsman, bawling, got to his feet and sprinted towards the guys with laptops, who were desperately tapping a keypad next to a metal door.

A door they were, clearly, unable to unlock.

FUNNELWEB scurried across the pit floor, optics swivelling, legs scattering pieces of scrap metal. With a cough, it fired something skywards. A sphere the size of a bowling ball, arcing lazily towards the roof, which exploded with a puff of grey smoke. The Scottish guy bawled, red hair like a beacon, a flurry of flechettes slicing into his arm. Darts skewered both laptop guys like voodoo dolls, their bodies tumbling to the balcony floor. ‘We’re trapped,’ said one of the Venezuelans.

‘No shit,’ said a Russian, hugging the stone-cold ground. One of the other Black Ravens chuckled.

‘There must be another route outta here,’ said Frosty, her eyes fixed on the blood-spattered metal door.

‘Yes,’ said the Russian. He was in his fifties, with a widow’s peak of bristly hair. ‘These facilities were built to a standard specification.’

‘Where the hell is it, then?’ The American replied.

The Russian nodded towards the pit. ‘Down there, with that thing.’

‘Quiet! Did you hear that?’ said Manny, the Colombian.

I heard it too. A metallic stutter. It modulated, until finally it sounded almost human. ‘The fucking thing’s laughing,’ I said. And it was. Like fucking Skeletor, after a rare win against He-Man.

I’m a marine veteran, right? Force Recon. Scout Sniper. I’ve got medals, tattoos and a Black Rifle Coffee Company tee-shirt. Usually, there’s a drill for the shit hitting the fan. But I didn’t remember anything about being cornered in a locked underground bunker with an intelligent, armed-to-the-teeth fucking robot. My mind could only summon the scene in Robocop, where the corporate asshole gets blown out of a window by an autocannon-packing droid.

You have five seconds to comply, right?

I guessed the Scottish dude had never seen Robocop. Screaming and hollering and blood-spattered, he leapt over the balcony. He landed, with a thud, on FUNNELWEB’S chassis, his ass hitting the arrowhead AI pod. Kicking the weapons array with his combat boots, he snarled like a crazy dog. His bloody arm shining wetly, he rode FUNNELWEB like a bucking bronco. ‘Jesus, that’s ballsy,’ said one of the American dudes.

‘Willie was raw-dogging PCP in the truck,’ Manny, the ratty-eyed Colombian, explained.

‘Then thank God for substance abuse,’ said Frosty, turning to her tame ex-SEALs. ‘Don’t you think you guys should, you know, swing into action?’ The she rolled her cold, grey eyes. Which, if I’m honest, was kinda hot. The ex-SEALs simply nodded and jumped. Everyone else, except the remaining Albanian (who was bleeding from a gut-shot), followed. Like I said, we were sketchy underworld assholes. But we were badass underworld assholes.

I dropped and rolled, like they taught me in jump school, my plate carrier digging into my ribs. Coughing, I sprung to my feet, looking for Cheng. Lowering himself off the edge of the balcony, he dropped onto a pile of mildewed boxes. ‘Stay there,’ I ordered.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Cheng replied.

Now the Scottish guy’s face was the colour of chalk. He kicked again at FUNNELWEB’S rear weapons pod, which spun as it opened fire. One of the Venezuelans took a volley to the head, turning it into a gristly pink spray. Then, making an electronic wail, the drone collapsed its legs on one side and rolled, the Scotsman disappearing beneath its armoured carapace. Then, FUNNELWEB righted itself, arrowhead optics shining, weapons readied. The Scottish guy was squashed. Like a bug. Hissing, FUNNELWEB crouched and backed up a little, reversing into a tunnel. ‘It didn’t like him climbing on it,’ said one of the Russians. ‘It’s vulnerable.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Frosty snapped. ‘I bet the fucking thing speaks English.’

The Russian shook his head and said something in his own language. Then, chittering, FUNNELWEB reared up on its back legs. ‘Ya tozhe govoryu po-russki,’ it said.

‘What the hell did it say?’ I said.

‘It says it speaks Russian,’ Frosty replied.

Then FUNNELWEB laughed again. It really did sound like Skeletor.

I spotted a tunnel on the opposite side of the pit. It looked like it would be a tight fit for the drone, unless it crawled on its belly. Which, I figured, would slow it down. Following the other survivors, I grabbed Cheng. Two of the Russians grabbed pieces of scrap from the machinery littering the floor, circling the drone like gladiators facing off against a battle elephant. Despite their dumb name, I had to admit the Black Ravens were brave. Dumber than a bag of hammers. Sure. But balls of steel. A slim metal barrel appeared from FUNNELWEB’S rear weapons array. It spat a beam of liquid fire, setting the Russians alight. The drone’s spindly legs crunching into the burning men’s ribcages, it scuttled after us. There were two tunnels. The surviving Venezuelan had, for some reason, headed for the one containing the tethered goat. That was a dead end, the cartel guy swearing as FUNNELWEB turned on him. The goat, bleating, stepped to one side as the drug lord began screaming,

I ran harder. I passed Manny, who was limping badly. ‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing the Colombian’s arm.

‘Thanks Mitch,’ Manny gasped.

Snatching a look over my shoulder, I saw a hatch open in FUNNELWEB’S matte grey chassis. A half-dozen objects – the size of tennis balls – burst from a compartment and buzzed towards us. ‘Microdrones,’ said Cheng.

‘What do they do?’ I asked.

‘Airborne frag grenades,’ Cheng replied. ‘Heat-seekers.’

‘Shit,’ said Manny, shaking his ratty little head.

‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘I’ve got an idea.’ In war movies, grenades go off like huge fiery bombs, right? That’s bullshit. The explosion from a grenade’s quite modest. That ain’t to say you want to be next to one when it goes boom, but on the other hand? It ain’t Oppenheimer either. A boot from my outfit threw himself on a Taleban frag grenade. Audie-freaking-Murphy, however, had the foresight to slap his helmet over the fucker and lie on top of it. Full battle-rattle – IMTV armour with ESAPI plates. And you know what? He got a Silver Star and runs a tackle shop in New Smyrna Beach. Fat and happy, telling war stories at his local VFW.

So, standing in that murky freaking tunnel, I began stripping off my plate carrier. Sandra. I turned to Cheng and Manny. ‘Run,’ I said, sounding braver than I felt. I suddenly – badly – wanted to get fat. Run a tackle shop. Barfly at the New Smyrna Beach VFW. ‘I got this.’

The first drone approached, wobbling gently on tiny rotors. Grabbing Sandra by the shoulder straps, I used her like a big, flat baseball. Slapping the drone into the tunnel wall, the critter sounded like a wasp caught under a beer glass. Then, a light blinked and I ducked. The drone exploded, peppering the air with slivers of shrapnel. Hugging Sandra close to my head, several bit into my legs and hand. Fuck, that hurt. Ramirez, our unit Corpsman, used to say pain was good. So was hollering. It meant you were alive. I sprung to my feet, ready to parry the next drone-grenade. ‘Come on Sandra’, I growled, bashing another airborne bomblet with the plate carrier. Like the last, it behaved like a sugar-drunk wasp, tumbling away before exploding. This time, it caught one of the other microdrones, floating near the tunnel roof. It exploded too. The other three drones held back, as if unsure what to do next. Then, back in the pit, I saw FUNNELWEB hunker down, it’s telescoping legs shortening into stumps. Then, slowly, it began crawling towards me.

Which was my cue to run.

There were six others further along the tunnel – the older Russian guy, Manny, Cheng and the three Americans. Frosty was talking, in Russian, to the last Black Raven. She saw me and raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a hatch thirty yards that way,’ she said, pointing at an intersection in the tunnel. ‘It’s locked.’

‘Hey, I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Well done you. Die here instead. You see, like I said, the door’s rusted shut.’

‘We fight,’ said the Russian, hefting a piece of scrap metal. ‘There is no other choice.’

Cheng stood, eyes closed, mumbling. ‘What’s he doing?’ said Frosty matter-of-factly. I’d named her well.

‘Thinking,’ I replied. ‘He’s smart. He was an air force UAV tech.’

‘Then he needs to be smarter, faster,’ Frosty replied. She turned to Cheng. ‘Hey, Einstein, what’s the plan?’

Cheng opened his eyes. ‘We need to get back into the pit,’ he said.

‘Then what?’ I asked.

‘Did you notice FUNNELWEB killed the Venezuelans, but not the goat?’

‘It’s true,’ said Frosty. ‘Mebbe the AI’s prompt exempted goats from its targeting package?’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Cheng agreed.

‘Then why tie up a goat as a target?’ said the Russian. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘It does if someone screwed around with FUNNELWEB’S AI,’ said Cheng. ‘I mean, it killed Olaf, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘Yeah,’ said Frosty, shaking her head. ‘Now you mention it, Cheng? That kinda makes sense. Now, let’s move!’

Our plan was simple. The Russian, who it turns out was called Lev, would distract FUNNELWEB by bashing the arrowhead with his piece of scrap metal. The drone, we figured, wasn’t designed for tunnel fighting. Its weapons pods were near-wedged against the roof, unable to manoeuvre. As Lev attacked (the crazy sonofabitch seemed genuinely excited by the prospect), we’d flank and double back to the pit. ‘Then,’ I said to Manny, ‘you grab the goat.’

Manny looked pissed. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘I’m just a Montañero, right? A Colombian. So I’m an expert on goat husbandry? Jesus. Fucking gringos.’

‘It’s ‘cuz your ankle’s screwed, Manny,’ I said, kinda upset he’d think of me that way. My aunt Maria was from Ensenada. ‘You can’t be in the pit with the drone, right?’

‘You can report him to HR later,’ said Frosty. ‘Just get behind the damn goat, Manny. Then pray.’

‘Okay,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t expect any miracles. Goats are stubborn.’

We filed back along the tunnel, towards FUNNELWEB. ‘I am ready,’ said Lev, rolling his neck like a boxer. He bounded forward, smashing his makeshift club into the arrowhead mounted on front of the drone’s chassis.

‘Go,’ I hollered, holding Sandra in front of me like an old-timey knight’s shield. ‘Move!’

‘Copy that,’ said Cheng, hopping over the drone’s legs like a guy on an obstacle course. He was followed by Frosty and her SEAL dudes, one of them helping Manny hobble away. As I figured, the weapons arrays were stuck, pinned against the ceiling.

‘Lev, you good?’ I said.

‘Go,’ he ordered, whacking the drone. Which was when the arrowhead spat a taser-dart, the tip spearing Lev in the chest. Groaning, he fell to his knees. Then, his hair smoking, and with a sickly barbeque smell, the Russian disappeared beneath the drone’s ceramic carapace.

I withdrew, threading my way past the drone’s chopstick legs. Lev had bought us precious time – there was no room for FUNNELWEB to turn around. It would have to reverse back the way it came, slowly, on stumpy, retracted legs. Which was great. It gave us time to prep the goat, right? The goat?

Jesus.

Back in the pit, the others stood by the shorter tunnel. The Venezuelan, splashed across the walls, looked like a piece of modern art. Even Frosty looked a little put out. ‘Here’s your damn goat, Mitch,’ said Manny, holding the beast by the scruff of the neck. It fixed me with its spooky devil-eyes and bleated.

‘Easy fella,’ I said, patting the goat on the head. The darn thing bit me and Cheng laughed. ‘This was your idea,’ I said to my partner. ‘What now?’

Cheng looked at Frosty. He frowned. ‘Come here,’ he said conspiratorially.

‘It’s hardly the time for classified intel,’ Frosty sighed, dusting off her jacket. Like I said, it was Ralph Lauren and kinda cute.

Cheng wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered his plan in my ear. It was crazier than using a goat as a counter-AI shield. ‘Good luck, Mitch,’ he said, slapping my back. Which hurt a bunch.

‘Thanks, Julian,’ I said, readying Sandra for battle. With my free hand, I grabbed the piece of rope around the goat’s neck. ‘Right, everyone back in the tunnel,’ I ordered. Then, like a matador, I stepped forwards to meet FUNNELWEB. The drone’s legs extended, the beast stood twelve feet tall. It’s optics swivelled in their sockets, fixing me with dead black eyes. I crouched behind the goat, remembering Cheng’s instructions. ‘Hey, FUNNELWEB? Remember your mission prompts, okay?’ I said. ‘You can’t harm goats. No collateral damage. Big trouble.’

The drone stood still, weapons pods ready. I suddenly remembered Lev being tasered to death. I glued myself to the goat, which smelt pretty bad. FUNNELWEB shifted uneasily on its legs, as if making a robotic shrug. Weapons circled on their gimbals, sniffing for prey. By now I was hugging the darn goat. FUNNELWEB’S front leg brushed past me. ‘Move, civilian,’ it ordered.

To the goat.

Dammit, Cheng was right. The weapons arrays snapped back into place, aimed towards the shallow tunnel.

Come on Mitch, time to jump on that damn grenade. Win yourself that tackle shop and an extra slice of Key Lime pie.

Grabbing one of the drone’s legs, I hauled myself on top of FUNNELWEB’S chassis. The ceramic armour was surprisingly warm to the touch. Like it was alive. Then, I straddled the monster, sandwiched between the arrowhead and the frontal weapons array. I figured – prayed – it couldn’t hit me if it couldn’t see me. Grunting, I swung Sandra, my beloved plate carrier, over the arrowhead’s optics. Fastening the Velcro straps, I’d made the drone a blindfold. The arrowhead began swivelling, trying to dislodge Sandra, but she was stuck fast.

Then the rodeo began. And, as it happened, it was my first. I’m from Springfield, Massachusetts, which ain’t known for its cowboys. FUNNELWEB bucked and rocked, servos whining, legs flexing. I hugged the arrowhead tight, Sandra’s faded sandy fabric pushed against my cheek. ‘Go!’ said a voice. Cheng.

The others surged out of the tunnel, carrying pieces of scrap metal and circling the drone. Frosty and one of the SEALs scrambled up and joined me, ducking as the weapon’s array hissed, firing volleys of flechettes skywards. ‘It’s blind,’ said Frosty to the SEAL.

The SEAL slid a piece of piece of metal beneath the weapons array. ‘Let’s fuck some shit up,’ he grinned through his beard.

Cheng was hiding behind the goat with Manny. The goat, to its credit, seemed chilled. ‘Mitch! Now. Do it now!’ Cheng hollered.

Clamping my knees tight, like riding a damn torpedo, I forced my fingers into an aperture on the side of the arrowhead. Cheng said it was an extraction port. It had the word DANGER written across it in three languages.

No shit.

Then the SEAL was hit. Tumbling off FUNNELWEB, he hit the pit’s oily black floor. ‘Shit,’ said Frosty, ‘it’s firing blind.’

FUNNELWEB’S voice was matter-of-fact, albeit muffled by the plate carrier strapped over the arrowhead. ‘COUNTER-COMPROMISE PROTOCOL INITIATED!’

Frosty shimmied towards me. ‘Does it mean self-destruct?’

‘Mebbe? Grab my belt,’ I replied, ‘and hang on.’

‘You got it.’ I yanked the extraction port open. Inside was a handle, which I pulled as hard as I could. With a hiss, then a whoosh, the arrowhead flew skywards like an ejector seat. However, unlike an ejector seat, I saw no trace of a parachute to break our fall. ‘Shit,’ said Frosty, her arms wrapped around my waist.

The arrowhead hurtled towards the hole in the bunker roof. As Cheng predicted, it was powered by two pop-out rotors. We cleared missile base, the sun hurting my eyes, the desert floor below candy-pink. The rotors, suddenly, stuttered. I gulped.

‘Drone!’ Frosty yelled.

The cargo quadcopter swooped towards us, trailing four tentacle-like cables. They snaked towards the arrowhead, snapping into the apertures in its armoured flanks. Reaching for Frosty, I hauled her up next to me. ‘Thanks,’ she said, looking over the desert. ‘Nice view.’

‘Sure is.’ The drone descended towards the old missile base. The whirring quadrotors, loud enough to hurt my ears, were the sweetest sound ever.

‘Is Sandra you’re wife? Or girlfriend?’ asked Frosty, who was almost smiling. ‘I heard you say the name. That’s almost sweet, actually.’

‘Sandra? She’s my plate carrier. Your sitting on her,’ I replied.

‘Dammit, Loomis, you’re a freak,’ said Frosty.

‘You know my name?’

‘I know a lot of stuff,’ she said.

Frosty stood by one of the helicopters, dressing the injured SEALs wounds. With her was the waitress she’d spoken with before the auction. Turned out it was one of her people. ‘So,’ said Cheng, who was eating a stash of leftover baklava, ‘you guys are CIA, right?’

‘Wrong’ Frosty replied, watching guys in fatigues load the arrowhead into the chopper. ‘And even if we were, you think I’d tell you? You’re on the INTERPOL watchlist, Mister Cheng.’

‘Fame at last,’ Cheng shrugged.

‘Still, whatever your plan was, you fucked up,’ I said.

‘There were teething problems with the coding,’ said Frosty, pulling a shit happens kinda face. ‘Nonetheless, we’ve achieved everything we set out to achieve. Plus, the Black Ravens are off the board.’

‘Hell yeah,’ said the injured SEAL. ‘Brave motherfuckers, though.’

‘Semper Fi,’ I agreed.

Frosty patted the SEAL on the back. ‘Jared, you’re good to go,’ she said.

‘And us?’ I asked.

‘I could justify killing you, Loomis. But I won’t. Consider it a thank you.’

I thought about why I was here in the first place. To illegally purchase a lethal autonomous weapon system. For very bad people. Mebbe Frosty had a point. ‘Okay then, I’ll take the win. We’ll pop smoke.’

‘Very wise,’ said Frosty.

‘Hey, maybe I’ll look you up another time,’ I said. Now I’d gotten away with it? I was Harrison Ford. ‘Maybe a beer after work?’

‘Fuck off while you’re ahead,’ Frosty replied. At least she was smiling. ‘I know where you live.’

‘Hey, so there’s a chance?’

‘No, Loomis, there ain’t.’

We drove off, into the sunset. Me, Cheng, Manny and the goat. Cheng played music on his laptop. The Beach Boys, for fuck’s sake. Kokomo. ‘Hey, Mitch, what just happened? It reminds me of that movie.’

‘Which movie?’ I asked.

‘Danny Ocean goes to Iraq with Ice Cube. They steal a load of gold.’

‘Gold? We’re empty handed, doofus,’ I replied.

‘Were alive,’ said Manny. ‘Now put your foot down.’

The goat bleated, as if in agreement. I figured it had a point.

Read Part One of this story, here.

Part Two

Nothin’ much happened on the ride out to the Caves of Calamity. The skies were grey and it rained, but we had oilskins for the wet and brandy for the boredom. Finally, we reached the lightning-blasted tree marking the uppermost entrance to the caves. “Gotta admit,” said Coffin Lid, “this place gives me the creeps.”

Watching carrion birds circling overhead, I shrugged. “I think we’re good, Coffin. If there was a half-dead lizard-man with six coppers in his pockets, there’d be bastard adventurers crawlin’ all over the place.”

“Yeah, s’pose you’re right.”

At the top of the hill were three people wearing dirty robes and carrying wooden staves, groaning and rattling chains in full view of the cave mouth. “Right on time,” I said. We rode towards them and unmounted, “a proper performance and no mistake.”

