Warcry: The Anthology

by Various Authors

  Above the streets, Lock was running. This was nothing unusual; he lived most of his life in motion so running was his natural pace. But today, he was running from pursuers, the hunted rather than his preferred role of the hunter. Every breath that he drew was an exhilarating urge onward and although his heart was pounding with the exertion of the chase, he welcomed it. Such surges of adrenaline pumped blood to his muscles and granted him the strength to serve the Great Gatherer to the very best of his ability. These moments reminded him that he was alive.

  Laughter bubbled up from within him and burst from his lips as he caught the tip of a twisted spire and used his momentum to swing his body around, driving his feet into the chest of the closest pursuer. The air exploded from her lungs and she staggered back, fighting for balance. Lock released the spire and dropped to the tiles, light as a feather. This was his territory. The rooftops were his domain and his would-be killers were as awkward children by comparison.

  The woman – she was little more than a girl, really, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old beneath a layer of Carngrad dirt and grime – fought to remain upright. Unlike Lock, she was not accustomed to fighting on the ridges and slick tiles, but she was most certainly not afraid. She stared at him coldly then shot a glance over her right shoulder. The other two had caught up to them.

  ‘Ekis, Derin… don’t waste any more time. Kill him,’ she hissed furiously. Her companions grunted in response, and Lock allowed himself the luxury of a moment to wonder how it was that a mere girl could command such respect, or maybe fear, from those obviously stronger than her. He planted his feet squarely on the tiles and placed his hands to the hilts of the paired swords he wore at his waist. The weapons were old; Lock had prised them from the fists of his dead mother, who had taken them from her father before her and so on back to an ancestor. Not all of the Cabal could make such a claim, but these were tales of legend and they were natural storytellers.

  ‘Try,’ he challenged them, the syllable leaving his mouth as little more than a croak. The Corvus Cabal spoke very little to those outside of their flocks and even then, they limited what they said. Words were less important than actions, after all. He slid the swords from their scabbards and dropped into a low, combative stance. Both blades curved wickedly, with barbs studded along their length, and though they were ancient and pitted, their keen edges glinted in the weak, discoloured light. ‘Try,’ Lock repeated. ‘And then you die, yes?’

  A breath of hot wind caught the feathers in his hair and whipped them around his scarred face. He let his tongue run lightly across his lower lip and tasted blood; a storm was coming soon. Three of the Splintered Fang, one of him. The odds were not favourable.

  They should have sent more.

  The first of the two men moved towards him. Lock kept surprise from his face: the man moved with some dexterity despite his bulk. He’d fought the Splintered Fang many times and never underestimated them. The rooftops, however, were the Cabal’s natural environment and the man approaching him seemed uncomfortable with the terrain despite the conviction in his eyes. He was a slab of muscle, with shoulders twice as broad across as Lock’s lithe form could boast. He had easily half a foot on Lock and was decked in well-made and what looked to be lightweight scaled armour, but his bulk would be his undoing. A little effort would make that one a feast for the streets below. Lock dismissed him as the lesser threat and turned his attention to the other warrior who was scrambling towards him. Younger, fitter and quicker to respond. Lock approved of that, recognising a kindred spirit.

  The younger man brandished a long, wave-bladed knife from his belt and Lock spied beads of greenish fluid along its edge. Poison was to be expected from the Splintered Fang, and though the concoction might not be lethal, even a shallow cut could spell his demise through paralysis or confusion. Lock’s eyes darted over him; he could discern no other obvious weaponry and the man bore no armour. His only concession to protection was a skirt of silvered mail and a crested helm. The arrogance would have been sickening had Lock not been certain that the warrior would be carrying any number of concealed blades and needles.

  Lock took a sidestep left, which took him slightly higher onto the rooftop. The angle at which he stood seemed impossible to maintain, but the claws at the tips of his boots bit into the tile and gave him steady purchase. He raised his blades, crossed in front of him, and very slowly smiled.

