Her familiar slithered from her shoulders and wound its way around the altar, growing in stature as it did so until it was easily as long as ten men were tall. Ruby fire danced in its eyes, entrancing the gathered warriors as they swayed in time to its movements. Ophidia allowed them their moment of adulation before completing her address.
‘Praise the Coiling Ones this night, my warriors! Honour the slow death, the venom that stills the heart and freezes the blood. Treat your weapons well. We leave at next light and the wastes await our wrath.’
Another of those slow, lazy smiles graced her face.
‘Soon, victory will be ours. Soon our enemies will writhe before us and we will give them the beautiful death.’
The room erupted once again into a cacophony of zeal. Ophidia took a step back and drank it all in. These were her people, but she wanted more and if she could wield the Fang of Nagendra, they would flock to her. She would grow in stature until the Father of Serpents appeared before her and raised her up as one of his own.
She had decided on a course of action and now she would follow it. The reward at the end was nothing less than her destiny.
The malformed messenger brought word that the Splintered Fang were preparing to leave their sanctum and Lock felt the thrill of the hunt soar within him. The serpents had taken the bait, the promise of vengeance and their missing relic too great a prize to ignore. Lock paid the creature its due and immediately went looking for Crest.
‘The snake bites. It reaches for the fruit but doesn’t see the thorns. Time to put out its eyes and watch it squirm.’ Lock bared his teeth and hissed in mock imitation of an enraged serpent.
‘Then go.’ Crest nodded. ‘Hunt. Stalk. Kill. Gather. Offer up your prizes so he will see them and take them. Peck out their soft bits, Lock. Feast.’
‘Yes! How many will I lead on this hunt?’
‘Enough.’ She flapped her hand dismissively. Lock nodded in understanding and retreated. Crest’s meaning was clear; he would have the warriors who believed there was glory to be had in his hunt, no more, no less. If he succeeded, then his standing would grow within the flock. If he failed, the scavengers would pick his bones, or worse, he would be cast from the Reach and perhaps even become the mark in one of the Cabal’s great hunts.
It had been many years since Lock had climbed amid the mesas of Carrion Reach or breathed the cool mists of Ulgu. The cruel peaks had long been the home of the Corvus Cabal, the great perch from where they could look down upon the low-folk and gather as they pleased. To return in failure was to face the possibility of the most ignominious end: to fall and be broken on the rocks like prey. He intended to return a champion or not at all.
Lock made his way to a broad rooftop overlooking one of the numerous shrines that littered Carngrad. Red-robed priests murmured incantations and litanies while they busily fed screaming captives into a brass basin filled with living flame. The air was thick with the heat and charnel stench of the ceremony. Lock sneered at their prescribed dogma and turned his attention to the gathered hunters who had chosen to travel at his side.
Only ten had opted to join him in his quest for glory. The rest would be busy with their own hunts or waiting to see if he succeeded before choosing to add their support to his in the future. Favour was a fickle beast in Carngrad – it could raise you up just as easily as it could sink its jaws into your back. He took stock and shrugged off the disappointment at the low numbers. Ten was a small flock, but it would be enough. The Splintered Fang outnumbered them, but it would be enough. It had to be enough.
He repeated the personal mantra a few more times and reassured his pride. He could not back out, not now. He had named and called the hunt and could no longer return without tribute.
At a curt gesture from Lock they set off across the rooftops, hopping and weaving between spires and crumbling turrets, never as a group but each Cabalite always in sight of another of the flock. It was a surprisingly effective highway for the nimble hunters. Below, Carngrad was a dizzying warren of streets, alleys and tunnels ready to swallow the unwary, but above, the towers and hovels crowded so closely that the Corvus Cabal could reach any district with relative ease. To the uninitiated it was a deathtrap. The roofs could be slick underfoot or rotted through. High winds and razor-edged hail could blow in without warning and an alarming number of avian fiends hunted in the high places.