Farrowclaw shrugged off her hood and scowled. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” she said glumly.

“An’ all ‘cuz you got the hots for a lawman,” said Hammerscale the half-ogre, his grin showin’ off a mouthful o’ fangs. “I’m expecting a decent amount of silver for my time.”

“So do I,” said the last of the trio – the guard Coffin Lid punched out at Farrowclaw’s den. His name was Gustavo, and I’d once arrested him when he’d barely a hair on his chin. Something to do with a goat, I think, but that’s what border-folk are like.

“Fear not,” I said. “There’ll be silver for all once I’m promoted. You won’t be able to move on the Granite Road for weary adventurers with saddle-bags full o’ the stuff.”

Farrowclaw lit her pipe. “So you say. But who the hell’s going to see our performance out here? I’ve seen more life in a tramp’s vest.”

I smiled. “Just you wait – there’s no way Cornelius would trust us to scout this place alone. He’ll send a loyal man or two – they’ll spy your motley crew and report cultists sodding about up here. Then, I’ll turn up with a medallion of Xang to seal the deal!”

“Yeah, he can put that on a graph and stick it up his arse,” said Coffin Lid.

“I grant you, ‘tis a clever plan,” Farrowclaw replied. “If it works.”

“At least it’s a plan,” said Hammerscale grudgingly.

“You’ll whiff strangers before we see ‘em, won’t ya?” asked Gustavo. “With your ogrish sense of smell?”

Hammerscale nodded. His nose looked like someone had taken a hammer to a big ol’ mushroom. “Only if you fuck off a good distance, Gustavo. You stink.”

We sat and waited. Gustavo built a fire and Farrowclaw offered to share her bedroll with Coffin Lid. Gustavo went off with his bow and returned with a brace of rabbits, which we roasted on sticks. It was all rather jolly, given the circumstances. All the while, Hammerscale sat on a rock, watching the horizon. The half-ogre might’ve been a brigand, but he was a disciplined brigand. I think he had something of the army about him, sword sharp and clean, kit squared-away.

It was in the early hours that Coffin Lid gave in and scurried inside the cave with Farrowclaw. And about time too – I daresay the boy might learn a thing or two. Then I finished my brandy and pulled my blanket over my head. All I could hear was the camp fire’s crackle, mules nickering and Farrowclaw making a man of my young apprentice. I slept like a tree stump, curled under my blanket. “Stand-to,” said Hammerscale, grabbing my shoulder. It was the small hour afore dawn, the sky still inky. “I smell somethin’.”

“What d’you smell?” said Gustavo, nocking an arrow into his bow.

The half-ogre closed his eyes. “Linseed oil. Sickly perfume. Milky beverages…”

“Paladins?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Hammerscale nodded, eyes narrowed. “I’d say at least three, mebbe four.”

Paladins? ‘Course, goody-goody Cornelius was thick with the Order of Weserburgh, often dining at their Chapter-House. Maybe he’d sent Knife-Nose on a fast horse to ask ‘em to send a patrol. “I was only expecting him to send a couple of constables,” I said.

“Then you’re even duller than you look,” Hammerscale replied.

Farrowclaw appeared, scowling. “What you smell, Hammerscale?”

“Paladins.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Farrowclaw shook her head, lips drawn back over those pointy ol’ teeth. “If they see us, they’ll most likely attack.”

“We’ll take ‘em!” Gustavo declared.

Hammerscale bashed the twit on the head with the flat of his sword. Gustavo, for the second time in as many days, fell flat on his face. “I’ll put him in the cave,” the half-ogre grunted.

“Sound idea,” Farrowclaw nodded. “Come on, Grosser, hurry up.”

Kicking dirt on the fire, I made for the cave mouth. I shooed the mules inside, the creatures whimpering and stamping their hooves. “Faster,” Hammerscale snapped.

Coffin-Lid appeared, half-naked. He looked tired, bless him. “What is it?”

“Paladins,” I shrugged. “Get a move on, lover boy.”

Farrowclaw lit a storm lantern and we all followed her along a series of gloomy corridors, mules hee-hawing and Gustavo groanin’. “Hey, Hammerscale,” she whispered. “You reckon he should go north, to the Old Temple?”

“Mebbe. What about the Mysterious Fountain off the western spur?” he replied.

Farrowclaw wrinkled her nose. “Lost a good man to a blade-trap there, that’s why the fountain’s full of skulls.”

The half-ogre grunted. “The temple then, I reckon. At least the corridors all look the same – those idiot paladins might get lost.”

“You sure there’s nothing down here?” I said.

“Dunno, but I’d rather take my chances with giant rats than paladins.”

We finally found ourselves in a semi-circular cavern, daylight showing through a gap in the roof. There was a ruined altar, blackened and charred, and a row of stone benches. Coffin Lid sat on one and sighed. “How long d’you think the paladins’ll hang around?”

Farrowclaw sat down next to him and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, I won’t let any milksop paladin hurt you.” Hammerscale looked at me and I looked at Hammerscale. Both of us bit our lips and tried not to laugh. “I’ll cut your throat if you take the piss,” the bandit queen hissed.

“Me?” said Hammerscale, beefy arms folded across his armoured chest. “There ain’t enough love in the world, I reckon.”

“Give me strength,” Coffin Lid replied. “Remember the paladins? Y’know, the ones who love nothin’ better than choppin’ up monsters and brigands?”

Sniffing the air, Hammerscale drew his sword, as long as inspector Cornelius was tall. “Shush,” he whispered.

Then… footsteps and the clank of armour, getting louder an’ louder.

Farrowclaw, face sour, pulled a curved dagger from her belt. Then, kissing Coffin Lid, she vanished into the shadows. I don’t know how she did it, to be honest, but it prob’ly explained why I’d arrested so few burglars in my career.

“Coffin Lid, put Gustavo on a mule and piss off down that tunnel,” Hammerscale whispered, pointing at a gap in the wall. “Wait for us there, understand?”

“I’ll go with him,” I said.

“No, you stay with me lawman. This is your party, so you get a slice of the cake. Draw your blade, go for the gaps in their armour if you have to.”

Nervily, I did as I was told, back pressed to the wall. I heard voices, down the gloomy corridor we’d just walked along.

“What were those tracks?” said a voice.

“Mules,” came the reply. “And four or five people, I think.”

“Not very demonic, is it? This entire journey is a waste of time.”

“Please, Ruprecht,” said a third man, “investigating such things is our sworn duty.”

Ruprecht tutted. “I was doing this sort of thing when you were in swaddling, Adrian, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t lecture me. I know a fool’s errand when I see it.”

The paladins spoke in the hoity-toity lisp of well-bred men, the sort who wear velvet doublets and own falcons. “Hmmm. I feel a faint sense of… corruption,” said one, who I worked out was called Alexandros. “Do you sense it?”

“Yes I do,” said Adrian, “’tis the foul stench of deviltry.”

“Or a dead badger, perhaps?” Ruprecht sighed. “Listen, you’ll know real evil when you detect it – you’ll shit your trews.”

Then, the noise of rock on steel. “Damnation,” said Alexandros, “I’ve scraped my breastplate on a stalagmite.”

“Is that the one that hangs down from the ceiling or comes up from the floor?” said Ruprecht, “I can never remember.”

“That’s a terrible shame,” cooed Adrian. “That’s a new cuirass, isn’t it?”

“Yes, by Master Roger de Longue himself. Look at the lacquering… it’s bloody well ruined.”

“Oh well,” said Ruprecht, “best we go back and get it fixed. We can’t go bumbling around these caves looking like vagrants, can we?” I allowed myself to breathe. The vanity of the paladins was the stuff of legend.

“Perhaps,” said Alexandros carefully, covering his arse. “You’re happy we’ve checked the caves adequately?”

“Maybe one more cave, just to be on the safe side?” said Adrian.

Ruprecht guffawed. “If you must.”

The paladins were huffing and puffing when I heard a noise. “AHHHHHHH!” screamed a voice from deep inside the old temple. “AHHHHHHHH!!”

“Who was that?” I whispered.

“Gustavo,” said Hammerscale, sighing and readying his sword.

“What you goin’ to do?” I said.

Hammerscale’s eyes shone, yellow and very inhuman. “I’m going to kill some paladins,” he growled. The half-ogre was fast as a cat, leaping into the corridor and howlin’ like a mad howly thing. He barrelled into the paladins, smashing one in the grid with his elbow and running a second through with his sword. It made a horrible squishy-crunchy noise, slicin’ through armour and ribs and guts.

“On your guard, sir!” said the oldest of the three paladins, a neatly-bearded fellow I took to be Ruprecht. He whisked a broadsword from his belt and lunged at Hammerscale, the blade glancing off armour.

The half-ogre drew his sword from a paladin’s belly, counter-attacked, then slipped in a puddle of blood. “Shit,” he groaned, falling to a knee. He parried Ruprecht’s blade, sending up a shower of sparks.

I drew my truncheon and staggered towards the melee. Me, a Sergeant of Constabulary, taking arms against paladins? Dammit, I wished I’d a drink about me, but the rum was in my saddlebag. Happily, the lady Farrowclaw resolved my dilemma. The Bandit-Queen stepped from the shadows, knife ready, and drew it across poor Ruprecht’s throat. With a thud, the paladin crashed to the cavern floor, blood pissing from his neck. “You’re a clumsy fuck,” she said to Hammerscale.

“It’s been said before,” Hammerscale grunted, stabbing the third paladin, dazed and still lying on the deck. “If these bastards were as hard as they thought they were, we might’ve been in trouble.”

Coffin Lid appeared, dragging a wide-eyed Gustavo behind him. “What happened?” he said.

“We were attacked by paladins,” I replied, ignoring Hammerscale’s raised eyebrow.

Coffin Lid saw the bodies. “Oh shit, ain’t that murder?”

Hammerscale raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“No need to argue,” I interrupted. “I witnessed the entire thing. It was, at worst, a misunderstanding… and prob’ly self-defence.”

“You should be an advocate,” said Farrowclaw, slapping me on the back. “Now, why was Gustavo screaming?”

“Best you take a look for yourself,” Coffin Lid replied.

“Let me see if there’s any coin first, sweetie,” said Farrowclaw, rummaging through Ruprecht’s pouches and purses, “and I’ll be right with you.”

“I reckon he came to, wondered what he was doin’ lying ‘cross the back of the mule… then saw that…” said Coffin Lid, pointing at an alcove. He held a torch aloft, spitting and fizzing with fresh oil.

“Never saw that before,” said Hammerscale, “and I cleared this level of lizardfolk not a year ago.” Inside the alcove was a statue of a Xangish tentacle-monster, taller than a man and made of oily black stone.

“Well, it gives me the creeps,” I said, trying not to look in its eyes (which was difficult, ‘cuz they were made of rubies big as apples).

“The damn thing gives me the horn,” Hammerscale replied, gripping his codpiece and grinning. “Look at those gems! We’re rich.”

“I reckon we are,” Farrowclaw agreed, eyeing the statue. She was like a cat given a saucer of cream by a stranger – interested but wary. “This was hidden behind a secret door. How did it open?”

“Mule kicked the wall,” said Coffin Lid, patting the creature’s head. “Heard a rumblin’ noise and there it was.”

“The bloody thing’s cursed,” Gustavo shrieked, making the sign.

Farrowclaw inspected her fingernails. “Gustavo, will you calm down?”

“Sorry, milady, but look at that thing. I thought we’d summoned Xang itself.”

“If it was gonna summon Xang, it would’ve by now,” Farrowclaw replied. “I’ve seen such things before, when I did a bit of delving myself.”

“I think you’re right,” said Hammerscale, pulling a knife. “Let’s get those rubies out…”

“Hold on,” I said. “Remember why we’re here.”

Hammerscale sighed. “If you hadn’t noticed, Grosser, the situation’s changed. You know what paladins are like when it comes to avenging their fallen.”

Coffin Lid whispered in Farrowclaw’s ear. She looked adoringly at my boy and smiled. “No, a deal’s a deal,” she said. “We’ll have the rubies yet, don’t you worry.”

Hammerscale’s face was wet from other men’s blood. “As long as we do.”

“What now?” asked Coffin Lid.

Well, if I’d learnt anything being a lawman, it was how to play a shitty hand. Every day in the job dealt you one, after all. “I’ve got a plan,” I said.

Armoured corpses are bloody heavy, and something in my back made a twanging noise. We lay the dead paladins in front of the creepy octopus-statue. “What now?” said Farrowclaw.

“Don’t you see?” I replied. “The cultists sacrificed the paladins to Xang. What more evidence do we need?”

Farrowclaw nodded slowly. “That’s cunning, Grosser, I’ll give you that. But we need to make it look more… authentic.”

“Authentic?” said Coffin Lid, hands-on-hips. “How much deader can they get?”

“Not much,” Hammerscale agreed, “but that ain’t how the Chaots of Xang do sacrifices. It’s far too… tidy.”

“How d’you know?” I said.

The half-ogre chuckled. “Half o’ my tribe offered up prayers to Xang back in the day. Before the bastard Paladins of Weserburgh slaughtered ‘em all, that is.” It was true – everyone knew the border campaigns weren’t pretty. The War of Cleansing, the holy warriors called it.

Farrowclaw rolled up her sleeves. “Best we get on with it, then.” Hammerscale pulled a dagger and whistled merrily, splashing and sploshing blood and innards everywhere. It made nasty squelching noises, bits of paladin hanging off the statue’s tentacles and appendages. Gustavo lost his breakfast, and Coffin Lid shook his head.

Then I felt something hot in my tunic, making my belly tingle uncomfortably. “Ah,” I cried, patting down my pockets.

“What is it, sarge?” said Coffin Lid.

I threw something to the ground, blowing on my fingers. “It’s the Medallion of Xang, it’s hot as hell,” I replied. The medallion bounced once, then spun on the dusty cavern floor like a top.

“Sorcery,” said Hammerscale, wiping his bloody hands on a cloth.

“What d’you mean?” I asked.

Making a soft humming noise, the medallion flew towards the statue and lodged itself in the octopus-thing’s head. “Oh shit,” said Farrowclaw, grabbing Coffin Lid’s shoulder. “Move!”

The statue’s ruby eyes glowed, making Gustavo shriek again. The boy slipped on a pile of entrails and collided with the statue. The lad was taken by unholy fire, his skinny body burnt to a crisp. “What the hell was that?” said Coffin Lid.

“I reckon we accidentally made a sacrifice to Xang,” said Hammerscale coolly. “We should start running.”

That last thing I heard were the mules, hee-hawing like crazy. Then a noise like a man trying to fight quicksand, squelchy and slimy. I’ve never run so fast in my life, watery puke trailing down my chin. Coffin Lid shook free of Farrowclaw’s grip and pulled me along, all the way back to the surface. “Take the paladin’s horses,” said Hammerscale.

“As long as we get as far away as we can,” I blurted.

“The lawman’s right,” Farrowclaw laughed, “and I never thought I’d say that!”

The four of us rode hard, Farrowclaw and Coffin Lid sharing the biggest steed. The Bandit-Queen queen reckoned each destrier would fetch a thousand silvers in the tribal horse-markets, but horseflesh was the last thing on my mind. “Where will you go?” I asked, clamped to my warhorse’s saddle.

“My den, of course,” she laughed, hair trailing in the wind. “And you two will have a story to tell back at the keep.”

“What the hell did we summon back there?” said Hammerscale.

Coffin Lid pulled a face. “A tentacle-monster, if it’s anything like last time.”

“I’m sure an army of adventurers will show up and save the day,” the half-ogre smirked. “Still, it’s a shame about those rubies.”

We returned to the keep the next evening, bloodstained and wild-haired. The sentries on the gate hollered the portcullis raised, our dusty horses clip-clopping across the drawbridge. Inspector Cornelius stood, arms folded. “We must prepare for the worst,” I said, half-tumbling from my saddle. “The Chaots of Xang have returned.”

“It’s true,” said Coffin Lid. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I’ll hear no more until we get to my office,” said Cornelius hissed, eyes narrowed. “And whose horses are those? What happened to your mules?”

Coffin Lid dismounted smartly, a hand on his sword. “Inspector, the mules were eaten by a monster. And these horses belong to three Paladins of Weserburgh, slain as sacrifices by the Cult of Xang.”

“Quiet,” Cornelius fumed. But it was too late – there were a dozen folk close enough to hear our tale. The rumours would fly like eagles, as would the adventurers who heard them. Cornelius took us to his office, on the top floor of the keep. The little shit didn’t offer us so much as a cup of wine, instead choosing to harangue us instead. “Dead paladins? How? The Knight-Commodore will demand an explanation.”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “One minute we were runnin’ from the cultists, the next we found ourselves in a cave with a horrible statue.”

“It had tentacles,” Coffin Lid added.

“There were these noises,” I said, shuddering.

“And dead paladins.”

“Your hair’s turned white, sarge,” said Coffin Lid.

“White?” I said, “I’m surprised it didn’t fall out!”

Cornelius struck his desk with a tiny fist. “You are confined to your quarters – I shall call for inquisitors – they’ll get to the bottom of this affair.”

Coffin Lid went to say something, but I shot the boy a look. “Of course, sir. That’s very wise. I’m sure any investigation will prove our story beyond doubt.”

“Go now, the blasted pair of you,” ordered Cornelius.

We hurried away, watched carefully by that creep Knife-Nose. In my room I cracked open some rum to steady our nerves. “You know what I want to know?” I said, booze trickling down my chin.

Coffin Lid took a cup and nodded his thanks. “What?”

“Was Farrowclaw a good tumble?”

Coffin Lid blushed. “We got bigger problems, sarge,” He said.

“You mean the paladins?”

“Yeah, and the tentacle monster.”

I opened the door, to see if Knife-Nose was a-spying. There was no sign of the man, who was probably burrowing his way further up Cornelius’s shiny arse. “Paladins know the risks, son,” I said. “True, it was a sad way to go, but it was Cornelius who did for ‘em, you see?”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if he’d trusted us in the first place, the paladins would’ve been in Weserburgh havin’ their beards trimmed, wouldn’t they? Stands to reason.”

Coffin Lid brightened a little. “Well, if you put it like that… but what about the tentacle monster?”

I poured another cup for us both. “Did you actually see one?”

“No…”

I grinned. “Neither did I. And even if there was, there’ll be adventurers here soon. They’ll save the day!”

Emberfeldt raised an eyebrow. “You did what?”

There was no point lying to the sorcerer, who was a canny bastard. I told him the whole story, warts an’ all, although I made sure Hammerscale’s part in the slaughter was properly credited. “It got out of hand,” I said, wringing my hands. “Although the paladins were a chopsy crew and spoilin’ for a fight.”

“Their zealotry is hardly a secret,” the sorcerer replied. “And you say the Medallion of Xang flew to the statue of its own volition?”

“Like an arrow. Then the statue’s eyes lit up…”

The sorcerer took a draw on his pipe, chair creaking as he reached for a pile of scrolls. “The statue was drenched in gore by this point?”

“Like a butcher’s block, it was,” said Coffin Lid.

Emberfeldt unrolled a piece of vellum. “I suspect you activated a Ward of Summoning, essentially a demonic booby-trap. The rubies would’ve contained foul magic, released by a confluence of holy warriors’ blood and proximity to the medallion.”

