The Immortal of Degoskirke
The Immortal of Degoskirke
Tales from the Netherscape - Book Three
Michael Green
Cover art by Alexey Rudikov
Copyright 2019 Michael Green
All rights reserved
1st Edition
All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-950593-06-4
Other works by the author
The Python of Caspia
Tales from the Netherscape - Book One
The Ryle of Zentule
Tales from the Netherscape - Book Two
To the timeless voices,
You nameless members of that fallen class.
You, who give fright with your honesty,
who endanger your futures for need of truth.
To the careless farseers,
You, who tumble into ravenous wells,
Your eyes glued to the stars,
Even as you fall.
Chapter 1: First Steps
Chapter 2: The Hunt
Chapter 3: Ascending
Chapter 4: The Free City
Chapter 5: Ithmene
Chapter 6: Twice Truant
Chapter 7: Greylapse
Chapter 8: Friend of my Friend
Chapter 9: Extraction
Chapter 10: Final Moves
Chapter 11: Accredited
Chapter 12: Together Before the End
Chapter 13: The Queens
Chapter 14: Noon
Chapter 15: Going Home
Chapter 1
First Steps
Looking ahead, Andy saw two broad towers flanking a gatehouse. One was built of brick and painted deep crimson with golden borders, while the other was plain, hewn stone draped in flowing banners that featured monograms and credos written in Latin and English. These banners were unique, with no uniform color or shape among them.
Andy glanced at Ziesqe and was unsettled by the sight of Dr. Ropt. Though his human self was less intimidating, Andy knew what lay beneath.
Ziesqe fretted with the collar of his robe. He put a hand in his pocket and produced a heavy orb. Bumps rose across Andy’s arms. The orb was gray, not purple.
“It’s the lenses; now you see what the average human sees,” Ziesqe said, anticipating Andy’s question. “Calm yourself, and look ahead. Act bored, and do not open your mouth at the gates.”
Andy nodded, distracted by a pair of riders, garbed in ornamental robes and bearing short swords, mounted on their monitor lizards. Exiting the city, they lumbered past the carts, towards the broad expanse of ruins. Andy sighed, mentally adding giant lizards to his list of ridiculous sightings.
“Why not ride horses?” Andy asked, waving his hands at the lizards.
“Thank your side for them as well. Horses refuse to take a rider in the Netherscape—some contrivance of the Dead God. So, we improve the monitor to take their place. One more strike and riposte on the chessboard of the Gods,” Ziesqe droned, sick of waiting in line.
Andy’s cheeks bent with wry disbelief as the improved monitors passed into the distance.
The long line of carts traversed the gates one at a time, as inspections were conducted, and tariffs paid. Andy tried to follow the proceedings, only to find himself perplexed once more.
Closer now, Andy inspected the banners and pennants. He read one, white fringed in gold, “Greek Idealist,” and then a jagged crimson, “Egalitarian Redistributionist,” and finally, a blue fringed in white, “Peace and Parlay Party.” There were still several others he couldn’t make out. Above one banner, the Egalitarian Redistributionist at the moment, hung a shoddy wooden crown, painted gold. The bulky crown sat on a spoke jutting from above the banner.
Andy watched as a man with a long pole carefully moved the crown from above one banner and placed it on the spoke above another. An approving murmur rose from the carts. The hundreds in line watched with trepidation, understanding some significance that mystified Andy. The man with the pole kept his eye on another, who stood atop the tower and occasionally called down to them.
“What’s going on over there?” Andy asked.
Ziesqe groaned. “This city’s eccentricity is what. I see it’s spilled out beyond the walls.”
Since Ziesqe was no help, Andy continued his vigil. He saw that the groups of curiously dressed people about the base of the tower also changed position with the crown above. This was all in contrast to the tower on the right, which featured no banner. At the base of this tower, stood a couple in heavy robes; one bore a plain canvas stretched on a staff.
