Maledictions

by Graham McNeill et al.

  Because it wasn’t about pride or principle. It was about the Emperor. It was about the Imperium and those who opposed it. All about holding the line.

  And its enemies had lost another battle here today.

  ‘This is a kindness.’

  His eyes opened, as her voice rustled above him and around him, like leaves on the wind. Panicked, he flailed, searching. But she wasn’t there.

  For an instant, he thought it was over. That he’d made it. Then, like the splash of something far away, but drawing steadily closer, her voice echoed through the tunnel again.

  ‘This is a kindness.’

  Her words reverberated through him and he knew that it would never be over. Could never be over until she had what she wanted.

  So Padmar Tooms rose, gasping. As he had every time before, and would, until she was satisfied. He could feel her touch all over him. All around him, and in him. He felt it deep in the meat of him, like a hook in his belly, pulling him up when he just wanted to fall and sink. The water lashed up against him, colder than cold, and hard. Stones made rough messes of his palms and face as he swayed from one side of the passage to the other, and the dark and the light went around and around until he couldn’t tell which side was up and which was down.

  Every time he fell, there she was.

  ‘This is a kindness.’ That was what she’d said. That was what she always said, in a voice like falling rain and cracking ice.

  Tooms fell again, heavy and full. Her kindness moved in him, readying itself. His stomach clenched, his bowels knotting up, and he rolled onto his back in the water, hands pressed to his mouth. Trying to keep it all in. His head jerked back, struck the stones.

  Jostling the past loose from the present.

  Tooms stopped, and lifted a fist.

  In the darkness somewhere ahead, something heavy moved through the water. The sound grew louder. As if whatever it was, was coming closer.

  Behind him, the other underjacks came to a halt. Five of them in all, counting him, the stories of their lives etched on scarred faces and darting glances. Not long stories, by any stretch. But familiar ones, to a man like Tooms.

  They traversed the narrow tunnel single file, walking carefully through the knee-deep water. There were paths to either side of the stream, but only a fool trusted those, unless he had no other choice. The soup was slippery and smelly, but it wouldn’t crumble unexpectedly beneath your feet. Tooms glanced at the man behind him. ‘Cover the lantern, Skam.’

  Skam, a narrow-faced Aqshian with hair the colour of damp ashes, quickly hooded the lantern he held, casting the sewer tunnel into darkness. The Aqshian hefted the fyresteel hand-axe he held, his dark eyes narrowed above the handkerchief he wore about his mouth and nose. ‘Want me to look?’ he whispered, his voice muffled and hoarse.

  Tooms waved him to silence. No reason to cause a fuss, if they didn’t have to. That was rule number one for an underjack. Or it had been, in Tooms’ day. Things had changed, of late. Greywater Fastness wasn’t what it had been, but then, neither was Tooms.

  He was old now. Maybe the oldest underjack left in the city, if Agert were dead. He’d never been a soldier, but he’d fought in wars aplenty, down in the deep dark. He wore battered leathers, and waterproof boots. His knives hung within easy reach, and a heavy, iron-headed truncheon slapped reassuringly against his thigh. Swords were almost useless down here. No room to draw one, let alone swing it, in most passages. Only a fool carried a sword.

  Proper underjacks knew that. Had known that. They’d known what it meant, to work down below. That it was an honour, not a punishment. Times had changed and not for the better. Once, men had fought for the right to patrol the soup. Now, that duty went to the last chancers and the no-hopers. Once, only the best had gone down into the depths, and people had cheered when they’d returned. But now, no one cared if they came back at all.

  Except this time. This time, Agert was gone. And if Agert was gone, something truly bad had happened. Even them above, who never set foot down here, knew that. Too many had disappeared of late. Too many had gone into the dark, never to be seen again.

  The splashing continued, as whatever it was slid on by, on its way to wherever it wanted to go. In the dark, every sound was magnified. Every intake of breath, a roar. Every splash, a tidal wave. And beneath it all, the steady murmur of the water.

