As Layla slipped away into the shadows I searched the ground in vain for any sign of the smoke that had fallen from my lips during the fights. A quick search through my pockets for any other wayward smokes that might be hiding turned up empty. I cursed and savagely kicked Alvarda’s corpse, then turned the collar of my coat up and stuck my hands deep into my pockets, waiting there freezing my arse off while the wardens and their cart took a sodding age to arrive.
CHAPTER 5
Shadea’s workshop was built into the very foundations of the Collegiate. Her macabre collection of specimens was squeezed into a sprawling series of arched tunnels and vaulted chambers dimly lit by flickering wall crystals, where they still remained operational; Arcanum artificers were more concerned with reconstruction than replacing drained lighting in disused dungeons. Her research subjects floated in glass jars lining the walls: daemonic eyes and organs of creatures from the Far Realms sitting next to the twisted flesh of human magi who had given into the seductions of the Worm of Magic and let it change them. All were sorted by creature type and meticulously labelled in Shadea’s elegant script with date and circumstance of acquisition, then their name if they’d had one.
One empty jar in the corrupted magus section caused me to misstep. I stopped and stared at the jar labelled Convicted Tyrant: Edrin Walker. I snorted. “Stinking old hag, getting ahead of yourself there I think.” I’d always known she had her eyes on my bits and pieces.
The wardens carrying the chained bodies of the Scarrabus-infested magi glanced at the jar and then eyed me warily as they slipped past into the rooms used for dissection. I took a little diversion further up the tunnel to pay my respects, such as they were.
Most of the doors in this area were sealed with arcane locks and intricate wardings that nobody had dared to touch since Shadea’s sacrifice, but the one at the far end had been taken off its hinges and the doorway crudely widened with hammers. If the old woman could see what they had done to her chambers she would have flown into a rage. The room beyond was lit by an ornate candelabra holding fat, dripping candles, the flickering light drank up by a huge and ragged sphere of dark metal that trailed snaking tubes and fibrous shreds of steel muscle. What was left of Shadea was exactly where it belonged – amongst her precious research subjects as a thing to be taken apart and studied. We were not even sure if she was wholly dead inside the wreckage of the ancient war engine. It still fizzed with potent magic that burned against my Gift like hot iron.
I suffered mixed feelings every time I saw her like this. I had always hated her elitist arrogance and exacting tuition, her foul temper and venomous tongue. Still, she had sacrificed herself without hesitation to save us all.
“Stupid old woman,” I muttered. After a moment’s hesitation I pulled off my left glove and placed my hand on the black metal, tracing gouges left by the teeth and claws of the Magash Mora as it tried to tear her body from the titanic war engine powered by her Gifted blood sacrifice.
I shuddered. That dread name… that monstrous thing… Bile seared the back of my throat as memories seeped out like pus.
I forced them down and focused on the metal under my hand. It was cool but not cold, and my magically-enhanced senses felt a tiny but regular vibration, as if she but slept and snored softly within. But my Gift found no hint of living thought within her metal tomb.
“Thanks for what you did,” I said. “Of course, you lot had planned to sacrifice me to that titan first if you could, so a big fuck you for that. Still, as you suggested, I am trying to be something better than I was, to find another path. I have a purpose now, and in these mad times revenge is as good as any.” I patted it. “You were one hard old bitch, but you spoke a lot of sense.”
Soft footsteps approached and stopped in the doorway. The woman’s mind was cool and calm as the eldritch waters she summoned and controlled, and harboured just as much potential for raging destruction as storm-tossed winter waves.
“Hello Cillian,” I said, turning to face her. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles and her long curly hair had been left to roam free, devoid of her usual elegant circlets. Her fingers were ink-stained from writing unending orders and missives. She was a paper soldier in this war and I thought no less of her for it.
“Are you done insulting Shadea’s remains?” She was visibly still pissed off with me for letting her sleep.
