by Mike Truk
The last block was filled with nervous men, all of them carrying notched blades, spiked clubs, wicked half-knives, and other implements of the Family Trade. A good twenty or so, which was impressive given that three other assaults were underway. Kavark had called in for reinforcements.
He should have called in for an army.
I squared my shoulders. “Ready?”
Pony’s fists caught fire in response.
“Coming through!” I bellowed, and together we ran at them, arrows and quarrels skimming past us, Cerys’s own arrows flying right back in response.At the last Pony let out a roar of a war cry, a sound so profoundly terrifying that the men before us flinched and stumbled back, eyes wide as they realized that a war troll was charging right at them.
Pony swung his hammer just as he hit the front line, and knocked three men flying, their bones shattered, their screams rising. Momentum carried him deep into the ranks, where he abandoned his hammer and set to laying about with his burning fists. Weapons struck at him, bouncing off his stony hide, piercing it here and there, but he didn’t seem to notice.
In a matter of seconds, a dozen men were dead.
I came in after, dispatching the wounded who sought to attack him from behind, impaling those who’d pressed themselves against the walls in an attempt to avoid his wrath.
It was close, bloody work, better suited to knives than swords. In the dull gray dawn light, the alley was all elbows, wildly staring faces, curses, and grunts. The flash of sharp edges, the thrust and stumble of men desperately fighting to stay alive for just one more precious minute.
I’d have died a dozen times in the process. In the thick of it, surrounded by foes, I was stabbed, clubbed, and slashed. But each blow failed to leave a lasting mark, and though my clothing was soon ragged and soaked with blood, I felt fine, absolutely alive and thrilling at my impunity.
Pony dispatched foes with bludgeoning blows from his burning fists. Each impact jellied bone, sending men colliding against the walls. I cut and stabbed in turn, while burning arrow after burning arrow sank into the melee.
At one point I spun, ducking under a slash, and then froze.
Iris was there, standing before me in the murk, her heart-shaped face pale, her eyes bright, her blackened lips pulled into a wicked smile.
I lost my balance, falling on my ass. Someone stabbed me in the back, thrusting their blade straight through into my lungs.
I spasmed and wrenched myself free, the wound healing instantly, but when I turned back, Iris was gone.
I scrambled to my feet, bewildered, desperate, no longer even trying to fight my foes. I shoved them aside as they cut at me, craning my neck, trying to catch sight of her amidst the bedlam.
Just then the enforcers broke. There was only so much common street thugs could take. Pony roared and lumbered after, and I followed at his heels.
There was no sign of her.
Had it been a dream? A vision?
We broke out into the Blood Square. The vital, twisted little heart of the Noose, a squalid space in which the Bloody Knot arose, and around which chaos reigned.
The other columns were breaking through. I saw Exemplars battling hirsute werewolves, Gloom Knights up on ledges unloading arrow after arrow into the fray. Saw militia and guardsmen battering at enforcers and bullyboys, at heavily armored half-orcs led by a berserk monster of a city troll. The clamor was continuous, the air rent by screams and oaths, and everywhere the forces of the Family fell before that of the Port Gloom.
Pony didn’t hesitate but waded in where the battle was thickest, sweeping four men aside with a brutal swing of his warhammer. I paused, catching my breath, and Netherys and Cerys stepped up alongside me.
“Kavark,” said Cerys, pointing with a bloody dagger. “He’ll be inside.”
I gazed at the Bloody Knot. Having grown up in the Sodden Hold, I knew a Family holdout when I saw one, and the Knot was infamous. Anybody who could reach it was welcome inside, but that was a select group. Three stories tall, each of which looked to have been set down upon the last by a perverse giant, all off-kilter angles and warped windows, the Knot looked like it should have collapsed ages ago. Massive struts were placed here and there, propping it up, and its facade was covered in ropes, ladders, and poles, each a means of entry and escape.
It was a drunken dream, a nightmare of architecture gone awry, and home to the Family’s most violent and feared Uncle.
