Most were vagrants, a few were drunks and the odd one or two the victims of robbery. Most bore the frozen expressions of the horror their last moments had brought. Rictus clown masks in parodies of fear or disgust. Creeping rats edged forward for exploratory bites. In the morning the Fleshmen would patrol by and load the bodies onto barrows for disposal in the harbor. Such overindulgence was common in Tiger bay.
One half-dressed westerner wore a benign expression of peace. He was lost in the spirit world, communing with the one he longed for most. He was ready to cross over and leave the reeking feverish shell he inhabited. He could not face the boundless rage and hatred he felt in his heart any longer.
The injustice, the craving for blood, anyone’s blood including his own had overwhelmed him. The dark acts committed and sacrifices offered in the name and security of Free Reign.
He had never questioned, never faltered in his devotion or service.
Only at the end did he fully realize what they had asked of him all along. What he had really been required to sacrifice.
Now he felt a moment where he was ready to let it all go. To cross over in some kind of undeserved peace and finally be with the woman he loved.
His blue lips flickered in the tiny spasm of a smile.
Above his fading body the firefly lantern dimmed. The flitting creature calmed and settled into the bottom of its prison, thrumming dully.
The next lantern along did the same. The pool of amber light on the cobblestones retreated to a pinpoint then vanished.
One by one the thaumaturgic lanterns extinguished and the creatures inside fell into a passive trance.
A shadow appeared at the end of the alley.
It was tall and hunched. Its frame was wrapped in many silken layers. It walked forward on slender legs with an odd gait. In the gloom of the alley it crouched down and extended a wide feathered cloak around the soldier’s body, shielding him.
It cocked its birdlike head to one side and whispered.
“Not yet my dreaming friend. Not quite yet.”
23
Maeve’s Angeldart roared down the winding mountain road. The little fire sprite glowed warmly in its engine bowl, warming her thighs. Her headbeams cast out from the goggles she wore, illuminating the road ahead in gentle green light and absorbing the ambient light from moon and stars.
From this altitude she could see the lights of Free Reign glowing in the distance down in the lowlands. It was two and a half hours hard ride away for her.
Past that was the somber dark of the endless sea. The cold alpine wind whistled through her leathers and the scent of pine trees kept her tired mind awake.
She found herself looking at the simplicity of the Vigilante with a degree of envy.
He was someone who knew exactly who the bad guys were, the ones who would take their carefully built civilization and reduce it to rubble and ash. He did not waste time with administration or await formal warrants being processed. He simply removed the bad apples with a very sharp knife.
Done.
Does the world need evil men to protect good people? Is that the trade off, that the good are fundamentally harmless but also by proxy defenseless?
Maeve thought of the foundries and workshops of Longforgotten. The destructive power of the fire elementals had razed the Longshadow district of Free Reign to the ground two hundred years ago. There were still plaques and memorials to the dead from that disaster in the main square.
Yet the very contraption of cogs and wheels that whirs and rattles me down this mountain is powered by that same magic, harnessed and directed to useful purpose.
Maeve was shaken from her thoughts by a sudden discordance mixing with the sound of her engine. It took her a few moments to connect the dots in her brain.
Then it became obvious.
It’s another engine.
The road she was on was precarious. Jagged rock wall on her left and a steep slope to her right thick with tall pines. The road was in need of repair and it was a journey that took all her concentration to avoid a crash. Maeve twisted at the waist and craned her head round behind her.
Three sets of headlights glared at her in close formation like the myriad eyes of an arachnid. They separated slightly as the road widened and Maeve could see riders straddling three Angeldarts.
Maeve tried to reason that couriers and pilgrims would often use the winding mountain road to Longforgotten and that powered trikes were the fastest way up. It was not unreasonable to think that there would be other traffic on the road even at this late hour.
Yet Maeve had been a warden too long to ignore the warning in her guts that screamed when she was in danger.
The confirmation came a moment later when the first bullet whistled past her ear.
Maeve felt her heart thunder and she wrenched the accelerator. Her dart roared and flames flickered from the exhaust as she hurtled around the next bend. At this speed she would have no time for emergency evasion if any vehicles or obstacles waited for her around the corner. She took it tight but the gravelly road offered little traction and her dart skidded outwards perilously close to the edge and a sheer treeless drop. The tires fought the road and dragged her back. She revved the dart again and took off. As she swiveled side-on a bullet pinged off the pannier and grazed her thigh. Maeve cried out in pain and rage as she fought for control of the machine.
The trees blurred past her and the freezing air burned her lungs. There was no way off the road until it turned into the foothills thirty miles away. She had to reply on the power of her adapted dart. The fire sprite’s eyes narrowed and its flaming hair flared higher as it gave more of its essence to the machine. It was a basic fundament and had no real thoughts of its own other than its purpose, but its face reflected the danger Maeve was in.
Maeve risked removing one hand from the handlebars and quickly unclipped the safety loop on her holster. Suddenly she felt a shuddering impact and twisted her head to see one of her pursuers ram her dart with the snow shovel bolted to his vehicle.