“For now. But that’s between me and her.” I intertwined my fingers, cracking the knuckles. “As Shadea might say: we have business to attend to.” Then, not wanting to draw attention to what lay beneath my right glove, I slipped the other back on.
Her lips pressed tight but she said nothing and escorted me into the antechamber of the dissection chambers, to where Alvarda’s corpse was chained face down to a table ready for the knives. A bewildering array of polished tools hung from racks: blades and hooks, saws and spoons and wires and other things I had no names for. All had served some sort of macabre purpose in Shadea’s liver-spotted hands. Had the city not been attacked I might have ended up here myself. I dreaded to think what other horrors lurked in the large chest by the far wall.
As she led me through into the next room a strange dislocation washed over me. My Gift was cut off from the sea of magic. I felt heavier and a fog engulfed my senses. A Sanctor was here!
In the centre of the next room Rikkard Carse sat gagged and bound to a bulky steel chair bolted to the floor. His hands and legs were chained to the frame and a steel band secured his throat. A metal cage had been lowered over his head and locked in place. Secure as that was, you couldn’t be too careful with a magus, and so on a stool by the far wall sat an unwelcome and familiar face: the sanctor Martain, hero of Black Autumn, lauded by the High Houses and Arcanum for taking down the Magash Mora at Shadea’s side – ungrateful bastards the lot of them.
The magus-killer and I bore no love for each other, but once you’ve dived headfirst into carnage together to save your city you do acquire a certain grudging respect. We exchanged nods.
Cillian approached the captive young aeromancer and inspected the fastenings. “Has he tried to escape?”
Martain shook his head. “He has made no attempt to open his Gift nor has he uttered any coherent words.” He glanced at me. “What has been done to him?”
“That is none of your concern,” Cillian replied, backing away. “The Halcyon Order are sending a magus skilled with body magic to investigate the corpse in the next room. You will keep watch over Rikkard until we are ready to interrogate him. Do not get too close and keep your blade ready for anything unusual.”
Martain was no idiot. Given my unexpected presence he suspected at least some of what we were about. He stood and drew his sword. “As you wish, councillor.”
We retreated to the antechamber and closed the door behind us. Outside of the sanctor’s area of effect we both sighed in relief, loosing a tension that neither of us had been aware of.
I cricked my neck. “I will never get used to that.”
Cillian frowned at me. “Let us hope you never have to. You sail too close to rocks for comfort. You are lucky that I don’t order you kept under guard.”
We spent the next few minutes snipping and snapping at each other until Old Gerthan arrived. He leaned heavily on his cane, still dressed in his voluminous striped nightclothes and floppy cap, long out of fashion before I’d been born. His eyes were red and grainy and he looked distinctly unimpressed at the sight of me. “This had better be worth interrupting my sleep, boy.” He looked to Cillian. “Councillor, what causes you to haul me from my bed?”
I felt awful, particularly given it was me who sent him off for much-needed sleep in the first place!
“I do apologise, Gerthan,” Cillian said, “but I thought it best to keep the circle of knowledge as small as possible.” She waved a hand at the robed corpse chained to the table.
He shuffled past Cillian. Taking a look at the subject in question he shot an alarmed look at her. “Alvarda of House Kernas has been m
urdered? Or were you successful in your hunt?”
“Scarrabus infestation,” I supplied. “We have one host alive and one dead.”
He nodded, set his cane to one side and rolled up his sleeves. “Very well, then let us see what we can discover.” He held his hands over the corpse, a fingerbreadth from touching the cold flesh, and slowly worked his way up the body, muttering to himself, frowning and chewing on stray wisps of beard. When he reached a soft bulge at the top of the spine he hissed, and after a moment’s hesitation proceeded to scrutinise every inch of the skull.
While he was busy with his work I opened my Gift and sensed nothing from the creature. Still, even mundane animals were beyond my ken so that meant little.