“So there’s a monster?” I asked.

“Indubitably – there’ll be a Xangomantic Demon wandering those caves, although I’m sure it’ll get out soon enough. You were only on the first level?”

“That’s right,” said Coffin Lid. “The statue was hidden behind a secret door.”

“What astonishingly poor dungeon design. The demon will want sating, and that means killing. If there’s nothing to slay in the caves, it’ll head here.”

My arse twitched, fingers gripping my cup. “Ah, but within a week this place will be full o’ lusty adventurers, won’t it?”

Emberfeldt poured brandy – the good stuff, which he kept in a flask decorated with gold filigree. “I doubt it, actually. I’ve heard the Wyrcliffe Dragon has a fifty-thousand crown bounty on each of its heads – every adventurer on the borderlands is heading there with alacrity.”

“We’re fucked,” said Coffin Lid.

Emberfeldt’s face was leathery as a saddlebag, but his eyes shone. “We can defend this place against a demon. After all, I remain a formidable mage. All I need are paladins as cannon-fodder while I prepare a suitable evocation.”

“What about the Imperial Auditors?” I said. “Won’t they be on their way?”

The sorcerer chuckled. “Hopefully they’ll arrive in time to see how wrong your inspector was.”

I finished my brandy and playfully punched Coffin Lid’s arm. “You see?” I said. “Every cloud’s got a silver lining.”

Coffin Lid shook his head. “What if the Inquisition gets here first?”

I chuckled as the sorcerer refreshed my cup. “Don’t worry yourself, boy. They’ll have plenty of work, mark my words…”

The next morning Cornelius ordered the Keep’s militia to parade. There were twenty constables, dressed in blue tunics and tricorns, and fifty militiamen - mainly mainly shopkeepers, labourers and farmers, armed with whatever weapons came to hand. Cornelius, wearing a coat of gleaming mail and sitting on a mule, rode up and down the ranks. “Right,” he squeaked, “there will be much vigilance – everyone shall perform double shifts, on my orders.”

There was a hubbub of sighing and cat-calling, as iron discipline ain’t a feature of border folk. Someone even let rip a fart. Cornelius ignored it, his mule kicking up dust. “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your damned faces soon,” he warned. “A squadron of paladins rides from Weserburgh, and rangers scout north to establish any threat to the Keep.”

“Why?” said Bertram the Smith, a big ol’ lump wearing a battered breastplate. “What threat ails us, inspector?”

“That’s confidential,” Cornelius replied. “Suffice to say, the continued wealth and prosperity of this keep turns on your vigilance.”

“Huh?” said Bertram.

Cornelius rode towards Knife-Nose, who’d been promoted to Sergeant-of-the-Keep. I’d never heard of the position before, but it’s amazing what you find up your boss’s arse if you tunnel far enough. “Sergeant-of-the-Keep, please make the announcement.”

Knife-Nose smiled, smugger than a cat curled up on a velvet cushion. He wore a new hat, a tricorn with a silver badge in the shape of a tower. He cleared his throat and unrolled a scroll. “Hear this! There is rank deviltry and betrayal about our keep. To that end, an Inquisitor from the Order of the Waning Moon has been summoned, to question anyone with knowledge of the Cult of Xang. Therefore, all residents are required to surrender themselves for examination by the Inquisition as and when ordered. Failure to comply will lead to the harshest penalties available under the Heresy Accords.”

There was much wailing and groaning, as Inquisitors were popular as dog-shit on a wedding cake. And although Cornelius was suspicious of me, he didn’t need an Inquisitor if he wanted to have my legs. Then I suspected what he was up to, and even I had to admire the cunning of it. “Parade dismissed,” said Knife-Nose. “First watch! Report for orders.”

Coffin Lid and me were relieved of all duties until inquisitors arrived, so we hurried away. It was only a short walk to the Greedy Griffon, where Maria was mopping up old ale and puke. “Morning, Lady Maria,” said Coffin Lid. “Need a hand with that?”

“We’re good at tidying up other folks’ mess,” I harrumphed.

We made our way to the sorcerer’s room. The door was open, Emberfeldt studying a book. He wore a dressing gown and a strange hat made of felt. “Ah, my favourite lawmen. You’re just in time for a drink,” he said.

Did I mention how much I liked the man? “Don’t you ever run out of brandy?” I asked.

“Never,” he replied, tapping his golden flask. “This is Oliver’s Bottomless Decanter. Magical relic, found it on the ninth level of the Caves of Calamity.”

We drank. What wondrous magic – a bottomless decanter of brandy! Why do mages waste their time with fireballs and clouds of noxious acid? Anyhow, after I’d drank a cup or three, I explained my theory. “Master Emberfeldt, it’s about the lunch you took with the inspector,” I said. “When you declined to sign Cornelius’s statement, was he… angry?”

Emberfeldt chuckled. “Angry with me? That little shit? I’d turn him into a frog, or worse. I suppose he was… miffed.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Only that he might seek alternative advice,” the sorcerer replied, snapping his fingers. Flames dancing from his thumb, he lit our pipes. “He was most agitated I wouldn’t assist,assist; the man was clearly obsessed with the audit.”

“He ain’t the cleverest of men, but there’s a certain spiteful cunning about him,” I said.

“Oh, most definitely,” Emberfeldt replied. “Although I fail to see how that might concern me.”

I paused for a bit o’ drama, stroking my chin. “Well, I reckon he’s planning on framing you as a heretic, bait for the Inquisition of the Waning Moon. That way he can say any threat from the Caves of Calamity was purged, before the auditors even arrive.”

When the pipe smoke cleared, I could see the sorcerer was smiling. “That’s actually rather clever. My rooms are heaving with artifacts linked to the Cultists of Xang – enough to excite the average inquisitor into a froth of self-righteousness. Even I would struggle to overcome the paladins at their disposal.”

“What a bastard,” said Coffin Lid.

Emberfeldt tapped my boy’s hand. “Quite so, young man. I would prefer to help defend the Keep from any Xangish demon, but if I’m to be set-up as a heretic…”

I looked through the window, across the walls and into the borderlands beyond. It wasn’t much, but, dammit it was home. And the brandy was excellent. “You won’t be framed for anything, Master Emberfeldt,” I declared. “Do you think the Inquisition of the Waning Moon, the Paladins of Weserburgh and Inspector-bloody-Cornelius are more cunning than me?”

“’Course they are,” said Coffin Lid.

“Just wait and see,” I replied, my heart full of strange excitement, (although it might have been indigestion). “Master Emberfeldt, a favour if I may?”

The Inquisition arrived the next evening, escorted by a squadron of paladins. Armour glittered and weapons clanked, black flags snappin’ in the wind. “Make way for the Waning Moon,” ordered a herald on a pony.

“Fuck off,” shouted someone emptying a bed-pan into the street.

Coffin Lid and me watched from my room. The procession made for the keep’s biggest tower, locals wonderin’ what the heck was going on. Knife-Nose bowed and scraped as the inquisitors dismounted and lead them inside. “You think they’ll want to question us first?” asked Coffin Lid.

“Reckon so. ‘Far as they know, we’re the only witnesses to them paladins snuffing it, ain’t we? Then Cornelius will point the finger at Emberfeldt.”

“You seem very certain, sarge. How d’you know?”

“It’s what I’d do, if I weren’t cleverer,” I said, tapping my nose. Cornelius might’ve been cunning, you see, but he was headquarters cunning. A tinpot schemer, he’d probably planned the whole thing on one of his graphs. I, on the other hand, was street cunning. Like a fox. Or a rat, if I’m honest.

Knife-Nose found us shortly afterwards. “You first, Grosser,” he said.

I was taken to the cells, where we usually keep drunks waiting to see the magistrate. The inquisitors were both women (they usually are – you try lying to one), one old and hefty, the other young and skinny. “I am Inquisitor Agnes,” said the older of the pair, grim-faced and dressed in grey. “This is Inquisitor Yolanda.”

“Pleased muchly to meet you, ladies,” I said, tugging my forelock. “Always a pleasure to help fellow law-folk root out criminals.”

Agnes glowered. “Quite. We are here to establish what deviltry has occurred in this place.”

“And deviltry there’s been,” I nodded. Inquisitors are all about results, in my experience. It’s better if you get something off your chest – something uncomfortable. Then they’re more likely to believe whatever bollocks you come up with next. “And even I must confess to impurity.”

“Confess!” Yolanda snapped, eyes rolling about in her bony little head (a bit too eagerly).

“What is it?” said Agnes. She was a cooler customer, I could tell.

“I once changed my watch so I could visit a harlot,” I said, trying to look ashamed (as my entire shift pattern was fixed around the carnal availability of a bosomy widow I liked to visit). “I also took an extra ration of bread from the cookhouse a week yesterday.”

Agnes scoffed. “Very well, sergeant. Put out your hand.”

I did so, and was rewarded by the crack of a whip. By fuck it hurt! A bright red welt appeared on my palm. “I’m sorry,” I whimpered.

“Your sins are expunged. Now, as to the matters at hand – the Caves of Calamity. Three noble paladins are missing.”

“Three noble paladins are dead, milady. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Yolanda hefted a bag onto a table, an unhinged smile on her face. She produced a number of mechanical devices – thumbscrews, and scolds, mostly, although I saw something for extracting teeth and a Pear of Anguish (ouch!). The inquisitor saw the look on my face. “Pain is truth,” she said. “And truth is… pain.”

“You can torture me as much as you like, but here’s the truth of the matter…” I told them how I’d decided to investigate reports of cult activity, along with the stalwart constable Coffin Lid. I kept the story simple, with no mention of Hammerscale or Farrowclaw.

“Now, we shall test the truth of the matter,” said Yolanda, cranking something sharp.

“Short of going to the caves and risking the wrath of a Xangish Demon, you can’t,” I replied. “You see, our scouting mission was a success. I was able to warn the inspector, and now we’re on high alert.”

Inquisitor Agnes listened carefully. Her eyes reminded me of over-poached eggs, watery and yellow. “There’s a certain bovine logic to your tale, I suppose, and you haven’t attempted to embellish your own deeds.”

“Oh no, milady. I ran like a chicken soon as I saw trouble. I ain’t a warrior, just a simple lawman.”

Inquisitor Yolanda looked cross. “Not even a tooth or two, Agnes?” she said. “Just to see if he changes his mind?”

“No,” Agnes snapped. “Save your devices for the real perpetrators, whoever they are.”

“Which leads me to my own investigation,” I replied. “You see, I think someone is trying to interfere with the work of the Imperial Auditors…”

The older inquisitor cocked her head. The look on her face reminded me strangely of the statue I’d seen in the caves. “Yolanda,” she said, “fetch a quill, ink and vellum...”

“Did they use the Pear of Anguish on you?” I asked Coffin Lid.

“No, they were both nice ladies,” he replied, passing me a beer. We propped up the bar at the Greedy Griffon, as Emberfeldt was in his room with the lovely Constantia.

“Nice?”

“Yeah. They just listened, and the skinny one wrote down a couple of things I mentioned. Then she said I was very brave.”

Women usually reckoned the sun shone out of Coffin Lid’s arse. It was a rare talent. “I think we’re in the clear,” I said. “We just need to wait.”

Coffin Lid looked around us. There were pretty serving girls and a hog roastin’ over a pit. “I reckon here’s a good place to hunker down.”

I slapped the boy’s back. “Like I said, you’re sergeant material and no mistake.”

We were well into our third pint when a young lad burst into the bar. “The monster’s here!” he cried. “The Xangish demon of Xang!”

We hurried outside, strapping on our sword belts. Men young and old pulled on leather hauberks and readied spears, as well as more’n a few of the women. Squires in coloured surcoats helped paladins mount destriers, constables aiming crossbows from the battlements. “You two,” said Knife-Nose, now dressed in armour, “grab weapons. To the walls!”

“Yes sarge,” said Coffin Lid.

“Where are you going to fight, Knife-Nose?” I asked.

“I’m going to help the inspector direct the defence.”

I harrumphed. “From his office?”

“Grab a blade and get on the wall, you drunken fuck,” he snapped. “Hopefully the creature will eat you and choke on your poisonous carcass.”

I was about to punch the man on the nose, when a cry went up to lift the portcullis. “Riders!” someone shouted.

Thirty or so warriors on horseback charged into the courtyard, wearing a motley of leather and steel. At their head were two familiar figures. “Farrowclaw?” said Coffin Lid.

“Bandits?” Knife-Nose roared, “who let these jackals inside the walls?”

Farrowclaw raised her sword. “The demon has destroyed everything on the Granite Road, including my roadhouse. We come to fight.”

“Aye,” said Hammerscale, a brooding figure in black. “We must chase the thing back to its lair if we must.” The half-ogre met my gaze and tried not to smirk, as I knew the only thing on his mind was the ruby-eyed statue.

A paladin on horseback, splendid in gleaming plate, flipped up his visor. “Why would the Paladins of Weserburgh find common cause with bandits?”

“Oh, fuck off!” came another voice. Emberfeldt appeared, dressed in his sorcerous finery, flames burning at the tip of his quarterstaff. “You stuck-up turds should fight alongside any who would stand against Xang.”

The commoners and militia, who numbered several hundred, hurrahed their approval. “Master Emberfeldt is right,” I called, “all must join forces this day.”

Knife-Nose passed me a sword. “There you go, then.”

And so the folk of the borderlands prepared to fight the mighty Xangish demon of Xang. We smelt its wrongness on the wind, the stink of death and evil. Finally, the hour before dusk, it appeared. “That’s a really fucking ugly monster,” said Coffin Lid.

“It’s uglier than the last one,” said Otto the innkeeper, who now wore mail and hefted a battle-axe.

And they were right. It was a mess of tentacles and teeth, of slimy eyes and scaly flanks. It had several tails, all covered in spikes, it’s octopus beak snapping like the gates of hell. It slithered and slathered towards us, leaving behind a trail of glistening black goo.

“Release arrows!” ordered inspector Cornelius, standing atop the Keep’s highest tower.

“Sorry?” said someone, as the inspector’s voice was feeble and easily lost on the wind.

“SHOOT!” Knife-Nose hollered, stood at Cornelius’s shoulder.

Young lads ran along the walls with torches, lighting pitch-soaked arrows. The constables, all trained crossbowmen, let loose a volley. Bolts and flaming missiles raked the creature, not fifty yards from the wall. It made a shrieking noise, and in my heart I knew the thing was mocking us. “Open the gate,” ordered a paladin. “We sally forth.”

“Good,” said Emberfeldt, stood next to me on the north wall. “They’ll soften it up. Demons are vulnerable to holy steel.”

“How d’you plan to slay the thing?” I asked.

Emberfeldt smiled and pulled something from his pocket. A tiny clay statue, similar to the one in the caves, eyes made of rubies the size of my thumbnail. “I plan on reversing the summoning ritual,” he said. “If it works, the creature’s soul will be trapped inside this figurine. It’s fragile, though, we need to be careful.”

“What do you need to make it work?”

The sorcerer watched the squadron of paladins charging towards the demon, standards fluttering. Silvered lances flashed, war cries echoed. “Oh, it’s not too unlike the ritual that brought it here in the first place – it requires plenty of blood.”

The squadron was fifty-strong, the cream of Weserburgh’s paladins, encased in imperial plate and bearing blessed steel, protection magic glowing blue about their heads. Their destriers were heavily-muscled, four-legged war machines in their own right. Lances pierced the demon’s leathery flank, sizzling and bubbling, tentacles hurling a dozen men like toys. One poor soul disappeared inside the octopus beak, another impaled on a spiky appendage. Paladins drew swords and axes as they set about the beast, weapons aglow with holy fire. “Excellent,” said Emberfeldt.

“You think they’ll beat the thing?”

“Oh no,” the sorcerer replied, watching a decapitated paladin spin like a top. “But there’s lots of blood.”

Farrowclaw’s riders flanked the beast. Her warriors had no lances, instead throwing javelins at the creature’s eyes. Some found purchase, others bounced off its armoured hide. Hammerscale leapt from the saddle and drew his great-sword. With a roar, he chopped at a tentacle, lopping it in half. He must really have had a thing about rubies.

“Hold your fire,” shouted Knife-Nose from the battlements. “Militiamen – attack!”

A wave of common-folk rushed through the gates, led by a sword-toting Coffin Lid. Then I saw Cornelius (and I kid you not) looking at a map – dammit, the man was a bigger coward than me. When the last rank of militia had left, I touched my tricorn. “S’pose I’d better show willing,” I said to nobody in particular.

Fighters teemed about the demon, tentacles poking and grabbing at anyone who got too close. Dozens of spears protruded from its body, making it look like a hellish porcupine. At least half of the paladins lay dead, bodies torn asunder, lame horses neighing. Farrowclaw and Coffin Lid were busy fighting with a fang-studded appendage, swords probing and hacking.

I staggered forward, a beery belch on my lips. At my shoulder was Emberfeldt. “I think that’s enough carnage,” he said easily. “Let’s end this silliness.”

“Please do,” I begged.

“Hold this,” he said, passing me the tiny statue of Xang. “And for the love of the gods, be gentle with it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s made of clay, and quite soon there’ll be a demon inside it.”

Oh shit. “Can’t you keep it?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “I need both hands for the evocation.” With that, he strode into the fray, flaming staff held aloft. Words tumbled from his mouth in a strange, jumbled tongue, sounding a bit like me after too many brandies.

“Protect the mage,” bellowed a young paladin, armour streaked with treacly black demon-blood.

The remaining warriors charged, forming an armoured wall before Emberfeldt. The sorcerer wrinkled his brow. “Get out of my way, meat-heads,” he grumbled. “I need space to work.” A tentacle slithered toward him, only to burst into flames.

T’was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen: Master Emberfeldt standing in front of that fell creature, high as the northmost wall. It’s eyes locked onto the sorcerer, a keening noise coming from its beak, tentacles writhing. Emberfeldt dropped his staff, arms raised to the sky, more of that crazy babble spewin’ from his lips…

And with a noise like a heifer with the shits, the Xangish demon began to collapse in on itself, body liquefying. The stench made me lose my breakfast, the monster’s innards a’ bubbling like so much hot turd. The statue in my fist warmed up some, rattling gently. I looked in its little ruby eyes, which glowed evilly. “It worked!” I said, holding the thing at arm’s length.

Emberfeldt staggered and fell to his knees. A horrid wound ran from his shoulder to his belly, a puddle of gore at his feet. The brave sorcerer died next to the demon he’d vanquished, and I hadn’t even had the time to wonder how I’d get hold of Oliver’s Bottomless Flask. Cornelius appeared, sword still sheathed. “What’s that in your hand?” he squeaked, helmet askew.

“The demon’s soul,” I replied. “Emberfeldt trapped it inside this statue.”

“Give it here, ‘tis too dangerous for a buffoon such as you to protect…” the inspector went to snatch the figurine from my fingers.

“You want the glory, you mean?” I said, pushing him aside.

“I’ve had enough of your insubordination, Grosser,” he spat, drawing his sword. “Now, give me the statue.”