  When the sound of splashing faded, Tooms said, ‘The lantern.’ The lantern was duardin-made, and the oil would burn forever, if properly tended. Even the deepest shadows were no match for its glare.

  Light flared. Around Tooms, stone walls stretched into the dark, their lines broken by ornate archways and alcoves that shaped the water’s flow. The stones had been worn smooth by a century of water, and soft, green things grew across the walls – the only green in the city that he knew of. Buttresses held up the ceilings, their surfaces carved to resemble the stern face of what he assumed was some god or spirit of the duardin. As the light of the lantern swelled, they seemed to scowl.

  Above, the streets were narrow trickles of stone and metal, winding their way through the city. But down here, the streets were rivers, and Tooms knew them all. Maybe he was the last man who did. That was why he was here. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘What was that?’ one of the others – Huxyl, the Chamonian – whispered, his fingers tight about the haft of his own truncheon. Huxyl was short and dark, and wore a bit of obsidian, carved to look like a serpent, about his neck. He whispered to it, sometimes, when he thought no one was watching.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Tooms didn’t look back.

  ‘I can still hear it,’ Huxyl said, clutching his amulet.

  ‘Just echoes,’ Tooms said.

  ‘Sounds big,’ Huxyl insisted.

  ‘Troggoth, maybe.’ That was Guld. Big Guld, with hands like spades and a face that had been broken so many times that it no longer hung quite right. Guld had been born in Ghyran, but claimed to be from Azyr. He even tried to put on the accent. Tooms, who had been born in Azyr, found it irritating, but said nothing. Just like he said nothing about the sword Guld carried, even though the big man ought to have known better. Then, Guld wasn’t a proper underjack. None of them were. Not like Agert. Not like Tooms.

  ‘I heard there were whole packs of them, down this deep,’ Huxyl added, nervously. ‘Think that’s what Agert was looking for?’

  Guld spat. ‘Maybe. Not like troggoths to leave no sign though.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Tooms said, again. More firmly, this time. Curiosity got you dead in the deep dark. You started to wonder, and then you started to fear, and then the dark took you, because you were too busy searching the shadows instead of paying attention. ‘We keep moving. Cathedral Hill is a day’s walk from here. Let’s go.’

  ‘Never been this deep before,’ Huxyl muttered, as they started forward again, still walking in a loose single file. Tooms glanced back every so often, keeping them all in sight. You had to look in every direction at once, down here. ‘Smells strange.’

  ‘Clean, you mean,’ Guld said. ‘Ever known a troggoth to leave things smelling clean?’

  Tooms sniffed the air. They were right. Where was the slightly acrid odour of human waste and ash, the hot tang of a city’s effluvia? It smelled like a forest. But Greywater Fastness was far from any forest. The blasted mire that surrounded the city was barren and flat, thanks to the cannons of the Ironweld, and the pyre-gangs who burned back the vegetation. And oh, the trees didn’t like that, did they? Nor what lived in them.

  A chill ran through him, at the thought. He wondered if they had anything to do with Agert’s disappearance. He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

  Underjacks had a job, and they did it. At least they had. These days, they didn’t seem to do much at all. They hid in the substations – the outposts that hugged the city’s great sluice-gates – and pretended to patrol, bef
ore tramping aboveground to waste their pay in brothels and dreamweed dens.

  And now Agert was dead. No. Not dead. Missing. And not just him. Poor folk from the rookeries, and canal-men. Hundreds, even. A drop in the bucket, in a city of teeming millions. Agert had seen that something was wrong, and now Tooms saw it too. Someone had to deal with the problem. That was what underjacks did. They dealt with problems no one else could deal with.

  ‘We should have found some sign of them by now,’ Guld said, as if reading his mind. ‘It’s been almost three days. Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Tooms said. Agert would have walked against the current, from the Old Fen Gate to Cathedral Hill. That had been his weekly route since before Tooms had first come down into the soup, and only a fool deviated from his route down here.

  ‘How do you know?’ Guld pressed. Guld liked to push. Liked to argue and bully. Tooms knew his type. Knew, too, that he’d eventually crack, in the dark. ‘How do you know we’re going in the right direction?’

