Warcry: The Anthology

by Various Authors

  ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Snakes aren’t meant for the rooftops.’ Lock grinned his wicked grin and indicated the three new trophies. ‘They don’t fly well, but they fall perfectly.’

  ‘Good. You are a fine hunter, Lock.’ She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘How long until you believe you can start your great hunt?’

  His grin turned into a scowl. ‘Not sure. I’ll keep kicking that nest of vipers.’ He made a vague gesture with his hand, indicating that he was more than happy to stir. ‘Make sure they hear the rumours. Once they do, they’ll rush to leave.’

  Crest nodded and closed her fingers over his shoulder. He felt her sharp nails bite into the skin there.

  ‘A week,’ she said, simply. ‘No more, no less. Make it happen, Lock.’ She released her hand and knelt before the Pick. She passed her hand over his additions and then took up the long-bladed knife. She studied the traces of poison that still clung to its edge and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘The nails too,’ he said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. She snorted a laugh of what he recognised as indulgence before she put down the knife and picked up the hand. Her scarred face moved in a series of complicated twists that approximated a smile.

  ‘Always poison,’ she said. ‘They can’t fight like us, so they reduce themselves to other means.’ She considered the knife in her hand for a while longer and then placed it back in the Pick. She stood, her knees cracking audibly, and murmured a hunter’s blessing before turning and disappearing into the gloom of the lair.

  Information was power, Lock had once been told. The man might have been an insane priest of what he’d called the Great Whisperer, but Lock had yet to find the lie hidden in the words. The man had also said that it was a blade that could cut the wielder just as surely as it cleaved the foe, and that had seemed much more in keeping with a clergyman of insanity. After his babbling prophecy, Lock had buried a dagger in the man’s eye and pushed him off a roof, but the words had stayed with him and he had since employed the art of misinformation to great effect on several occasions.

  Such a tactic was particularly effective in Carngrad, where knowledge of enemy warbands could make the difference between majesty and death. But after a couple of days had passed, it seemed that the information he had paid the low-folk to carefully deliver had not had the desired effect. He kept his movements largely away from the Splintered Fang’s territory, doing just enough to remind them of his existence and stalking their acolytes as they went about the city. As a game, its attraction palled swiftly. As a strategy it simply kept him at the forefront of their minds. Always just out of grasp.

  Lock smothered the sense of disappointment he was feeling. His plan had been so simple: bait out the Splintered Fang and mark them as the target for his great hunt. It was not moving ahead at the speed he’d hoped. Still, it was not in the nature of a spire stalker to sit idle when there were other opportunities. The Great Gatherer did not take notice of those who lurked in damp basements and waited for their prey to come to them. Every young Cabalite learned that early on in their education. The Great Gatherer’s wings followed those who soared.

  Lock had seen many would-be champions rise and fall within the flock over the years, and he had outlived them all. He was in possession of a sharp wit, excellent fighting skills and a startling ability to stay alive against all odds. All these things had won him admiration, not just among his peers in the flock, but in the view of Crest in particular. Coupled with an uncanny ability for thievery, Lock dared to believe that his coming victory would earn him a flock of his own. He was a leader, a warrior, an assassin, a thief and above all, a survivor.

  He would survive this and be all the greater for it.

  If the Splintered Fang ever decided to slither from their pits, he mentally added as a caveat. He was seriously beginning to believe that the reptiles lacked the wit to act on what they had been given or, worse, had seen through the ruse. The shame of being outwitted by a serpent would dash his ambitions just as surely as a fall to the streets. He cracked the neck of another of their accursed acolytes and dropped the body into the dark streets below, feeling a welling sense of immense frustration.

  It had to be soon.

  Ophidia turned from the window. She had been watching the mist in the streets below with mild interest. On occasion, the light in Carngrad shone in a variety of unnatural colours. Sometimes it burned and other times it could cause weird mutations to blossom where it touched unprotected skin. Today, it had conjured a mist which crawled through the streets, giving off a sickly greenish glow, and stank like the blighted southern swamps. It oozed through the back alleys and hidden passageways, sending questing tendrils everywhere it went. It dominated and wrapped itself around the rotting bones of the city like a filthy shroud.