I’m not a violent man, the truth be told, but Cornelius summoned the uglier side of my nature that day. Knocking the blade aside, I punched him on the nose. Grunting, he snatched the statuette with his free hand. “Ha!” he exclaimed, holding it aloft. “Behold. I have captured the Xang…”

“Oi,” said a familiar voice, “leave Grosser be.” Coffin Lid appeared, armour stained with demonic ichor. He punched Cornelius hard in the belly, sending him reeling. By now a crowd had gathered. Usually adventurers tended to their wounded and indulged in a little back-slapping after a battle, so three constables brawling weren’t something they expected to see.

Cornelius, red-faced, clenched his trophy. “You are both under arrest,” he said, levelling the little clay demon at us. “You’re…”

Crunch.

The statuette crumbled in his angry wee fist. Mauve energy swirled about the inspector, making his eyes bulge. You didn’t need to be a mage to realise the Xangish monster’s soul wanted to possess Cornelius’s body…

And it didn’t, ‘cuz with a two-handed blow, Coffin Lid hacked off Cornelius’s head with his sword. Our ex-boss vomited thick black goo, eyes swivelling like marbles in a jar. “Noooooo!” he hissed in an otherworldly voice, head rolling about in the mud.

Well, that was enough for the paladins, who know evil when they see it. They dog-piled the inspector’s remains, stabbing and chopping with blessed steel. By the time they’d finished, what was left of him weren’t worth a dog’s breakfast. “The evil one is defeated,” declared a paladin, falling to his knees in prayer. Farrowclaw and Hammerscale appeared, rollin’ their eyes at the piety on display. “You okay, Grosser?” said Farrowclaw.

“I will be when I get myself a bloody drink,” I replied.

Later that day, the Inquisitors discovered the trove of sinister Xangish accoutrements Emberfeldt had given me. I’d planted them in Cornelius’s office, so Agnes and Yolanda decided the inspector had been a secret cultist all along, plotting to stop imperial expansion on the borderlands.

A week or so later, I sat in my office at the top of the Keep. “Does the promotion suit you?” said Coffin Lid. It was a sunny autumn morning, the borderlands beyond my window turnin’ all golden and orange and brown.

“I reckon so,” I replied, tapping the badge on my hat. Sergeant-of-the-Keep. I liked the ring of it. “And those inspectors stars look mighty fine on your tunic, sir.”

“Stop callin’ me sir,” said Coffin Lid. “You’re old enough to be my pa.”

Nonetheless, it was Coffin Lid who finally slew the Xangish demon, and was a hero. The Inquisition and the Paladins of Weserburgh both demanded his promotion, despite his reluctance. The lad had a solid head on his shoulders, and took my advice, so I thought he’d settle into the job nicely. And, as someone once famous and foreign apparently said, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Maybe I’d never be an inspector, but I had friends. Hammerscale and Farrowclaw were now Imperial Rangers, generously contracted to defend common-folk from the Caves of Calamity. I had a boss who knew which side his bread was buttered…

…and of course the biggest prize of all, better than a demon’s ruby eyes. Yes, in my room sat Oliver’s Endless Flask. I’m sure old Emberfeldt would be pleased it ended up in good hands. “Right,” said Coffin Lid, seeing the golden flask sitting on my desk. “Is it time for a drink?”

“Reckon it is,” I replied. “Dammit, Coffin, you got this leadership thing licked, ain’t you?”

The End

I’ve always loved fantasy stories.

This one first appeared in an anthology called ‘It’s a Living.’ The brief was to imagine the lives of ordinary, everyday folk in classic fantasy settings: janitors. Accountants. And, in my case, policemen. What was I aiming for? An over-the-top mashup of ‘Discworld’ meets ‘Dungeons and Dragons’ meets ‘The Bill’. Did I succeed? You decide.

The story is in two parts, I’ll post the second next week.

PART ONE

“Reckon I’m gonna miss ‘em,” said Coffin Lid.

I nodded for Otto to pour more beer. “Who?”

“Adventurers.”

More evidence, in case you were wondering, who was the brains of our outfit. “You kidding?” I replied. “If I never see another adventurer again…”

Otto slid my tankard across the bar. “Adventurers might be a pain in the arse, but they pay for their own beer.”

Coffin Lid stroked his chin. ‘What about that monster? The thing with the tentacles.”

“Yeah, the Xangish demon of Xang,” said Otto, wiggling his fingers like one of the demon’s hundred bloody tentacles. “Who killed it? Adventurers, that’s who.”

Sighing, I wiped beer from my ‘tache. “True, but that was last year. Now it’s gone, the adventurers have served their purpose, ain’t they? The Caves of Calamity are purged. Farmers are moving back. Soon there’ll be markets and apple-cheeked wenches…”

“Bollocks,” said Otto. “The soil ‘round here’s sourer than a witch’s snatch. It’ll take forever to irrigate.”

Coffin Lid studied his ale. “Might be time to move on. They say Wyrcliffe’s Constabulary are recruiting. Now, that’s a lively ol’ place.”

Otto poured Coffin Lid more beer. “Damn right, Wyrcliffe’s streets are paved with gold, ain’t they? There’s a dragon under the mountain, it’s got six heads. Attracts adventurers like wasps to jam.”

“Or flies to shit,” I scoffed. “Wyrcliffe is barroom brawls all day and night, not a chest left unpicked, taverns gutted by fireballs…”

Coffin Lid smiled. He was a good-looking lad. Straight white teeth. A face as handsome as a statue, his skin the colour of teak. “Sarge, I like barroom brawls,” he said. At his age I did too, but you get to a point where the novelty of being punched in the chops wears thin.

“Anyhow, Grosser, what you gonna do now the adventurers have gone?” said Otto.

I gestured for my fourth beer, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. “I’m stayin’ put. You reckon farmhands will stop fighting in taverns just ‘cuz the adventurers are gone? Are barmaids gonna stop pocketing drunks’ purses? Snake-oil doctors will still try to make coin selling fake medicine…”

“That’s boring,” Coffin Lid sulked. “I like fireballs and punching drunken bards.”

I belched loudly and patted my belly. My tunic had shrunk in the wash. “We all like punching bards, but what about the others? Remember that barbarian, the really angry one?”

“Yeah,” Coffin Lid replied, touching his flattened nose. “He was lively, I grant you. Still, Wyrcliffe’s gotta be livelier than this dump.”

“Then maybe it’ll be right up your street. But mark my words, when some bastard casts a hex on you, don’t expect ‘em to get it removed. They’ll just chuck you on the dung-heap and hire another meathead.”

Coffin Lid sighed. “S’pose you’ve got a point, Sarge.”

“’Course I have. Stick with me, Coffin Lid – I’ll be made an inspector soon enough. You’ll be my sergeant – we’ll soon get this place working to our advantage.” The Keep might not have been much, but it was home.

Otto laughed. “You? Cornelius would never have that, Grosser. He hates your guts.”

Inspector Cornelius was my boss, the second-in-command of Constabulary. He was a horrible, conniving little shit. “Cornelius will be gone soon,” I said. “Word is he’s goin’ back to the city.”

Otto shook his head, dandruff falling like snow. “Nah. You heard the news?”

I looked around the tavern. It was dawn, the only other customer a slumbering market trader. “What news?”

“Cornelius is tellin’ folk he’s gonna be the next Castellan of the Keep.”

The old Castellan, Sir Oswald, was on his death-bead in a nunnery in Weserburgh. A nice enough fella, he was. No harm in the fella, and he liked a drink.

Coffin Lid raised an eyebrow, “who told you that?”

“Master Emberfeldt,” Otto replied.

“That drunken loon? He’s full of shit,” said Coffin Lid.

Otto tapped his nose. “He’s a sorcerer, ain’t he? They know secrets an’ stuff.”

I stroked my chin. Rumours from inn-keepers? You might as well roll a dice when it comes to their worth. “Maybe I’ll have a word with Emberfeldt,” I said.

“Fine, but don’t tell him I told you,” said Otto. “I ain’t no gossip.”

“If you say so. Now, how much for the ale?”

“Oh, on the house, Sergeant Grosser. Always happy to break my fast with the law, ain’t I?”

“I’ll tell Emberfeldt I heard it from that redhead he’s tapping at the Greedy Griffon,” I winked.

Otto looked relieved and bade us a good morning. We stepped outside the tavern, enjoying the early morning quiet. Coffin Lid was a good man like that. He always appreciated a companionable silence. A bird perched on a fence and shat at or feet, and Coffin Lid finally spoke. “What would happen if Cornelius became Castellan?”

I puffed on my pipe. “Well, for starters, I’ll never get promoted. We’d spend all day writing reports about things that don’t matter, and doin’ stuff that don’t need doin’.”

“Writing?” Coffin Lid scowled. “I hate writing.”

“Cornelius loves writing. He loves reports. And graphs.”

“What the hell’s a graph?”

I slapped the big lad’s back. “A new-fangled way of pissing down a man’s back and tellin’ him it’s raining. Cornelius is an expert.”

Coffin Lid drew himself to his full height, at least a head taller than me, and spat in the gutter. “Let’s find Emberfeldt,” he said.

Master Emberfeldt had been spellslinger for a gnarly crew of dungeoneers, until they got greedy. Like they always do. His party raided the Caves of Calamity, only a two-day ride from our little keep. The Chaots of Xang, an evil cult who worshipped a many-tentacled demon, used the caves as their lair. Adventurers flocked to the place, the luckier ones returning with gold and other treasure – but none ever reached the bottommost level, where the legendary Xangomancer lurked. Or so it was said. I’m sure you’ve heard this stuff before, and most of it’s stuff and nonsense.

Anyhow, Emberfeldt’s crew set out to slay the Xangomancer. They braved the Puzzle Room of Anxiety and crossed the Fiery Discs of Doom, finally making the Xangomancer’s lair, where they were set upon by horrible monsters. The Xangomancer killed all of the adventurers, except Emberfeldt.

Ever since, the sorcerer had lived above the Greedy Griffon, ranting and raving about the Xangomancer. He’d plundered enough gold from the Caves to drink and whore for the rest of his days. Even when the Paladins of Weserburgh finally slew the Xangomancer, it gave Emberfeldt no comfort. He insisted the Xangish might return, and was determined to create a spell to seal the Caves of Calamity forever.

Either that, or he really liked drinking and whoring at the Greedy Griffon.

I rasped on the tavern door. Maria, the landlady, opened the door. “What do you want Sergeant?” she said.

“I’m here to see Master Emberfeldt,” I replied politely. “I’d be obliged if we could knock on his door.”

The crone narrowed her eyes, which was difficult because one of ‘em was made of glass and would pop out now and then. “Now, what interest is that madman to you at this time of the clock?”

Coffin Lid put his foot in the door and smiled. His eyes were dark and twinkly. “We’re a bit worried ‘bout him, to be honest,” he said. “Someone put a few silvers our way to check on his well-being.”

Maria looked at Coffin Lid and blushed. Either that or the pox on her cheeks was playin’ up again. “Silver, you say?”

Coffin Lid put a coin in her palm and kissed it. “For you, milady. Tell me, has Emberfeldt been his usual self of late?”

Maria purred. “Well, he drinks a bottle of brandy every night and ruts like a rabbit.”

“Has he been talkin’ to anyone diff’rent than usual? Keeping new company?”

“Now you mention it, he has.”

“Who?” I interrupted.

Maria made a scratchy noise in her throat. A laugh, perhaps. “Your friend inspector Cornelius. They took lunch together, only a three-day ago.”

“I’m obliged,” I said. “I need to talk with Master Emberfeldt, it’s an urgent matter. Constabulary business.”

“Please yourself, Sergeant. Just don’t surprise him, he’s likely to cast a death ray if you wake him up too quickly.”

I’d been to Emberfeldt’s chambers before, as the sorcerer had once helped recover a missing child using his scrying stone. He was a strange one, but there was no real harm in him. Unless, of course, you got him onto the subject of the Caves of Calamity. I rapped on his door with my nightstick. “Master Emberfeldt?”

“Who is it?” came a booming voice. “At this time of the BLOODY morning?”

“It’s Sergeant Grosser and Constable Coffin Lid.”

“Gentlemen, I’m enjoying a moment erotique. And although I’m loathe to be abrupt with officers of the law, would you please FUCK RIGHT OFF?”

Now, I’m not an impetuous man - there’s no room for it in my trade, but the idea of that turd-weasel Cornelius becoming Castellan filled me with a strange fury… like trapped wind after a spicy meal, but much worse. That’s why I reckon I said what I said, and regretted it immediately. “It’s, er, ‘bout the Caves of Calamity, Master Emberfeldt.”

“Please, Milady, would you UNHAND MY COCK?” Emberfeldt bellowed, to persons unseen. “I’VE GRAVE MATTERS TO DISCUSS!” The door opened and a bosomy redhead darted into the corridor. She wrapped a bedsheet about her and giggled.

“Constantia, a good mornin’ to you...” said Coffin Lid, looking at the ceiling.

“Good luck, Coffin Lid. You’ve set him off right and proper,” she winked, disappearing down the stairs.

Emberfeldt appeared, naked as you like, coppery hair sticking up in clumps. He grabbed a silk robe and shrugged it on, mumbling under his breath. “Come in, officers,” he said. “I hope you’ll excuse my unkempt appearance.”

“Of course, sir, I’m sorry for the interruption,” I replied, doffing my hat. Coffin Lid did likewise.

“Pull up a chair,” said the sorcerer, pouring brandy into a golden cup. “Would you care for a libation?”

The beer had been decent enough, but hadn’t scratched my breakfast itch. “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “Nothin’ wrong with a heart-starter this time of the mornin’.”

Emberfeldt poured two more cups and settled into a leather-backed chair. His room was full of books and scrolls. “You mentioned the Caves of Calamity?” said the sorcerer, hands balled on his knees.

“Yes,” I said. “I hope you don’t think it impertinent, but I’ve formed the view that mayhap we’re being too hasty in thinking the threat from the Xangish cultists is gone. In fact, I was only talking to inspector Cornelius about it the other day…”

“Interesting – he approached me to discuss the subject,” Emberfeldt replied. “Although he had the common courtesy of taking me to lunch, rather than interrupting me during my morning exertions with the lovely Constantia.”

“I must humbly apologize, Master Emberfeldt – I’m a humble shift-worker…”

Emberfeldt looked guilty, the way educated people sometimes do when they take working men for granted. “No matter, Sergeant. I’m glad you raised the subject,” he declared. “Your superior officer believes the threat is negligible, preferring the divination of the Archbishop of Weserburgh. Who is, of course, a charlatan.”

The Archbishop of Weserburgh was a well-known fraud, as the godly sometimes are. “Why is the inspector so convinced there’s no threat?” I said. “It ain’t like he talks about such things with humble sergeants and constables.”

Emberfeldt slapped my arm. “Precisely, Grosser! He deliberately ignores the opinion of those who might disagree, such as his own officers – men with a nose for trouble such as yourself and Coffin Lid.” Coffin Lid smiled, as we don’t often get compliments, especially not from sorcerers who can afford to live in a half-decent brothel like the Greedy Griffon.

“Inspector Cornelius is a strong-willed man,” I said diplomatically. “He knows his own mind.”

“He’s a buffoon,” said Emberfeldt, “but I appreciate your tact when discussing your superiors.”

“Oh no,” said Coffin Lid, “we all think he’s a cunt.”

Emberfeldt sprayed brandy on my lap laughing. “Have another drink, my friends. I feel like the only three souls who understand the gravity of the situation are in this very room.”

“You were telling us about your chinwag with the inspector,” I said, accepting another brandy. I reckoned we’d have to go on special patrol after breakfast, checking for bandits on the Granite Way. I had a couple of hammocks slung in the trees nearby specially.

The sorcerer scratched his balls. “Ah, yes. Cornelius mentioned he’d an important inspection coming up.”

It was news to me. “An inspection?”

“Yes. Imperial Auditors are visiting on the first day of harvest-tide, to satisfy themselves the keep’s safe enough to justify further investment. You know, road-building, agriculture, expansion, etcetera. And the Church, of course. No more booze or whores, if they get their way.”

“Evil bastards,” said Coffin Lid.

“Indeed,” Emberfeldt continued. “And, if the audit is a success, Cornelius will be made Castellan. He wanted me to sign a declaration that said, in my professional opinion, the Xangomancer is dead and gone. Of course, I refused.”

“But he’s still got the Archbishop’s word, ain’t he?” said Coffin Lid.

“The Archbishop’s fully aware of my expertise concerning the Chaots of Xang. I’ve no doubt the church will get a hefty bribe for saying it’s safe, but my word would seal the deal beyond any doubt. However, I’m not prepared to do so.”

Coffin Lid scratched his head, ‘it’s been awful quiet of late, Master Emberfeldt. Why’re you so convinced it ain’t safe? Why don’t adventurers raid the caves anymore?”

I won’t try and properly describe the sorcerer’s explanation, ‘cuz it made my brain hurt – it was a folderol of spells, curses, phases of the moon and a feud between two demonic bigwigs. The bad news, for Cornelius, was the Chaots of Xang might not have been completely wiped out. The good news was it might be years before they returned in force. “That’s the problem, you see?” the sorcerer exclaimed, “your superiors don’t give a shit about anything that happens more than six months into the future.”

To be honest, neither did I, but I tut-tutted disapprovingly anyway. “Master Emberfeldt, what do you think is the answer to this dilemma? I only wish to guarantee the Keep’s safety.”

Emberfeldt slammed a bony fist onto a tome, eyes all shiny. “We need adventurers brave enough to delve the cave’s deepest levels. They must destroy every last trace of the cultists and, especially, the Xangomancer’s altar to Xang. The Paladins of Weserburgh won’t do – they might get their shiny armour scratched down there. No, we need seasoned adventuring parties. People of action!”

I tried not to smile, so gulped brandy instead. “But if the keep were full of adventurers, fightin’ and whorin’ and burning down taverns with fireballs, what would the Imperial Auditors say?”

Emberfeldt shrugged. “Their presence would be evidence of a tangible threat from the Chaots of Xang, and, ipso facto, the keep remains too unsafe to justify further investment. Your inspector Cornelius wouldn’t get his promotion to Castellan. He told me if that happened he’d return to the city and re-join the Imperial Guard.”

Yes!

“Master Emberfeldt, what if we raised the alarm to this threat, quiet-like, as not to show our hand? Would you be with us?”

The sorcerer smiled. “Naturally, Sergeant Grosser. What a marvellous breakfast this has been!”

I sent a runner to tell Cornelius we planned an anti-bandit patrol. The runner saw we were half-cut and demanded a silver not to tell the Inspector. I paid, but promised to exact my revenge on the little bastard. We rode to a lonely crossroads and found the hammocks. “What next?” said Coffin Lid, fishing a bottle of grog from his saddlebag.

“Way I see it? We need evidence the Cultists of Xang have returned to the Caves of Calamity.” I replied, falling into my hammock.

“Hmmm,” said Coffin Lid. “What sorta evidence?”

I took a slug from Coffin Lid’s bottle. The grog was rough compared to Emberfeldt’s brandy, but it helped me think. “Well it ain’t like we can go out to the caves ourselves, can we?”

“Sure we can, there’s no fucking Xangomancer out there.”

“But there might be.”

Coffin Lid chuckled, long legs hanging out of the hammock. “Yeah, and I might be struck by a lightning bolt. Same difference.”