Maeve felt the rear wheels leave the ground and she desperately accelerated to gain traction. She felt the thud as the shovel dislodged but with the burst of speed Maeve almost lost control of her dart. She careered zigzagging across the road and one of her handlebars scrapped the rock wall in a shower of sparks. With all the strength she had Maeve steadied the dart and accelerated once again. She heard the engines of her pursuers much closer now and her shoulders hunched at the thought of a bullet finding its mark.
She turned the bend and found the dark circle in the rock looming before her. The opportunity she was waiting on.
The Blanberg tunnel.
Maeve rocketed into the passage and every sound changed as it echoed in the dark. The orange glow from her engine flickered off the walls as she passed through. She risked a glance behind her and to her horror saw that the three riders were closing in. They were wrapped head to toe in black leather and wore full face masks but Maeve could sense their expressions.
In a fluid motion she drew her revolver and spun in the saddle, struggling to keep the dart in a straight line. She was relying on the constricting tunnel to stop the trikes taking evasive action and force them to assume single file.
Three enemies were too much for anyone. One at a time she had a fighting chance.
Maeve squeezed the trigger and the pistol boomed in the tunnel. Her round struck the wall and she felt the returning fire whistle past her.
Maeve took a deep breath and let her subconscious do the work. She found her sight picture and the gun just fired.
The rider’s head snapped back in the saddle and his trike veered into the rock wall in a screech of tearing metal and flame. The other two pursuers swerved to avoid the debris and came hurtling through the flame ever faster.
Maeve turned back and holstered her weapon.
She shot out of the tunnel and into the cold night air.
Stars wheeled above her and she caught a glimpse of Free Reign’s glow i
n the distance. She had never felt so far from home.
Her mind raced as fast as the trike as she tried to process who might want to kill her. It was the perfect place, while she was on a solo mission outside the city. Anything could happen on the dark winter roads of the wild.
Maeve roared around another tight bend and then felt an impact and something smashed beneath her. Glancing down she saw that a bullet had pierced the transparent engine bowl and the sprite was trailing a long streak of flame behind the trike. Maeve felt a searing pain in her right leg as her leathers started to burn. The dart was losing power and slowing fast.
Another impact as one of her pursuers rammed into her back wheels and Maeve finally lost control. The dart swiveled violently right and Maeve held her breath as she saw the road suddenly vanish.
By the fucking Spark!
The dart fell away beneath her as Maeve tumbled through the night sky. She felt her skin whipped by pine needles as branches broke beneath her. Something sharp grazed her cheek and a thudding pain in her shoulder. Spinning and spinning.
Suddenly cold water enveloped her and she could not breathe.
Maeve did not know which way was up. She released some bubbles and powered her arms the way she thought they floated.
She broke surface with a desperate inhalation and scrambled for any traction she could find. After a few strokes her feet struck river bed and she scrabbled to the far bank.
Coughing and wheezing Maeve collapsed into the mud and lay there shivering. She did not know if anything was broken and was afraid to move in case she felt the grind of bone. Every part of her body screamed in shock and pain.
She let her face fall forward into a cool patch of frosty grass and lay there for a moment.
Alive.
Then the bullet cracked off the rocks next to her and her adrenaline kicked in again. With a cry she forced her legs to stand and piston her forward towards the tree line.
Her breath was ragged from the cold and she could not stop her muscles violently shivering. One arm was numb from the impact of her fall and the fingers tingled with pins and needles. Another bullet splintered the bark from the closest tree and then Maeve found herself crouching behind a thick trunk and catching her breath.
She risked a glance out from behind her cover and saw two solid looking figures making their way down the slope from the road. They were reloading their pistols as they went.
Maeve reached down to her thigh and noticed with a jolt of horror that her own pistol was gone, lost in the rapids. She tried to quell her racing heart and think.
One at a time Scurlock. One at a time.
Maeve gathered her strength and took a few frozen breaths and then bolted as fast as he legs could propel her into the forest.
The pine needles crunched beneath her boots as she stumbled through the dark. One of the lenses of her dart goggles was still functioning and it gathered some of the ambient light and offered her a sense of direction in a green tinged world.
Maeve heard shouts and stomping boots behind her in the forest and could not pinpoint their direction. The voices were communicating louder and she guessed that the two assailants had split up to hunt her.
Maeve found herself at a deep natural hollow by a fast flowing brook and scrambled down into it. She crouched there in the hollow of a dead tree and tried to slow her breathing.
After a moment she heard the crunch of boots through pine needles and snow. She heard a pistol being cocked ready. Quietly Maeve reached down and grabbed a fist sized rock in her hand. She noticed that her fingernails were blue with cold. He ears strained out into the dark.
Closer. Closer.
With a snarl of desperation Maeve launched herself from the hollow tree and came face to face with her attacker. His helmet was off and for a moment the ugly face that looked at her was shocked. Then it settled back into a killer’s purpose and he raised his gun.
Maeve swung her arm and smashed his cheekbone with the rock. The attacker dropped his pistol and stumbled across the hollow, one foot slipping into the icy brook. He held his swollen face and glared up at her in pain and malice. Maeve ran forward and bludgeoned him again with the rock but his leather clad arm was up to protect himself.
