VI. Witch
Woodward Cambridge was unwell.
Things were not going according to plan. They had started off well enough, in spite of some resistance from cities like Thorncut and Dalandaniss, as well as an obvious reluctance by O'Connor towards using the ogres as a means to deter those foolhardy enough to oppress his ideals. The man had protested the concept of their employment from the start, using his typical gentle and patient demeanor. There would be no need, he'd argued on many nights after Cambridge's strategic meetings with his military officers, of their services; his armies were already strong, and the region was already weak. Also--and this O'Connor had pointed out with a shrewd lack of confidence in his voice--opening a portal into the ogres’ region, so they could cross into this one, would not be easy. Cambridge was aware, of course, of the specification required for entry into this particular realm? It was love. Pure, perfect love. What ogre knew anything about love? What ogre, for that matter, knew anything beyond their own appetite for raw flesh?
"Love comes to us in many guises, O'Connor," had been Woodward's reply.
It was the truth, as his success at opening the portal had gone on to prove. Indeed, the passion of the dambuhala had scarcely played a role in the breach at all. What O'Connor had failed to observe--or had declined to observe--was that it had been he, Cambridge, encroaching upon the region of the ogres, not the other way about. The specification required for that was just the opposite: hate. And once the portal was open, the ogres poured through it in droves, howling with delight at the smell and the taste and the vista of a new world. Oh, the incantations for it had worked; they had worked so well. Cambridge had been in awe at the sight of hundreds of brown and black beasts, ten feet in height, stampeding the grassy hill he had chosen for their crossing. Their eyes, shining by light of a full moon, had been yellow and demented. Their howls, booming across the sky, had been savage.
The region’s first victim by the claws of these beasts might have been Cambridge, had it not been for the precautions he'd taken. A hiding spot, a glamour, an evil-tasting potion that preached mutiny in his bowels…these had been the terms of those precautions, and Cambridge still wasn't certain whether they had actually worked or if fear alone—the fear of failure that, like contraband, he carried but kept hidden away—had played the master role in his survival.
The ogres had gone on to take the region by storm. Straight in the path of the stampede on that first night was a small village by the name of Rudgard. The ogres had pounded through its breezy outskirts of orchards and milk farms as its occupants dreamed in their beds. Survivors spoke of a rumble in the ground, as if the nearby volcano Mount Chariness, which had been dormant for a thousand years, were erupting again. By that time the ogres had already laid siege in the streets. Screams of terror from those few who'd been out at that late hour rose above the village's pointed rooftops, awakening everyone else. Those others had come to their doorsteps with lanterns in their hands, bleary-eyed and curious, to be slaughtered themselves on the cobblestones.
Cambridge had been pleased--at first. This was the message he'd wanted to send. From Rudgard, the ogres had made their way over the hills, following their noses to a larger city where ships were built for travel across the Yeetahtan, named Havencourt. There, they had eaten their fill. In the space of an hour, Havencourt went from a pleasant, somewhat conceited city, to a full-out abattoir. By dawn the hands--as well as the brains--of its skilled craftsmen lay turned inside-out on the wide avenues, the chic boulevards, as survivors wailed for lost loves among the carnage.
Daytime was when the ogres slept. This gave news of what was happening in the region time to spread, and spread it did. On the following evening, Cambridge arrived in Thorncut to find his army in full command of the city. Its people had listened to his patient, logical speech in front of a large fountain at the end of Petal Avenue. They had fidgeted. They had gawked. They had gaped at the soldiers in the streets carrying kickshellacs.
"What would you have of us?" one of the bystanders all but gibbered.
Cambridge answered from his podium with sternness and compassion in equal measure, never realizing that in a mere two hours his army in Dalandaniss would be attacked and slaughtered by the ogres.
"The shape of this region," he'd begun, "is evanescing before our very eyes. Its substance is being diluted by our own unwillingness to maintain its structure, its foundation, through a cognizance of the nutrients that allow a civilization to evolve. Those nutrients, my ladies and my gentlemen, consist of two things: discipline and deference."
