He slowly entered the shadows. ‘First Z, now khushmakas,’ Zabrielle murmured, following. ‘Interesting.’
They moved into the inner alleys, dodging patrols. A child bawled somewhere, hushed immediately. Torches burned. The air was clean.
‘You seem to know your way, Fayne,’ Zabrielle said, as low as her voice would allow.
‘Nahifarb. I was here before.’
‘A contract, alkhatamish?’
Fayne did not reply.
‘Must have been, then. Did you meet the Beleaguer?’ Zabrielle asked.
‘Yes. It was not pleasant.’
‘One can imagine.’
Fayne paused behind a corner, checking the way ahead. He hesitated for a moment. ‘When were you here?’ he asked, and moved off.
Zabrielle followed him, just as silent in her gait. ‘My childhood. The Beleaguer left his mark on one, something that had to be removed by one’s teacher.’
‘Hmm. Ba’al?’
‘Forcas.’
‘Heard of him.’
‘He is a patient one. One has always been a difficult student.’
‘Stop.’
They halted in the shade of a statue, a tall noble holding a cane and a giant watch. The next alley was a few feet away, a few feet in which they would be exposed to light. Zabrielle peered around.
‘Sniper,’ Fayne said, and Zabrielle noticed the tower, far away amongst other rooftops, but with a clear line of sight. She focused her eyes. She could see a scope glinting.
‘Nice mark,’ she said.
‘We cannot cross. You can either take him or we will find another path.’
Zabrielle focused. It was a tough shot. The energy required to get the ghost sword there would drain her. ‘Best not to,’ she whispered. Fayne nodded and they retreated.
Maya let Gray sleep for a couple of hours. When she found herself dozing off, she woke him up, gently, and traded places with him. She was asleep in minutes.
Gray spent half an hour swatting mosquitoes, then decided to walk around to beat both the bloodsuckers and the yawns. The only light came from the city below. He couldn’t see the ground very well, and after a couple of stumbles, he sat back down. A long wolf howl echoed over the barren land. Gray patted his shotgun reassuringly, wondering if anyone had previously woken it, and what had happened. What if he were to just wake it up because he was bored?
He looked around, a little sleepy still, wondering if he was really looking for fights, if Maya had been correct in her harshness. He felt his beard, now a little thicker. Perhaps, yes, he was. Looking for some sort of justice. He needed someone to train him, though. He still wanted to defend himself perfectly. Even more so now, with the missing arm.
A night wind blew then and the mosquitoes stopped biting. Gray stopped thinking for a second, enjoying it.
‘How are you?’ a voice whispered.
Gray grabbed his shotgun and pulled it out, shock mysteriously keeping him from screaming. He turned, shotgun raised, and could not believe his eyes. ‘You,’ he whispered back finally when he did.
The old man sat on a rock behind him, legs folded. His eyes, thickly lined with kohl, glittered in the darkness as he looked at Gray. His robes billowed in the wind, his beard bristled.
‘What-who—’ Gray started, backing away, his grip tightening.
‘Careless, Gray. You have forgotten everything,’ the old man spoke, unafraid of the gun barrel aimed at him.
‘I’ve fallen asleep,’ Gray said out loud, realisation dawning. ‘I’m bloody asleep on my watch. Calm down, calm down, all I have to do is—OW!’ He recoiled from the pinch.
‘Fool,’ the man said. ‘Do not insult the dream in favour of this banal reality. The dream has power, as opposed to this empty plain. You are awake, very much.’
‘Who are you? How did you find me here? Don’t you come near me!’
The old man shook his head. ‘Has that threat ever worked before, Gray? With anyone? Anything?’
Gray thought about it for a second. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, holstering the shotgun. ‘One of the most powerful weapons, blah-blah-blah, and no one gets scared.’
‘That is because it is still dormant.’
A thought hit Gray. ‘Are you-are you the Sadhu?’ he asked, eyes bulging.