As the day became late afternoon, the Cabalites deftly navigated the hazards, finally making their way to the tumbled wreckage of the old quarter on the edge of the city. There were few stable rooftops here and much of what might once have been a busy suburb was now little more than a shattered ruin. The stumps of fallen buildings stretched away into the stinking haze like rows of rotting teeth. Lock was the last to arrive. He leapt from a cracked gargoyle onto a listing pillar and then joined the others on the ground. He sniffed thoughtfully at the air and studied their immediate surroundings.
There were bodies everywhere, some little more than tattered bones wrapped in the flapping rags of what had once been their clothing, while others were still bloody and swollen with corruption. A few had been impaled on splintered spars like grisly trophies, but this was not the territory of any warband that Lock was aware of. He knelt before one of them, a young warrior who looked to have been dead only a few days. The body had been stripped of weapons, armour and valuables, which came as no surprise. The Bloodwind Spoil had twice as many scavengers as it did predators.
He raised his head and narrowed his eyes, looking around. Movement between two crumbling walls caught his attention and he spotted a misshapen, lumpen creature as it ducked out of sight. Even out here on the very edges of the city the low-folk still prowled for scraps. They were most likely those who were responsible for picking clean the multitude of bodies that littered the area, but it was unlikely they were the ones who’d created the bodies in the first place. The low-folk preyed on the weak and the wounded, not the armed and dangerous.
‘Killing ground,’ Lock said, nodding towards the dead. ‘We go. Go now.’
The keening wail that split the air told them immediately that it was already too late. Nearby, the top section of a fallen tower lay on its side beside its truncated lower half. A pack of furies boiled out of the shadowed interior, their claws and daggers scrabbling on the ancient stone. The daemons were a horrifying fusion of man and beast, with back-jointed legs, rending talons and sweeping horns. Their mottled hides were a riot of unnatural colours ranging from aching blue to arterial red. Their bodies strained with a sinewy strength that was more than enough to tear flesh from bone even without the aid of weapons. Twisted faces filled with too many teeth and too many eyes surveyed their domain and fixed the Cabalites with burning gazes powered by an insatiable, empty hunger.
Their inhuman cry was entirely unlike that of any normal scavenger bird. It held an unspoken promise of nothing but torture, despair and an end alongside the corpses already rotting around them. The Corvus Cabal scrambled into cover as the pack emerged from their lair, their bestial snouts raised as they sniffed at the foetid air in search of the intruders that had wandered into their territory.
The daemons were driven by spite, existing to inflict cruelty, and their outward appearance mirrored the savagery of their purpose. The furies looked small and wiry, but Lock knew that they possessed a bestial strength. They took to the air, surging into the sky on leathery wings and chittering in their debased tongue. Like the Corvus Cabal, they hunted as a pack.
Just like the Corvus Cabal, they were out for blood and out for the kill.
The Cabalites, understanding that they would easily be seen from the air, scattered throughout the tumbled walls and sagging hovels, dancing from one shadow to the next. Lithe and nimble, they spread out among the corpses and the hollow shells of buildings, hoping to split the pack into more manageable pockets. If the pack gathered and came for any of them as one, they were finished.
Lock unsheathed his wickedly edged blades and, without even seeming to put any effort into it, used the adjoining walls of two crumbling buildings to clamber up to a precarious ledge on an old watchtower that had remained intact.
His position drew the immediate attention of two of the creatures and they banked sharply from their course, squawking loudly as they came towards him. He felt the familiar adrenaline rush of battle. He darted in through the window of the tower as the furies came closer and they screeched in frustration as they realised their prey had moved – albeit briefly – out of the grasp of their deadly talons. One circled to the top of the turret and perched there, leering down into the hollow interior like a gargoyle. Lock scrambled higher in an attempt to reach the isolated daemon, but the frail stonework would only support him so far and the tip of his blade whispered past the belly of the fury as he stabbed at it.
