by Luke Arnold
Hendricks took a long sip to extend the tension.
“… nothing. No movement, no tracks, no sign of any Dragon at all. Fintack searched in all directions as two other slayers joined him in the clearing: a Wizard named Prim and a Dwarf called Riley. All three warriors looked around, confounded and frustrated. Then, from the center of their triangle, a stream of fire shot out from the swamp and up into the sky.
“There was no Dragon. It was a decoy, made by the land itself. The slayers were frustrated. Angry. Tired. They called a truce and set up camp. Fintack killed a water-bird and attempted to roast it on the next burst of flame but Prim gave him warning: as a Wizard, he could sense the power beneath their feet. This wasn’t just some pocket of fiery swamp gas, it was a glimpse at something far more powerful.
“That night, the slayers didn’t tell tales of past battles or trade information on different types of Dragon. Instead, they pondered what it might take to bring that fire out of the ground and use it for fuel. The warriors had spent their lives traveling Archetellos. They’d seen families, caught without a home for the winter, frozen by the side of the road. They’d seen Satyr slaves up in the Groves collecting coal to warm the Centaur palace. They knew all about the Dwarven forges that were powered by lava and could only be worked while deep inside dangerous mountains.
“Until that night, these warriors had served nobody but themselves. You could not have found more prideful, ambitious cut-throats anywhere on the continent. But standing right here,” Hendricks stomped both his feet on the stone floor, “they saw an opportunity to make the world a better place. Those three slayers used their influence to build a city like nobody had ever imagined. They gave up everything that had previously defined them. They relinquished the prizes they had been working so hard to find and, in doing so, they changed history.”
Hendricks stared at me with that bright green glint in his eye and picked up his empty glass with a flourish.
“I’m ready for another,” he said. “Storytelling makes me thirsty.”
I reached for my half-filled cocktail too quickly and my cuff caught the table. I tipped over the glass and as I jumped up to grab it, my other hand swung back too far and hit the iron of the fireplace. I ripped my hand off as fast as I could but a piece of skin was left stuck to the metal, sizzling and bubbling and smelling like meat.
Hendricks had already jumped into action. He filled a bowl with water and some snow from out back and I rested my hand in it for as long as I could manage. He dried it, carefully, then took the honey from the table and spread it over the wound, telling me that there was nothing better for healing skin than a good coat of fresh honey.
“How is it now?” he asked.
“Better. Still stings a bit. I’m so stupid.”
He laughed at me the way he always did, with an indistinguishable blend of fondness and patronizing amusement.
“We all burn ourselves, Fetch. It’s the best way to learn from our mistakes. It’s only when some part of you freezes that you cut the fucker off.”
He cackled madly and made us another round of drinks. And another.
Soon, I was so plastered that I couldn’t feel my fingers or the cold or much of anything terrible at all.
1
I was as cold as a corpse in the snow. Cold as a debt collector’s handshake. Cold like the knife so sharp you don’t feel it till it twists. Cold like time. Cold as an empty bed on a Sunday night. Colder than that cup of tea you made four hours ago and forgot about. Colder than the dead memory you’ve tried to keep alive for too long.
I was so cold, I found myself wishing that someone would fire up the lantern I was sitting in and roast me like a chestnut. Of course, that was impossible. There hadn’t been fire in the lamp for over six years. The open-topped torch used to be one of the largest lights in Sunder City, shining brightly over the stadium during night games. Now, it was just a big ugly stick with a cup at the top.
The field had been built above the very first fire pit. During construction, it was an open chasm to the maelstrom below. Once they’d installed the pipes that carried the flames through town, they’d decided that it wasn’t safe to leave a gaping hole to hell right at the entrance to the city. They covered it over, and nobody was permitted to build on that plot of land.
Instead, kids used it as a sports field. It was unofficial at first, but then the city installed stands and bleachers, and it eventually became the Sunder City Stadium.
When the Coda killed the magic, the flames beneath the city died too. That meant no heating in town, no lights on Main Street, and no chance of fire coming up between my legs. I was huddled in the cone at the top of the pole with my arms wrapped around myself, ducking down out of the wind.
I hadn’t thought about the wind when I’d taken the job. That was stupid because the wind ruined everything. It pushed the cold down my collar and up my sleeves. It shook the lamppost back and forth so I was always waiting for it to bend, snap, and send me crashing to the ground. Most importantly, it made the crossbow in my hands completely useless.
I was supposed to be watching over my client, ready to fire off a warning shot if he gave me a signal that the deal wasn’t going smoothly. But firing into this gale, it would be either pushed down into the snow or flung up into orbit.
My employer was a Gnome named Warren. He was down below in his trademark white suit, blending into the snowy ground. The only source of light was the lantern he’d hung off the gatepost.
We’d been waiting for half an hour, him down between the bleachers, me up in my metal ice-cream cone. I tried to remember if this is what I’d planned for when I became a Man for Hire. I thought I was going to help those whose lives I’d ruined. Do things for them that they could no longer do for themselves. I doubted that covering a Gnome during an illegal exchange reached the noble heights I’d had in mind.