  The Splintered Fang controlled several large buildings in the clustered and claustrophobic heart of Carngrad, where crooked towers piled atop crumbling hovels. It was hardly palatial, but it sufficed. Cold and aloof, the members of the Splintered Fang were rarely seen outside the walls of their strongholds, a fiction they worked hard to maintain. The truth was that the warband only occasionally wore the trappings of their cult openly within the confines of the city. This gave them a freedom to move unknown and unseen as they ­drizzled poison into chalices and venomous words into ears. More than one boastful lordling had been brought low by a serpent that mysteriously found its way into his chambers.

  If their sanctuary was invaded, retribution tended towards the swift and the terrible. It also, much to their chagrin, required a target that they could find. Ophidia, one of the warband’s many priestesses, had turned her attention to the execution of this divine and ultimately rewarding task. An anonymous death in a forgotten corner would not do for this crime. If he could be found then the perpetrator would be given, in blissful agony, to the Coiling Ones.

  Relations between the warbands who shared space in Carngrad were always fractious, with violence of one stripe or another spilling out into the streets at all times of day and night. Right now, the Talons dominated the city, but the Tyrants controlled the murder-pits. The Golems claimed the bloody forges, the Unmade ruled the slaughterhouses. Next week, the balance of power could shift. Every warband carved out a piece of the city to call their own and each of them had to be prepared to defend their territory with extreme prejudice.

  Ophidia considered this as she contemplated the recent brazen attack. It was not the way of the Corvus Cabal to make open war. They would come from above, or from the shadows, or they would simply wait until your back was turned before they stuck the knife in. There had to be a greater scheme at work; she simply had to peel back the layers of deceit until she found it.

  She was seated at a desk, idly leafing through an illustrated tome of herbs and their myriad uses, when she was interrupted.

  ‘I bring news, priestess.’ The messenger, one of the clan’s acolytes, stood in the doorway, hesitant and awkward. It was a dangerous privilege to be so close to one of the warband’s priestesses. They were deeply revered, and Ophidia’s station gave her an easy arrogance.

  ‘Concerning the Cabal whelp?’ She looked up from the book, eager to hear the news. A long, thin, brown snake coiled around her shoulders like a diamond-backed scarf, disappearing into the woman’s mane of blonde hair. It was not a large serpent by the measure of its kind, but still long enough to wind around her neck twice over. The creature appeared to be sleeping, but the young acolyte eyed it with apparent caution, clearly aware that such beasts could react with whip-like speed and quickly grow to monstrous proportions when roused.

  ‘No, priestess, but of a sacred thing thought lost.’

  ‘Come closer.’

  The snake opened one eye in a decidedly somnolent manner, revealing a slit of ruby. The lithe creature coiled languidly around the priestess’ shoulders, and the acolyte hesitated. The snake’s bi
te, were it to strike at him, would be horribly fatal. Ophidia’s familiar had been responsible, over the months in Carngrad, for the deaths of several unfortunates who had earned her displeasure. If one cared to look, the remains of many venom-bloated bodies could still be observed in the serpent pits below. Ophidia was well respected and admired, but she was certainly not known for her patience or mercy. She wielded the knowledge that she engendered fear in her peers like a weapon. She smirked at the acolyte’s hesitance and beckoned to him again.

  ‘I said come closer. Are you hard of hearing? Are you a fool? Or perhaps… you openly choose to defy me.’ She smiled, and although her tone remained mild, there was nonetheless an unmistakable edge of command. The messenger wisely decided that defiance was probably more dangerous than the changeable temperament of the familiar, and stepped inside. The priestess saw him take in the cloying scent of the room’s incense. For all the Splintered Fang were rightly feared for their use of poisons, there were recreational benefits and by-products of the many reagents that were needed to make them.