“We ain’t warriors, are we? There might be critters an’ such.”

“I ain’t ‘fraid of no critters,” said Coffin Lid. To be fair, he was a handful in a fight. The lad was of tribal blood, only a generation away from being a berserker.

“What if you get injured? How do we explain that to Cornelius? We need to be a bit sneaky.”

“I s’pose you’re right, Sarge. Why don’t we ask someone else to do it?”

I took another pull on the grog. “What about Farrowclaw?”

Coffin Lid groaned. “I knew you were gonna say that.” Farrowclaw was a vicious piece of work. She was a notorious thief and a brigand, but she was sweet on Coffin Lid. I’d arrested her a dozen times, but she always talked her way past the magistrate. Weren’t a palm at the keep she hadn’t greased. Except inspector Cornelius, who she hated even more than I did.

“Right,” I said, rolling around in the hammock like a fish in a net. I ain’t as supple as I used to be, and I was getting a proper buzz from all the beer, brandy and grog. “After our shift we’ll head out to see the she-devil.”

“Sarge…”

“Now, now, Coffin Lid, when I were a young buck I used my charms to win over the ladies too,” I lied. “Make sure you take a bath. And put on some of that pomade I got for your birthday.”

“You ain’t my mother,” he grumbled.

“Sergeant Coffin Lid,” I said. “Got a ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Alright,” Coffin Lid sighed. “Let’s finish the grog first, eh?”

I chuckled. “You see? Definitely sergeant material.”

Our shift finished early-afternoon. We finished our grog, stuck our heads in the river and rode back to the keep. It was quiet, the only folk on the road farmers and monks. “You pissed again?” said the late-shift sergeant, a jackanape called Knife-Nose. Like Coffin Lid, he was half-tribal, brawny and dark-haired.

“We had to meet an informant,” I said, not slurring at all. “A thirsty one.”

“Ah,” Knife-Nose replied, “in which case you’ll be havin’ a juicy arrest soon?”

“Just you wait,” I said, tapping my nose.

“Hope so. Cornelius says you’re the least busy officer on his productivity graph.”

“What does a graph tell you about keepin’ the peace?”

Knife-Nose shrugged. “I don’t muchly care. All I know is if I pinch someone I put it on his graph. If I punch someone, I put it on his graph. If I fine someone…”

“You spend a lot of time getting your fingers inky?” said Coffin Lid. “We’re too busy keepin’ folk safe to be scribbling.”

Knife-Nose laughed and cracked his knuckles, trim in his smart grey tunic. “You’ve hitched yourself to the wrong wagon, Coffin,” he said. “There’s changes coming ‘round here. Be careful which side you’re on.”

“We’re doing the job,” said Coffin Lid, studying his boots. “Ain’t we, Sarge?”

“Of course,” I said, brushing dirt from my tricorn hat. “Now, Knife-Nose, we’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you keep your quill and ink ready, will you?”

“Just playing the game, Grosser,” he replied. “Just playing the game.”

A while later I met Coffin Lid at the constables’ barracks. He wore a clean doublet, hair combed, a sword and dagger at his belt. “Right, let’s get on with it,” he said sulkily.

I’d put on my best frock-coat, black with a silver trim. On my belt was a knife and a quart-flask of rum. Suitably attired and equipped, we road west. We passed Hangman’s Pass, where manticores once roamed and clip-clopped up Blood-Geld Hill, which used to be the domain of a dire wolf called Ten-Fangs. They were all dead now. The border was no longer a place of peril, the Empire creeping ever-westwards. Like knotweed, or risin’ damp – all churches and governors and rules.

Too many damn rules.

Makes a lawman’s head hurt.

Farrowclaw’s place weren’t a tavern or trading post, but you could get booze and supplies there both. It’d once been a windmill, the sails long-rotted away. Someone had built a hall on the side, wattle-and-daub, the roof spattered with bird shit. A lookout saw us and scurried inside. “Wonder who’s here today?” I said, nodding at a row of muddy nags tied up outside.

“Bandits, I imagine,” Coffin Lid sighed. “I’m not in a fighting mood, Sarge. I’ve had too much booze.”

“There’ll be no brawling today, my friend,” I said easily, although my arse was twitching and no mistake. “Farrowclaw knows which side her bread’s buttered – she’ll see the benefit in me being the next inspector.”

Two toughs in mail and furs strode out of the windmill, bearded and dirty. “Fuck off,” said the first. “We’ll not have lawmen drinking in here.”

“Where’s my uniform?” I replied. “We come to entreat with the Lady Farrowclaw as private persons, not lawmen.”

The tough laughed. “Which bit of fuck off don’t you understand?”

Coffin Lid dismounted his mule and squelched through the mud. His doublet was slashed at the sleeves, showing off his muscles. “You know me?” he said.

The tough pulled his face. “I ain’t got no argument with you, Coffin Lid, but you know the rules. The Keep’s your ground, and this is ours.”

Coffin Lid pushed past the first tough. The second drew his sword, but Coffin Lid punched him in the grid, knocking him flat. “This ain’t your ground,” he growled. “It’s the Lady Farrowclaw’s. Ask her if she’d want you to draw a blade on me?”

I trotted past the tough lying in the muck, my mule making a happy snort. “You see?” I said.

Coffin Lid led the way inside Farrowclaw’s place. To my left was the trading post, selling contraband of every sort, and to my right a barroom. Supping ale were several caravan guards, three woad-painted tribals and some bandits I knew vaguely. There was even a grisly-lookin’ fellow with ogre blood, bigger than Coffin Lid, skin the colour of old stone.

“Grosser and Coffin Lid?” said a woman in black. “Just when I thought today couldn’t get any worse.” It was Farrowclaw, Bandit-Queen of the Granite Road. Her hair was dirty blonde, one of her eyes covered by a patch. Her teeth were sharpened into dagger-like points, one good eye the colour of mud.

“What ails you, Milady?” I said, “perhaps we can help?”

Farrowclaw ignored me, as it was Coffin Lid she had eyes for. “Coffin, you gonna have a drink with Farrowclaw for ol’ time’s sake?”

“’Course I am,” he grunted. “In private, though, ‘cuz me and Sergeant Grosser have business to discuss.”

The half-ogre growled, studying me like a spider with a fly. He wore a black breastplate, a mighty war-sword across his back. “You entreat with pigs now, Farrowclaw?”

“I entreat with whoever the hell I like, Hammerscale,” she spat. “If you want to find somewhere else that’ll serve you ale and whores, go and find it.”

The half-ogre chuckled. It sounded like something was dying in his throat. “I was only askin’.”

An oily-looking lad poured us two cups, and we followed Farrowclaw into the windmill. We passed rows of weapons, barrels of salted meat and piles of silks and furs. Were the Granite Road within my jurisdiction, I’d have seized the lot. Or maybe taxed it some, depending on my mood. “Business good?” I asked.

Farrowclaw shrugged off her cloak. Beneath she wore fighting leathers and a beltful of daggers. “It’s been quiet. Since the adventurers left there’s less booty to be had, so I’m hoping there’ll be more merchants comin’ through now the Caves are cleared.”

Coffin Lid swigged his brandy and sat on a barrel. “That’s why we’re here, Farrowclaw.”

“Aw, an’ there was me, thinking you were coming to court me at last.”

“He’s too shy for his own good,” I said, licking my lips. Farrowclaw might’ve been a one-eyed pirate, but she had a certain way about her. “Mebbe you’re after an older man? One who knows the ways of the world?”

Farrowclaw rolled her eye. “Look, Grosser, you’ve been here five minutes and you ain’t dead. Consider yourself lucky. Tell me what you want, and you might make it to ten.”

“What if I were to tell you Cornelius was gonna be the next Castellan of the Keep?” I said. Of course, I added some flowery, not-quite-true embellishments – that Cornelius intended to extend the Keep’s jurisdiction, and he planned on inviting the Paladins of Weserburgh to open a Chapter Hall nearby.

“Paladins?” Farrowclaw spat. “I fucking hate paladins.”

“They’re good at killing tentacle-monsters,” said Coffin Lid.

“Not so hasty,” I interrupted. “Lady Farrowclaw has a point.”

“I usually do,” the Bandit-Queen replied. “What do you want from me? I could get Cornelius assassinated, if that’s what you’re proposing.”

“Oh no,” I said. I’m a vindictive, spiteful drunk, ‘tis true. That don’t mean I’m usually prone to murder. “That would only cause more trouble – they’d bring in a regiment of Imperial Guardsmen. No, I’ve got a much better idea...”

We trotted back to the keep, Coffin Lid’s face grim. “Come on,” I said, “you’ve only got to take her out for dinner.”

“In Weserburgh? I can’t afford fancy dinin’ in Weserburgh.”

“We’ll see if Emberfeldt can cough up a few silvers,” I replied. “Say it’s an incidental expense, incurred during vital constabulary duties.”

Coffin Lid dabbed gingerly at his cheek, where Farrowclaw had stolen a kiss. “He better had. I ain’t blowing all my savings taking that wildcat out.”

I laughed. “See it as a chance to broaden your horizons.”

“With Farrowclaw? I’d prefer to keep ‘em narrow.”

We returned to barracks and got our heads down. I dreamt of the look on Cornelius’s face after he discovered the Imperial Auditors declared the Keep unsafe. He fell to his knees, bawling like a baby, as I was appointed new inspector.

Then I woke up, head throbbing from yesterday’s booze.

I put my noggin’ in a bucket of water, threw on my uniform and hurried outside. “A word, Sergeant Grosser?” said a nasal, high-pitched voice.

“Yes, Inspector Cornelius, sir?” I replied, touching the brim of my tricorn.

Cornelius circled me like a scaly-necked vulture. “I’ve been reviewing the productivity graph this morning,” he said, studying a sharp, suspiciously unbitten fingernail.

It wasn’t yet dawn. “Bit early for that sort o’ thing, ain’t it?”

“It’s never too early to maximize productivity, Grosser. Tell me, what was your return of work yesterday?” Cornelius drew himself up to his full height (the top of his hat reaching my chin) and crossed his arms. “I’m intrigued.”

“Well, for starters I had to offer crime prevention advice to Otto at the Drunken Dragon. You know how inn-keepers are a good source of information, an’ all?”

“Really, Grosser? And what did you learn?”

I lowered my voice some. “There’s a rumour going ‘round, about the Caves of Calamity.”

I’d never played Cornelius at cards, but would’ve liked the chance. His eyes widened, like a kid told there’s a monster under his bed. “What of the Caves, Grosser?”

I stroked my chin. “Does gatherin’ information count as productivity?”

“Of course,” Cornelius replied, “although it depends on its veracity.”

I didn’t know what verassy-thingy meant, so I let it go. “Ghostly figures have been seen up in the foothills, crazy folk in motley robes. Some say the Cultists of Xang are comin’ back now the adventurers are gone.”

Cornelius’s mouth puckered, like a cat’s arse. “You will keep such scurrilous gossip to yourself, Sergeant, d’you understand?”

“It ain’t gossip. You see, after I heard, I decided to speak with an informant of mine, out on the border roads. They’d heard exactly the same thing.”

Cornelius stamped his (tiny) foot, sending up a puff of barrack-square dust. “And when did you intend to inform your superior officer of this intelligence?”

I began stuffing my pipe, then let go of a fart I’d had brewin’ awhile. “I was planning on telling you in a day or four, I reckon.”

Cornelius wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“’Cuz me and Coffin Lid are gonna go and take a look-see for ourselves.”

Cornelius thought about it for a moment. “Isn’t that rather dangerous, Sergeant Grosser?”

“We ain’t goin’ dungeon-delving, are we? Coffin Lid’s a tracker, we’ll just see if there’s any trace of anyone untoward moving ‘round the area.”

“Very well,” said Cornelius. “I’m sure you’ll find nothing of any import, but occasionally one must prove a negative. I will authorise your expedition, although for reasons of confidentiality and discretion, I shall not enter the details into any logs or papers.”

“And what about my return of work?” I replied, lighting my pipe. “Am I goin’ to be marked down as idle, like Sergeant Knife-Nose said I was?”

Cornelius’s face went red as a cherry. “Of course not. I shall mark you up as being engaged on a special assignment – one of considerable merit.”

“I appreciate it, Inspector.”

When the little turd was gone, I went to find Coffin Lid. He was loading gear onto his mule – rations, water, hunting bow, bed-roll and a dog-eared coat of mail that once belonged to his ol’ man. “Mornin’ sarge,” he said cheerfully.

“Right, I reckon we’ve got time for a few pints with Otto before we leave.”

“What if the inspector sees us?”

“I’m meeting Emberfeldt there, it’s a briefing,” I replied. “Watch and learn, young fella.”

Emberfeldt was taking brandy with Otto, who’d cut ham and fried eggs. We drank and talked the usual bollocks men do in the half-dark of the morning. “Right,” I said, “for the plan to work, we need a prop.”

“A prop?” said Coffin Lid.

“I presume you mean a counterfactual distraction?” said Emberfeldt.

I slurped my drink. “Master Emberfeldt, call it what you like, but I need something that only the Cult of Xang could have left near the caves.”

“Ah, like a clue,” said Coffin Lid.

I slapped the boy on the back. “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

Emberfeldt wore a long coat, full of pockets and pouches. The sorcerer patted himself down, finally producing a black metal doo-dad. “This,” he said, “is an Unholy Medallion of Xang.” It was a likeness of the tentacle-monster, a squid’s head mounted on a dragon’s body, eyes fashioned from tiny rubies.

“I bet it’s worth a few silvers,” I said, licking my lips.

Emberfeldt shook his head. “The thing radiates evil, chaos and despair.”

“Must belong to Inspector Cornelius,” said Coffin Lid.

“In any case, no merchant would touch such tainted merchandise,” Emberfeldt continued. ‘Say you discovered it on the charred remains of a mutilated corpse, or some-such sinister circumstance. When you come back, I shall verify its authenticity and present the evidence to the Imperial Auditors myself.”

“Nah, sounds too easy,” said Otto. “In fact, why bother going to the caves in the first place? You could doss here and drink yourselves silly, then just say you went out there.”

I knew I liked Otto. “An excellent suggestion,” I said, pouring another cup. “However, there’s another element to our plan…”

“Oooh,” said Otto approvingly.

“What is it, Grosser?” asked Emberfeldt.

I tapped my nose. “Suffice it to say my strategy is a pearl of deceit, wrapped in a silky web of cunning.”

Emberfeldt finished his brandy and sighed. “Just remember, Grosser, the simpler a plan is, the more likely it is to succeed.”

“Don’t worry, we’re simple folk,” said Coffin Lid.

“I suspect you are,” the sorcerer sniffed, hooking open the curtain with a finger. “Right, I’m off to bed. The lovely Constantia awaits.”

Otto shovelled more eggs on my plate. “This is proper exciting,” he said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

To be continued…

This story originally featured in a 2017 collection of short stories, called ‘The Thirteen Lives of Frank Peppercorn.’ The writers involved all imagined a different life for the titular main character - and here’s mine. This is the first short story I’d written which ended up in print. It’s a bit rough around the edges, but writing’s a learning curve.

‘I don’t think you’re cut out for debt-collecting,’ said Frank. He sat in my chair, a ledger open on his lap. He was younger than me, maybe mid-forties. All hair-gel and flash clobber. He reminded me of a bloke I’d seen at the pictures last week. Gordon Gecko. Greed is good.

‘No, I s’pose not,’ I replied.

‘I’m sure you’ve other talents,’ he said, slamming the ledger shut. ‘Right then. Let’s see if we can sort this out.’ The people behind the agency were old-school villains. Bermondsey boys, retired from bank-jobs and extortion rackets.

‘I wasn’t expecting let’s see if we can sort this out,’ I said.

‘They wanted to manage the debt the old way,’ said Frank, ‘but I’ve got their ear. I told them I’d deal with you myself.’

‘Why?’

Frank sipped his tea. ‘All in good time, Paul. Now, where’s it all going wrong?’

I looked at my feet. I was wearing my cherry red Doc Martens, polished for the occasion. I ‘I’m trying to build up repeat custom. Y’know, not go in too hard. That way they might borrow from us again.’ I didn’t sound like I believed it, mainly ‘cuz I didn’t. I hated the job. Threatening people. Closing pubs and takeaways and corner shops. If I’m honest, I never thought I’d end up ripping TVs and videos out of people’s’ houses. But I’m a big bloke, handy with my fists. Besides, a six-stretch in Wandsworth tends to narrow your career options.

Frank was decent enough not to laugh. ‘I like what you’re saying, Paul. I really do. You’ve got a big heart. But the sad thing about this business? There’s no need for customer service. People always come back for more. Like junkies, really.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I mumbled, putting my hands in my pockets. I’m embarrassed by the swallow tattoos, Love and Hate inked across my knuckles.

‘Don’t feel sorry for ‘em. We’re all captains of our own fate, ain’t we? People like you and me, we make mistakes and take responsibility. Our customers, on the other hand – they play on our sympathy. Take the piss.’

‘I don’t feel sorry for ‘em,’ I lied. I know what it’s like to be skint. Before this job, I was dossing in a doorway off the Strand, begging and drinking Special Brew for breakfast. Frank studied the bookshelf behind my desk. There was a science-fiction novel by Isaac Asimov, and a book about D-Day. I’d bought a collected works of Joseph Conrad, and The Canterbury Tales at a jumble sale. ‘You’ve obviously got some brains about you, Paul,’ he said.

I shot Frank a look. He was mocking me? ‘I know my place, but I don’t have to take liberties from some flash cunt wearing shoes with little gold buckles.’

‘I’m not taking the piss,’ Frank shrugged. Then, he laughed. ‘I mean look at your paperwork, It’s good. Organised.’ I pulled a face and sat down. He was good-looking too, which also got on my tits. ‘Right, your biggest debtor owes five grand. If we call that in, you’ll keep things sweet for at least another month. That gives us time to hoover up a few smaller debts, or sell ‘em on. I reckon we’ll get you sorted by the end of August.’ ‘

And then?’ I said.

Frank finished his tea. ‘Between you and me? You need another job, Paul. Else you might end up taking on these debts yourself, know what I mean?’

I nodded. Find another job, in my experience, meant fuck off before we break your legs. ‘I make you right. About finding another job, that is.’

Frank smiled like he could read my mind. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense. A mind-reader’s smile? But it was how I felt. ‘I’m glad you understand, Paul. Now, this job. Five grand, right? Who are they?’

‘They’re an old couple,’ I replied. ‘I ain’t getting heavy with them. Just so you know.’

Frank looked me up and down. ‘You don’t need to. You’re six-foot three and built like a tank. You scare the shit out of me. How d’you get that scar?’

I touched the welt on my face. The fucker ran from my temple to my chin, half-an-inch wide. ‘Belfast,’ I shrugged, ‘1978.’ The scar was ten years old. It showed no signs of fading.

‘A military man? I imagine you bring all sorts of skills to the table.’ Then Frank told me to go and get in his car, as he wanted to make a private call. He even left ten pence by the phone. Frank’s motor was a racing-green Daimler Double-Six with leather seats. It smelt of expensive aftershave and cigars. He finally got in and rummaged in the glove compartment. He pulled out a mix-tape. ‘I love Northern Soul. How about you?’