  In reply, Tooms gestured to the water. Moving south, away from Cathedral Hill and the great cistern there, down towards the canals. ‘Because that’s where the water circulates from.’ Tooms turned and pointed upwards. ‘It pours down from the sluice-gates and fills the deep cisterns, before being circulated back through these tunnels and into the canals.’ He paused. ‘You’d know that if you were a proper underjack.’

  Guld shook his head. ‘Water doesn’t always flow the right way, down here, these days.’

  ‘It’d be flowing right if you’d done your jobs,’ Tooms said, not looking at him. Underjacks were meant to maintain the tunnels, as well as keep them clear of vermin. That was why they patrolled, looking for signs of weakness in the city’s roots. ‘Instead of hiding in your substations, and pretending the rest of it didn’t exist.’

  ‘We guarded the Old Fen Gate, that’s our job. Agert had no right, taking Samon and the others out into the dark. That’s not procedure…’

  Before Tooms could reply, someone changed the subject. ‘Have you noticed there’s no rats?’ A young voice. Thin. Dayla, another Ghyranite. ‘Usually, there’s rats.’

  ‘What?’ Tooms asked, looking at her. Vine-like tattoos marked her skin, and one of her eyes was the colour of milk. She wore a frayed uniform of ochre and grey, and carried a short-barrelled handgun, the stock cut down. Tooms had laughed, the first time he saw it. The only thing more useless than a sword down here was a handgun.

  ‘No rats,’ she repeated. ‘No little grey squeakers, no big black creepers. Agert said…’ She trailed off, uncertainly.

  Tooms frowned. There were always rats, down deep. Wherever men went, there were rats. When the rats left, it meant something was wrong. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he’d been seeing fewer of them. Like something was eating them. Like maybe whatever was taking people took the rats first.’

  Tooms grinned mirthlessly. Guld and the others traded glances. They were scared. They were right to be. But when in doubt, it was best to keep moving. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Keep moving.’

  ‘Round and round, up and down. Whatever you do, keep moving.’

  Agert’s voice, echoing in his head.

  ‘Agert,’ Tooms moaned, dragging himself – being dragged – along the passage. Where was Agert? Had he found him? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything. Hadn’t he been in the water? When had he gotten to his feet?

  ‘This is a kindness.’

  Her voice echoed in the spaces between the silences, drowning out Agert’s. Or maybe just in his head. His head hurt. Like it was full of broken stones, all pressing against one another. What was she talking about? What kindness? There was no kindness, here. Just the dark, and the water.

  He clutched his stomach, feeling as if he were about to split open. Soft things moved beneath his skin and he tried to laugh, only it came out as a high-pitched whine. He’d heard a dog whine like that once, just before the rats had got it.

  But there were no rats. No noise. It was quiet, but for the murmur of the water, leading him on. Leading him up and down, round and round.

  ‘This is a kindness. Do you see? It will be better, this way.’

  Tooms slipped. Fell. Water surged up to draw him down, like the arms of a lover. He forced himself back up – no, was drawn up, ripped up, torn loose and set adrift. Momentum carried him against the wall, and he felt softness under his battered hands.

  The walls around him were slick with it, climbing and creeping, floating on the water. Soft, soft. A vibrant patina of mould. Puffballs that had once been rats burst quietly at his touch, and hazy spores danced on the wet air, riding the currents upwards and downwards through the city’s depths. He felt them alight on him, and he shoved away from the wall, keening. Feeling the things inside him respond to their touch.

  Something wet on his face. Not water. His vision blurred, and bled. The air and the water were one, tied together by a storm of spores, circling him.

  Round and round.

  Anemone-like filaments waved lazily in the wet air.

  Glistening undulations the colour of sunset clumped and hugged the walls, spreading upwards and outwards. An extravagance of toadstools encrusted the dour faces of the duardin gods who stood sentry over the nearest archway. In the lantern light, it almost looked as if the toadstools were twitching.

