SMOKE AND BLADES

by D Elias Jenkins

  The world with all its grief and pain suddenly seemed a warm comforting womb compared to the prospect of taking a step off the edge of the reality he knew.

  He squinted and turned his head to the mist priest, who was chanting beneath his breath and lost in a spell. Gaunt called across, struggling to be heard over the howling ethereal gale.

  “So whaddya know about this place Rag-Time? Is it the afterlife? Am I gonna be running into any deities over there? Cos I’m not great with authority.”

  Rak-Tan Dang opened one beady eye and stared across at him. He smiled, showing his little bird teeth but they were still gritted in concentration.

  “No John, it’s not the next place. This place is a buildup of flotsam and jetsam that’s become an established settlement for the ethereal.”

  The concept sounded familiar, like an old story he couldn’t recall reading.

  Gaunt felt the sweat break out on his forehead. His nostrils were filled with the crackling scent of thaumaturgy and his nasal hair felt as if it was burning.

  The sparse meditation chamber of the mist priest was only down two flights of winding stone steps from the terrace where they had breakfasted that morning yet Gaunt felt the claustrophobia descend and the cold carved walls close in. He glanced askance at the widening portal.

  For a second Rak-Tan Dang lost his concentration and the Slip began to fold. He stretched out a wing and chanted his mantra and it slowly stabilized. Gaunt had a horrible sinking feeling as he realized how unstable the way in, and subsequently the way back, really was.

  “You done this before, Rag-Time? Right?”

  The priest caught Gaunt’s eye then looked away.

  “I’ve studied the theory extensively. We have a great many books on the subject here in the temple library.”

  Gaunt shouted louder than necessary over the wind.

  “But you’ve never actually been across?”

  Rak-Tan Dang gave a tiny shrug on his feathered cloak.

  “Astrally yes, many times. Physically? No. It’s forbidden within my order.”

  Gaunt had been sent on several suicide missions during his days as a soldier. A very particular feeling always settled upon him when he was listening to the generals describing the mission brief and it became apparent he was not expected to return. He was getting that old feeling again.

  “Forbidden? And why is that, Rag-Time?”

  Rak-Tan Dang focused on maintaining the Slip and did not meet Gaunt’s eye.

  “Because it is regarded as too dangerous.”

  Gaunt felt a sense of inevitability settle on his shoulders. He realized that he didn’t want to end up back in Madame Bonekeeper’s mistmarket, choking on his own vomit. If he was going to die he would do it on mission, for a purpose. It was the difference between dying for something and dying for nothing.

  If there was the slightest chance of spending one more second with Izzy he’d tear the whole place apart.

  “So where do I find this weapon we need? And where do I find my wife?”

  Rak-Tan Dang creased his brow and nodded to Gaunt’s hand.

  “Your wife will be drawn to you because of the wedding ring you wear. It will be like a beacon in the dark to her. The jade statue is hidden in plain sight. But it will not be unguarded.”

  Gaunt gritted his teeth and looked deep into the light.

  “I’ll fight whatever I need to fight.”

  The mist priest nodded with certainty.

  “For thousands of years every entity, ghost, demon or angel that traversed the link between this plane and that has passed the settlement. It has become a trading post, a frontier settlement between worlds. The very fact that your wife has been able to meet you in your dreams means that this is where she is calling from. If she was further, she would be lost to you.”

  Rak-Tan Dang looked slowly from Gaunt to the shuddering rip in reality. The wind howled out from the gash, specks of grey dust blew from it across the floor.

  “Are you ready?”

  Gaunt checked his gear, his weapons and his courage one final time.

  “Nope.”

  Then he stole himself and walked into the land of death.

  28

  The Vigilante slid through the crowds of St Crafton’s square.

  Seeking his prey.

  No easy task in an area of the city where everyone wore a mask.

  In the mind of the Vigilante, it was perfect. He could carry out his mission and merge effortlessly back in amongst the carnival goers. He was just one more strange masked man amongst many.