He could not tell how many furies made up the pack, but there were certainly more of them than there were of the Corvus Cabal. They had to keep moving, make the most of the cover of the walls and what roofs remained, and keep the pack divided. If they allowed the daemons to concentrate their efforts, even for a few moments, the consequences could be disastrous and bloody in equal measure.
‘Lock!’ He turned in the direction of the call from his ledge and observed Claw, one of the Cabal’s sisters, making hasty movements with her hands. Their chosen method of communicating during battle was ingrained and though he doubted that the furies understood a word they were speaking, sign language still gave the Cabal a unique advantage.
Six Cabal here. We take one. Easy prey. Others scatter, distract. She punctuated her signs with a birdlike shriek, their other means of battle communication.
Lock nodded to her and made his own deft signals. Understand. Keep moving. Many of us, more of them. Strike, fade, strike again. We win.
The entire exchange took less than a few seconds, the economy of the Cabal’s own language making sure that their time was spent more on hunting down their attackers and much less on talking about it.
The fury perching above finally grew impatient and scuttled down the wall towards him. It hissed and gibbered obscenities in its foul language, then launched itself at him, talons thrashing. One claw caught him at the back of his neck, ripping the tunic, grazing the skin but leaving no injury worse than that. Two other Cabalites joined Lock inside the crumbling tower, armed with their own weapons. They deftly clambered to the ledge opposite, hooked swords in hand, and waited for an opportunity to drag his attacker from the air.
They didn’t have to wait long: Lock swatted at the monster with his swords, dislodging it from the wall and forcing it into the air. Before it could climb free, one of the Cabalites had it hooked and pulled down to the broken ground. Lock leapt over to them and hacked the wings from its back before running it through. Blood, dark and gelatinous, oozed forth and the fury made its feelings on the matter very well known. The sound that emanated from its lipless mouth set Lock’s teeth on edge and drew the attention of its companion still hovering outside the tower.
Lock grabbed the edge of the window with one hand and lunged out into the open air. His balance was impeccable and though he teetered momentarily on the edge and his boot-claws squealed on the stone, he did not lose his footing. He jabbed forward with his sword and sliced easily through the second fury’s lower belly. Intestines spilled and dribbled out of the gash, and the creature let out one last squawk before following its insides to the hard ground below. It hit with a sickening crunch of bones, its bat-like wings flapping uselessly for a few seconds, and then finally lay still.
Lock assessed the situation swiftly. Some of the original attackers had disappeared, but he doubted that they had been frightened away. Trying to keep one eye on the skies, he hastened down the half-destroyed staircase of the tower. His swift stride took him towards Claw, who was leading her small unit of warriors against the other furies.
One remained airborne, keeping itself just out of the reach of the blades while another took an accurate dive at a younger member of the Cabal. The boy was knocked clean off his feet by the force of the attack and the pair, boy and fury, went down in a cloud of dust. It raked its talons down the boy’s face and blood welled up immediately. Then, before the boy could even draw a breath to scream, the fury leaned forward and sank its razor-sharp teeth into his throat, tearing out his jugular and ending both his fight and his life in one bite.
Furies were eager to inflict as much pain and suffering as they could, usually resolving the situation in death, but for all they seemed little more than animals, they were intelligent and not without strategy. They had fallen upon the Corvus Cabal expecting their numbers to quickly overwhelm their prey. Already some of the pack had decided against the fight, flying further afield to find easier foes. The pack thinned but was barely less lethal for it.
Blood dripping from its maw, the fury took to the skies again, leaving the body of its victim below. Other Cabalites were taking a leaf from their comrade’s book and using the tips of their vicious, hooked weapons to trap and slaughter more of the daemonic beings.
For a few moments, it seemed that the furies harassing the Cabalites on the ground agreed with their fellows and had decided it was not worth the effort, for they backed off, gaining height. Their leathery wings beat furiously to keep them aloft and steady, and Lock studied them in the weak, tainted light.