When he stepped back he frowned in puzzlement and began stroking his beard. “Whatever manner of creature infests him is still alive. It does not appear to be daemonic in nature, or more accurately, it is not a denizen of any of the Far Realms we have yet documented. The creature interacts strangely with my magic, producing a sort of echo in the aether.” He met and held our gaze. “I would suggest disabling it now. The body of Alvarda Kernas is regenerating despite the arrow that minced his brain. We do not wish the parasite to regain movement.”
Cillian nodded and Old Gerthan picked a vicious sickle from the wall. He brought the point down through Alvarda’s skull, shearing through brain and bone and Scarrabus tendrils with unerring precision, and cut down to the soft bulge at the top of the spine.
He left the sickle embedded there, pinning the main body of the squealing, dying parasite to the table. Using tongs he cracked open the brain cavity and peered inside. I let him and Cillian get on with poking and prodding and chattering like a pair of fishwives in a gutting shack by the docks. I’d seen these bugs up close and personal and that was more than enough for me.
“You see these tendrils inside the skull?” Old Gerthan said. “They have burrowed into the base of the host’s brain. From the many head injuries I have dealt with I can say with some surety that this area controls emotion.” He buried a smaller set of tongs in the wound and tugged, making the creature squeal, though it seemed to be weakening. “Tendrils have spread from there deeper into the area that controls physical motion, and… ah yes, here – they are clustered at the front of the brain which is the seat of reason. This would be expected if these creatures control the minds of their hosts.”
He looked up at me. “Would you agree with that physical assessment, Magus Walker?”
I nodded. “I know that to be true, though the why and how of it escapes me.”
“As it does with us all,” he replied, looking back down into the wound.
Cillian chewed on her bottom lip. “And the nature of these creatures – do they breed or lay eggs? Is there some sort of queen? How do they feed?”
“Let us see what more can be gleaned.” He poked and prodded and pulled. “It seems to be connected directly into the body’s blood supply, feeding from the host. I can see no obvious sign of genitalia but that may need to wait for a more detailed investigation. If this does prove to be a sexless drone then yes, I would assume there to be some manner of queen birthing them.”
“Or they were created,” I added. “We know the Magash Mora was born through blood sorcery.”
That earned me a worried raised eyebrow from Cillian. Old Gerthan harrumphed, “Not impossible, but I detect none of the magical corruption that we sensed from that creature.”
“Are you done with your initial investigation?” Cillian asked. At his nod she scowled. “Kill it.”
I was glad when his knives split the creature from head to tail. As the Scarrabus died its final shriek made us all wince. The noise went beyond sound and made my teeth and Gift ache. There had been a hint of something that reminded me of my own magic…
“What was that?” Cillian asked.
Old Gerthan shook his head, looking most perturbed. He cut it from the host body, removing the remains with tongs held at arm’s length, and deposited it in a metal box which he then locked. “I will gather the Halcyon Order and we will have more answers for you soon. Is there anything else you require of me?”
She shook her head. “Not at the moment, Gerthan. I apologise for disrupting your sleep. I know how scarce a resource that is for you these days.”
He offered her a wan smile, and me a crafty wink. “For us all, Cillian.” He looked to me. “I wish you well with your interrogation Magus Walker.”
I inclined my head. “Good luck with yours, Councillor.” I wasn’t beyond using a bit of etiquette when it suited my purposes. I’d pissed off Cillian enough already and exhausted people made rash decisions. Besides, the old man was good people.
After he left, Cillian opened the large chest and unfurled a linen sheet to cover the body. It hadn’t even occurred to me to cover the remains of Alvarda Kernas. I didn’t really care if I was honest, what with him trying to kill me and all.
“Did you know him?” I asked. “Yes.”
She opened the door and we swapped rooms with Martain. Cillian entered first, and as I passed Martain his cold glare said everything he needed to. We had all lost loved ones to these horrors. I nodded and he stalked from the room. Martain knew my character well enough to realise that I would make it suffer. The shining hero of Black Autumn was darker than I’d given him credit for. Maybe there was hope for him yet.
The young magus was more awake and aware than I would have expected given the damage I’d done to his mind. His Gift was not strong enough to affect such swift recovery alone. Cillian removed his gag.