  The St Crafton’s Day carnival was a religious festival marking the end of a month’s fasting amongst the Steliope immigrants of Free Reign. It was a weekend of brightly coloured costumes representing various archetypal theatrical and folklore characters, secret romantic trysts that would be forbidden the rest of the year, and a particular kind of honeyed cake that almost everyone in Free Reign craved. The Warrelwall canal district was a tightly packed maze of cloudy waterways, floating markets and live music cafes that drew artists and bohemians from across the city.

  His target was a well-known courier for the criminal underworld called Martyn Frattetta. Fat, sweaty and beady eyed, his hurried waddle was easy to track even in his pig costume. The other thing that marked him out as having a darker purpose in the Warrelwall district was his protection detail. An eight foot air elemental that lurked by his side like a moody storm cloud. It was bound in plates of meteoric iron that steamed and clunked. Its eyes crackled with deep lightning as it scanned the crowd for threats.

  Martyn Frattetta thought he was safe. He had the blessing of the criminal families and an undaunted bodyguard by his side.

  He was wrong.

  The Vigilante slipped a hand under his cloak and rested it on the hilt of his crow-pick.

  He stood on the steps of the Temple of Arnos, a gaunt black bird, surveying the carnival goers as they passed.

  Women of all shapes and sizes sporting demure black velvet masks giggled and waved themselves with fans. Packs of masked men encircled them and wafted them with flattery.

  High above, tethered to the temple spire, a huge airship floated. It was painted in bright yellows and blues and hung with fluttering little flags. Floodlights from the temple roof illuminated it in the night sky. In its wide gondola sat a string orchestra of twenty musicians, playing popular pieces to the crowd below. The music floated down on resonance cables to thrum amongst the party.

  The Vigilante had always liked this festival in his old life.

  Even through the mask he could smell the rich decadence of Warrelwall. Suddenly the Vigilante saw that his target was on the move. He prepared himself to follow.

  A bright green flash lit up the sky behind the tethered airship.

  It fanned out like a verdant tree, bathing the crowd in its jade light.

  The assembled turned and let out a collective sigh of appreciation as the fireworks ignited above them.

  Caught in that same light, the Vigilante suddenly realized that the fat pig mask of Martyn Frattetta had turned towards him.

  They both stood there frozen as the green sparks landed like poisoned snow on the cobbles around them.

  He knows.

  Suddenly the quarry bolted, making for one of the narrow side streets leading off the square. His bodyguard skimmed the cobbles behind him.

  The Vigilante launched after him, his black overcoat trailing behind. Weaving through feathered partygoers like a dark eel, he tried to keep the quarry in his sights.

  Beneath the mask, his face was set in grim determination. He ran deeper into the city, the crowds thinning, the noise of laughter and fireworks dimming in the close quarters.

  He turned a corner in time to see his target slipping down another alleyway.

  Running through it, he stepped out into in intersection of canals, spanned by two crossing bridges, forming an X.

  He had lost his target.

  Stepping out into the centre of the br
idges, he looked at the three possible exits. At his feet, one of Warrelwall’s many cats was rubbing against his overcoat. He sensed something was wrong.

  The cat at his feet did too. It hissed in the direction of one of the dark alleyways.

  From within the shadows a figure stepped.

  The portly figure of Frattetta stood on the other side of the bridge. Beneath the porcine snout the mouth was curved in a mocking grin. Behind the courier, the air elemental strobed with inner lightning as it gathered its power.

  A trap.

  The muffled voice came from the pig mask.

  “Did you think I would be without protection? Did you think we haven’t all been warned about you by now? Your element of surprise is long past.”

  The man removed his mask. Beneath it the face was podgy and officious, and scared, despite his bodyguard.

  The Vigilante stood motionless. Then he made a series of small gestures with his hand as if praying. Behind him a figure rose from the bridge. Its raggedy form blew in an ethereal breeze and the bladed fingers flexed as if waking from sleep. The Wraith.

  Frattetta took an involuntary step back and held the case closer to his chest. Then he took a deep wheezing breath and drew his curved sword.

