Chapter 125: The Spoils of an Ally
The drowners, who had seemed so impossibly resilient to the ruffians, were fragile things in my hands. In the bloody chaos, the men soon found that their opponents would inexplicably falter, their unnatural strength bleeding away into the stone, allowing them to be felled with a single, light cut.
And then, an eerie silence descended upon the waterway. The clamor of battle vanished, leaving only the ragged sound of men gasping for air. Their eyes were bloodshot, adrenaline still a fire in their veins, leaving them trapped for a moment between the brutal, life-or-death struggle and the horrifying stillness that followed. It was only after they had scanned the charnel scene again, confirming that every standing figure was among the living, that their taut muscles finally began to relax. One of them asked, his voice a raw, uncertain whisper, “Did… did we win?”
The waterway was a hellscape. Blood was everywhere, mingling with the black water to form a slick, viscous ichor. Mangled corpses, bloated drowners, desiccated husks, and shattered body parts lay strewn across the stones. The air was thick with the cloying miasma of rot.
“Hah! We won. We won, we’re alive. Ha, haha, hehehe.” Bartholomew collapsed to the ground, his massive frame completely spent, his laughter broken by ragged gasps for air.
He had been fighting on pure, cornered ferocity, with no real hope of survival, his only thought to take as many of the dead things with him as he could. Now that the tension had broken, he couldn’t even find the strength to stand.
No one laughed at him. They were all exhausted. And if their leader hadn’t fought with such savage bravery, their courage would have shattered long ago, leaving them to be torn apart one by one by the dead.
“What in God’s name are these things?!” A ruffian snarled, kicking at a drowner’s corpse. A piece of its putrid skin tore away with a wet, sucking sound. Even these men, hardened by a life of filth and familiar with the sight of death, recoiled from the foul remains. Once their animating magic was gone, they were just common corpses, with nothing of value on them.
“Guv'nor, what do we do now? A lot of our brothers are dead,” one of the men asked, his voice lost and hollow. The others looked on, their faces masks of grief. They might not have shared a deep friendship, but they had just fought and died side-by-side. To see their comrades now lying broken in the waterway, it was impossible not to feel a cold dread, the certainty of their own shared mortality.
Bartholomew looked around. His crew had been cut in half. The “tenants” who had sought his protection had fared no better.
The boy, Jared, who had left such a deep impression on him, was now holding the girl he had brought with him. She was covered in blood, likely gravely wounded. From the pale, waxy look on her face, she might not have long to live.
The other tenants now dared to creep out from their hovels, some throwing themselves on the bodies of their loved ones, their cries echoing in the damp, heavy air. Bartholomew’s gaze fell upon the corpses of the peelers, lying in a pool of their own foul water.
His eyes narrowed. “Damn it! We have to go, now! There are dead peelers here. And with all the noise from the guns and the fighting, more of them will be coming to investigate. We’ll all be caught!”
“Guv'nor, but… where can we go?” the ruffians asked, their faces filled with a new kind of terror. They all understood what it meant for peelers to die. No matter the cause, anyone connected to it would be dragged away for questioning. And they were far from clean. If the real culprit couldn’t be found, they would be made the scapegoats. They had no way to defend themselves. No one would care about a few dead ruffians from the bottom of the slums.
“Quick! Pack your things! Only take what’s important, and your weapons. Leave the big stuff. I know the boss in the Heanor district. I have some history with him. I’ll take you to him. He should be in need of men. Now move!” Bartholomew urged them on.
“Yes!” His men sprang into action, gathering their meager belongings—a bedroll, a weapon.
“Hey there, guv'nor, what’s happening?” The other residents had also gathered around, seeing Bartholomew directing his men.
“Peelers are dead. And all this strange business… this place is trouble now. We can’t stay. I’m leaving. You should all find a way out too,” Bartholomew said, his voice laced with frustration.
This was, after all, his slum, a place he had built. It was a poor place, but it was shelter, a place of freedom. To give it up was a bitter pill. But he knew that to stay here now was to die. And he was going to join a stronger boss. He could only take his most trusted men, the capital for his new beginning. The others, the dead weight, would have to be left behind. He warned them only because he was afraid they would be caught and give him up.
The faces of the other paupers changed. They knew what it meant for peelers to die. They scrambled back to their hovels to pack. Jared, too, frowned, preparing to take me back to our own alcove.
“Wait, Jared. You want to come with us? I’ll look after you. It might be tough for a while, but we’ll find a better place later soon,” Bartholomew called out to him.
He was an exception. Bartholomew had seen Jared cut down a whole group of drowners on his own. Such a fierce fighter would be a great asset in the future. He was already thinking about his comeback.
Jared hesitated, considering the offer. This boss was, at least, reliable.
He looked down at me in his arms, asking for my opinion. I gave a slight shake of my head. I was a witch now. My future was filled with countless secrets I could never share. I couldn’t trust anyone but Jared.
Jared nodded, understanding. He was about to refuse when one of the lackeys looked at the peelers’ corpses. “Guv'nor, should we…?” He made a throwing motion, meaning, as they had always done, to dump the bodies in the river to destroy the evidence.
Before today, Bartholomew would have done it without a second thought. But the drowners had left him with a lingering fear. He didn’t even dare to go near the river’s edge now. “Don’t throw them. What if more of these things crawl out? Oh right, take their weapons!”
Jared’s eyes and hands were quick. He reached out and snatched a gun from a dead peeler’s hand. He had seen how powerful their firearms were. If it hadn’t been for the Drowned Dead and its magic, they might have survived unscathed.
“Jared, what do you think you’re doing?!” Bartholomew’s face darkened. This was snatching food from the tiger’s mouth.
“Nothing, guv'nor. Finders keepers. I’ll just take one. You can have the rest. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” Jared said. He was just that kind of person, always looking for an angle, always taking what he could.
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