I pulled a face. North, to me, meant Catterick and Otterburn. Miserable army places. ‘I’m more of a heavy rock man.’

‘Fair enough,’ Frank replied, pulling out a cassette case. Thin Lizzy. Jailbreak.

We motored down the A2, listening to Phil Lynott doing his thing. I rolled a fag and wound down the window, enjoying the view. The fields were full of bright yellow rape. Which is an ugly name, for something so pretty. ‘Tell me about the customers,’ said Frank. He wore leather driving gloves with little holes cut out for his knuckles and drove like a getaway driver.

‘They’re called the Slesingers.’ I replied. ‘Dorothy and Gerd. They came here from Poland after the war. He’s a retired school caretaker, she used to work in Woolworths.’

Frank turned the music down. He flashed that smile again. ‘Slesinger? Sounds German,’ he said.

I stubbed out my roll-up in the ashtray. ‘It is. They’re originally from Silesia. That used to be disputed territory, between Germany and Poland. So you get Poles with German names, and vice versa. They came here to escape the Russians after the war.’

Frank nodded. ‘See? I said you were clever.’

‘I did a lot of reading inside,’ I said. ‘There was fuck-all else to do. I worked in the prison library.’ Frank nodded. ‘Why did the Slesinger’s need the money?’

‘They never said, and I never asked,’ I replied, which was true. I didn’t want to feel any sorrier for them. Gerd wasn’t well, and Dorothy did all the housework. Still, there was always coffee and cake when I went to visit.

‘We need to talk about why they needed the money,’ said Frank, half to himself. ‘It’ll be useful for when we negotiate.’ I was relieved Frank wanted to talk. I was worried they’d send someone who’d just put the frighteners on the Slesingers. Then it would get messy, ‘cuz I’d have to fill the bastard in. Then they’d send someone to teach me a lesson, and I’d fill them in too. Until they sent someone harder than me. ‘Cuz there’s always someone harder than you.

Always.

Gerd and Dorothy lived in a white-washed cottage near Minnis Bay, near the sea. Quiet. No neighbours. The sort of place I’d like to live one day. Dorothy, fitter than a seventy-year-old had any right to be, kept the place spotless. The little garden was full of flowers and Russian ivy. Gerd would sit in a deck chair, watching birds through a pair of binoculars. Made by Zeiss in 1944, he once told me, still good as new. Frank parked next to Gerd’s old Cortina and checked himself in the rear view mirror. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said. I knocked on the door, Frank at my shoulder. He carried a smart leather briefcase, the initials ‘FP’ picked out in gold. He still wore his driving gloves, which I thought strange seeing as it was June.

‘Hello Paul,’ said Dorothy. White hair in a bun, eyes wet like old peoples’ sometimes are. ‘Who is your friend?’

Frank offered his hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Slesinger. I’m Mr. Peppercorn. But please, call me Frank.’ Peppercorn? What sort of name was that?

I put a hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. ‘We’ve come to talk about the money you owe, Dottie,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh.’ Frank’s foot was in the door already. He slid inside. Dorothy went to say something, but I put a finger to my lips. The sitting room, like the rest of the house, was painted white. There were no pictures or photographs. Simple furniture, a telly stood next to an electric fire.

Gerd sat in his armchair, reading the Daily Mirror, a cup of coffee perched on the armrest. Like Dorothy, he had only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. ‘Paul?’ he said, ‘what brings you here?’

‘Your debts,’ said Frank, giving me a I’ll do the talking look.

‘Would you gentlemen like anything?’ said Dorothy. Eyes sweeping the room and ceiling. ‘Coffee, perhaps?’

‘No thanks,’ Frank replied. ‘I’m not going to waste your time with small-talk. My name’s Frank Peppercorn. Including the aggregated interest on your loan, you now owe us five thousand pounds. I’m here to work out how you intend to pay.’

‘Five thousand?’ said Gerd, sitting bolt upright. He folded his newspaper and put it down. ‘We originally borrowed two thousand.’

‘Didn’t Paul tell you our interest rates?’ said Frank. He looked at me, eyebrow raised like Roger Moore.

‘I was going to,’ I said quietly, cheeks burning. Frank Peppercorn, I learned later, was a lot of things. Including a good actor.

He smiled easily. ‘Excuse Paul. He’s too much of a nice person for this line of work. You know what I’m going to do to make up for the error? Knock off five hundred quid.’

‘That is still outrageous,’ said Dorothy, arms crossed. ‘This is like you say… loan-shark rates.’ ‘Exactly,’ Frank replied. ‘That’s because we are loan-sharks. You wouldn’t like me to pretend I’m something I’m not. Would you?’

Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t have that much money. It’s ridiculous.’

‘I can give you five hundred today,’ said Gerd suddenly. His hands trembled in his lap, eyes meeting mine. He reminded me of our old dog, just before my dad kicked it to death. He dumped it on Woolwich Common, then slapped me ‘til my nose bled.

‘Five hundred?’ said Frank. ‘It’s not enough.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Five hundred ain’t a bad screw to start with.’

Frank opened his briefcase and pulled out a notebook. ‘I’m working to a deadline. There’s a lot at stake. Now, Mister Slesinger, may I ask exactly why you borrowed the initial sum?’

Gerd looked at Dorothy, who looked at me. ‘It is a private matter,’ said Gerd.

Frank looked at his notebook sadly. ‘It would be, if you’d paid what you owed. But you haven’t. That means it’s not private. Not by a long chalk, Mr. Slesinger. So tell me.’

‘Or what?’ said Dorothy. Eyes narrowed, her bony hands making fists. ‘What will you do, Mr. Peppercorn?’

‘Dottie, it’s gonna be fine,’ I said. I stood halfway between her and Frank, in case she went for him.

‘It’s not fine, though, is it?’ Frank replied. He stood up and went to the telly. He ran a leather-gloved finger along the top, like a sergeant-major doing a room inspection. ‘That’s worth eighty quid at least. New VHS video recorder? Nice. I’d get another ninety for that.’ He made a note in his book, ‘Paul, put them in the car will you?’

Gerd shook his head. ‘What are you doing?’

Frank made a sad face, so genuine it could only be false. ‘Asset-stripping your house. Recouping our losses. There’s big losses involved in this matter, Gerd. Big.’

I felt it, then. Anger. My ex-wife always said I had a long fuse. The older I got, the shorter it burnt. ‘Frank, you said you were going to be reasonable.’

Frank smiled. His teeth were very straight and white. ‘You know what, Paul, you’ve got a point. All Gerd has to do is tell me why he borrowed the money. Then I’ll take the five hundred and discuss the next installment.’

‘Why is that so important to you?’ said Dorothy. ‘Why shouldn’t I call the police?’

Frank laughed. It was a cold laugh, and no mistake. It reminded me of a nutter on my wing in Wandsworth, a bloke who’d bite people’s’ ears off for a laugh. ‘Please do, Mrs. Slesinger,’ he said. ‘Make the call. Ask the police to come. I’ll happily explain the situation in full.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Gerd. He looked at Dorothy, face grey. A tear dribbled down his cheek. He wiped it with the fraying cuff of his cardigan. We all stood quietly for a moment. I wasn’t sure if I was going to punch Frank or not, but it was on the cards. I could be on the ferry to Calais in an hour. Then Spain, maybe. I knew people there.

‘Gerd is being blackmailed,’ said Dorothy finally, back straight and shoulders squared. ‘Someone is making outrageous allegations.’

Gerd stood, knees creaking. ‘Dorothy, no…’

‘Hush, Gerd!’

Frank put his notebook back in his pocket. ‘Maybe we’re getting somewhere. Please, carry on.’

Dottie cleared her throat. ‘A few months ago, we received a letter through the door. It was type-written, with no return address and no stamp. It said there was evidence Gerd was a… Nazi during the war. They said they had photos of him at Ravensbrück, wearing SS uniform.’

‘I was never in the SS,’ said Gerd. ‘And I’ve never been to Ravensbrück. I knew nothing about the camps until after the war was over.’

‘I thought you were Polish,’ I said.

‘We are from Silesia. Ethnic Germans, not Poles,’ Dorothy replied with a shrug. ‘After we came to England, it was easier to say we were. We speak the language, and there was so much prejudice against Germans.’

‘So you lied?’ said Frank.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ the old woman glowered. ‘It is easy to judge, when you grow up in peacetime. We had no choice.’

‘I was a carpenter before I joined the Luftwaffe in nineteen thirty nine,’ said Gerd quietly. ‘I was an anti-aircraft gunner in the Hermann Goering Division. I had nothing to do with war crimes. I was never a member of the Nazi Party, I swear.’

‘Do you have evidence?’ said Frank. Gerd stood up and snapped to attention, fingers pointing down the seams of his corduroy trousers. ‘Unterfeldwebel Gerd Lange, Flak-Sturm Regiment Ein!’

Frank took a seat on the sofa and sighed. ‘Gerd Lange?’

‘We changed our name,’ said Dorothy. ‘Slesinger was Gerd’s mother’s maiden name.’

‘A web of lies,’ Frank replied sadly. ‘Messy. How are we going to get to the bottom of this, eh?’

Gerd shuffled to a chest of drawers and rummaged about. ‘Here,’ he said, passing me a little grey book, ‘I kept my old Soldbuch. It is the only thing I have left from the war, apart from my binoculars.’ The book, faded and soft as felt, had a swooping Nazi eagle on the cover. Inside was a photo of a young Gerd in uniform, staring sternly into the camera. There was German writing and official-looking stamps.

I gave it to Frank. ‘Looks real enough to me.’

Frank studied the book too, a frown on his face. ‘This is the sort of thing SS escape networks provided for war criminals. Cover documents, The Odessa File and all that. Might be a forgery, for all I know.’

Gerd looked at Dorothy, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Dottie, how can I make them believe me?’

‘I don’t think you can,’ she replied icily. ‘Mister Peppercorn, is it? Would you care to tell us your real interest in our business. Somehow, I doubt it is money.’

‘Fair enough,’ Frank replied. ‘I’m here to establish the truth. You see, the people making these allegations aren’t known for getting it wrong.’

Dorothy raised an eyebrow. Fair play to the old woman, ‘cuz she didn’t look fazed at all. ‘You knew we were being blackmailed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frank,’ I said, ‘What the hell is this all about?’

‘Debt.’

Gerd sat down again, head in his hands. ‘Why? Why won’t you leave us alone? I’m not a Nazi.’ I walked over to Frank and whispered in his ear. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘My job,’ he hissed. ‘It would be in your best interest to help.’ Everyone in the room seemed to be lying. Apart from me, like a spare prick at a wedding.

‘You still haven’t answered my question, Mister Peppercorn,’ said Dorothy firmly, arms crossed under her bosom.

Ignoring her, Frank popped open his fancy briefcase. He pulled out a file. ‘Interesting how you describe the letter, Mrs Slesinger. You see, it doesn’t specifically mention Gerd. It reads – Slesinger, of Brooksend Lane, is a German national posing as a Polish refugee. Served as a camp guard at Ravensbrück and sub-camps between July nineteen forty four and April forty five.’

‘July 1944? Ravensbrück is north of Berlin,’ said Gerd. ‘I was in France then. In 1945 I was in the Netherlands. That’s where I was taken prisoner, by the Canadians. They handed me over to the British.’

‘You know what, Gerd?’ said Frank. ‘I’m actually beginning to believe you. But first, let’s see if you’ve had any tattoos removed.’ I remembered reading Nazis had their blood-group tattooed under their arm. Gerd pulled off his cardigan and unbuttoned his shirt. Frank stood up and examined him. ‘That’s convenient,’ he said. ‘The area you would have a removal mark’s covered.’

I saw Gerd was badly burnt, from halfway up his ribcage to his armpit. The red, shiny scar tissue looked strange next to his yellowy-white skin. ‘War wound,’ Gerd replied quietly. ‘White phosphorous. I got it in a place in Holland called The Scheldt.’

‘Are you happy now?’ Dorothy spat, hate in her eyes. The kind old lady who’d made me tea and strudel on previous visits was gone. The visits where I’d chickened out of telling them they owed another three grand.

Frank waved the report at her. ‘There’s nothing to be happy about. Where were you in 1944, Dorothy?’

‘Berlin,’ she replied. ‘I was a nanny for a family in Zehlendorf.’ She looked at Gerd. It reminded me of my old lady, when she looked daggers at my dad for saying something wrong.

‘Did female Nazis get tattoos as well?’ I said.

‘No,’ Frank replied. ‘Which means it could be either of them. But SS women worked in the camps. They kept female prisoners at Ravensbrück, didn’t they Dorothy?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

I shifted uneasily on my feet while Gerd buttoned up his shirt, covering his old-man skin. ‘What do we do now?’ I said.

‘You were in an army search specialist, weren’t you Paul?’ Frank replied easily. ‘Royal Engineers, ordnance disposal?’

I’d never told anyone about my time in the army. Not even in prison. ‘Seriously, Frank, what the fuck’s going on?’

‘Due diligence, Paul. I like to know who I’m dealing with, and I thought this job might need a bit of rooting around.’ Frank checked his watch. ‘You were just the man. They said you were like a rat up a drainpipe in Ulster. You’d find all sorts of naughty stuff, right?’

Northern-fucking-Ireland. Leaky farmhouses in Bally-somewhere, or shitty tower blocks in Londonderry. Guns in the cellar, Semtex under the sink. The locals used to call us Nazis too, but the Nazis wouldn’t have fucked about with IRA terrorists. In the middle of the night in hospital, face on fire? You have dark thoughts. Shameful thoughts. ‘What am I looking for?’ I said.

‘Papers. A photo. A memento, maybe.’ ‘

And then what?’ I said.

Frank looked at the old couple. ‘Yes, then what? Maybe Gerd and Dorothy will save us a job and come clean?’

‘We’ve told you the truth,’ Dorothy replied. She sat down, hands in lap, and studied the wall. The gesture reminded me of the Provos in the back of our trucks, refusing to answer questions. Staring into space, even with rifles pointed at them.

Frank sat down again. ‘Search the place, Paul,’ he said. ‘We trust you to get this right.’

‘We?’

Frank’s eyes narrowed. ‘Get on with it. Or don’t you think this is important? Hunting down murderers? Nazis?’

‘If you don’t watch your mouth, I’ll put you on your arse,’ I said.

‘In which case you’d be making this situation even messier. One of them is guilty. The other is innocent. I have to know which.’

I looked at the old couple, who looked at me. It was Dorothy who spoke. ‘Paul, I do not know what this man wants, but he is manipulating you. Go on, search our house. You will find nothing.’

‘I make her right,’ I said, taking a step towards Frank. ‘You’re taking me for a fool.’

Frank leaned in to whisper in my ear. ‘Paul, the people I’m working for? They ain’t who you think. They’re heavier, to the power of ten. I don’t want to piss them off, and neither do you.’

‘Gerd, Dottie,’ I said, ‘do you have a torch I could borrow? And some tools?’

Gerd nodded, ‘in the kitchen cupboard.’

I found an old plastic torch and a wooden box with a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers. The house was a two-up, two-down tradesman’s cottage. No cellar by the look of it, but there would be a loft. It was an eight-man job to search properly. ‘How long have I got?’ I called back into the living room.

‘As long as you need,’ said Frank. ‘Dorothy? I’ll have that cup of coffee after all.’

When we did searches in Northern Ireland, our officer told us to think like the person hiding the stuff we were looking for. Winthropping, he called it, after the officer who invented the technique. So I headed for the loft. Gerd said he’d been a carpenter, and the largest concentration of wood in old houses is usually in the roof. There was no ladder, but the cottage was low-ceilinged and I had no difficulty hauling myself up. I switched on the torch. There was the usual collection of boxes, old carpet and junk. I searched the corners of the roof first - soffit boards are good hiding places, lots of nooks and crannies and lagging.

It was hot and dusty up there. I shrugged off my denim jacket and mopped my face with the corner of my Fred Perry. It took me an hour before I found the hide. Cleverly built, a two-foot void concealed on the reverse side of a ceiling joist. It was perfectly flush to the rough wooden surface, camouflaged with cobwebs and grease. Sweat dribbled into my eyes as I pulled it open. Inside was an old jar, the sort you find in a sweet shop. It was half-filled with gold nuggets and pieces of jewellery. I wasn’t sure it was anything to do with any bloody Nazis, but it was a find. I emptied a few of the gold nuggets into my palm. Then I realised what they were.

Gold teeth.

Fillings. Caps. Molars. Flecks of yellowing enamel still stuck to them. The jewellery was rose-coloured gold: rings and chains and medallions. I put it all back in the jar and went downstairs. ‘Find anything?’ said Frank. I nodded and handed him the dusty jar. Gerd put his head in his hands. Dorothy’s lip curled into a sneer. Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘What would a forensic expert say about these, I wonder? That they date from the Forties? Middle-European dentistry?’

‘It proves nothing,’ Dorothy hissed.

‘At the end of the war, in Berlin, everything was a commodity. I got those from a…’

‘No more!’ said Gerd. His knees creaked as he got to his feet. ‘I told you to throw them away, or sell them. But you always know better. We could have paid our debts with them.’

‘If I listened to you, we’d be living on the street,’ Dorothy replied. Her face reminded me of the women in Belfast, after we found a rifle in her cellar. ‘That gold has lasted us years. Like I said it would. I wasn’t going to throw it at some idiot with no proof.’

‘I don’t get it. Why didn’t you pay the blackmailer with the gold?’ I said.

Dorothy shook her head. ‘The old man in Canterbury, who buys our gold, died recently. He never asked any questions, not like the others. And I didn’t want to sell it all at once, in case the value went up.’

‘We were going to sell it and pay you back,’ said Gerd, ‘I promise. Here, take it all!’

Frank wasn’t listening. ‘So it was you, Dorothy, wasn’t it? You were a Helferin.’

‘What’s that?’ I said.

Frank made a face. ‘Female SS auxiliary service. Worked in the death camps. What did you do, Dorothy? Dental assistant, by the look of it. Or did you tell the women and kids it was okay to go into the showers?’

Dorothy looked at the jar of gold. ‘You know nothing.’

‘So tell me. I’m all ears,’ Frank replied. He grabbed Dorothy by the shoulders with leather-gloved hands. ‘All-fucking-ears!’

‘No,’ said Gerd, hobbling across the room. ‘It was me, I swear. Not her. I was in the camps. I took the teeth and jewellery. Please, leave her be.’

Dorothy’s smile was defiant. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like? To live in a time when disobeying orders meant death?’

‘I’ve heard it all before,’ Frank replied. ‘I did a job in Cologne once. Met an old man who got himself removed from a death squad. He was a copper. They transferred him into an SS police unit and told him he was off to Poland on ‘special duties.’ He knew what it involved, so he made a transfer request. They sent him to the Russian Front. Lost both legs, but at least he made the least-worst choice. You didn’t. Helferin were all volunteers.’

Dorothy snorted. ‘Not only do you know nothing, but you can also prove nothing.’

Frank flipped open his briefcase. He took out a clear plastic bag and emptied the gold inside. ‘I don’t need to. I’m not a copper, or a lawyer.’

‘Then what are you?’ I said.

Frank smiled, ‘I collect debts.’