  “I had wondered if that part might have just been a myth.”

  He desperately urged his bodyguard on.

  “Go on, kill him!”

  The Vigilante took a step back, drawing his war pick in one hand. In the other he drew a long bladed knife.

  Above them another explosion of fireworks erupted, this time as red as blood. The Wraith and the elemental floated on cloudy feet above the bridge, sorcery crackling the stone beneath them.

  As the night turned scarlet, the two ethereal creatures charged at one another.

  They struck with a release of energy so powerful that it knocked both the Vigilante and Frattetta off their feet. Frattetta landed on the cobbles before his side of the bridge but the Vigilante was nearly thrown over the handrail. He cracked a hip against the stone and dug his fingers in to avoid ending up in the murky water. When he regained his senses the two thaumaturgic entities were fighting with a ferocity no living thing could match. Slivers of meteoric iron were sheared off in a shower of sparks as the Wraith’s deadly blades rang from it in a flurry of blows. The elemental crackled with lightning fists of stormy air and pummeled the Wraith, sending rags of its form fluttering off into the night.

  As the Vigilante got to his feet he was surprised to see the fat courier running at him with sword held high, with a dexterity that utterly belied his tubby frame.

  The Vigilante parried with his knife as the blade came down sending another shower of sparks off into the night to rival the fireworks above. The sweating courier was grunting and huffing as he brought down his blade but there was clearly muscle beneath the crackling. The Vigilante slid out from beneath the attack and Fratteta’s blade clunked down on the stone handrail. He gritted his teeth in pain and the Vigilante brought the hammer side of his pick up into the man’s bulging guts. Frattetta doubled over and exhaled just as a knee came up and burst his nose. He spurted out blood in a sneeze of shock and then fell back like an upturned turtle. The Vigilante stepped on his sword hand until the fingers turned purple. Beside them the Wraith was delivering the final blows to the elemental. It reared up in a final defiant maelstrom and then its inner storm quelled and the remaining armour plates clanged to the ground as it vanished.

  The fireworks blossomed in the sky above them again.

  The Vigilante stood there on the bridge, breathing heavily and leaning on the handrail for support. His hip felt stiff and ached from the fall. He looked down at the courier with his green eyes.

  The fat courier’s faced showed fear, but now also a resignation that he would not escape. In a quiet voice he spoke.

  “Now I understand why everyone is in hiding.”

  Gaunt shook his head.

  “No, you don’t. Not yet.”

  Frattetta sat up against the handrail and daubed his broken nose with a silk handkerchief.

  “You’re not the first to try to take down Jonas Reach you know. There are a lot of people in the depths of these very canals that have gone before you. Swimming with their eyes open and wondering why anger didn’t take them all the way.”

  Gaunt took a step towards the man and put a boot on his chest.

  “I’m not angry. Not with you.”

  Frattetta smiled up at him.

  “If that’s the case perhaps we could come to some deal? In this case is over forty thousand Florreks. Protection money to the Fallen from Reach. Protection from you. I’m supposed to be meeting him.”

  The Vigilante cocked his raptor head.

  “I know you are. I’ve heard everything. Every bargaining chip, bribe, and plea for understanding there is. It won’t do you any good.”

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “No? I hear money isn’t the only thing you’ve been couriering across to Fallen Willow.”

  Nervous darting eyes could not look up at the Vigilante.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The boot pressed in harder.

  “The girls you’ve been transporting over for Rammiel Emberdark?”

  The Vigilante now had his blade to the other man’s throat.

  “I…I didn’t touch them…didn’t interfere with them in any way. It was just delivering packages.”

  The Vigilante took a breath and prepared himself for the killing stroke.

  “Packages? They were girls. Someone’s daughter.”

  The target actually began to laugh, softly under his rasping terrified breath.

  “Not to Emberdark. His little gang of fanatics aren’t as temperate as the rest of the Fallen.”

  The Vigilante stood quite still, his blade drawing a tiny streak of blood from the man’s fat neck.