I’d chewed through half a packet of Clayfields, knowing it was a bad idea. They were painkillers, supposed to make me numb, but the cold had already killed the feeling in my fingers and toes, so numbing was the last thing I needed.
Finally, from the other end of the field, a figure crossed the halfway line. She was wrapped up far more sensibly than I was: thick jacket, coat, scarf, beret, boots and gloves. The metal case she carried at her side was about the size of a toaster.
Warren stepped out from the bleachers, holding his hat in his hands so that it wouldn’t blow away.
They stepped close to each other and it would have been impossible to hear their conversation over that distance even without the howling wind. I brought up my crossbow and rested it on the lip of the cone, pretending that my presence at the meeting wasn’t a complete waste of time.
Back when there was magic, I would have had access to all kinds of miraculous inventions: Goblin-made hand grenades, bewitched ropes and exploding potions. Now the only thing that could take someone down over distance was a bolt, an arrow or a well-thrown rock.
Warren reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I had no idea how many bronze bills were inside. I didn’t know what was in the case either. I knew nothing, which put me on familiar ground.
The woman gave Warren the case. He handed her the envelope. Then they both stood opposite each other while she counted her cash and he unlocked the box.
When the woman turned and walked away, I dragged the weapon back from the edge and curled up into a ball, breathing into my hands.
Then, Warren was screaming.
When I looked back over, he was waving his hat above his head. That was the signal, but the woman was already halfway across the field.
“It’s bullshit!” screamed the Gnome. “Kill her!”
Let’s be clear about two things: one, I never agreed to kill anybody; two, shooting women in the back isn’t really my bag. But if I didn’t at least look like I was trying to stop her, I’d have to give up my fee and the whole night would be for nothing. I crouched down, aimed the crossbow a few feet behind the fleeing lady
and fired.
I tried to shoot a spot in the snow that she’d already passed, as if I’d misjudged her speed. Unfortunately for me (and the fugitive) the wind changed direction while the bolt was in the air.
From out in the darkness, I heard a yelp and then a thump as she fell into the snow.
Shit.
“Yes! You got her, Fetch! Well done!”
Warren grabbed his lantern and ran off, leaving me in the dark while he cursed her and she cursed him and I cursed myself.
By the time I’d climbed down the ladder and made my way over to Warren, he’d already snatched back the envelope and was putting the boot in. I pulled him back, and he tumbled onto his ass. Since he was only three feet tall, it wasn’t much of a drop.
“Quit it. You’ve got your money back, don’t you?”
I’d hit her right calf. The bolt wasn’t in too deep, but a good amount of blood was dripping onto the snow. When she tried to turn over, it twisted the muscles around her injury. I put a hand on her shoulder to hold her still.
“Miss, you don’t want to—”
“No!” She span around, lashing me across the face. A line of pain ripped through my skin. Her claws were out, sticking through the tips of her fine gloves and shining in the lantern light. She was a Werecat. When I reached for my face, I felt blood.
“Damn it, lady. I’m trying to help you.”
“Aren’t you the one that shot me?”
“That was two whole minutes ago. Don’t hold a grudge.”
I crept closer again and, this time, she managed not to swat me. She looked Human, other than the claws and a glowing set of cat’s eyes. No fur or other obvious animal traits. Her hair was long, dark and tied back in thick dreadlocks.
“Hold still for a moment,” I said, pulling out my knife. She did as I asked, allowing me to slice the cuff of her trousers up to the point where the bolt had gone through them. The wind and thick material had slowed down my shot so that it only went a couple of inches into her flesh. I pulled out a clean handkerchief and my pack of Clayfields. “Anyone got any alcohol?”
Warren reached into his jacket and fished out a silver flask. I took a sip that warmed my insides.
“What is it?”
“Brandy. My wife makes it.”
I splashed it onto the bleeding leg and wiped it dry with the handkerchief. The Werecat gritted her teeth but thankfully didn’t attack.
I pulled one Clayfield out the pack and put it between her lips.
“Bite down on the end and suck. Your tongue will go numb but that means it’s working.”
Her eyes were yellow-green and full of loathing.
“I wouldn’t mind getting my ass out of this snow,” she said.
“Let me do one thing first.”
I crushed the whole pack of Clayfields in my fist. There were still a dozen twigs inside, so when I pushed the cardboard together and rubbed it, I turned them into a paste. The goo slid out of the packet, onto the wound, and I smooshed it around the bolt, trying not to get it on my fingers.
“Is that helping?”
She nodded.
I helped her up onto her one good foot, put an arm around her back, and we stumbled over to the bleachers. She laid down on her stomach while I sat on the bench below and went about removing the bolt.
“Warren, what was she selling you anyway?”
The Gnome was sitting away from us, sulking, but he opened up the case. Inside, there was something that looked like a crystal flower with multitudes of thin petals that spiraled into a sharp point. It was sitting in the metal box on a velvet cushion and I had no idea what it was.
“Some kind of jewel?” I asked.
“Not even,” said Warren. “Just glass.”
“Then why did you want it?”