“Let’s see if he’s home,” I said, and broke into a run, skirting around knots of combat. Here an Exemplar of the Hanged God hewed at a monstrous werewolf, who healed the wounds as quickly as they were dealt. There, a dozen fallen enforcers lurched back to their feet, Blightwort cackling as he wove strands of black fire amongst their numbers. Enforcers shouted their imprecations and clawed at their eyes as the Bridge Nixie wove some fell, twisted magic of his own, and there the Fickle Warwickle danced between the blades, laughing as each and every one failed to connect with him.
One thing was clear. The forces of the Family, potent as they might have been, terror of the streets and unquestioned rulers of the Noose, were no match for the assembled might that had fallen on their heads.
I reached the Knot’s front door, guarded by a knight in massive armor, each iron plate an inch thick, so that it seemed more an ambulatory boiler than anything else.
He brought a massive ax to bear, prepared to meet my charge. Then an arrow appeared in his visor, wreathed in the burning colors of Cerys’s gloom bow.
I leaped, placed a foot square on his huge breastplate, and rode him down into the Knot.
Down into a huge common room, dominated by a meandering bar, a vast fireplace guttering to one side, tables overturned, iron chandeliers swinging, a score of miscreants staring at me in shock and horror. Exhausted-looking women of the night, serving ladies, drunken beggars, and a bartender who brought his crossbow to bear and squeezed a shot right at my head.
Netherys cut the bolt out of the air as she ran past me, and then screams broke out, people struggling to get away. The bartender cursed, tossing aside his crossbow, and ran back into the kitchen.
“Where to?” called Cerys, leaping up onto a table, scanning the huge room with her bow for more trouble.
“Instincts says down,” I said, then the wall exploded inwards as Pony burst into the common room, splinters and planks flying every direction.
The whole of the crazy edifice groaned, the walls straining, the ceiling overhead warping as the Knot began to list.
A young man stepped in after Pony, dusting off his sleeves, looking for all the world like a clerk who’d emerged from the stacks of the great library. Fresh-faced, innocent, clad in charcoal gray, he held a slim blade whose length burned with black fire.
“Exemplar of the Hanged God,” snarled Netherys, turning to face the youth.
Cerys drew her arrow back to her cheek. “Did he just throw Pony through the wall?”
Pony grunted, sat up, and took hold of his head with both hands, moving to align it with his neck. I saw he’d almost been decapitated.
“I thought we got all the available Exemplars,” I snarled, moving to face the youth, who turned wide, innocent eyes upon me.
“You did,” said the boy. “I wasn’t available. But once I heard there was fun to be had…”
A burning arrow slashed past his cheek, just missing. Netherys cupped her palm before her puckered lips, and blew forth a cloud of roiling black smoke which engulfed the exemplar. He, however, ignored the smoke, and began to walk toward me.
“Damn it,” whispered Netherys.
An Exemplar of the Hanged God. Not good. I’d fought one before. In another life, it felt like. Neko. Who’d only grown more powerful the longer he fought. I settled into a combat crouch, ready to take a beating, when a burning white blade punched through the youth’s chest in a welter of gore.
The youth looked down at the sword in confusion, then turned to stare at Sir Gremory, one of the Exemplars of the White S
un.
“Bastard,” said the youth.
Gremory winked. He was an older man, handsome, with streaks of gray in his beard. “Hello, Timothy.”
“You stabbed me from behind,” said the boy, and, placing his palm against the point of the sword, he began to shove it out of his body.
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Downstairs?” asked Cerys, voice quiet.
“Downstairs,” I agreed, edging back and leaving the two Exemplars to face each other.
I helped Pony rise, and together the four of us jogged around the back of the bar, into a narrow hallway, and past doors that led to gambling dens, private dining quarters, storerooms, and more.
But one was little more than the top of a large staircase leading right down. The floor devoured by the large opening, and I ducked inside, moving to the head of the steps.
Pony grunted, pushed me back gently with a huge palm, and took the lead.
I could have argued. I probably healed better than he did at this point, but instead, I watched as he descended to the basement level, hammer held at the ready. Cerys took point at the top of the stairs, covering our line of sight with her bow, while Netherys padded down alongside me.