Maeve felt a sickening thud as he punched her in the stomach and she doubled over. Her rock fell into the river. The man was up and spitting blood and broken teeth from his mouth. Maeve tottered back and landed on her backside. She just couldn’t get air into her lungs.
The assailant drew a hunting knife from his belt and crouched low, edging towards her. Maeve took in a breath with a gasp and got to her feet. He slashed at her, cutting through the leather of her jacket and a few milometers into the flesh of her forearm.
It was enough.
Maeve stifled the scream in her throat so as not to attract the other attacker but now the fear of the blade was crippling her.
The attacker spoke to her in a husky voice wet with blood.
“I love taking girls up into the woods.”
Maeve felt a branch roll beneath her boot and never taking her eyes from the attacker reached down and picked it up. The next time he slashed at her she swung it and caught the blade hand with a lucky hit. The man drew breath and dropped the knife and Maeve knew this was her only chance to live.
She swung again and the attacker blocked but the blow broke his arm. He staggered back and Maeve thrust the branch like a spear and felt it puncture the soft exposed flesh of his throat.
He fell back clutching his neck and tottered knee deep in the river as dark blood pumped beneath his fingers. He looked at her in shock and disbelief and then sat down in the river up to his waist. His eyes bulged and he choked and then his head lolled and he sat still with the water flowing pink around him.
Maeve stood shaking with the branch still in her hands. She dropped it and then knelt down and picked up the assailant’s hunting knife and flattened herself against the muddy hollow as she heard the second man approach.
She was determined to live but was not sure she would get lucky a second time.
Suddenly Maeve looked up and saw that the other attacker had stalked around the hollow and stood at its lip across from her with his weapon pointing at her chest.
Maeve cursed for not guessing his direction of approach but it didn’t matter now. She gripped the knife tight and prepared to launch herself at him. Maeve was unsure how good a shot he was or how many rounds she could take before she fell but she braced herself for the impact.
A few flakes of snow drifted down upon them as they stood there, hunter and hunted.
Maeve started as a spike burst through the man’s forehead and he stood there with his eyes rolling upwards as if to see what had happened. Then he crumpled down into the hollow and lay in front of her, twitching.
Maeve did not understand. She slowly stood up and then tensed as she saw the muzzle of a huge carvenwolf poke over the lip of the hollow followed by a massive set of shaggy shoulders. It growled low and stared at her with its orange eyes. Maeve held up the knife and braced herself.
Then she heard a gruff male voice call from behind it.
“Easy Sasha. Heel, girl. To me.”
A burly man in thick black furs loped up to the edge of the hollow. His massive red beard was braided and tucked into his belt. A shotgun was strapped to his hip and a crossbow propped across his elbow.
“Inspector Scurlock?”
Maeve nodded vacantly.
“Yes.”
Big square toothed grin under the beard.
“Got sent out into this sector to look for ya. Heard there was some unsavory sorts abroad. Looks like my timing’s a little off.”
Maeve noticed the man’s belt buckle glimmer in the moonlight and saw the crest of the Free Rangers.
Maeve had never been so glad to see another warden.
She sat down in the mossy hollow and let herself shiver.
“No constable. Your timing is spot on.”
Maeve leaned forwa
rd and gave the corpse a cursory investigation. Upon rolling up his sleeve she saw what she had feared. It was the symbol of a sorcerer’s acolyte. She knew the symbol well from her recent visit to Candlehill.
“Councilor Michael Crawl.”
By the Spark. I think Crawl is a demonologist!
24
THE VIGILANTE’S TALE PART 8
John Gaunt opened his eyes and all the pain of the world flooded in.
The stench of his feverish sweat assailed his nostrils. The spice of cinnamon and sandalwood incense masking it like a rich fug. Beneath that was a scent that was familiar to him from home. The charged lightning smell of sorcery hung in the air like static waiting for a spark.
He propped himself up on his elbows and the hammers started in his brain. His bloodshot eyes narrowed against the many candles adorning the alcoves round him. Even the soft yellow light of their flames were like tethered suns that seared his mind. It had been some time since he felt anything like this.
It felt like a hangover.
A reedy voice came from the shadows of the chamber.
“You’re wondering why you feel like you have the worst hangover of your life.”
Gaunt sat up a little but the nausea hit him and he could move no further for fear of vomiting. When he spoke his voice was dry and cracked.
“I’m wondering why I can feel anything at all. I fully expected to have drawn my last breath already.”
The voice gave a throaty whir.
“You almost did. In fact I caught it in the air as it left you. And I bottled it. It is rich with remorse, and bitterness, and it almost frosted the glass with its anger.”
Gaunt strained his eyes into the shadows of the chamber. The vague figure was tall and incredibly slim. In the candlelight Gaunt saw the fringes of a white feathered cloak. He glanced around the room. It was carved from solid rock and very little was in it apart from the plinth he lay on and the stubs of many candles. It felt like a shrine or a tomb. For a moment he wondered if he had actually died.
“I dreamt of you. You carried me through dark alleys. To…here…wherever this is.”
SMOKE AND BLADES Page 17