“Can you believe it?” A trader with a large pack walked up alongside their cart. “This was a Braid gate, at ten percent, for months! Now it looks like the Redbaggers are making a run. The Anarchists are also trying to stick their foot in; you’d think they’d give up—only us merchants like them.”
Ziesqe grunted.
The man laughed. “Been out of town for a while, I see.” His gaze lingered on their robes. “I can exchange those for something newer, if you like.” Ziesqe didn’t bother looking up. The man continued, “Hmm…well, good luck with the tariff. The Redbags cut you at forty percent, but if we’re lucky, the Anarchists might wave us through,” he concluded sourly, before walking ahead of their cart.
Andy sat in perplexed silence as the line inched forward. He watched the caller atop the tower and, as they neared the gate, heard him cry, “Redbag!” Groans rose from the crowd, and the owner of the cart ahead cursed as the crown moved to the Redbag’s banner.
A pair of men, clad in leather armor and holding red burlap sacks, approached to inspect his cargo.
The robed men from the right-hand tower also conducted a quick inspection. One stood ahead of the cart with the plain canvas on its staff and snapped his fingers for the merchant’s attention. He shook the staff and canvas and the merchant looked. Seconds later, the robed man was satisfied and stepped aside.
The right-hand inspection was over in moments, but the Redbaggers took far longer, finally relieving the merchant of several barrels.
His tariffs paid, the merchant cursed his way through the gate.
The men with red bags gazed at Andy and Ziesqe. “No dawdling, or skipping to another gate; we’ll chase you, and make you pay the parasite’s privilege.”
Their cart rolled forward, but a voice called down from above, “Braid!”
The crown moved positions, and the men with red bags stepped aside disappointedly; one whined at the other for wasting time with threats.
A woman, wearing an open, blue pea coat and sporting a gray wig above her young face scoffed at the retreating Redbaggers and approached with her clipboard. “Manifest?” she inquired, before inspecting the cargo. The robed figures also began their inspection.
Ziesqe handed over his papers and produced two small bags of coins from the folds of his robe.
“Bolts of cloth, jars of dye, loom parts…” The woman drew calculations on her paper, and then counted the coins, before stamping the documents. The robed figures returned the papers, took the money, and watched closely as they walked the canvas and staff ahead of the cart.
“You there,” a robed man called out to Andy. “Eyes here,” he said, shaking the staff.
Andy saw nothing.
The robed men stared for a long while before finally stepping aside.
Ziesqe tugged on the reins, and they rolled into the gatehouse.
A cheer from within was suddenly overwhelming.
“This pointless display of adolescent posturing may satisfy your starved egos, but consider the damage you do to the people o
f Eighth Gate! The lines of the merchants are a mile long! Look, here comes one now!”
They passed through the gatehouse and entered the city. A massive crowd filled with humans, ychorites, brutox, even goblins and mice craned their necks toward Andy and Ziesqe.
The speaker, wearing tight breeches, a haggard gray wig, and with his coat at his feet stood on a stage, covered in so many stains of various colors, that it resembled a rainbow in places. His arms rose, revealing sweat stains and his chest heaved with the exertion of performance. Above the stage stood a placard bearing the name: “Eighth Gate.” Another golden crown dangled on one of many banners here; currently, the Peace and Parley Party bore the crown. Many books, some massive, others barely a few pages, dangled underneath the banners, held in place by chains. Goblins cheered from second story gutters on nearby buildings—box seats to creatures their size—and tiny stands, resembling flower boxes large enough to accommodate hundreds of mice, jutted over the stage.
The wigged man also wore a stiff board, covered in glittering coins, on his chest. He held his hand out expectantly to Andy and Ziesqe. “Good merchants these, who by the toil of their days enrich themselves and our city in turn. Twice the latter, for they are robbed at the gate, and then when they lay their goods at our markets. Their struggle against each other lowers prices for all! You, fair merchants with robes so old, did our city greet you as friend or another foe? Did you meet a Braid or a Bloody Bag?”