One side of his face twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Have you come to cut me from my vessel? Where is Old Gerthan and his cruel knives?”
Cillian and I exchanged glances. That door had been firmly shut. “How could you know that?” she demanded.
Rikkard – no, not Rikkard, that was the Scarrabus speaking – declined to answer. With Martain gone my Gift was wide open and I could sense the boy’s own mind was still a diffuse and disoriented mess. The creature was puppeteering his body.
“That’s not Rikkard,” I said, carefully slipping my feelers into his skull.
Cillian had suspected as much. “What do you want?” she demanded. “Why have you declared war on Setharis?”
Rikkard’s expression didn’t change. Did the creatures feel anything like love or hatred? I felt a sifting of memory as the Scarrabus ransacked the magus’ mind for meanings to her sounds. “War?” it said. “Humans do not declare war on ants, you exterminate them when needed. Uncontrolled human vessels are an infestation.”
I had rarely seen Cillian angry at anything other than me, but now she was brimming with cold fury. “Do you speak only for yourself or for all your kind?” I noted she did not even ask about the possibility of peace between them and us – no true Setharii would ever contemplate peace after what they had done.
“One is Scarrabus. All are Scarrabus.” “Very well. Your position is clear.” She stepped back and waved me onwards. “As you will, Edrin.” She watched with great interest.
I flexed my gloved hands and cracked the knuckles. “With pleasure. Do you know who I am, Scarrabus?”
Rikkard’s expression turned downwards in an attempt to replicate some human emotion the creature did not, could not feel. “Tyrant,” it said. “Locked away in darkness.” A clang of steel gate echoing from a tortured human throat made me shudder. “A half-mad and tainted aberration.”
That reminder of my past unnerved me for a moment, and then anger rose. I struck deep into Rikkard’s mind. His Gift instinctively rejected my power but I smashed through into his muddled human mind and slammed into the Scarrabus. I was ready for it this time, and didn’t flinch back in shock. Instead I carefully mapped all the remaining routes where it influenced its host, the slimy tendrils buried through folds of brain to merge with human flesh. Focussing on one spot I let my magic build heat. My inborn talent was mind magic, with some small learned skill with body magics and aeromancy,
but any Collegiate initiate powerful enough to join the Arcanum proper could learn to light a candle. Inside a human brain it required much, much less effort to cause damage. All I needed was incredible precision or I’d leave Rikkard drooling on the floor when this was done with.
The Scarrabus jerked that tendril back, the end a blackened stump. I felt a ghost of something very much like human pain. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt? I promise to do worse next time.” I grinned and burned off several more, noting the physical impulses it sent to withdraw the tendrils.
“You cannot save this vessel,” it said, slurring the words.
I laughed at it. “If you know about me being locked away in the darkness then you must also know what type of man I am.” I spat in its host’s face. “I’m half-mad, remember?”
I attacked through Rikkard’s mind, trying to burrow into the Scarrabus through his. Its ability to mesh with his mind allowed the reverse to be true. Its will was strong and its control of his flesh treacherous – but I was Edrin Walker, and I’d rather have my balls smashed by a hammer than give in to the things that killed Lynas and destroyed half my fucking city. I stabbed into its inhuman consciousness, breaking through every wall it threw up to bar my advance. It tried to withdraw its tendrils, but I pulsed denial through Rikkard into its own flesh.
One last push and I was inside it, no… I was through it, past the physical and into a strange realm of the mind I’d only glimpsed once before, when I was high and near-insane from an overdose of magic.
I was fighting for my life. A thousand swarming insects stung my mind, trying to pierce me and inject their venom. Scarrabus. So many! I roared and unleashed the full force of my Gift. A few were crushed to drifting motes of dissipating thought – their slimy bug bodies rendered mindless meat, freeing their hosts from enslavement – while others were flung back, writhing in agony. Hundreds more rushed in to take their place.
God of Broken Things Page 4