  Ophidia rose from her chair, as slender and graceful as her pet. She wore an iridescent robe of scales that shimmered with every movement, the ceremonial trappings of those who led the Splintered Fang in their many rituals. She rarely went armoured within the sanctum, but the silvered breastplate, greaves and crested helm on display across the chamber were a testament to her ability to take more direct action as and when it was required.

  ‘Give me the message then, boy,’ she said. She didn’t know the acolyte’s name, neither did she particularly care. He took a few breaths and grinned, and she fancied she could see a spark of ambition fire in him. Perhaps he was pleased that he could be the bearer of good news. Every acolyte struggled for recognition.

  ‘The Fang of Nagendra has been found.’

  The silence stretched between them and Ophidia stared at the messenger, her golden eyes widening. The Fang of Nagendra had long been thought lost, taken during a heathen raid on the shrine known as Nagendra’s Gullet in ages past. It was one of the many relics of the Father of Serpents that the warband coveted. She recovered her composure quickly, suffocating the sudden surge of exhilaration with a healthy dose of scepticism.

  She knew of the Fang of Nagendra from the well-documented histories. The fabled spear was a blessed weapon forged of living steel and tipped with a fluted blade that, so it was said, wept a transformative venom. Those honoured by its kiss were torn apart by fangs from within, their flesh sloughing away like that of a serpent in moult. That such a wonder should be lost to the impious hands of brutish raiders was an insult that the Splintered Fang had been forced to tolerate but which they had never accepted.

  To take back that which was theirs by right would be a mighty boon and win her much favour.

  Ophidia ordered her thoughts. The idea that such fortune should simply fall into her lap was suspicious and there were certainly plenty among her own people who were not beyond plotting against her. The relic spear would make for overwhelmingly tempting bait in such a scheme. She narrowed her eyes at the boy. ‘Elaborate. Tell me how it was that you came by this information.’

  The acolyte cleared his throat. ‘It is a rumour which my master was investigating. Before his death.’

  ‘Ekis?’ Ophidia allowed some of the initial scepticism to drain. Ekis had been one of her preferred warriors and one with whom she had shared many kills. His death at the hands of the Cabalite intruder had angered her, though more for the loss of an asset than for any feeling she’d had for him. He had always had excellent intelligence and, more importantly, had never shown any unhealthy signs of ambition. His cunning hadn’t once steered her wrong.

  ‘Why come to me now?’

  ‘Please, priestess. It was important for me to mark my master’s death with the correct period of mourning.’ Despite herself, Ophidia smiled her approval. He might be only a child, but he knew his place and his duty. ‘I have only this morning gone through my master’s papers and…’ He fumbled and handed her a sheaf of loose pages penned in Ekis’ precise copperplate.

  She nodded, casting her eyes swiftly over the documents, not really reading them. If the boy had digested the information, then she could move on to the more pressing question of exactly where the spear might be found. If its recovery was within her reach without the need to call upon the other priests and priestesses, then the glory would be hers alone. Enough perhaps to take her place at the head of the Splintered Fang.

  Perhaps even enough to draw the eye of the Everchosen.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Ekis learned that the spear was seen within a caravan on the highway near Slaver’s Folly. He also believed that the slaves belong to the Corvus Cabal, who are driving them to the Fleshforges to trade. One master, a few guards. It is very probable that they likely do not know what it is that they have in their hands.’

  ‘Of course it would be them,’ she said, with a sneer. ‘Well, then. If they are so few, we should rouse the Coil, should we not? An overwhelming show of force will put these crows in their place, and should they not be in possession of the spear…’ She hesitated and her tongue ran lightly round her lips in early anticipation of the outcome. ‘Then their agony will still be an exquisite reward, yes?’