"Deference to whom?" another, bolder individual wanted to know. The expression on his face had suggested an urge to spit into Cambridge's eye.
But Cambridge did not allow himself to be discountenanced; he'd spent a week preparing this speech, and his answer to the defiant man's question was readily at hand.
"Deference to anyone who cares enough for this world to make sacrifices for its well-being."
"We're happy with how we are."
Cambridge glanced at one of his soldiers before continuing. "You are lawless," he said to the man. "A body without breakers to contain it."
"We're happy with how we are," the man had repeated, as if rebuking a small child.
The soldier by that point was standing directly behind him.
"I find your reaction impulsive," Cambridge went on. "I wish to enrich the region by providing a system that is conducive to order. Imagine a medical facility in every city, where trained doctors provide expert care to those in need. Imagine--"
"Thorncut has very fine doctor already."
"Imagine a team of individuals dedicated to the stoppage of crime."
"Hegemony is a crime!"
Cambridge then looked over the crowd with his hands on the podium, paying the man no mind. Some carried lanterns that flickered in the gloaming. Children held their parents’ hands, lips quivering. Wives cowered behind husbands who wore sheepish, worried faces. The night had been hot and still, without a single whisper in the trees.
"Imagine a region-wide monetary system--a system in which currency from one city could be spent in another. Imagine wider, more practical roads being built between these cities. Facilitated travel. Imagine a skill for every individual. A duty. A team of men could build the roads after another team had mapped out the territory in advance. Other teams like these could be used to treat the sick, care for the animals, nurse the children. One team could build a bridge; another could cross that bridge to dam a river on the other side. A team of loggers could chop down a forest; a team of carpenters could craft with the wood obtained. One man builds a fire, another man stokes it. One man lays a brick, another man spreads the mortar. One woman sweeps, another woman disposes. All of these things and so much more. I'm talking about a system, my ladies and my gentlemen, larger and more organized than the one you employ now, that will bring about cultivation for the entire region. You will work by the clock, performing whatever task you excel at the most. One task for every individual. My goal is simply this: organization. My objective? To have the new monetary system in place and fully functional within one year. Also within that time, I will expect ninety percent compliance from the region-dwellers."
After this, Cambridge's eyes had hardened, his brow had darkened. He looked out proprietarily at the residents of Thorncut. One of those residents did not look back: The man who had protested his occupation from the outset lay dead in front of the fountain, his skull broken open by the butt of a kickshellac.
"That compliance, my ladies and my gentlemen, shall begin tonight. With you."
***
No further resistance was put forth after the initial naysayer, but the transformation was still slow. Most Thorncut men worked as shipping merchants; a team of recruiting officers was already sending back reports that very few other skills were evident. There was the doctor, of course. One barber. One rather brilliant seamstress who went by the name of Echo Gardener. Zero carpenters. Zero chefs. One butcher.
Cambridge sighed. A cool, pleasant rain fell in the darkness beyond the plinths of his chamber balcony. The problem wasn't in Thorncut.
"Tell me," he said to the shadows.
"Dead, sir,” O’Connor replied. “All of them."
Cambridge, agitated, cocked his head at the shape across from him. "Are you speaking of Dalandaniss? Of my platoon there?"
"Yes, sir. They were--"
"I know what happened in Dalandaniss!" he growled. It wasn't like O'Connor to be presumptuous, and it was irritating to see it on display now. "I was referring to your little journey across the interstice. Tell me what you found."
"Of course, sir. I spoke with Luanna Felton, known as Lisa in the progressive. Her daughter is alive and well."
"Well? I was given to understand she suffers from a rather severe form of depression. That she has communication issues. That she goes through long spells of apathy towards everything around her, followed by brief periods of instability."
"Indeed, sir," O'Connor agreed. "But she is physically healthy. I feel--"
"You would do better for both of us, O'Connor, to be more precise with your feedback, as you have been until recent times. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine. And before you continue I may as well correct you on another point as well: Luanna Felton's daughter is dead. We were able to get one of the dambuhala into her house in the progressive region."
