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    To the End of Ursathrax: The Ferryman Pentalogy, #5
    To the End of Ursathrax: The Ferryman Pentalogy, #5
    To the End of Ursathrax: The Ferryman Pentalogy, #5
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    To the End of Ursathrax: The Ferryman Pentalogy, #5

    By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

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    He refocused on Blotto just as the smile faded from the man’s lips and his mouth drew tightly closed, as if he were desperately trying to stifle a belch. His eyes shown suddenly wide and intense, yet their expression had not changed so much as become frozen in stasis. His shapeless body jerked once, his flesh seemed to roll as does water in a boat’s wake, and then his fat lips were parted by what first seemed his tongue, but was revealed to be a budding red rose, which emerged into the fire-light and blossomed its pedals, spilling blood onto the gangplank and filling the air with scent. Glancing to the hand with which the man gripped Rosethorn, Dravidian saw that she’d sprouted thorn-studded rose stems, which had penetrated Blotto’s beefy wrist and chewed their way through his body.

    His heel lifted off the wood and his ankle seemed to lock with paralysis, and then his body listed to the right and he began to fall. The rose imploded as if growing in reverse, retracting into his mouth which fell shut with the clacking of teeth, and an instant later Rosethorn fell to the plank and Dravidian stooped to snatch her up. Blotto’s body fell into the void.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWayne Kyle Spitzer
    Release dateNov 13, 2017
    ISBN9781386397281
    To the End of Ursathrax: The Ferryman Pentalogy, #5
    Author

    Wayne Kyle Spitzer

    Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

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      Book preview

      To the End of Ursathrax - Wayne Kyle Spitzer

      Prologue | Black Hole

      ... art thou listening ? the prefect was saying.

      Dravidian straightened. Very much so, Prefect, he lied.

      Clearly thou wert not. I just told thee to meet me at your gondola in one quarter of an hour. Yet you have not taken a single step.

      I would not presume to walk before you, Prefect.

      Asmodeus smiled. Ah, very good. He began moving in that direction. I understand thou visited the cellblock ...

      Dravidian thought quickly. I—yes. I had considered speaking to her in private ... in the hope of encouraging her to submit. But I changed my—

      Therefore my promise has been rescinded.

      Dravidian looked up sharply—saw only the prefect’s hunched back. The girl shall be put to torment. Therefore it’s possible she shall live, and it’s possible she shall not. That depends on the both of thee. Thou wilt be present for the excruciation, Master Dravidian.

      He had arrived slightly early, he knew, but was about to enter the brightly-illuminated tent anyway when he heard a pronounced and prolonged sniffing—and stopped dead just outside the open door-flap, after which he turned away slowly, delicately. He wasn’t sure what the sound had been; but he could see his master’s shadow far beyond his own on the deck before him, and Shekalane’s, too: she knelt between his gondola and the ignudi cage while the prefect again lingered by its door, and this time, Dravidian was quite certain that Asmodeus was reaching into it, at least until he moved away from it at last and appeared to circle Shekalane slowly.

      Fear not, dear woman, he heard Asmodeus tell her. We are not as harsh as we look.

      Dravidian stared forward as the River breathed around them like a giant.

      Such a beautiful creature, the prefect went on. "What a pity thou should be ... wasted. We prefects can, of course, grant amnesty."

      It was a lie. No one could undermine the Lucitor’s authority, not even a prefect of the ferrymen.

      Asmodeus stopped in front of her at length. Surely, thou dost know what I mean, yes?

      She did not answer and Dravidian saw him pluck gently at her hair.

      Oh, come, such doors have been opened before thee before. Unless, of course, thou art too pure. Tell me, beautiful creature, art thou too pure?

      When still she did not answer the prefect continued, Thou playest the enigma, and deignest not even to be wroth with me. But I tell thee clearly: a purity such as that would bear fruit somewhere in the record. And I have such a record right here.

      There was a rustling of pages as the prefect appeared to consult his ledger.

      Ah, yes, here it is. Shekalane Ravencraft ... tile number 232-77-7217 ... chosen in the autumn tumbling, notified by courier on .... He trailed off abruptly. Oh, now ... what is this?

      Dravidian’s pulse quickened as a flickering green-white light filled the tent. A hologram. The hologram.

      You have carried out a brilliant deception for the cause, my love, he heard Valdus say. But time is a luxury we are running out of fast. I ask that you wait here while I attend to something.

      Then, Shekalane’s voice, as smooth and vespertine as the twilight: And I ask that you make time for me. This one time. Help me to help you. —followed by the sound of trousers being unbuckled.

      Asmodeus broke his silence. Well now, isn’t this interesting?

      And if I refuse? Valdus again. Will you have the stomach for what comes next?

      Let me show you what I have the stomach for ...

      Tell me, Shekalane, Asmodeus whispered at last, appearing to watch intently. What was going through thy mind as thou bestowed this great affection upon our mortal enemy?

      Yes, Shekalane ... like that ...

      Was it appreciation for the hundreds killed in random attacks across Ursathrax in the last year alone?

      Oh, God, yes ...

      Or was it for the love of the suffering and starvation caused by his relentless raids upon our barges and farmlands and supply ships?

      Yes ... Grunting and moaning. Your skills as a courtesan ... remain unrivalled ...

      Or was it just ... base carnality ... perhaps even pure ignorance ...

      Ahhh ... Ahhhh ...

      Asmodeus closed the book slowly.

      Dravidian’s head ached as the prefect paced around her once again.

      And thus we return to the heart of the matter. For if it was the former, I dare say thou knowest what comes next. He, our Lucitor, will feed thee to thyself bit by bloody bit—only to resurrect thee and do it again. But if, say, it was the latter ... Surely thou dost knowest—a beauty such as yours could not help but knowest—that there are ... options. Options which bear with them an official writ of amnesty and freedom from the Lottery forever.

      Dravidian could listen to no more. Asmodeus had grown drunk on the dust and sought to rape her! His mind reeled from the realization; it all made sense now: the prefect’s passion and grandiosity during the bulk of their conversation in his cabin ... his gradual mellowing as the dust released its hold—a prefect of the ferryman had become a common addict!

      And now Shekalane was in danger not just of torment and death but of the ultimate violation—indeed, of the very thing she feared the most, the very thing which had made service to the Lucitor so repugnant to her. The notion filled him with despair: Was there nothing in Ursathrax that was not decaying? Must the integrity of the ferrymen wane also?

      I would rather open my legs to a snake, he heard Shekalane hiss, and it sounded as though she spat at him.

      He saw the prefect’s outline backhand her, heard Shekalane crumple to the deck. He could see their shadows clearly now: a bent, witch-like figure with its arm held out and its fingers dangling ... and the subtle curves of a woman, writhing near the floor. The two outlines lay parallel along the boards like creeping shades as he glared at them in disbelief.

      It appeared she grabbed his ankle—and bit it. He swiped the back of

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