Читать книгу The Darkening King - Justin Fisher, Justin Fisher - Страница 14

arbarossa sat at his stone table, glaring out of the window. In front of him lay the great sweeping carpet that was the Siberian taiga. Down below in his fortress’s iron belly the Darkening King stirred. The butcher could feel him, in the pores of his skin and the pit of his stomach. The Darkening King had a hunger that knew no bounds, a wish to devour, to rule, to reign. In that they were very much alike.

He looked down at the roasted pork that Sar-adin had so carefully prepared. It was, as always, just the way he liked it, its skin glazed to a perfect crackle, boiling fat oozing from its sides, and on a different day, in a different mood, he would have devoured it all till his chest was awash with grease and dripping. But Barbarossa had a different hunger and it would not be fed through his gut. Atticus Fife sat beside him drinking from a goblet of fine red wine. For some strange reason the man did not show fear in his company – if anything, he seemed to consider himself an equal.

Barbarossa supposed he had been a little vague about the arrangements between them. Perhaps Atticus believed himself to be important to him? A partner, even? He had been the second-in-command to the great Madame Oublier after all – the Circus of Marvels’ Prime, their one-time leader. Not that he’d done her any good. In fact, the tin-skin had betrayed her and the poison that had ended her life could not have done so without him. Well, Barba wouldn’t let the same happen to him. The man clearly needed some chivvying up, which was just as well, as Barbarossa was in the mood for a little “chivvying”.

“Walk with me, Atticus.”

Barbarossa led him away from the great hall down a set of spiral steps. Behind them Sar-adin followed quietly. The Central Intelligence had done exactly as ordered. He had built them a fortress that could not be taken. But something still troubled the butcher, even now. Until the Darkening King returned to his full power, they could, conceivably, still be undone no matter how many tin soldiers he had, or fanged and wicked creatures fought for him. Barbarossa did not like “odds”. So close to his prize, only certainties would do.

“The fair-folk will come, Atticus, and they will try to stop us.”

“What remains of them, yes.”

“And what does remain of them?”

“The pinstripes who still answer to me have heard word of a growing force in St Albertsburg.”

Barbarossa grimaced but continued leading the way.

“A growing force … Do you know how a force grows, Atticus?”

“We have banned all flights between the Veil, Barba, and my men are—”

Barba raised a hand and the tin-skin quietened.

“A force grows when there is hope. It is your job to remove that hope, Atticus.”

Barbarossa stopped by a heavy steel door and Sar-adin pulled out a set of keys.

“I am treading a fine line as it is, Barba. My men are beginning to suspect.”

Sar-adin opened the door to reveal a dimly lit cell. There were no windows, only a withered figure chained to the wall.

“This, Atticus, is Sur-jan. Once he swore to fight for me, yet only this morning he met with the Armstrongs. You promised me that you would take away the fair-folk’s hope and yet it grows.”

Atticus’s face dropped. The Demon looked to be in terrible pain. As cruel and as heartless as their kind was, he felt for it, knowing that whatever Barbarossa had done to the beast to reduce it so must have been unspeakable.

“Do you see hope in my captive’s eyes, Atticus?”

“I-I …”

“You will feed them lies upon lies. You will confuse and befuddle them, till they cannot tell friend from foe, till they cower in their beds calling for their mothers. You will feed them and feed them, till all their hope, strength and vigour is swallowed whole.”

“I will redouble my efforts.”

“No, Atticus, you will push them till you have nothing left to push with.”

And with that, Sar-adin shoved the tin-skin into the cell and locked the door.

“Barba?! Barbarossa, what is the meaning of this?”

“By the time they reach my forest, their spirits will already be broken. You will do the breaking, Atticus. You gave me your oath that you would. Your cellmate gave me such an oath once. A night with him should do plenty to remind you of what is at stake.”

Barbarossa turned his back and retraced his steps, even as Atticus pounded on the door.

“Tell me, Sar-adin, how much longer?” growled Barbarossa.

“He grows stronger.”

“But when will he rise, Sar-adin – WHEN?”

“Weeks.”

“And the boy, his parents? I fear while they walk free that the fair-folk will continue to have hope.”

“Sur-jan did not tell them about the stone.”

“Then we are still safe. Find them, Sar-adin. Use the clowns and whatever else you deem necessary. The Armstrongs must not stand in our way again.”

“Yes, master.”

The butcher slowed.

“And, Sar-adin – when you end them, make them suffer.”