‘No,’ the old man said, smiling widely.
‘Then what is your name?’
‘Names have power. They should not be revealed with such abandon, rare one. I have many names. You, however, may address me as Melas.’
‘Melas,’ Gray repeated. ‘What do you want? Who are you?’
‘What I want is complicated. We will get to it. What I do, a question no simpler. I am Oneiroi, one of the last.’
‘Oneiroi?’
The old man’s smile disappeared. ‘No impact,’ he said. ‘This one does not even know. You are not worthy of your heritage.’
Gray began to lose patience. ‘Look, Melas,’ he said. ‘Dormant or not, my shotgun fires. Get to the point.’
‘But he has fangs,’ Melas said, the smile reappearing, the brown eyes twinkling again. ‘Good, good.’
Gray’s hand grabbed his shotgun grip. ‘I’m not doing so well on cryptic talk these days.’
‘The Oneiroi are Daemons,’ the old man said.
‘Demons?’
‘Dear lord, NO. Daemons. Spirits of nature. Born of chaos. Do you truly know nothing?’
‘Look, man, I never studied the supernatural. I’ve just come to know what I’ve seen in the last few months.’
‘But you have seen far more, Gray. Far, far more. You have seen it all.’ The old man paused, grinning maliciously. ‘You just do not remember.’
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Among the Daemons, the Oneiroi are dwam stalkers, rare one. I found you here because I have been following you in your dreams. For days.’
‘Years. Did Victor Sen hire you?’ Gray asked, tense.
‘He could not dream of hiring us,’ Melas replied, affronted. ‘In fact, we are never hired. We like doing what we do, the Oneiroi. We derive our own meaning as we sift through dreams like sand.’
‘You’re saying you did this for kicks?’
‘Not kicks,’ Melas sniffed. ‘I did it for the master and commander of a once thriving race, a supreme being,’
‘And that would be?’
‘Ardak, the Spider King.’
‘I’ve heard his name before,’ Gray muttered, not taking his eyes off Melas, remembering the Spider Clan and the Loom.
Melas’ laughter rang of bitterness and amusement. ‘I wager you have.’
‘Why does he send you to find me?’
‘There is so much you’ve forgotten, Gray,’ Melas stared. ‘Ardak simply wants you to remember.’ The last word was spoken with an almost vulgar emphasis, each syllable that Melas uttered revealing his old teeth, the long fangs from the dreams. A chill shot down Gray’s spine.
‘Remember what? What have I forgotten?’
‘Too much,’ Melas said. ‘Tell me, what are the three signs of the Lich?’
Gray froze. There was a shell, a shield he had built so carefully, but—
‘Tell me!’ Melas urged.
‘The white moths,’ Gray said finally. ‘The wolf howl. And the moonless night.’
‘And,’ Melas continued with relish, ‘how many of those signs have you been seeing?’
Gray was still. ‘My God,’ he said.
‘He’s coming,’ Melas said. ‘He’s the alpha lobo, he will bring his pack.’
‘Where-where is he now?’
‘Not far. You must go to Zaleb Khadd as soon as you can. There is something there that waits for you.’ He paused. ‘A family heirloom.’
‘Is it in everyone’s nature to speak in riddles?’ Gray asked. ‘If the Lich is on his way, there is no time for games.’
‘I’m known for being a cryptic messenger,’ Melas said. ‘Zaleb Khadd. Hurry. The Lich has not forgiven you.’ He stood up on the rock
, turning to leave. ‘And one more thing,’ he said.
Gray held his breath.
‘The Gunsmith,’ Melas said. ‘I have witnessed his delirious dreams. He is still alive.’
He was gone.
Gray turned to look at the city, noticing the white moths fluttering in the darkness for the first time.
‘We must be near the temple,’ Zabrielle said.
Fayne nodded. ‘Careful.’
The door confirmed it. It stood in the distance, at the end of a long alley. A door of gold, glittering in torchlight, a skull and human bones grafted onto the surface, some kind of occult symbol. A chilling spectacle.