  “You couldn’t show your face in Fallen Willow with a prisoner in tow. They’d have flayed you. So you have another way in. A secret meeting place. Where is it?”

  I can’t tell you that. My reputation. You know what kind of man Reach is? He won’t forgive. You know what he’ll do to me.”

  Another firework exploded in the sky above them, bringing a moment of daylight. Gaunt could see madness in the eyes of Frattetta. He would say anything to live.

  “It’s alright. You won’t feel a thing. You’ll be cured long before he can touch you. I’ll help with that.”

  The Wraith closed in behind, it’s terrifying fingers dripping with elemental essence.

  Gaunt pressed the blade harder into the man’s throat. Frattetta looked up at him.

  “You’re quite mad, you do know that, don’t you? You’ve been consorting with ghosts too long.”

  Gaunt drew blood on the man’s collar.

  “I won’t ask again.”

  The man’s shoulder’s sagged.

  “Take the vaporetto to the southern tip of the Isola di Lament.”

  Gaunt peered hard into the man’s eyes.

  “The Doldrums? The Old Reign cemetery is there. It’s a ruin.”

  The fat courier smiled bitterly.

  “The Fallen don’t bury their dead and they don’t age like us. So it’s a quiet spot just outside Fallen Willow to meet. The large white sepulcher as you enter. That’s where to go. Emberdark’s little band have their fun there.”

  The man laughed a long wheezing laugh. His breath was fetid.

  “With the entertainment you provide.”

  Frattetta looked up at the Vigilante and gave a tiny nod. He gulped against the blade at his neck.

  The Vigilante held his hair and ran his blade slowly across the man’s throat.

  Fratteta’s eyes widened and he clutched at the smiling gash. He fell back and his legs kicked out.

  Next to him a cat began casually lapping up the blood.

  The Vigilante stayed until the twitching had stopped, then threw the man’s body into the canal.

  He pic
ked up the case filled with money and made his way back through the twisting streets of Warrelwall. Around him, people laughed and drank, seduced and sang.

  The Vigilante remained silent and grim as he made his way to the harbour platform to catch the late vaporetto across the Skanda Lake to Fallen Willow. As he walked along the pier he threw the case of money into the water.

  29

  THE VIGILANTE’S TALE PART 10

  Gaunt stood on the road as bone-dust blew around him.

  He wasn’t too sure how he got here but he knew he had something very important to do. Damned if he could remember what it was.

  A wizard sent him here, he knew that much.

  Smoke usually helps.

  Gaunt rested his rifle barrel over his shoulder and dipped the other hand into his baccy pouch. He expertly drew out a rillo paper twixt two fingers and a pinch of leaf, then he absent mindedly rolled and licked as he peered down the road.

  The sandstorm, which he knew from its first dry taste was the powdered dead, swirled and churned before him. Gaunt had been caught in many maelstroms during his military career.

  Sand usually blows same way as the wind though. I must be a heck of a long way from Free Reign.

  Gaunt struck a match that flared a silver white instead of burnt yellow. For an instant he drew his face back shocked, then curious, as he saw that the flame also didn’t blow in the howling wind around him. He shrugged and lit his rillo.

  Start asking too many questions and you’ll drive yourself nuts. Maybe I’m meeting someone here. Sure looks like a crossroads.

  Gaunt looked up at the signpost he stood next to but it was obscured in the swirling dust. He glanced left and right at the converging paths he stood on. No visibility more than a few metres in any direction.

  X marks the spot. Let’s just stay here for a time.

  As he stood and smoked, Gaunt experienced that odd suppressed giggly feeling as if he knew he was doing something silly but couldn’t place what it was. He had seen hypnotism shows in the theatre district of Free Reign. Otherwise somber citizens walking about the stage like chickens, half aware they were making asses of themselves but unable to think of a good enough reason to sit down. He wanted to sit down. Just park his arse there in the dusty road and sleep. He could smoke and sleep until he turned into one of those ash people that get found after volcanos erupt. After a time he’d just crumble and blow away. He felt himself collapse back onto his rump with a puff of dust.