“Careful now,” I whispered. “We don’t have Tamara, and you’re as mortal as ever.”
“Live in the moment,” said Netherys. “The prospect of death makes life all the more enticing.”
“Bad news for me, then.” But my attention was on what lay ahead - a broad, low-ceilinged room dominated by a walled-off pit ringed by benches.
I knew what it was without peering inside - a gladiatorial arena, most likely for dogfighting. The air reeked of smoke, spilt booze, blood, and sweat. It hadn’t been vacated too long ago. But now it was empty, only a few amber lanterns lighting its sordid expanse.
Pony walked warily around the pit toward the far archway, into which stepped a large man.
Kavark.
I’d only seen him once, back when I was a gentlefinger. He’d come to a meeting with Jack, and we’d all gaped at the tall man, drinking in his fearsome aura and dreaming of one day being as respected. Other than a little gray in his black hair, he appeared the same as ever, his striking face dominated by a great eagle beak of a nose, a rash of scars down one side where supposedly a dragon had tried to take his head off, his mouth an ugly slash. He wore no armor, nor did he have a weapon at his hip. Yet he was supremely confident, stepping into view with a glower as he sized up Pony and then turned to regard me.
“Thought I’d save you the bother of prying me out. If you’ve come this far, the rest of the challenges won’t bother you.”
“Mighty generous,” I said, moving up alongside Pony. My heart was hammering. This was a childhood legend I was facing. Kavark had been rumored to be part demon long before I heard of Aramis’s enhancements, and now I knew why: he was a werewolf.
A demonic werewolf with the bloodiest reputation in all of Port Gloom.
This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.
“You kill Aurelius?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Good guess. Yes. I did.”
“How the fuck you do that?”
“The Paruko Dream Eaters.” I stuck my thumbs in my belt, rocked back onto my heels. “Tricked them into thinking my dad was the necromancer who’d been breaking the seal between life and death. They carted him off and that was that.”
Kavark nodded slowly, reluctantly impressed. “Well done. And now the city’s been plunged into madness. Brother against brother, guardsman against enforcer.”
“Interesting parallel. Moving forward, that’ll be a classic division. The law’s going back into business. The Family’s on the way out.”
Kavark grinned, showing me long, sharp teeth. “Says you, lad. You’ve no idea how deep the Family goes. You tear us out, there’ll be nothing left to Port Gloom but bloody chaos.”
“Bloody chaos I can work with. But parasites like yourself?” I shook my head. “Your time is over.”
The thunder of boots overhead rumbled through the timbered ceiling. Kavark looked up, scowled, and flexed his fingers. “Not the first time I’ve heard that, but here I stand. After I’m done tearing the head off your shoulders, I’ll head on upstairs and start setting things to rights.”
“Stop,” I commanded, and the power behind the word thrummed in the air.
Kavark narrowed his eyes and grinned. “My days as a slave are over. You’re out of luck, boy.”
“Didn’t hurt to try. But very well. Let’s get this done.”
Cerys loosed an arrow, Pony roared and lurched forward, just as Netherys unleashed a flashing flare of purple lightning.
But faster than thought, Kavark lurched to the left, his whole body shifting, growing, changing. Wings burst out of his back even as his body exploded into dark fur, his face distending into a muzzle, fingertips turning into talons. His eyes blazed red, and an aura of crimson flame wreathed his brow like a floating, ethereal crown.
The doorframe in which he’d stood exploded as Netherys’s lightning shattered it. Pony corrected his charge, angling for the demonic werewolf, who howled and lunged right back at him. The two met in a mighty collision.
Not many creatures could knock a war troll back, but Kavark sent Pony flying, battering him right off his feet and sending him over the pit’s retaining wall to fall out of sight into its depth.
“Shit.” I threw a dagger at Kavark even as a burning arrow appeared in his shoulder. He ignored them both, came for me.