  ‘Come,’ he urged his would-be killers. ‘Try it. Let’s fight now.’

  His crooked smile and goading words had the desired effect. The smaller man lunged for him, surging forward and up the side of the sloping roof, his boots shedding tiles in a noisy cascade. His poisoned knife met Lock’s blades and the Cabal fighter leaned forward, leering at his enemy across the metal barrier.

  ‘Good try. Now it’s my turn.’

  The spire stalker moved with the grace of a dancer, away from his attacker, and kicked shattered slates into the man’s face. Lock sprang from the elevated position, blades and feathers whirling. He blocked another thrust from his opponent, knocking his weapon aside, and the serrated edge of his second sword flew towards the man’s neck. At the last moment, the warrior stumbled clumsily out of the way, sliding further down the roof and a finger’s width from the killing blow. His heavily muscled companion stepped in to take advantage of Lock’s missed attempt.

  It was a fatal error, as Lock turned the momentum of his failed strike into a spinning kick. The clawed toes of his boot bit into flesh, tearing half of the brute’s face away in a shower of blood and broken teeth, and the heavy warrior let out a bubbling scream of agony at both the savage wound and the inevitable loss of balance. The impact half turned the thug around and sent him tumbling down the rooftop. The man let go of his spear and clawed at the tiles to no avail. He vanished over the edge, his last, long cry chasing him all the way to the street far below. Lock grinned; the low-folk would feast well today.

  ‘One less. Try again.’

  The young woman’s expression hardened at the sight of her companion’s death, realising perhaps for the first time that they had not cornered a fledgling. What she’d clearly taken to be just another Cabal­ite was one of their fighting elite, and that meant he represented a genuine threat. Specifically, to her. She cared nothing for the death of her companion. Life was cheap in Carngrad and the city eventually consumed all those that passed through its gates. She began to edge her way across the rooftop, slowly retreating the way they had come.

  Lock’s eyes darted to her as he caught sight of the movement, and his smirk grew even bigger. ‘See how she runs. You are a poor protector, I think.’

  ‘She isn’t your concern, crow,’ snarled the warrior, and he switched the poisoned blade to his other hand. ‘You should pay closer attention to what I’m doing.’ He sprang forward again and made another swipe with his knife, lower this time and more cautious. It opened a slash in Lock’s ragged shirt, but mercifully failed to connect with flesh. The Cabalite made a clicking sound with his tongue – the sort of sound a parent might make when disapproving of a child’s behaviour.

  ‘Bad try.’

  Lock’s taunting and easy manner needled the warrior and he slashed furiously with his venomous blade, moving unsteadily up the rooftop towards the ridge. Lock retreated in kind, happy to give ground and conscious that it would take more than a swift kick to end this fight. They were close to the roof’s apex now and, with a remarkable display of acrobatic finesse, Lock coiled briefly before launching himself up to the very top of the building. His boot-claws found the damp wood of a rafter, giving him purchase. He stood there, a silhouette against the bruised sky, and leered down at the Splintered Fang as he made his own way to the top.

  He did not make it. As he pushed himself the final few inches, he met Lock sliding back down towards him, a sword extended. The weapon punched through the thug’s belly and exploded from his back, the jagged teeth tearing through meat and gris
tle. The warrior folded up over the sword and vomited a torrent of gore. Nonetheless, he still somehow managed to raise his head and shoot Lock a last, furious glance. He flailed weakly with his knife and then sagged, the dead weight of his body pulling at the impaling blade. Thinking swiftly, Lock tugged his weapon free of its victim rather than lose it and watched with detachment as the dead man crashed through the roof and down into the darkness to feed whatever waited below.