“I did not want it! I wanted the real thing.”
“The real what?”
Warren slammed the box shut in frustration.
“Unicorn horn.”
I stopped working. The Gnome and the Cat sent their eyes to the floor, rightfully embarrassed.
The story goes that there was once a tree whose roots reached so deep into the planet that they touched the great river itself. One spring, the branches bore a crop of rare apples infused with sacred power. When a herd of wild horses passed beneath the tree, they fed upon that fruit and the magic caused spirals of purple mist to spin out from their foreheads.
They were rarely seen and universally protected. The idea that someone would hunt one down to take the horn from its head was barbaric. I looked down at the Cat-lady.
“You’ve come to Sunder to sell shit like this?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, so I poked my finger into her leg.
“Ecchh!” She pushed herself up on her hands and hissed at me. Her claws reappeared out the ends of her gloves, but it was only a threat. For now.
“Where are you getting Unicorn horn?” I asked. “And lie back down or I won’t be able to get this bolt out.”
She rested her head on her hands.
“I’m not getting it from anywhere. It’s just like the Gnome told you. I made it with glass. It’s a fake.”
At least she hadn’t actually been out in the wilderness slaughtering legendary beasts for a bit of bronze. But that was only part of the problem.
“Warren, what do you want with it?”
The little fellow was hunched over, grumbling away in his native tongue.
“Warren?”
He didn’t look up, but he spat out an answer.
“I am dying,” he said. The wind went quiet.
“We’re all dying, Warren.”
“But I am dying soon, and it is not going to feel so good.” He lifted up his hands in front of his face, opening and closing them like he was squeezing two invisible stress balls. “I can feel my bones. My joints. They are… rusting. Cracking into pieces. Doctor says there is nothing to be done. We little folk had magic in our bodies. Without it, something inside does not know how to work.” He put a hand on the case that held the false horn. “I found a new doctor who told me that there is power in certain things. He said that a horn is a piece of pure magic and if I bring him one, perhaps he can put some of that power back into me.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying the obvious – that he was a gullible fool who was only making things worse for himself. If he was sick, then the last thing he needed was to be out in the cold on a night like tonight, looking for a piece of the impossible.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for long.
“Warren, you know that’s ridiculous, right?”
He didn’t say anything. Neither did the woman. I took out the bolt and tied up the wound so the woman could put some weight on it when we walked back to town. The Werecat and the Gnome didn’t say anything else, and I finally learned to do the same.
We were back in the guts of Sunder City around midnight. Warren paid me what I was owed and sulked home. Then it was just me and the Cat.
“How’s the leg holding up?” I asked.
“Lucky for you, it feels terrible.”
“Why lucky?”
“Because I have a swelling desire to kick you in the teeth.”
When we hit Main Street, she told me she’d be all right on her own. I guessed that she just didn’t want me knowing where she lived. I was fine with that. I was freezing and fresh out of painkillers, so I wanted to be fast asleep before the medicine wore off.
“Make sure you get a real doctor to look at that,” I said.
“No shit. I can probably catch an infection just by looking at you.”
She meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t too wrong. My building hadn’t had hot water since the fires went out. In winter, it takes a stronger man than me to wash every day.
“But thanks,” she added. “If I had to be shot by someone tonight, at least it was a guy who was willing to patch me up afterwards. What’s your name?”
“Fetch Phillips. Man for Hire.”
She shook my
hand and I felt the tips of those claws rest against my skin.
“Linda Rosemary.”
The night had worked out about as well as it could have. She’d tried to put one over on us, we’d caught her out, she’d gotten an injury in exchange for our wasted time and we all got to go home to bed. It was fair, somehow. Fairer than we’d come to expect.
She walked up Main Street, one hand resting against the wall, and I thought she’d given me just the right amount of trouble as long as I never had to deal with her again.
But Sunder City makes a few things without fail: hunger in winter, drunks at night and trouble all year round.
2
The piss in my chamber pot was frozen.
I hadn’t really been sleeping, just scrunched up, wearing every item of clothing I owned, pretending I was dead until the sun came up.
I slipped out of bed and forced my double-socked feet into my boots. When I first moved into my office/apartment/icebox, I’d liked the idea of being on the fifth floor. The view was high enough to make me feel like I was looking over the whole city, and the fall out the Angel door would be hard enough to kill me if I dived out of there head first. It’s just one of those little touches that makes a house a home.
Sunder was a sprawling city, though not particularly tall. That meant that my building made an impressive lookout, but it also caught the full force of the wind. The breeze came in through cracks around the windows and the gaps between the bricks. It even forced its way into the room below and came up through the floorboards. I was going to patch the place up when I had the time. Just like I was going to get a haircut and stop drinking and sew up the holes in my trousers before they completely fell apart.
The cuts to my face had been worse than I’d thought. The morning after my trip to the stadium, I’d asked Georgio, the owner of the café at the bottom of the building, to put in some stitches. His shaking hands only made the blood flow faster so I told him to forget about it. Four days had passed since then. Now, I had four red-brown lines down the right side of my face and was hoping they wouldn’t scar.