Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal. Christopher Byford
begun attracting every sort of scumbag from the Badlands to the borders of Eifera. It was a haven for their sort.
Not for Jackdaw though. He had a code he worked to, a professionalism that refused to be tarnished by vermin who pulled the trigger at a simple disagreement, or saw fit to cut a woman’s face just for looking at them wrong. Yes, these were the crimes the worst were guilty of and if the land were scrubbed clean in a flood, not a one would be missed by anyone with scruples.
Jackdaw sidestepped a fight that had broken out between two small gangs, passing by before knives could be introduced or the inevitable shots fired. He had walked the approach to Donovan’s compound a good number of times before but that didn’t alleviate scrutiny from passing sharpshooters. They sat on overhangs, rooftops and watchtowers looking for the first signs of trouble. Bluecoat trouble, not the regular disgusting masses that brawled in the open.
Each one waved him past, recognizing him as a regular. He was welcomed at the gates, patted down and his weapon was removed, as was procedure. He passed the main house, large and obtained via ill-gotten money, and then he followed the white gravel paths that funnelled people through the property. Past the stables he went, catching sight of the newest collection of mares being trained for racing. Only at a rundown-looking barn on the outskirts did Jackdaw find who had called for him.
A heavyset pale man guarded the door, his rifle propped up against the barn itself, stock first. A block of ginger hair protruded from a brown derby bowler that had seen better days. His freckled features moved to delight upon seeing Jackdaw approach. Immediately he whipped his hand out and shook the visitor’s warmly.
‘Morning, Jack. It’s been a while since you’ve given us a visit. I was beginning to think you had been replaced. Wouldn’t want that now.’
‘Me neither.’ Jack smiled. ‘I like working. I like breathing a whole lot more if you catch my meaning.’
The sentry spat into the ground, surveying the harsh sun.
‘Things have changed since Wilheim was buried … Not for the better. Too many youngsters these days are trying to make their name – with no experience. Figure they can get it by taking out big ’uns like you and I. Brats the lot of them. I always said you were one of the good ones.’
It would have been a nice sentiment if Jackdaw could remember this fellow’s damn name. Instead he tipped his head in thanks and stated his intentions. From the open doorway, a curious and irregular thumping sound made itself known. The daylight was so harsh that the interior was swamped with shadow.
‘I’ll always accept a compliment, warranted or no. I’m here to see the big man. Got a summons the other day; fellow at the gate pointed me in this direction. He inside?’
‘He’s inside all right. Best not say anything out of turn today. He seems to be in quite the mood,’ the sentry proclaimed, turning his head to the side and calling into the darkness, ‘Hey, boss! Jackdaw is out here saying you sent for him!’
The thumping abruptly stopped.
‘Send him in,’ was the gravelled reply.
The sentry held his arm out to offer Jackdaw passage inside. ‘Best of luck to you, Jack.’
The blows started up once more, louder this time. The deeper Jack ventured inside, navigating a small grimy corridor filled with barrels and gurneys, his eyes readjusting to the gloom, the better he could see and, unfortunately, smell. The air was nauseatingly thick with a pungent metallic waft. Jack didn’t need to guess the cause. There had been times when the stench had clung to him after a day’s labour, poisoned his clothes and became one with his skin.
Nobody had to remind Jackdaw what death smelt like.
He looked back the way he had come, eyes now turning to the floor to follow a strip of red that ran from the open door to another that had been propped open. Spitting the warm miasma from his mouth to the floor, Jackdaw followed the trail.
He had known Donovan Kane for as long as he’d been in the game. A small-time thug had risen to become Wilheim Fort’s most trusted adviser and, as an extension, a grabber and torturer. A grabber was an individual who was skilled in the art of retrieval. Rubbed the boss up the wrong way? A grabber would get you and force you to explain yourself in person. Went on the run after owing money? A grabber would drag you back to ensure you paid in full. Naturally grabbing and torture went hand in hand, as tongues needed to be loosened by any means necessary.
Donovan was especially talented at this.
His father had taught him butchery in his youth, which became useful when putting the hurt on the uncooperative. How bones broke. Which part of the insides to hurt and how. When Wilheim’s empire began to crumble, it was Donovan who claimed it and this patented hurt of his had to be applied on a good number of fellow challengers before they submitted to reason. By the time he was victorious, Donovan’s dominance was unquestioned.
It would be easy to become sluggish upon his new throne, to let his gifts become rusty and obsolete.
But Donovan had found a routine to ensure this would not be the case.
Donovan continued to cut through a sow with quick slips of a knife. Segments of chops were removed and placed beside one another. Despite having the animal bled out beforehand, dashes of blood accompanied that spread out on the chopping block. That which the block failed to contain dripped down onto the tiled floor that gently sloped to a drain. Judging by the amount of blood that adorned the floor, he had gone through a few animals already today.
Long black hair was oiled back and pulled into a topknot, the well-groomed facial hair forming a husky beard on his thin face. Steely eyes were laser-focused on the task in hand, as if it had become an outlet for something deep within his being. In the last few months since Wilheim’s death, Donovan had changed significantly. This was not the man Jackdaw recalled, not in any sense. Reforming the criminal enterprise was elevating Donovan into something more than he once was, something much crueller. Something worse. Reds of various contrasts tarnished his leather work apron.
‘Jackdaw. What an honour to see you,’ he exclaimed, though his words were insincere.
‘An honour is it now? I remember when it was an inconvenience.’
‘It’s a turn of phrase, Jack – don’t get too big-headed. You don’t bring in enough to get away with sarcasm. In fact, looking at the books, you’re fortunate I don’t toss you out right now.’
‘Come now, Donovan, this isn’t the way to do business, is it? Wilheim never rocked the boat.’
‘No.’ Donovan assessed the carcass before him, sizing up what cut to take next. ‘He was foolish enough to sink with his ship whilst I have every intention of staying afloat.’
After reaching for his cleaver that had been embedded into the chopping block, Donovan twisted it free and continued on with strong whacks. Jack watched as each strike gouged through the meat, the brutal sound echoing, seemingly reverberating in the room around them.
‘Are things bad these days?’
‘My concerns are not your concerns. All I need from you – if need is the correct term as it implies an urgency, or importance upon your person – is to keep Esquelle in check. The reason why you’re here is because I’m troubled, Jack. Word comes to me that this may not exactly be the case.’
The pig’s ribs were separated away with a much more frenzied strike. Jackdaw kept his nerve. Showing any sort of trepidation would very much go against him. Something within the mess cracked with a tug.
‘You shouldn’t listen to rumour, Donovan. People talk all sorts of rubbish for attention.’
The cleaver slammed deep into the blood-stained wood, secured by the force of the blow. Donovan drew his hands down his well-soiled leather apron, removing a great deal of blood but nowhere near all.
‘And plenty speak truth. I would say I’m troubled by what I hear but you know me all too well: I don’t