‘What will happen to us?’ said Gerd. ‘Go,’ said Dorothy. ‘Take the gold, Mister Peppercorn, or whatever your name is. I imagine you sent us the letter too. You are a thief! That’s what you are.’

Frank shrugged and left the room. I followed him outside, leaving the front door ajar.

‘What next?’

‘I’m finished,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He looked older, somehow. Suddenly haggard.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Your fingerprints are all over the house, Paul. When Old Bill track you down, which they will, tell ‘em the Slesingers were always fighting like cat and dog. That they hated each other. Don’t worry, I’ve found you a solid alibi. You were in the office all day.’

A car pulled up nearby. A Ford, with a Hertz sticker in the window. A young guy got out, dressed in jeans and a Lacoste sweater. He was swarthy, with a mop of dark curly hair. His eyes were hidden behind Ray-Bans, like the ones pilots wear. ‘They’re all yours, Gideon,’ said Frank. He handed the man his fancy briefcase. ‘Gold teeth and jewellery. I’m sure they’ll confirm what you already suspect.’

‘Was it the man or the woman?’ said Gideon. He had a foreign accent, like American and Russian mixed. He wore gloves too, soft black leather.

‘The woman,’ Frank replied. ‘The husband wanted to take the blame though.’

‘Was he a Nazi too?’

‘Don’t think so. Said he was in the Luftwaffe.’

‘He lived off Holocaust gold,’ Gideon shrugged. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his jeans, an old Walther. He caught my eye. ‘The police will think this is the husband’s old service weapon. Even the bullets are wartime stock. It will be a domestic murder-suicide. Now go.’

‘Yes, Paul. Go,’ said Frank. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. ‘I need a drink.’

‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Dorothy said she didn’t have a choice. What if that was true?’

Gideon worked the Walther’s slide. ‘Neither did the people she herded into the gas chambers. I don’t expect you to understand.’

Frank gave me a wink. ‘Gideon, this is Paul. The guy I told you about. He found the gold.’

Gideon looked me up and down. ‘Can you keep your mouth shut?’ I nodded. ‘If you need work, maybe I can do something for you.’ He pulled a card from his pocket with a London phone number printed on it. Nothing else.

Frank handed me an envelope and a bunch of keys. ‘I knew you were a good prospect. There’s two grand in there. Now take the Daimler and go back to the office.’

I got in the car. Gideon nodded and went inside the house. I drove back to London, listening to Thin Lizzy and smoking my last roll-up. Cut a long story short? I phoned the number on Gideon’s card. A few months later I was in Portugal, with Frank.

Collecting debts.

Cal Winter is the antihero of three espionage thrillers. This short story first appeared in ‘Death Toll 3: End Game’, a thriller anthology published in 2019.

Bukovina – Northern Romania

The driver hit the brakes. ‘This is it. You take bus from here.’

‘Why?’ I asked, opening my wallet.

Ash tumbled from the cigarette glued to the driver’s lip. ‘Road bad. Will fuck suspension.’

The average Romanian taxi driver would drive off a cliff for a hundred dollars. ‘How long ‘til the bus arrives?’

A shrug. ‘One hour? Two?’

I unfolded myself from the back of the battered Dacia, my only luggage a day-sack and a suit-carrier. No weapons or secure comms, which I was assured were in situ. Hopefully the logistics would be more reliable than the transport arrangements. ‘Here you go,’ I said, handing over a fistful of banknotes.

‘Bus soon,’ the driver grunted, avoiding eye contact.

I stood at the lonely bus-stop, shadows creeping across the Carpathians. I lit a cigarette and waited – I was good at waiting. An hour passed, dusk turning to night. I zipped up my jacket against the wind, scattered lights marking a village further down the valley. I guffawed – the mission planners were gambling success on the vagaries of a Romanian bus timetable? ‘Everyone’s late in that part of the world,’ the ops officer promised. ‘It’ll look natural.’

I heard the growl of a V8, throaty and deep. German engineering, not a Romanian bus. A Mercedes G-Wagon trundled into view, headlamps like searchlights. It stopped, the passenger window purring open. ‘Hey,’ said a woman in American-accented English. I caught a flash of white skin. Red-painted lips. ‘You look… stranded.’

‘I seem to have found myself at the mercy of the Romanian bus network,’ I replied easily, playing the stoic Englishman. Four Weddings-era Hugh Grant, maybe, but with a broken nose and shorter hair. I can fake posh, even though I’m a South London boy.

‘A Brit? Where you going?’

‘Bibescu Castle.’

‘So are we,’ said the woman, who possessed Vogue-level cheekbones. ‘We can give this guy a ride, can’t we Ryan?’

‘I guess so,’ the driver replied. His tone suggested he’d rather go for an enema. ‘Jump in.’

The Americans introduced themselves. Ryan worked in technology, Megan something political in DC. ‘I’m Adrian Clay,’ I lied. The cover was over-used, to be honest. Then again, so was I.

‘Have you been a collector for long, Adrian?’ asked Megan. She wore denim jeans and a cashmere sweater, her scent musky and expensive.

‘I suppose so. I caught the bug in Iraq, I picked up a couple of interesting pieces there back in the day.’

Ryan perked up. ‘Iraq? What kinda stuff?’

‘Well, at one point I got my hands on Saddam’s hunting rifle,’ I replied.

The American smiled approvingly. ‘The Mannlicher?’

‘Sadly not. I bagged his Mauser k98, he had quite the collection.’

‘You still got it?’

I pulled a face. ‘I was an idiot – I sold it. Still regret it.’

‘I feel your pain. I had Oskar Dirlewanger’s Walther P-38 until I traded it. Man, that was an asshole move.’

Megan smiled. ‘Ryan’s a weapons guy. Swords, rifles, knives... You two sound like you’ll get along fine.’

‘Do you collect, Megan?’ I asked.

The American checked her makeup in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sure. I’m interested in the more personal side of things…’

Ryan, handsome like a 70’s-vintage Robert Redford, chuckled. ‘Megan covets body-parts. Y’know – skulls, glass eyes, false limbs…’

I nodded sagely, like it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Interesting. Quite the niche.’

‘I recently acquired Ta Mok’s prosthetic,’ Megan replied with a smile. ‘That was a bitch to get hold of, but one helluva story behind it.’

‘Ta Mok?’

‘Leader of the Cambodian Khmer Rouge,’ she replied. ‘He lost a leg in 1970. They called him The Butcher.’

‘Hey,’ I replied, ‘more fun than collecting dolls, right?’

‘Dolls? Ugh. They’re creepy,’ Meghan giggled.

The castle appeared before us, a floodlit riot of turrets and crenelated walls. The rooftops reminded me of wizard-hats. ‘Spooky,’ said Ryan. He smiled, showing off a mouthful of halogen-white teeth. ‘Great place for a Halloween party.’

‘It’s straight out of a movie,’ said Megan. ‘What do you think, Adrian?’

‘I just hope the butler doesn’t have a bolt through his neck,’ I said. Megan chuckled politely.

Ryan accelerated, cursing as the G-Wagon pitched and rolled on the pitted mountain roads. ‘This event better be good,’ he said. ‘Is this Ebersold guy as hooked-up as they say he is?’

‘Apparently,’ I replied. ‘I’m also looking forward to hearing from the special guest.’

Megan looked over her shoulder. ‘So am I. Ryan, on the other hand, just wants to buy stuff.’

‘What can I say? I dig endorphins.’

We stopped at a gatehouse. Two skinheads in leather jackets appeared, Kalashnikovs strapped across their chests. ‘May I see your invitations, please?’ said the first bonehead. He was neatly-groomed, boots clean, eyes darting everywhere. Not your average Bucharest goon.

‘We will need to check the car,’ said the second guard. It wasn’t a request. ‘For your safety, and that of the other guests.’ I got out of the Mercedes and handed over an SD card. He nodded and plugged it inside a handheld iris scanner. I smiled and glanced into the scanner, the device chirruping happily. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Next?’

Ryan got out and gave an identical SD card to the skinhead, offering an opinion on the biometrics behind the scanner. ‘This wipes my data once it verifies my ID?’

‘Yes, sir, absolutely,’ the guard replied. ‘See? It has already gone.’

Megan rolled her eyes. ‘Ryan’s anal about tech,’ she said. ‘I managed to find the only good-looking geek in Palo Alto.’

‘I’m pretty awful with anything technical,’ I replied. ‘Maybe he can bring me up to speed?’

‘See? An open mind,’ said Ryan, submitting himself to a body-search. ‘Hey, Adrian, I’m dating the only hot policy-nerd in DC.’

Megan smiled coquettishly. ‘Nerd? Really?’ ‘You go to bed reading about macroeconomic theory.’

The guards checked inside the Mercedes, running a gleeful spaniel through the vehicle. ‘Hey, what’s it trained to smell?’ Ryan asked.

‘Weapons. Covert cameras. Audio equipment. If you could hand over your mobile devices, please.’

‘Phew,’ Ryan grinned. ‘For a second I thought they were gonna confiscate my weed.’

Two uniformed porters appeared. ‘We’ll park your vehicle, sir,’ said the first. ‘Your luggage will be taken up to your rooms.’

We crossed a floodlit courtyard, Megan’s heels click-clacking on the cobblestones. We were met by a man in a three-piece suit, tall and ramrod-straight. ‘Good evening,’ he said in clipped English. ‘Doctor Manfred Ebersold. Welcome to Castle Bibescu. I hope your journey was pleasant?’

‘Hey there,’ Ryan replied. ‘The roads suck ass, and we found a stray Brit by the side of the road.’

‘A pleasure Herr Doctor. I’m Adrian Clay,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘My taxi driver wasn’t prepared to chance the roads.’

‘Yes, we chose the venue specifically for its security-friendly location.’ I knew from my briefing Ebersold was as Swiss as a vault full of Nazi bullion. They tend to appreciate formality. ‘Ah, Herr Clay. This is your first time at our auction?’

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it very much. I never thought I’d get the opportunity to come to such a renowned event.’

The Swiss looked me up and down. He seemed mildly satisfied. ‘You came highly recommended. I hope you get what you came here to acquire.’

‘Me too, Herr Doctor.’

The Americans introduced themselves, looking uncomfortable as they disclosed their surnames – she was Megan Doherty and he was Ryan Novak. They featured in the briefing too - Doherty was a political lobbyist, Novak CEO of a blue-chip tech company.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get settled,’ I said. ‘I could use a shower.’

Ebersold smiled – you could almost hear his facial muscles creaking in protest. ‘Of course, a porter will escort you to your accommodations. Dinner is at eight o’clock sharp, in the meantime feel free to explore. I believe this is one of the only Bayovar castles in the region.’

Ryan looked unimpressed. ‘When’s the auction start?’

‘Tomorrow, after breakfast,’ Ebersold replied.

A burly porter led me to one of the castles bulbous turrets, the topmost floor converted into a hotel-style bedroom. Small, but comfortable, my stuff laid out neatly on the bed. Switching off the lights, I opened the window. The turret faced east, over a seemingly endless forest. My handler assured me the rooms weren’t wired for cameras or sound. I pulled a pencil torch from my pocket – a J5 Tactical with a 300 lumen output. I flashed the agreed code, signaling to the surveillance operative dug-in on the hillside I was ground-assigned. Then I showered, dressed (the invitation on the SD card insisted gentlemen wear black tie for dinner) and headed downstairs. The Americans were paying for the fancy dress, so I’d picked up a new tuxedo from Henry Poole & Co in London.

Hey, if you’re playing a decadent British playboy, you’ve got to look the part. You don’t do this stuff wearing a rented monkey suit.

We dined in a circular chamber, the walls decorated with medieval weapons and paintings of long-dead princes. A cellist played while black-liveried waitresses served drinks. I helped myself to a flute of champagne and checked out the other guests. They were a predictable assortment of ultra-wealthy lizards, radiating ennui – a pair of high-level EU apparatchiks, a Russian energy oligarch (wearing a fuck-the-dress-code leather jacket and motorcycle boots) and a cadre of Chinese Communist Party flunkies. The others were big money guys from London and New York, sharply-tailored and groomed. Apart from Megan (who wore a spray-on dress of shimmering silver sequins), there was only one other woman – Professor Maria Fritsch, an academic from Stanford University.

I introduced myself to a British hedge-funder, who I won over with a self-deprecating war story (rich men who’ve never worn uniform love war stories). Then, one ear free, I eavesdropped on the power hubbub: talk of Davos and Brussels and Beijing, of the ongoing tragicomedy in Washington DC. Our peasants are more restless than your peasants, and are you going to Courchevel or Zürs next season?

A door opened, and Doctor Ebersold appeared, wearing a black tailcoat. The Swiss was guardsman smart, a medal hanging around his neck on a scarlet ribbon. Someone banged a gong and the hubbub eased. ‘Good evening and welcome,’ he declared. ‘Dinner is served.’

The food was decent. Not Michelin-star, but impressive for a kitchen halfway up a Romanian mountain. There was foie gras, wild boar with gnocchi, roasted wood pigeon with ceps and dark chocolate souffle. The wine was outstanding, but I drank little – I enjoy the stuff too much and I was working. I guessed Professor Fritsch was vegan, the dumpy-looking professor gnawing at a plate of carrots and bell-peppers. She was sour-faced and sixtyish, dressed in a man’s crumpled dinner-suit. My soldier-half bridled at her slovenliness, my London-half approved of her indifference.

After coffee and cognac (a rare 1900 Château Jousson - my job had a few perks), Doctor Ebersold stood and cleared his throat, a signal for the cellist and waiting staff to vanish. ‘Welcome to the twenty-sixth biannual Enchère Sombre, to friends old and new,’ he said. ‘As usual, we have a selection of the most desirable artefacts, from that strange nexus where politics, war and crime reach their darkest zenith.’

He smiled as the diners applauded. War? Crime? Dark zeniths? The global rich were more excited than sailors in a Plymouth strip club.

‘There are those, mainly people who will never appreciate the thrill of connoisseurship, who find our tastes bizarre. Immoral even,’ Ebersold continued. ‘Which is why our fellowship is predicated on discretion, trust and mutual respect. Just think! Among our number have been diehard Stalinists and unrepentant fascists. Paleo-conservatives and anarcho-libertarians. Others among us have no discernible politics whatsoever. But we all share the same fascination – for those exceptional humans who bend history to their will. To what George Bernard Shaw called The Unreasonable Man. We admire those who fly in the face of mediocrity. To the men and women who make destiny, not submit to another’s iteration of it!’

The Swiss was applauded heartily. Megan and Ryan, bright-eyed, held hands. The Chinese nodded and the money-guys clinked brandy glasses. Even the dead-eyed Russian seemed happy. Tomorrow belongs to us.

Professor Fritsch sipped a glass of water and glanced at me, our eyes meeting for a moment. A screen descended from the ceiling, displaying the itinerary. Breakfast, then the main event (sealed bids only), followed by lunch and an audience with a special guest. Then, transport to Baia Mare and the nearest airport. The guests began to drift back to their rooms, guards lurking nearby. Fritsch appeared at my shoulder, munching on a piece of celery. She smelt of cheap soap and bubble-gum. ‘Off to bed so soon?’ she said.

‘I’m keeping a clear head for tomorrow,’ I replied.

The professor smiled. ‘I’m told you’re more of an acquisitions man than a collector. I must say, you’ve that air about you.’

‘I’ve helped source merchandise in the past,’ I lied. One of Ebersold’s suppliers had vouched for me under duress. ‘That was when I was in the army. Since I’ve left, my interest lies in collecting.’

‘A soldier?’ The academic grimaced. ‘An unfortunate, but necessary, profession. History teaches us that.’

‘Is this your first auction, Professor?’

‘I’ve been coming for years. My work on languages in the early 80s took me to Cambodia. It’s where I met members of the Khmer Rouge, which sparked my interest in this… pastime.’

‘I’ve never been to Cambodia,’ I said. ‘Maybe one day I shall.’

‘It’s the sort of place I can see you fitting in,’ she replied, eyes twinkling. ‘Well, good night to you, Mister Clay.’

‘And to you, Professor Fritsch.’ The old woman shook my hand with both of hers. They were slightly clammy. Then she was gone, ambling away in unlaced sneakers.

And I pocketed the object she’d thrust into my palm.

I returned to my room. Fritsch had passed me a handkerchief, on it a message written in felt tip pen:

Look in the gutter above your window. Oh, and feel free to fly in the face of mediocrity, won’t you? Am looking forward to tomorrow greatly.

I never did work out how an elderly professor of ethnolinguistics smuggled a Chinese Type 77 suppressed pistol inside the castle, but that’s what I found in the guttering. The weapon was wrapped in thick plastic, along with five loaded magazines. There was also a counter-forensics kit and a shaped incendiary charge the size of a bag of sugar, an electronic timer attached to the top. Then I slept, dreaming of castles and dictators. And Megan Doherty’s impossibly tight dress.

Breakfast was cheese, charcuterie, fruit and pastries. Megan and Ryan joined me. She was grouchy, he was wired. ‘You shouldn’t smoke so much of that shit,’ she chided, looking sharp in a white Zorro blouse and indigo jeans.

Ryan’s eyes were red-rimmed. ‘It’s not any old shit – it’s artisan shit. From Oregon.’

‘What do you think, Adrian?’ she said, touching my hand. ‘About drugs?’

‘Me? I’ve paid my dues with cocaine and opiates,’ I replied matter-of-factly, buttering a piece of baguette. ‘Although I think the worst thing about weed is it makes you boring.’

‘I agree,’ said Megan, picking at the fruit bowl. ‘Adrian, tell me - are you here to buy anything in particular?’

‘I’m after Lavrentiy Beria’s Patek Philippe wristwatch.’

Ryan whistled through his teeth. ‘Sweet. Is Russia the focus of your collection?’

I made a so-so gesture with my hand. ‘I’ve worked there and speak the language. It might explain the interest.’ I’d worked in Russia ever since I was blackmailed into the murder game.

‘Wasn’t Beria a sadistic rapist?’ said Megan, baby-blues locked onto mine. ‘Cruising the streets of Moscow in his limousine, snatching women off the streets?’

‘Beria was a rapist and a serial killer,’ Ryan added through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘When they dug up his garden, they found the skeletons of girls who wouldn’t play ball.’

‘I prefer to dwell on his record in the NKVD,’ I replied, studying my coffee cup. ‘Stalin wouldn’t put a fool in charge of his atomic weapons program.’

‘Of course, all these guys were big-picture people,’ Megan replied. ‘The normal rules kinda… melt for them I think. Who doesn’t have dirt under their fingernails?’

‘Indeed,’ I replied, feeling morally superior for once – and I killed people for a living. ‘Megan, is there anything in particular you’re bidding for?’

‘Goebbels’s orthotic shoe, the man was famously club-footed. It would fit seamlessly into my collection.’

‘Why Goebbels?’

Megan flashed her supermodel smile. ‘The preposterousness of Goebbels’s brilliance, I guess. His ability to warp the obvious – I mean, here’s a physically handicapped guy who bare-facedly supports the extermination of handicapped people? Like, he’s limping around like a freak, yet everyone’s too scared to notice…’

‘He’d have been a sensation in Silicon Valley,’ Ryan chuckled. ‘Hey, give Fascism a chance.’

‘It’s only a matter of time,’ Megan shrugged.

Ryan nodded. ‘Well, V2.0, maybe.’