  She did not ask the last question of the messenger, but rather to the snake, who raised its patterned head and caressed her cheek with its forked tongue. The acolyte wisely chose to remain silent but lingered expectantly in the hope of a blessing as the bearer of good news. If Ophidia noticed his hopefulness, she did not comment on it. Instead, she waved dismissively at him.

  ‘Send word to my venombloods. Tell them to treat their blades and ready their nets. The Father of Serpents smiles on his children today and we shall give to him such gifts. The deaths will be beautiful.’ She smiled, revealing the tips of her fangs.

  ‘Now go! Tell them we make ready to hunt crows!’

  The acolyte bowed his head and scurried away.

  The warband gathered as they always did, in the large room that served as the central chamber. Ophidia had been preparing the hall since the messenger had left her, and as each warrior arrived, they knelt before the coiled effigy that towered over the pit of serpents. A smoking brazier stood in front of the altar and thick, pinkish vapours curled from the polluted coals. All inhaled deeply, breathing in the sickly scents of the herbs and venoms as was traditional. Within minutes, they were filled with fanatical zeal, keen to listen to what their priestess had to say to them.

  She had elected to don her armour for the gathering and stood proudly in her silvered plate. This was not a time for robes and ritual, this was a declaration of purpose, a holy mission to honour the Coiling Ones with the liberation of a treasure lost and the sacrifice of those who had dared to take it. Beneath her armour she wore a body­suit of viridian that moved and shone like reptilian scales. It gave her long, slim figure a sinuous grace and rippled in the infernal half-light of the hall. The effect was tantalisingly hypnotic and she held her followers spellbound.

  The snake familiar coiled in its usual position around her neck and she absently stroked at its head as she waited for her faithful to assemble. Those who joined her quest for the Fang would be honoured, while those who chose to remain behind would be marked for their cowardice. They would be punished when she returned victorious. The absence of those who had died at the hands of the Corvus Cabal was noted most keenly. This crusade marked the opportunity to give back what had been taken. This would be their reckoning.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ she began, drawing out the words into a sibilant hiss, ‘for too long we have remained caged within Carngrad, chafing against the weak and the deluded who want nothing more than lordship over this carcass-city. Our destiny is greater than that, is it not?’ There was a chorus of ascent from the gently swaying congregation. Ophidia nodded along with them and continued.

  ‘It is ou
r destiny to draw the eye of the Everchosen and walk at his side, eternal in the favour of the Coiling Ones!’ She looked around the room and every pair of eyes was riveted to her, glittering in anticipation.

  ‘The Fang of Nagendra, blessed weapon of the Father of Serpents, has been found!’ She allowed excitement to enter her tone and, just as she knew it would, it incited an energy that filled the room. ‘The Coiling Ones, in their divinity, have revealed it to me and revealed the filthy barbarians who have desecrated his temple!’ The roar of indignation at her words shook the hall with its unsuppressed fury. She paused for a moment to allow the anger to ebb, then clenched a fist.

  ‘The Corvus Cabal, those filthy crows, hold it within their dull claws as they trudge across the wastes. They creep in the shadows and strut on their roofs, stealing away what is ours, just as they have always done. But I tell you this, my brethren. All that is at an end!’ The roar had abated to a low, continuous rumble of fury as the Splintered Fang seethed. She raised her voice to be heard above the tumult. ‘We are the serpent and they are our prey. Outside the city, their wings will not carry them from our reach and their shadows will not keep them from our fangs. We will reclaim the Fang of Nagendra for our own, and offer up the crows to the Coiling Ones! It will be divine! And once we are done, the gates of the Varanspire await!’

  The snake around her neck responded to her words, rearing back and opening its jaws. Sacred venom glistened on its exposed fangs, beading on the dagger-sharp tips. Ophidia delicately lifted one of the droplets from its maw and made a gift of it to the nearest warrior. He smiled at the blessing and eagerly coated the tip of his blade. Her eyes met those of the snake. She saw her face reflected in the mirror-like surface of its eyes and gazed at it for a moment in sheer adoration of her own image.