Perdition (Dred Chronicles 1)

Tam could’ve pointed out that if the Bear hadn’t killed his sole survivor, the man might have told him something, like the fact that Queensland had shrapnel guns. Which was more than he knew before. Tam held still, listening to the enraged pacing.

A deep voice offered, “We could send two teams next time. Strike at two points. The surprise might be enough to net some intel.”

The thrill of discovery rolled through him, and Tam smiled. This was why he endured the danger and the darkness, the pleasure of unearthing information he wasn’t supposed to possess. It was a comedown for the former spymaster of Tarnus, but a man must take his pleasures where he found them. In Perdition, they were few and far between.

He listened as the enemy laid out their plans, rudimentary as they were. When the celebration commenced, Tam slipped away, retracing his steps. Likely, he should mention the ducts as a potential weakness to Dred, but as long as she discussed strategy in her quarters, there should be no risk of being overheard. The ventilation in the living spaces was smaller, insufficient to hold an eavesdropper. Tam had wondered if other sectors sent men like him to watch the hall, but he’d never found anyone—and not for lack of looking.

With his customary ease, he returned to Queensland, avoiding the sentries adroitly. There was a spectacle ongoing, the sort that many convicts found irresistible. Tam didn’t share their fascination with violence, but this display served a purpose. They had lashed the enemy to a metal framework, left over from Artan’s day. He had often flayed his own people for imagined offenses, whispered conspiracies audible only to his own ears. The man’s limbs were pinned up, spread-eagle, and he was naked apart from the covering of blood.

Einar held the title of master torturer for a reason. He knew just how to hurt a man, how to read his deepest fears. For some, sheer physical pain wasn’t enough. Sometimes it required fear and tension, waiting matched with small anguish. While he had been gone, the captive’s body had been transformed into a canvas, and Einar was currently creating a chef d’oeuvre.

Tam knew better than to interrupt. Dred moved to his side, her quiet way of showing support and solidarity. He understood that she felt beholden to him, as he’d put her on the throne the day Artan died, but Tam wasn’t interested in gratitude. No, his plans for the Dread Queen were bigger and more long-ranging. Not that he’d shared them with her. Better to build, step by step, conditioning her to accept his advice. One day, the day would come when she couldn’t imagine making any important decision without consulting him; and she wouldn’t question when he presented his plan for the endgame, either. But in a game such as this, the final moves might be turns away. Just as I like it. Perdition might not possess the challenge he’d thrived on within the palace, but there were moves to be made, pawns to play, and a queen to maneuver.

* * *

THE bound prisoner radiated terror.

Once Einar finished, Dred closed her eyes to read the captive—and it was awful, a burst of necrotic color. Like biting into rancid fruit, the taste was cloying and unmistakable. This one had a pathology familiar to her, his whole being raddled with mingled lust and deviance. He thrived on domination and control, driven by darker urges to disfigure his lovers and eventually kill them when they failed to satisfy his longings. To her mind’s eye, he was like a house riddled with rot, so putrescent as to teeter on the verge of collapse. Prison had not improved him. Here, he had free reign to do as he would, and the Great Bear had done nothing to quell his leanings.

When she opened her eyes, she felt dirty, as there was no way to remove his filth from inside her head. For nights to come, in dreams, she would see what he’d shown her. This connection was what started her down this road, long ago. Back then, it had gotten to the point where she couldn’t know such things and take no action. At first, she’d tried telling the authorities, but they never believed her, and it was worse to have concrete surety that people committed atrocities with impunity.

As Einar stepped forward, as if to return to work, the prisoner wet himself. So many killers were cowards at the bone. It took only five seconds for him to begin babbling, “Grigor means to take the hydroponics garden. The one your champion sent back will report on your response time as well as carrying the message.”

My champion. Yes, I’ll need to address that at some point. But she wasn’t ready yet.

“So you came at me, knowing you were expendable,” she said. “How does that feel?”

A whimper escaped the man at her feet. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“You pissed him off, then. What did you do?”

“Killed a girl before he was through playing with her.” Horrific as that sounded, Dred had heard things were worse in Mungo’s realm. Only his favorites could sleep the night through, and she pitied the fish who went unknowingly with his recruiters. He always sent reasonable-sounding men who had deceit down to a fine art.

She shook her head. “Denying Grigor his desires doesn’t sound like a way to ensure longevity. Do you have a death wish?”

To her surprise, the man nodded. “It’s the only way out of here. And I’m ready.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t execute you on the spot.” The idea that Grigor was capable of restraining his urge toward carnage, capable of planning, disquieted her.

You can defeat him, hold your ground. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. This time, however, it felt different. She was so tired.

“Do you think there’s more he could tell us?” she asked Tameron.

Tam answered, “I’d wager he’s tapped out. Grigor wouldn’t share the specifics of his attack strategy with a worm like this. And I have more to tell you, once he’s dead.”

Somehow, he always did. “At least we learned his target and can shore up defenses accordingly. So kill him,” she told Einar.

He was her chosen executioner, not just because he was good at it, but because he had a terrifying aspect as well. Men knew dread and despair when they gazed on him, so she kept him close. In a place like this, those were constant companions, best tamed to hand. Einar complied, though he used a blade instead of his bare hands this time. The moment of death carried peculiar resonance, as all the decay and darkness drained away, leaving an inert form. No unholy echoes, no more wicked design.

There was a certain purity in endings.

“Circulate among the men,” she said to Tameron. “Find out if they’ve heard anything.”