Too quick to track, his lupine muzzle distorted by a snarl, his burning crown flaring. I tried to parry, but his claws were too fast, and a second later my world exploded into agony as I was thrown back against the wall, the entire front of my torso split open from crotch to craw.
Netherys cried out some manner of invocation to Mother Magrathaar, and dark smoke began to billow about her. Cerys was giving ground, leaping from bench to bench as she fired arrow after arrow at Kavark, who gave rapid chase.
I gasped, grabbed handfuls of viscera and set to stuffing it back into my stomach. The nice thing about overwhelming damage was that I didn’t really feel it; my body simply shut down the pain receptors. But my thoughts were spaced out, hard to pin down, so all I could do was mechanically push guts into my body, and hope that would help my healing.
It did.
My intestines moved like snakes, retracting, and slashed layers of muscle knitted over them. Skin flowed over the whole mess, bones clicked into place, and with a gasp I rose to my feet, fully healed.
By Blind Fortuna’s exceptionally perfect cleavage, I loved being a king troll.
I wiped blood from my eyes, saw that Kavark was going hand to hand with some heinous black hound that Netherys had summoned. Well, demon spider hound thing. Kavark had lifted it right off the ground and was tearing huge gouts of shadow stuff from its body even as it stabbed its glowing pincers into his shoulder and chest.
Cerys had retreated to the far corner, looking to be out of arrows.
What to do? Run in and get torn apart again? Oh, yeah. Feeling like an idiot, I drew the silver dagger I’d strapped to my thigh.
Time to see how susceptible a demon werewolf was to silver.
I darted forward, silent and intent, and came up behind Kavark, who was in the process of tearing the shadow dog spider’s head clear off its bloated body. Reversing my grip on the blade, I leaped and brought its point straight down between the werewolf’s wings, right between the shoulder blades.
Kavark screamed, hurling the spider dog away, and whipped around faster than I thought possible.
His eyes were wide in pain and shock, but both emotions quickly gave way to fury.
“Oh, hey. Silver.” I pretended to study my blood-smeared dagger. “Guess it works?”
Kavark lunged forward, claws swooping toward my neck, but a stony blue hand closed about his wrist, stopping him cold.
Pony.
The war troll’s lanky arm extended f
rom where he’d half-climbed out of the pit. Brows lowered, bat ears pushed back, he scowled at Kavark.
“No hit,” growled the war troll.
“Heh,” laughed the demon werewolf. “You think that will stop me?”
“No,” grunted Pony. “But try this.”
And his fist incandesced with the White Sun’s holy glory.
Kavark screamed, his flesh blackening, melting away under the white flame, and with a convulsive spasm, he hauled Pony clean out of the pit and whipped him around. Pony scythed through the air, slamming into the stone wall, which cratered under his body.
I heard bones snap and saw Pony flop to the ground, but his fist remained clamped around Kavark’s wrist.
The war troll looked up, one eye closed, and gave Kavark a toothy grin. “Ow.”
Kavark screamed, truly losing his shit, and fell upon Pony, tearing and biting, clawing and slashing.
And somehow, Pony began to climb to his feet. His shoulders were rapidly lacerated, half his head caved in, the ear ripped off, huge chunks of stony flesh bitten right off his arm, but still, Pony climbed wearily to his feet.
As if this was just another day’s work.
Which, I guess, on some level it was.
Kavark let loose a wretched howl of agony, raised a clawed fist high, and then brought it down with terrible power, intending to claw Pony’s head clear off his neck.
But Pony caught it with his second hand, stopped it cold again, and finally rose to his final height.
“My turn,” growled Pony, his voice gravelly, and with tremendous strength, he flexed his whole body, driving his ridged brow straight into Kavark’s bestial face.
I heard the bone crunch from where I stood.
Kavark sagged back, wings beating, tail lashing, but Pony didn’t let go.
I wanted to cheer, but decided instead to move into a better place and use my silver dagger.
White flame engulfed Pony’s hands, burning the flesh right off Kavark’s arms, filling the air with the smell of barbeque and burning hair. Rising to the balls of his feet, he began to press Kavark down, bending him toward the ground.