  The woman was still scrabbling back the way they had come, but Lock now had the advantage of running along the roof’s apex. He sprinted easily, his hair flying behind him. He welcomed these moments: the wind in his face, the air in his lungs and the thrill of the chase; they reinvigorated him, and he covered the space between them in long, loping bounds. Once his victim was directly below him, he pounced. He flew – even if only metaphorically and for but a heartbeat – before landing on the young woman and driving her to the ground. She hissed and spat at her attacker, and twisted her body in an alarmingly serpentine manner, thrashing like a pinned snake. She tried to slash at him with her nails – which he knew would likely be laced with a particularly vicious poison – but she could not quite reach his face.

  ‘The Great Gatherer will be pleased. Three trophies. Thank you for the hunt, priestess.’

  The woman’s eyebrows rose in startlement.

  ‘You know what I am!’

  ‘I do. And I thank you for your death.’ Lock’s smile was far from friendly and he pointed at her. ‘Snake teeth are a good prize.’

  ‘Coils take you! This is–’

  His blade cut off her words as he brought it down, the suddenness of the movement and the sharpness of the weapon all but decapitating her with one blow. It took another downstroke of the exquisite blade to sever the woman’s head completely before a further two swift movements removed her hands. Fang venom was valuable both directly and in trade. Lock offered up a whisper of thanks for the bounty he’d found and then released the mutilated body, letting it slowly slide down the ridges of the roof. It stuck on the guttering in an ungainly fashion and Lock helped it on its way with a nudge of his boot. The woman fell freely, tumbling and disappearing from his sight.

  A fine drizzle of blood began to seep from the boiling clouds and Lock lifted his face to the skies and relished it. Within a few minutes the tiles, buttresses and gutters were slick with clotted gore. He set off towards the lair, pausing only to collect the spearhead and poisoned knife. The blade would make a particularly fine trophy. He mused on this as he navigated the maze of walls and turrets, leaping with easy athleticism from wall to wall. The hunt may have been small, but it had provided. He patted the fresh trophies on his belt and smiled.

  Lock was a hunter first and foremost and preferred the outdoors. As such, by the time he returned to his flock’s lair, he found he had little desire to end his little excursion. Eyeing the wind-blown bell tower with distaste, he lingered outside awhile. There was another small task still to perform that would keep him out a little longer, and while the blood wind had now begun in earnest, Lock found the sounds of the gurgling gutters and the hot copper tang of the air somehow comforting.

  He descended from his perch, climbing, bounding and sliding into the impossible maze of streets and alleys. Down on the ground the walls seemed to tower over him, leaning in on either side so that the sky was nothing more than a jagged scarlet fracture far above. The alley was ankle-deep in waste and congealed filth that dripped in thick, black gobbets from leering gargoyles, and the air was oppressively close. Only the strong came here on purpose.

  Lock pulled the hood of his tunic up and let his face disappear into the shadow of the cowl as a hunched, loping figure made its unsteady way up the alleyway. His lip curled in derision as the creature – there was no kinder way to describe it – came into full view. It was small, no bigger than a child, and its face was a grotesque mockery of humanity. Its features were flat, seemingly devoid of all planes to give it real character. The eyes were uneven and the nose little more than a faint bump. Its mouth hung perpetually open to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth. The thing was one of the deformed low-folk who crawled through the refuse of Carngrad, downtrodden by the mighty, ignored by the arrogant and utilised by the wise.

  Some claimed that these malformed creatures were servants of a greater power, but the Corvus Cabal, and by extension Lock, did not care. They had no interest in greater powers beyond their own but were pragmatic enough to see the opportunity that these people offered. The Cabal considered anybody not of their warband to fall into the category of low-folk. There was a truth that those who were ignored often saw and heard the most, and that was a valuable trait. After all, everybody wanted something.

  ‘You’re late.’ Lock stepped out of the deep shadows. ‘You should be here when I say so.’