O'Connor made no reply to this.
"Yes, yes, I know," Cambridge went on, "you would have objected strongly to the idea. For you the ogres will always be something of a sow's ear for a silk purse, and now that our army in Dalandaniss is slaughtered you feel vindicated. No doubt the entire mess pleases you. You can now look me in the eye with more confidence than you know what to do with."
He wasn't being fair with these words, and he knew it, but god, did he feel ugly tonight.
"She's dead, O'Connor," he reiterated, regaining some composure. "The area where she lives is in a state of decay--The Rust Belt, I believe it's called. It was only a matter of finding an individual in this region who was also dying to get a sedated ogre across."
"I see," O'Connor murmured.
"Do you?" Cambridge snapped.
He seized a goblet of blood from the table and quaffed it; its owner had been small, slender, full of life--in a word, delicious. It made him feel a little better.
"You'd best tell me what you learned about Luanna. Is she a threat to our plans?"
"She does not have access to the region, sir. Her heart has the love, but not the focus. Or if it does have the focus it is not reciprocated."
"But if she were here, O'Connor, could she stop us?"
The servant was silent before answering. "Yes, sir. I would consider her a threat. Except for perhaps the dambuhala."
Cambridge started in his seat. "The dambuhala?"
"Yes, sir. Were she here, I feel her priority would be to return the beasts to the region from which they came. Yet she has not the hate nor the hunger to do this."
Cambridge's eyes widened...and then he began to smile. "My dearest O'Connor," he purred, "did you really object to my calling them over? Did you really?"
"Sir, it's not as if the matter of Miss Felton's intervention provides a fulcrum for a turn of events. She is unable to breach the region."
"She'll come over," Cambridge, still smiling, assured. "An ogre killed her daughter. And when she sees more ogres, and what they're doing to the region, she'll try to stop them. They'll eviscerate her like they did to the Dalandaniss platoon. By then it will be time to put them back. The region will be...in utter remission."
He spoke this last more to himself than O'Connor, staring in the direction of Coldfrock Lake. The rain-clouds were thinning, and now the moon hung over the water like an incredulous eye, ready to weep for the region’s lost innocence. Yet Cambridge suddenly knew his decision to summon the ogres had been wise.
Luanna Quinn Felton could not hate--she could only love. She could not consume--she could only give. That left just one other person with the knowledge and the capability to cast the ogres back to their own region, when the time came.
"Me," Cambridge whispered, nodding. Things were going to work out after all.
"Sir?"
He started again, shaken from his reverie.
"Don't despair, O'Connor." These were his soft words. "Thorncut is under full control. Willowbee is occupied; tomorrow night I'll speak there. We're well on our way."
The two men said nothing more to each other for the remainder of their time on the balcony, but Cambridge could still feel the vibes of doubt emanating from his servant. It did not perturb him. He watched the night clouds drift from the castle. The skies, like his thoughts, were clearing. The one person powerful enough to put an end to his ambitions would soon be dead, a victim of her own ambitions…
Love and compassion.
***
The castle dungeons were nothing at all like his tower chamber, but Cambridge enjoyed their surroundings nonetheless. Their strengths were different, to be certain. Gone were the cool breezes through geminate windows, the smells of sweet tea steaming by candle-light. In their place: cold drafts and torches that burned in charred sconces. Cambridge was convinced the former was due mainly to the restless spirits of those who'd suffered here centuries ago, during more tumultuous times for the region. The thought of them suffering still, beyond death, pleased him no end. Yet not for their crimes--goodness, no! What did he care for the political views of men and women dead these five-hundred years? What business had he with the petty exuberance of a few teenagers from broken homes? No, it was the suffering alone--the thought of entities in the catacombs straining beneath near unbearable amounts of pressure, wanting to scream but lacking the voices to do so--that captivated him, that made him almost eager to walk among the rows of rusted iron bars, boots clicking on the cracked fieldstone floors. It made a fine paradox as well--he, Cambridge, lord of the castle, held in check by his own fascination with the spirits of its dead prisoners.