Two misshapen and ugly heads turned inquisitively at the sound of a loud screech, and with some growing trepidation, Lock also looked towards the source of the cry. A second pack of furies had been drawn by the sounds of battle, no doubt eager to scavenge what they could, or torment any wounded survivors.
‘More.’
Claw was now standing at his shoulder, negating the requirement for signing. Her voice was taut and she spoke between gritted teeth. ‘More. Lock, we can still fight, but time is short. You should go.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘No. We are flock. We stand together, we hunt together, we–’
‘–we die together. Fight, then.’
Lock nodded as Claw stepped back to the fighting. She made swift, frantic motions with her hands and Lock read her words as easily as he had heard her, only seconds before.
We must ground more of them quickly to win.
Those who had been attempting to hook the furies redoubled their efforts, but their daemonic foes withdrew, putting themselves artfully out of reach. The aerial daemons turned to face the newcomers and shrieked in annoyance. The larger pack responded in kind but did not waver or slow its approach. The packs met in the air and a brief brawl ensued as the wounded resident furies tried and failed to defend their claim on the territory and prey. Lock and his warriors took the opportunity to slink into the shadows in the hope of continuing their hunt. They had no interest in wasting more blood on minor daemons when they needed their strength for the Splintered Fang. The furies, however, had no intention of letting their prey slip away.
Suddenly, and without warning, the bickering daemons pulled together as a swarm and, with a screech to the skies above, plunged down into the ruins and towards the escaping Cabal fighters, shrieking and ululating wildly.
The ferocity of the attack and the sheer mass of bodies pressing down on them from above meant that the pack overwhelmed three of the Cabalites like a breaking wave. The furies tore into them with cruel abandon, the daemons revelling in the suffering they caused. They hunted for sport, not to feed, and the impaled bodies strewn around the hunting ground were testament to that fact. The parallels to the way the Corvus Cabal operated were not wasted on Lock, but he sneered at the idea that he might be anything like these base monsters.
The three Cabalites were mauled and savaged by a combination of tooth and claw, and despite struggling valiantly, were no match for the strength of the furies. Arms were torn clean from sockets, and blood fountained, pooling in slicks on the broken cobbles of the groun
d underneath.
Without speaking, the remaining Cabal fighters reacted, closing ranks on the furies who were thus engaged. Lock felt his heartbeat pound in his chest as he prepared to strike. He was bitterly angry at the interruption of his hunt. Had he not been so preoccupied with his torment of the Splintered Fang, he would have taken the time to scout the route ahead. He would have known the furies were here and could have avoided them. He cursed the waste. A lesson learned. Next time he would be more thorough.
Ten they had been. There were less of them now after this altercation, but still they would fight to the very best of their ability. No warrior of the Corvus Cabal would ever concede a fight. They might be wounded or driven off, but they would not retreat to their lair until they had claimed a trophy from their foe to offer up to the Great Gatherer or, like his three warriors, met their end.
Avenge.
A single sign from his flock sister was all it took to bring the remaining Cabalites racing forward to attack the furies while they were downed. Blades sang and slashed in the pale light. The guttural screeches and wails of the furies were punctuated with the throaty war cries of the Corvus Cabal. And when it was done, an eerie silence fell.
Lock wiped blood from his eyes, noting the deep wound on his scalp from where it came, and stared around at the scene before him. This was no careful slaughter, no great hunt. This was a massacre, plain and simple. Most of the furies were dead, hacked to pieces by the serrated blades of the Cabal warriors. Of the remaining two, one was grounded, a wing torn from its body, and the last burst free of the mob as he watched, screeching off into the distance.
The Corvus Cabal had suffered terrible losses during the battle. Five dead and the survivors all wounded to some degree. Lock knelt beside Claw who was bleeding freely from several ragged wounds in her chest. If they had time to take her back to the lair, she might survive. Otherwise she would die here and her body would join the others littering the hunting ground.
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