Razor: Angel (Prologue)

PROLOGUE
Early Days In the Career of an Alchemist

There was a pile of small brass balls in the small puddle of green water that sat at the edge of the tunnel entrance. The Alchemist leaned down and scooped some of them up in his gloved hand; they were very tiny, but strong. He pushed the folds of his long jacket aside, opened up the large leather pouch that hung down at his waist and took out a small leather bag. Once he secured seven or eight of the small spheres into the bag he tossed it into back the pouch and closed it up again. His nose itched, but he knew that if he removed the plugs the stench of his surroundings would kill him. He gazed around for a moment through his red-tinted eyeglasses, and when he saw nothing else of interest he rose to continue on.

There was only a narrow space of walkway on either side of the vile channel of water, constructed out of the same gray-green stone that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Heavy drops of putrescence rained down from above and struck the sludge below. The drainage system hadn't worked properly for years: it was probably only a matter of time before the sewer water rose up to the streets.

The Alchemist cautiously stepped onto one of the walkways. It took him a minute to find his footing -- the spikes on his boots were designed to procure a firm hold on the stone, which had overgrown with a layer of sticky green ooze and heavy clumps of black moss. He reached out one hand, which was sheathed in a glove brown and dirty with age, and took hold of a small crevasse in the wall in order for balance. He turned and looked into the dark hole that the water normally ran into. There was no flow, for the water had grown solid and stagnant. Purple mosquitoes skimmed the surface, some trapped as their legs passed too close to the syrupy layer of filth. Dozens of clumps of algae clung to the wall where the water leveled, half submerged in the filmy liquid. The Alchemist kicked a small stone -- black due to the dismal substances that covered it -- into the water, and watched as it slowly sank. A cloud of vaporous wet dust erupted from the floor of the stream as the stone plunged down. The drainage hole was a half submerged tunnel, completely dark and filled with the resonant sounds of dripping water that echoed from its mouth.

The Alchemist walked on.

A few meters along the ledge he came to a strange mass of web and moss. It stretched across his path in a perfect incline that rose up the ceiling. The web was extremely thin and delicate, lined with crystal white dew and droplets of what appeared to be fresh water; this serenity was countered only by the clumps of black moss that marked the web’s surface. The Alchemist looked closely at the translucent web, and peered further down the walkway to another spot where a side tunnel appeared, about fifty feet away. He turned his attention to the black moss, and gently ran a finger over it. Though he had enough moss -- enough to last through the making of a dozen potions, he believed -- the Alchemist had never seen any so dark. It was rubbery, and it bounced back at him in the web when he pulled his finger away. With a surgically clean blade in hand, the Alchemist removed a chunk that was small enough to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger. After he removed one of his nasal caps and waited a moment for his head to orient itself to the fetid stench, the Alchemist smelled the moss, noted that it had an aroma not unlike a pomegranate, and tucked it safely away inside a leather bag and into his pouch. He pushed his way through the web once his nose filter was back in, and on down the passageway.

Another ten meters along and the ground and ceiling both became dry. He slowly approached the side-passage, pulled a large meat cleaver out from beneath his coat and held it off to his side, quietly wrapped one hand around the corner of the wall, and peered round.

While flies didn't care much for the heavy moisture at that depth of the underground, for the maggots the area was a haven, and they'd never feasted so well, the Alchemist supposed, as now. The body that he saw was nude, and from the damaged condition of the skin whatever garb it had once possessed had been torn or cut away. There were long, slender gashes along the legs, chest, abdomen, and upper arms. Its blood had evidently stopped flowing long ago: it was dried on, pasty and light red and spread out in wide, gummy streams. It was a male body, or at least it had been, for the genitals had been forcibly removed, leaving only a red morass of pulp between the legs. The corpse lay upon relatively clear ground, and the maggots had thus far only assaulted the major wounds -- the genital area and the chest, where the Alchemist now noticed a sizeable wound likely caused by the impact of a blunt instrument – and had left the head relatively untouched. The Alchemist scanned the area, looking as far as he could down the dark corridor that the body had probably been dragged down as he could, but he saw no one else.

The Alchemist stepped over the body, and knelt down by the head. There were a few more maggots there than he’d thought, but luckily they’d only begun the process of entering through the ears and nasal passages. He placed the cleaver on the ground, tightened his gloves, and pried open the mouth. Despite the white worms that wriggled around inside, the tongue seemed to be in good shape. This close examination he saw that the nose was in fact ruined, having been bent over to the left side of the face by some concussive force.

He rubbed his chin. The hair was worthless -- good for a few aches and pains chemicals, nothing more. The flesh was too badly damaged by both slashing wounds and rot for him to get any good use out of it. The hands were in good shape, though; even if he couldn't use them, he could probably find somebody in need of them, and get a good price. He shook his head -- it had been such a long time since he'd had a body to work with that he forgot what other important parts to scoop out. The internal organs would be well ruined by now, even though the body only looked a few hours old. He didn't have the means to get them back and preserve them quickly enough.

The Alchemist leaned in and looked at the eyes. With the exception of the dried outer film and a few almost unperceivable cuts, they looked to be in fine shape. He leaned closer and applied his tongue to one eye to probe the stiffness of the bulb: it tasted of stale accrued dust and dried glaze. Once it got moist enough he determined that it was likely in good condition. He held his blade ready: he'd have to make a clean cut just beneath the eye, and probably use the cleaver to hack through the bone so he'd be able to sever the cord to the brain. A bit of work, perhaps, but it would be worth it in the end. Why, with eyes, what possibilities! Invisibility, infravision, love elixirs, youth oils, maybe even a hallucinogenic or two.

He wrapped a thin cloth around his face to form a cowl that covered his nose and mouth, held the blade tight, and hummed aloud while he made the first cut.

© 2007 Steven Montano