Tonight, however, he did not allow himself to be deterred. He walked straight through the dungeon's main corridor. He turned left, his purple cape whirling in a near flourish, and proceeded down a slight incline fitfully lit--thanks to O'Connor--by two more torches. Near the end of this incline, on the right, was a large, arched door. It was already ajar. Cambridge opened it.
One of the larger cells had been located here, back when the dungeon was still in use, but now it functioned as a simple storage room. Old furniture was stacked in corners: bookshelves, tables, broken chairs. A large crate rested next to one wall, its lock broken. An old painting was propped against another, the canvas smeared, the colors that once depicted an organized scene now screaming in torment.
In the center of the room was a bed. Next to the bed stood two people. One of them was O'Connor, who had come down after their meeting on the balcony. The other was his sister, Nancy Semeska. They were looking at a third individual, lying on the dusty counterpane with a bump on his head. The individual's body was large, fat. Who else could it be, Cambridge thought, but his nephew Randy?
"What happened?" he asked, his buoyant mood lessening.
Nancy and O'Connor looked at him. "Just a bump on the head," the woman told him. "A shelf tipped over as we arrived. Air displacement."
"I see. O'Connor, please have everything in this room rearranged in a more tidy fashion, so as to prevent future accidents from occurring."
"Yes, sir."
Cambridge looked down at Randy. "Welcome back," he said, not without sarcasm. "Can you walk?"
"Yes," Randy's bulbous lips blubbered back. "I'm very hungry though."
"Of course you are. I'll have something prepared. We can talk as we eat. Also, if the two of you are in any way displeased with the clothing left for you down here, do not by any means hesitate to say so. Tastes change, styles change. I am always happy to assist my guests with their acclimation to a new environment."
Nancy smiled; the torchlight caught the gray, grandmotherly streaks in her hair, making her look almost sweet, almost kind. "Same old Woodward," she said. "That veneer of politeness is as counterfeit as your fear of the sunlight. But I'm happy to be back all the same."
Cambridge affected to look puzzled. "Counterfeit?"
"Hush."
She gave him a hug. He returned it happily enough, though he refused to touch Randy, even for a hand-shake. He ordered O'Connor to assist the boy to his feet and they departed the storage room.
***
They did not talk as they ate. Randy, never one for rhetoric, laid waste to every course placed in front of him, his appetite rivaling those of the ogres. It was no matter; there was neither insight nor information to be gained from him on any day.
O'Connor was also quiet. Again, this came as no great hardship for Cambridge. The servant had already given his report in the tower. Having nothing further to add, he sat tasting at his soup, a glass of white burgundy at his side.
The one who frustrated him was Nancy.
She spoke not a word, even when pressed for information regarding how things had turned out with the ogre in the progressive region. She merely raised her eyebrows, smiled, and promised to relate everything once the meal was finished.
Cambridge had no choice but to wait. He picked absently at a slice of fruit for another twenty minutes, making desultory conversation with his sister. She drank two more glasses of red wine. A servant came to stoke the fireplace. The flames danced. Another servant cleared away the empty plates and bowls.
"So then," Cambridge said to Nancy, trying again to instigate some meaningful exchange.
"So then," she replied.
Cambridge smiled, though inside he was beginning to feel apprehensive again. Why he could not quite determine, except through Nancy's obvious reluctance to speak with more discourse.
"The dambuhala?" he ventured. "Was our...’terminal subject’ able to bring it into the progressive?"
"He certainly was."
"Ah!" Cambridge sat back, relieved. "And did the beast locate its target?"
"It found her."
It was Randy who replied. They all looked at him. He shrugged and started to say something more, but Nancy shushed him with a hiss.
"Oh who cares anyway?" he whined. "It's not like that little cooze is gonna--"
"I said shut your mouth!" Nancy slammed her fist down, rattling the glasses.
A long silence followed, during which Cambridge sipped his wine. His eyes were still cast into its depths when he asked: "Am I