  ‘I am here now. You have the price?’ For such a distorted face, the voice was mellifluous, even pleasant. Lock reached into an inner pocket of his tunic and took out a small, soft leather pouch. The rattle and click of half of the priestess’ teeth came from within. Fingers closed around the pouch, Lock’s informant weighed it with the practised ease of an expert, then grunted in approval. ‘Good ones. Yes. Pretty. Then I will deliver your next message. Did I not deliver your first?’

  ‘Deliver this new one more swiftly.’

  ‘In my time, crow. In my time.’ With this enigmatic statement, the thing turned again and sloped off the way it had come. Lock watched it leave, a scowl on his face. He knew that it would carry out the task he had set it upon, because the tainted things always fulfilled their obligations. But any attempt to impart urgency met always with a wall of indifference.

  Lock moved from the comparative sanctuary of the eaves and made the climb back to the lair. The interior was dark and damp, empty of all signs of life. A mass of writhing vines crawled across the rear wall, clinging to the crumbling mortar with grim determin­ation. Lock pushed some of it aside like a curtain to reveal a gap in the stones, large enough to admit one determined person at a time. Lock squeezed his slender body through the gap, earning a few new grazes.

  He descended a crooked set of stone steps and passed through another door, this one solid and hanging well on its hinges. A short walk through a dripping hallway led him at last to the open chamber where the flock currently made its home. As always, his eyes took a moment or two to adjust to the dim light down here. Illumination largely came from the fire set in the vast hearth at the room’s rear.

  When all the flock were present, over thirty bodies filled the chamber. Right now, many of them were out on hunts of their own which left only a handful here. Some were tending to weapons, patching their armour or weaving new trophies into their hair. All eyes rose as Lock entered but none lingered. A few faint grunts and croaks of recognition came as a form of welcome and Lock responded in kind.

  He set down his trophies, then removed his tunic, hanging it above the fireplace to dry out. He shivered at the sudden bite of cold on his skin, standing before the flames for a few moments in order to warm his skin through a little before snatching a dry tunic that was hung next to his. The flock shared everything. Not only was it convenient, it also made identification of an individual exceptionally difficult.

  This was the flock’s current home, and while it was not as high up as Lock might have preferred, his brothers and sisters had nonetheless attempted to make it habitable, even comfortable. Burning herbs on the fire barely masked the damp scent that permeated the air, but they helped.

  The spire stalker spread out his newly acquired prizes: the priestess’ hands and head, the knife and the spearhead of the big man. He set them down in an area to the left of the hearth, marked out by a rough selection of black rocks that formed an approximate circle. The Corvus Cabal referred to this as the Pick and it was the place they utilised to make their offerings. He knelt and took up one of the hands. He held it up high.

  ‘
Great Gatherer,’ he murmured. ‘For granting me the joy of the hunt, I gift you the prizes of the kill.’ He set the trophies down one at a time and repeated the words of offering for each one. Then he dropped back onto his heels and studied the other trophies that had been placed during the day. Body parts were most prevalent here – eyes, teeth and severed fingers – but there were other weapons as well and even a small buckler that might well come in useful for one of the warriors should Crest choose to gift it.

  ‘You are back.’

  Lock rose to his feet at the approach of Crest. The leader of the flock here in Carngrad, she was close to thirty years Lock’s senior and a woman he both feared and admired greatly. He had learned many of his tricks from her and she had been more of a mother to him than his long-dead parent, in a cruel way. He turned to acknowledge her arrival and bobbed his head in deference. Crest had marked more than one Cabalite for failing to offer submission and respect. Lock’s intentions were very much geared towards claiming her approval and her endorsement for his own personal advancement within the Cabal.

  She was smaller than most of the others, but broad across the shoulders and with hair that was now peppered with more than its fair share of silver running through the original deep red. She was clad from head to toe in fitted leather that showed off her compact, muscular form, one eye shining a bright sapphire blue from her skeletal, avian mask. Behind it, Lock knew, the other eye was missing and her face was a gnarled mass of scars. Single-eyed she may have been, but Crest missed nothing and saw everything.