  Tooms shook his head. It had never been this bad, in his day. You always got some mould down here, of course. That was only to be expected. A bit of black, creeping on the dampest stones, but nothing like this. Nothing like sour patches of mould, floating on the surface of the water, riding the currents until they bumped against something solid.

  ‘Things shouldn’t be growing down here,’ Dayla said. ‘Not like this.’

  ‘It wasn’t here last time,’ Guld muttered, as he lifted one of the fungal caps with the blade of his sword. A rat’s carcass, half-gummed up in the mould, flopped down into the water, startling him, and he cursed.

  ‘How do you know?’ Tooms said. He watched the rat sink. Its body was heavy with a thick encrustation, and from within its black hair, vibrant yellow filaments extended. His skin crawled at the thought. Had the rat been alive when the mould had taken root?

  Guld looked at him. ‘Agert would have reported it.’

  ‘Agert’s gone.’ Tooms’ words hung on the air for a moment. The fungus on the walls, soft and fleshy, seemed to pulse in time to the echo. He and Agert were two of the last. Two of the oldest, who’d seen the city grow past the Old Fen Gate. Seen troggoths crawl out of the canals, and worse things burrow up through the dark.

  He looked down at the water. It pulled at his legs, flowing past him, just like it always had. That meant they were going in the right direction. There were waterfalls in the deep places, spilling thunderously down into the great duardin-crafted cisterns. The cisterns were artificial lakes, filling high-vaulted chambers larger and more magnificent than any cathedral. There was a world down here, unseen by most and forgotten by the rest. Only underjacks like Tooms knew it. Or they had, once.

  Things were different now. Things had changed. Things were always changing.

  ‘It goes on forever,’ Skam said, then, lifting the lantern. ‘Like the jungles of home.’ In the light, the fungus seemed to quiver and twist, as if trying to reach out. For a moment, Tooms had the impression that there was a face there, amid the sagging, flabby folds. Then it was gone, and he was left wondering why it had seemed so familiar.

  Huxyl yelped. Tooms spun, reaching for his truncheon. The Chamonian splashed back from the wall, cursing. Shouting. ‘Look. Look!’

  In the lantern light, something grinned. Skam stepped closer to the wall, and Tooms brushed aside a lump of mould with his truncheon. The skull of a man stared at them, with sockets full of feathery strands of yellowish mould. Crumbling
bones, wrapped in rags that might once have been clothing, sank into the mould beneath it. The rest of the skeleton was missing, carried away by the current.

  ‘Like they sat down and died,’ Dayla said, her voice hoarse. She muttered something, in the heathen Ghyranite tongue. It sounded almost like a prayer. ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s not our place.’

  ‘She’s right, we should go back,’ Huxyl said. ‘Right now. We should report this.’

  ‘We don’t go back until we find them,’ Tooms said. ‘We press on.’

  Guld shook his head. ‘This is stupid.’ He glanced at Dayla, and Tooms thought there was an understanding between them. As if they knew something he and the others didn’t. ‘We shouldn’t even be down here. Nothing good comes out of going this deep.’

  Tooms looked at him. ‘Why are you complaining, boy? You volunteered.’ He swept his gaze from one to the other. The oldest was still a decade younger than him. Too young to remember how it had worked, or to know the secret knowledge – the routes through the darkness. Too young to know the things Tooms and Agert knew. ‘You all volunteered.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Huxyl protested.

  ‘You got volunteered, same thing,’ Tooms said. ‘While we’re down here, you follow my lead. You do as I say, or I’ll let the rats have you.’

  ‘Only there’s no rats,’ Dayla said, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘There’s something,’ Skam said, quietly. He held the lantern up, washing the shadows from the nearest archway. ‘I can hear it. Listen.’

  Tooms heard nothing. But Skam did. There was a look on his face Tooms didn’t like. As if he were half-asleep, and dreaming. ‘What does it sound like?’ Dayla asked, and there was something in her voice that caught Tooms’ attention. She glanced around, nervously, and Tooms wondered what she was thinking. Whatever it was, Guld seemed to share her misgivings. He gripped the hilt of his sword tight, his face pale.