Doctor Ebersold appeared, now dressed in a three-piece tweed suit. ‘The auction begins in one hour,’ he announced, checking his pocket watch.

Professor Fritsch wandered by, dressed in dungarees and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt. She gripped Megan’s shoulder. ‘Ah, Miss Doherty. Sorry we didn’t get the chance to catch up last night – how’s DC treating you?’

‘Soul-destroying, Professor,’ she replied, taking Fritsch’s hand. ‘Everything you heard about DC is true.’

‘Of course, is!’ The Professor’s eyes twinkled, ‘I remember you as a Senior, ready to change the world.’

‘Naivety is great until it isn’t,’ Megan replied. ‘Have you met Ryan Novak?’

‘No, but I’ve heard about his work,’ Fritsch replied. ‘How’s the world of biometric advertising, Mister Novak?’

‘Reassuringly Orwellian, Professor,’ said Ryan easily. ‘I was wondering if you were available to discuss your paper on spatial orientation soon?’

‘Ah, language as biometrics?’ she replied. ‘An interesting proposition. Of course., it takes a lot of money to tempt me down from my dreaming spire nowadays. My rates are outrageous.’

‘Double it, professor, it would be a privilege.’

‘Let’s see how much you’ve got left after the auction,’ said Megan, firing her boyfriend a look. ‘I know you want Goering’s ruby-handled Luger.’

Ryan grinned, ‘I might.’

‘What the heart wants,’ said the Professor, ‘the heart usually gets. Well, that’s my experience.’

Megan smiled indulgently. ‘What are you bidding for?’ The professor thought about the question, piggy eyes narrowed. ‘I’m more of an experiential person, Megan. Hopefully this will be a special experience for us all. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

Megan watched the professor shuffle away. ‘Ryan, would you really pay that witch a consulting fee?’

Ryan shrugged. ‘Sure I would. She’s a freak, but her name’s golden among semioticians. It would take some of the heat off our privacy concerns.’

‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ I said, getting up from my chair, ‘…and ruin it with some cigar smoke.’ Megan nibbled at a blueberry. ‘Sure Adrian, see you at the auction.’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Good luck with Goebbels’ boot, eh?’

The auction began at 10.30 sharp. Doctor Ebersold wafted into the room, hair brilliantined. He checked a pocket-watch again, as he stood behind a podium. ‘For the benefit of new friends, I will explain the bidding process of the Enchère Sombre. The reserve price is announced, then you are invited to enter sealed bids via the consoles in front of you. Your monies are paid into a Swiss escrow account and anonymised – you may keep your purchase private if you so wish. The highest bid over reserve wins.’

One of the EU guys, a Belgian, cleared his throat. ‘No out-bidding? Herr Ebersold, why does the auction use this system?’

The Swiss nodded curtly. ‘For the simple reason of privacy – we find this system to be the most discreet. And, of course, dramatic! Now, we shall proceed.’

Lot One was a ledger from the Wannsee Conference, where the Nazis planned the Final Solution. The book, embossed with a Reich Eagle, was displayed on a plinth. ‘The piece is signed by the protagonists,’ Ebersold declared. ‘Heydrich, Muller, Eichmann, Freisler…’

There was muttering and murmuring from the guests, the Chinese delegation speaking urgently among themselves. The only thing I’d ever collected were vices and sexually-transmitted diseases. Why anyone would want to own such a thing was beyond me.

‘Is this an artefact of evil, or a reminder of the power of ruthless logic?’ continued Ebersold smoothly. ‘That, of course, is for you to decide. The reserve price of this unique piece is half-a-million Swiss Francs.’ People began punching at their payment consoles. I stole a glance at Professor Fritsch, who was studying the spectacle with interest. She saw me and smiled, clearly enjoying herself. ‘The Wannsee ledger is sold, at three-point-six million Swiss francs!’ the doctor announced. Nobody acknowledged buying the ledger, but the Russian oligarch looked pleased with himself.

The next lot was Beria’s wristwatch. Apparently, he wore it when signing the mass deportation orders of 1944. Its reserve price was three million francs, so I made a grown-up bid of five. It was CIA money, after all. I was beaten by one of the British hedge-fund guys, who punched the air with glee when the bid won.

Ryan Novak missed out on Goering’s ruby-handled pistol (never fired, as I imagined the Luftwaffe chief was too fat and / or stoned). It was won by the Chinese, ponying up a cool thirteen-million francs. Doctor Ebersold looked satisfied – I imagined the house was taking forty percent commission at least. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘Lot Four is a selection of mementos belonging to Joseph Goebbels, including an orthotic shoe, Nazi Party membership badge and a photograph of Lenie Riefenstahl signed by Doctor Goebbels himself. Reserve price for this unique trove of personal effects is a mere three million Swiss Francs.’

Megan punched a figure into her console. Ryan’s face fell as he whispered something into his girlfriend’s ear. Megan glowered at him. I noticed less interest from the other buyers, apart from one of the Chinese.

‘The sealed bids are complete,’ said the doctor, numbers flashing onscreen behind him. ‘And the winning bid is… six million Swiss francs!’ ‘Yes!’ Megan hissed.

‘Ouch,’ said Ryan. ‘I’m paying for that?’ Megan smiled foxily, before snapping up the next lot – a lampshade fashioned from human skin, courtesy of a Khmer Rouge general (I missed his name). And the next, a skull Idi Amin had once used as an ashtray. ‘You know she’s a Democrat, right?’ Ryan chuckled, patting Megan’s knee.

‘Where do you keep all this stuff?’ I asked.

‘My place in Aspen – I’ve built a vault, we spend a lot of time down there. Together, y’know…’ Ryan made a Cheshire cat grin. ‘It’s kinda hot.’

‘Whatever floats your boat,’ I said quietly. I wanted the auction to finish so I could escape these lunatics.

‘We’ll break for coffee,’ the doctor announced. ‘After which we have three remaining lots before lunch.’

I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with water. Returning to my room, I retrieved the handgun and tucked it in the back of my waistband. I wore dark jeans, a knit sweater and outdoor shoes – comfortable gear, easy to move in. I put the spare magazines in the pocket of my sports jacket. Finally, I set the timer on the incendiary charge and left it under the bed. Counter-forensics are good, but fire’s better. On my way back to the keep, I checked the guards’ positions – one on the gate, another on the walls and two outside the great hall.

The auction’s last three lots were Middle-Eastern – a signed Saddam-era military order authorising a chemical weapon strike on the Marsh Arabs, a curved sword reputedly once owned by Al-Qaeda’s Ayman al-Zawahiri and a personal journal attributed to ISIL’s Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. ‘These are relatively new pieces,’ Doctor Ebersold explained. ‘The discerning collector will either appreciate the unique brutality of the protagonists, or have a shrewd eye for future historic value… or both.’ The Chinese bought all three, whispering among themselves as they crowded around their console.

‘Too contemporary for my tastes,’ said Ryan, pulling a face.

‘I agree, baby,’ Megan nodded. ‘ISIL? Too early to call as far as posterity’s concerned.’

Auction concluded, coffee was served. Professor Fritsch sidled up next to me. ‘Not long now,’ she said.

‘Huh?’ I replied.

‘Until the special guest, of course.’

I lowered my voice. ‘Professor, you’re not helping.’

‘I already have,’ she replied. ‘Where should I sit for the best view?’

‘The best view?’

The professor smiled, face flushed, eyes bright. ‘To see you do it.’

I lowered my voice to a near-whisper. ‘Anywhere behind me. In fact, when you see the gun hit the deck and stay there.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, but I’m told you’re very precise.’ ‘Take a walk, Professor,’ I hissed.

Fritsch grinned and shuffled away, gulping coffee as she went.

Lunch was pasta, served with carafes of chilled Bianco del Ticino. After a plate of pumpkin and pine-nut fettucine, followed by pistachio gelato, we sat down for our special guest.

We were given carnival masks to wear, the sort you’d see at a Venetian ball. ‘Our guest would like his identity protected, as you should yours,’ said Doctor Ebersold, licking his teeth. Megan chuckled nervously, clutching Ryan’s hand. Like kids entering a reptile house. A waitress poured drinks, then left, closing the door shut behind her. The last thing I saw was a guard with a Kalashnikov lurking in the corridor.

Professor Fritsch, I noticed, sat behind me and to my right. Our eyes met, and she nodded. ‘Can we swap masks?’ she said. ‘I think I prefer yours.’

‘Of course, professor,’ I replied. My new mask was a golden death’s head, decorated with horns. ‘Does this suit me?’

‘Perfectly, Mister Clay.’

The lights dimmed, making one of the EU men jump. The Chinese tittered, while the Russian shook his meaty head. The special guest appeared, a wiry figure wearing a dark suit. His features were hidden behind a plague doctor’s mask, with a comedy nose like a mosquito’s proboscis. A cockade of glossy black feathers sprouted from the top, making him look like a devilish peacock. He sat in an armchair, a side table holding a carafe of water and a glass. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Doctor Ebersold, ‘our guest will use the pseudonym ‘Adam’ for today’s talk. He is here to discuss his role in extreme wet-work operations for the Soviet KGB and, later, the Russian Federation’s SVR between the 1980s and the late 2010s. He is, my friends, quite simply the most accomplished killer in his field. He is prepared to answer your questions with complete candor. He has broken bread with Andropov and Gorbachev, Yeltsin and Putin. He has assassinated his country’s enemies across every continent, with lethal accuracy and complete success.’

Adam nodded, introducing himself in accentless English. ‘Thank you, Herr Doctor. May I begin by saying what a pleasure it is, to be in the company of sophisticates who appreciate the art. It is flattering to think you treasure the mementos of my profession.’

A murmur of approval from the collectors. Look! The monster likes us. My briefing on ‘Adam’ had been thorough – real name was Colonel Evgeniy Ukhov, a semi-retired killer from Russia’s covert Spetsnaz teams Zaslon and Vympel, before becoming SVR’s preferred in-house assassin, the star of Directorate ‘S’. One of the original graduates of the Special Forces freak-factory at Balashikha, Ukhov wasn’t the type of hapless operator sent to smear poison on suburban door handles. He’d killed in Afghanistan, Angola, Cuba and El Salvador. For Putin, he’d cut the throats of Chechens and rogue oligarchs, overly-inquisitive journalists and too-successful opposition politicians. His trademark – the knife.

Now in his seventies, Ukhov still took the occasional contract. Which was why I sat not ten feet away, the suppressed Type 77 pistol in my pocket. He’d killed a retired CIA officer to settle an old score, unsanctioned by his SVR handlers. Bad move. The Americans felt bound to return the serve, send a message to the Russians. ‘Sometimes,’ the ops officer had told me, ‘you gotta rub the puppy’s nose in its own shit.’

One of the EU guys asked the first question, something about KGB policy during the collapse of the USSR in the early 1990s. Someone yawned. I was too busy to listen to Ukhov’s reply, wondering how long it would take between me firing a kill-shot and the guard reacting. I was confident I could take him. It was the other three I was worried about.

Megan held up her hand. ‘Adam, I have some more granular questions, if I may?’ The old assassin nodded. ‘Of course, my dear.’ ‘Can you tell us about your most memorable kill? The one you found most professionally satisfying? And how did you do it?’

The feathers on the plague-mask danced. ‘Ah, professionally satisfying… that’s an nuanced distinction. In Afghanistan, this would have been Panjshir in the mid-80s, I sought to foment insurrection among the local mujahedeen. It was where, incidentally, I discovered my love of the knife, in particular the Pashtun blade. One of our local KHAD men, the Afghan secret police, taught me a technique based on blows to the windpipe and crippling strikes to critical areas. I trekked into the hills above the mujahedeen camp and waited. Then, in the small hours, I cut the throat of each sentry – exactly as they would have done to our soldiers. I severed their penises and put them in their mouths, testicles draped over their chins. One of them, I remember, was only twelve or thirteen years old, but in war one must harden one’s mind to such things. When I was done, I returned to the hills. The Afghans thought it was another tribal group who’d attacked, so they waged war among themselves. They were weakened enough for us to counter-attack and recapture the province. The medal I received was a trinket compared to… the artistry of it all. It was when I realised my work could transcend mere killing and become something sublime. A place where art meets science, becoming something fresh and new.’

‘Specifically, can you tell us more about the knifework?’ said Megan, lips glossy in the half-light.

‘Of course…’ Ryan sat forward on his seat, not wanting to miss a word. The Chinese and finance nodded approvingly. The EU policy-dudes sat to attention, and even the oligarch was listening. Professor Fritsch, though, stared at me. Ukhov sipped water through his mask and chuckled. ‘I apologise for the masks,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand the need for mutual discretion. Now, the knife-work. Cutting throats…’

I stood and pulled my pistol.

The lights were dim, but the Russian was sitting next to a lamp. Quick sight picture through my mask. Finger sliding to trigger. Squeeze… The suppressed pistol sighed twice. The first shot took Ukhov in the heart, the second puncturing his forehead. His body slumped in the chair, the wall behind him stippled red. For a second, time stood still, guests stunned.

‘Bravo!’ said Professor Fritsch.

Megan screamed as I spun to shoot the guard entering the room. I stepped towards him, weapon pushed out in a Weaver grip. No need to hurry. Scooping up his AK, I crouched in the hall. ‘Niki, you okay?’ someone called from outside. A guard.

‘We need your help in here!’ said a voice. Professor Fritsch. Two guards appeared from the courtyard, rifles ready.

‘Put your weapons down,’ I hollered. ‘I’ve no argument with you.’ One of the boneheads shouldered his AK. I fired two short bursts, slamming both men into the wall. One groaned, so I shot him again. That left one guard. I ducked into the courtyard and saw him on the wall, weapon ready. We both fired, a bullet smashing into the brickwork near my shoulder. I missed too, my shot sending up a flume of grit.

I dashed forward, diving for cover behind a parked car. The chatter of rifle fire echoed across the hillside, bullets puncturing the chassis and tyres. I peeped over the bonnet, seeing the guard snatching a fresh magazine from his jacket pocket. I aimed and fired three shots. The guard spun and fell from the battlements, landing with a crunch on cobblestones. Returning to the grand hall, I relieved the dead guards of their spare magazines. The guests fled, most unable to meet my gaze. ‘I thought you liked snuff movies?’ I growled. ‘Fuck off, the lot of you.’

Megan dashed by, Ryan close behind. ‘Hey, thanks for the cabaret,’ she purred.

Doctor Ebersold appeared, face mauve. I saw a snub-nosed revolver in his trembling fingers. ‘What have you done?’ he shrieked. The EU guys barged past, careful not to look at me, the Chinese following. All carried their precious purchases from the auction, carefully packaged in ballistic cases.

The Russian sauntered past, hands-in-pockets. ‘Give me a call if you ever need a job,’ he chuckled.

Watching them leave, Professor Fritsch appeared at my shoulder. ‘He won’t drop the gun, y’know. This is a humiliation too far, isn’t it Manfred?’

Ebersold’s face was white. ‘Maria, what is this?’

‘The auction has become dull. Pedestrian. It’s time for a change.’

Tears in his eyes, Ebersold raised his pistol. So I shot him, the Kalashnikov artillery-loud in the hall. He fell into a tangled heap of tweed and twitching limbs. ‘Very satisfactory,’ said the Professor. ‘An even better denouement than I imagined.’

‘What the hell do you mean?’ I asked, checking the old G10 strapped to my wrist. I’d an RV to make – two Delta guys with a fast cat and an airline ticket to Kyiv.

Professor Fritsch chuckled. ‘The CIA wanted Ukhov, and I wanted authenticity. Everyone’s satisfied.’

‘Authenticity?’

Fritsch studied the room, chairs upturned and floor blood-slicked. Hey eyes shone in her flushed, chubby face. ‘One shouldn’t cultivate a taste for the macabre if one isn’t prepared to experience it,’ she said. ‘And next year? The Enchere Sombre will be oversubscribed with genuine connoisseurs. You’ve given the event a patina of danger, Mister Clay, or whatever your real name is.’

‘My name is Cal Winter. I work for the Gruppo Strega.’

‘Strega’s real?’

Yes, it was. The Gieves and Hawkes of skulduggery. ‘You wanted to experience the macabre, Professor?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean, Mister Winter?’ the Professor replied.

Shouldering the rifle, I squeezed the trigger.

I sat drinking cold Stare Misto, in a hotel off Pushkinska Street. The CIA ops guy nursed a Jack Daniels. ‘Why did you shoot Fritsch?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sharing until you do,’ I replied. ‘What the hell was all that about?’

The American shrugged. ‘There are five million explanations being transferred to Strega’s bank account, okay? Winter, gimme a break. I need something for my report.’

‘I’ve got an explanation, then I have the truth. Want ‘em both?’

‘My ears are burning.’

Finishing my beer, I ordered vodka. It was one of those nights. ‘Okay, the official line? It looks like Ebersold realised Fritsch had double-crossed him. As the bidders ran away, they shot each other.’ I’d left the Type 77 at the scene, lying between their bodies. Wiped clean of fingerprints, naturally.

The CIA guy nodded slowly. ‘Nothing incriminating?’

‘Not from the other bidders – they value their privacy too much, right? And you telling me you can’t square shit away with the Romanian cops?’

‘Okay,’ the American replied, finishing his drink. ‘That might fly. At least we don’t have to pay Fritsch. Now, what’s the real reason you killed her?’

Finishing my vodka in one thirsty gulp, I asked the bartender for another. ‘Because the world’s slightly less shitty without her in it.’

‘And that’s it? Dammit, Winter, you’re an asshole.’

‘It’s been said before.’

‘Maria Fritsch was a solid asset. Her dealings with that freakshow auction helped us track war criminals, drug barons, Jihadis…’

The bartender decided it would be easier to put a bottle of Nemiroff on the bar in front of me. I poured two glasses and pushed one towards the American. ‘Look on the bright side – you’ve got a boatload of new recruits to blackmail, including two high-level and well-connected US citizens.’

‘Doherty and Nowak?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what you’re really saying is there’s an inexhaustible supply of shitty people out there?’ The American sipped his vodka and grimaced. ‘Shit, why didn’t you just kill everyone else too?’

‘Maybe that would have been a good idea,’ I replied.

The American got up to leave. ‘Well, I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but it ain’t.’

My hand was trembling for some reason, so I put it in my pocket. ‘I’ll see you next time you need some shit shoveling.’

‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

I’d heard that one before. I poured another drink and watched the American melt into the crowds on the street outside. My phone rang – it was control. I answered immediately. ‘It’s Cal, shit-shoveler extraordinaire.’

‘Now there’s a happy coincidence,’ said Juliet Easter. My boss. ‘That’s exactly the service I require.’

I poured another glass. ‘Go ahead, boss,’ I replied.

END

I’m Dominic Adler.

I’ve always written fiction (you can buy it here), but my public micro-profile - if you could call it that - is as a commentator on crime and criminal justice. This is due to a misspent career as London detective. My police, crime, intelligence and security related Substack can be found here and my journalism for UnHerd is here.

This is my repository of short stories and ideas. It showcases my work for anyone who likes thriller, spy and counterfactual fiction (including SF and fantasy).

My stuff is pitched, proudly and shamelessly, as entertainment. I want to tell cool stories, and for people to enjoy them.

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