Ziesqe was silent, but Andy happily raised his voice, “A Braid!”
A chorus of cheers went up, and the speaker gestured widely, as if Andy’s statement was proof of something.
A man in red, also bearing a full chest of glittering coins, pushed forward onto the stage.
“Pish, posh! You would imply their poor clothing a consequence of us, you benighted lovers of the poor, had he met with a Red Bag at the gate. Where is that touted reason of the reasonable? You levy, like we, but not as well. Take stock, Eighth Gate! Your timbers split, and the line outside this gate is proof that the Braids are letting you down! When grumblesome merchants such as these fester in droves, there can only be prey for them! Your flowing blood calls them to this gate! Your good nature lies trampled in the gutter, spat upon by those who call no land home!”
Another, angrier cheer went up. A score of mice, perched on the board with the banners, were avidly counting. Andy turned to the crowd, and saw countless hands waving colored strips of cloth. There was suddenly a preponderance of light red, as opposed to navy blue. Andy also spotted a few black ribbons clenched in tight fists.
“Red Bag!” A mouse on the board called out.
The mice moved the golden crown from the Braid banner to another, that bore the name Egalitarian Redistributionists.
Andy observed the watcher on the tower, knowing that the crown outside would be changing as well. It all made sense now.
Astonished, Andy laughed. At first, he felt judgmental, but was then struck by sadness. It was undoubtedly insane, but the sight of their faces, their rich cries and waving hands, felt like evidence of something more.
The Braid took center stage again. “Nay, nay! What hate! Do not go down that path! These, who travel so far across the purple blight, are doing what we will not! Our gate’s popularity, yes, even the love the traders have for this sacred entrance into the Free City, is not to be insulted by jealous children, who cut purses and spill concord forever! And for what? A few petty coins! Coins that keep the merchants alive and coming back! It is hate in this man’s heart! Hate, that he is not brave enough to see the work of his sinews blossom or wither at mere turn of sky! Freeze the hate in your veins, and see how bedecked they enter our city! Wearing plain clothes of ten seasons hence! How rich do you dream these others, Red Thief? How rich are these, who love our city and enter, heedless of any petty fashion, to tend to that dream which bares fruit only in Degoskirke?”
Spectators were crying and waving the blue ribbons. “Braid!” Called the mice, and the crown changed locations again.
Ziesqe had pulled the cart to the side of the road, allowing those entering through the gate behind to pass. They noticed a slew of angry merchants.
“They got hit with the red bag,” a man pushing a cart bearing crispy chicken said at the sight of the newcomers.
“So, this is just normal here. They live like this,” Andy whispered.
Ziesqe gave Andy a weighty glance, not unlike his teachers after they had finished a lesson, before flicking the reins. They rolled on; Andy turned in his seat to watch the arguments continue. A man in black leather armor took the stage, but the crowd booed so quickly and angrily that Andy couldn’t hear him.
“It’s clear that we need newer clothes. Fashion must be a recent cause for concern,” Ziesqe mumbled, half to himself.
“Yes, it’s been brought up more than once,” Andy agreed.
The buildings in Degoskirke proper were raucous and varying, akin to the ruins outside, though kept to a marginally higher standard. Most were three floors, but a few stood taller, and occasional wrecks testified to the freeform building standards. A few mansions, with iron fences and gardens, occupied whole blocks. Banks, museums, and posh restaurants clustered in pockets about those mansions, though these pockets were only intermittent. Additions, akin to after-thoughts, jutted from structures here and there. Extra rooms or towers, built for creatures of mouse or goblin size, rose awkwardly from human-sized tenements, like branches or paper-clipped notes. Many had their own rickety stairs, leading into the gutters of nearby buildings or roads, and, as Andy watched these, he saw a microcosm of the large streets. Mice moved their cargoes in small carts, or by way of pulley systems, akin to a network of clotheslines reaching through the lanes they had cut in the gutters or alleys.
The raucous yelling faded as they rolled down the bumpy street. Hardly five minutes passed before they came upon another curiosity. Painted lines covered the ground, winding between buildings and across streets ahead of them. Andy noticed two gangs, armed with scrapers, paint brushes, and cans full of paint, facing off. Most of the members were about his age. Both gangs wore ramshackle, wooden and scrap-metal armor. One boy even had a dented pot strapped to his head. Both sides were mottled with flecks of white-wash. They hooted and shook their implements, each side daring the other to action, while a tired vendor of fine water sat between their battle lines.
Ziesqe reined the cart to a halt, giving Andy the chance to watch. They were still for a long time, as each side inched toward the other. Andy noticed that one side had the words “Eighth Gate” painted on their equipment, while the other read “Clemson Downs”.
“Scrape!” An Eighth-Gater cried, before lunging forward with his long-poled rolling brush.
“Go around!” The leader of the Clemsons yelled and pushed his people into action.
They were trying to scrape away the other side’s paint.
“This stall is ours!” One voice yelled out.
The tired stall owner barely looked down at the flying globs of paint spattering his inventory of water jars.
Suddenly, two Eighth-Gaters left the fray and chipped at paint near a building.
“They’re feinting!” Was the reply.
The struggle around the vendor ceased, and the opposing sides tripped each other with their equipment as they rushed toward the new front. Andy laughed as one fellow took a rolling brush to the face. He fell over backwards, but quickly regained his feet and ran after the action, thoroughly striped.
Andy’s laughter continued as he watched children from both sections of the city relieve the painters, taking up their equipment. Fallen painters were dragged off and scrubbed. Andy was surprised to see smiling faces behind the occasional bloody nose.
What the hell is wrong with these people?
Ziesqe gave Andy a curious look.
“Is the whole place like this?” Andy asked.
“Almost. About ninety percent of the city functions in this manner. There are a few holdouts.”
“How have ryle never been able to take the—hey!” Andy grunted as Ziesqe jabbed him in the gut.
“Careful now, that kind of talk will get us killed,” Ziesqe muttered, smiling towards the paint fight. “Just grin like an idiot. I’ll answer your question shortly.”
Andy did as he was told, and they moved on.
“Degoskirke is free for several reasons,” Ziesqe spoke quietly. “First, they despise us. You recall the Exegesuit priests at the gate, and their canvas? That canvas was to keep us both out; we, however, were ready.” Ziesqe scoffed. “Of course, if ryle were to come into ownership of this city, we would never allow this—vexing—comedy. It is laughable to the point of tragedy. How can I explain?” Ziesqe was silent for a moment. “You surfacers have a strange love for creatures that cannot propagate. Those cream and coal bears—what are they? Never mind, but you must keep them alive out of a bizarre—or misplaced—sense of pity. Some of us feel the same way about this city.”
“But here you are, trying to conquer it.”
Ziesqe laughed. “Perspective, boy. My heart has been cursed, plucked like a string by your Dead God, centuries before I was spawned. I have a weakness for this place, this living zoo. It’s Viqx who would burn it to the ground, in her search for an enemy. Look here,” Ziesqe pointed to another wide plaza.
Thousands of creatures filled the area; some on roofs, the mice, in their box seats, and the goblins, leaping from the shoulders of taller creatures. A sign proclaimed the area “Clemson Downs.” A woman in a sparkling robe stood against a particularly tall goblin and a brutox with a strange device mounted to his back. The contraption was a conglomeration of brass horns, whose stems terminated at a spot above the creature’s head, while their throats pointed towards the audience.
“Give back, they say! What preconceived conceptions and faulty precepts they stumble upon,” The woman, wearing something akin to a toga, cried with a wild expression. “If you truly cared to give back, you would melt your excess coins and pave the streets, and thereby raise the value of all money in the city. All these other schemes only benefit this parcel. Of course, you won’t melt the money, but do not speak falsely! There is no giving back here, only foolish attempts to line pockets. Wait for the Greek Idealists to complete their audit, and consider a more—considered plan.”