‘That’s a door to the temple,’ Zabrielle breathed. ‘We’re too close.’
Before Fayne could whisper back, the door was thrown open and a figure ran into the alley, towards them. It was a young man—he was naked, covered in blood, terrified to the bone. He screamed as he ran, crashing against dumpsters and slipping on the pavement. Slipping in his own blood.
‘Save me!’ he whimpered.
Zabrielle made a move to emerge into the light, towards the figure, but Fayne gently held her back. She looked at the running man, then at the open doorway. A guard had appeared there, an archer.
‘I can unmake the guard right now,’ Zabrielle whispered as the bloody man neared them, still screaming.
‘No,’ Fayne said with finality.
The archer took the shot, the arrow burying itself in the runner’s head. He fell and skidded on the stone, leaving a short blood trail. It was over in moments.
Then a figure emerged behind the archer, and Zabrielle knew why Fayne had stopped her. A Flesh Eater. He was tall, pale, with flaming red hair, dressed in a neat, well-pressed tuxedo, shiny black shoes to match. He looked annoyed.
‘Don’t you just hate it when dinner runs away?’ he said, his voice carrying in the night. ‘I mean, what if the chicken on your plate just decided to flap its wings and fly one goddammed night?’
‘I’ll bring him back to the table, master,’ the guard said solemnly.
‘No, burn this bastard, the brain is wasted, the body collects street filth. Find me a fresh one. Hurry now, the others are waiting.’
The archer nodded and walked towards the corpse. The Flesh Eater retreated into the doorway and disappeared. Fayne gently tugged at Zabrielle’s arm and they slipped away before the guard came too close.
‘The archer could have been a victual,’ Zabrielle said.
‘Victuals eat the leftovers,’ Fayne said. ‘There was no hunger in the man’s walk.’
They found a victual soon, close by. It was a man, dressed in the rags of the lower slaves, gorging himself at a feeding basin. The meat in the basin was human, days old, but it did not matter to this man. Fayne grabbed him and pulled him back into an alley.
‘Where is the Gunsmith?’ Zabrielle asked.
‘Who?’ the victual mumbled, not at all surprised with the kidnapping.
Fayne let go of him. ‘Big, fat, delicious man,’ Fayne said slowly. ‘Lots of meat, bald, with a beard.’
The victual grinned, showing bloody teeth. ‘The strong one. Yes, they bring him in. He’s a bleeder, keep him in the bleeding pens.’
‘Point the way.’
The victual did, and Fayne broke his neck. Zabrielle looked at the body for a moment before Fayne hid it. He saw her lips move.
‘How do they become like that?’ Zabrielle asked as they moved off in the back streets, keeping a watchful eye for patrols.
‘They want to be Flesh Eaters, but their caste holds them as slaves. The Beleaguer only accepts the high born.’
‘How do they develop a taste?’
‘Enough time envying their masters. They want to be like the highest caste, they try and imitate the Flesh Eaters. The taste develops.’
‘What damnation,’ Zabrielle said with sorrow.
They shrank back into the shadows and fell silent as two guards walked by.
‘You prayed for it?’ Fayne asked after they were gone.
‘One prays for every kill,’ Zabrielle replied.
‘You have a God too, across the River?’
‘One’s prayer is to the Creator, the father of the Angels and Demons. We are his children all.’
‘Even Demons pray,’ Fayne said, mostly to himself.
‘Pray to the one who carries the ashes in the wind, quenches the crops in the rain,’ Zabrielle quoted softly.
‘I have yet to understand Demons,’ Fayne said.
They moved in and out of more alleys and backyards, avoiding the main streets and the rare roads. Everything was quiet except for the occasional patrol, a silence almost deathly. Thin walls betrayed sobs, arguments in quavering voices, faint screams silenced. The architecture got increasingly urban, the houses increasingly modern amidst the ancient towers, a curious spectrum. The bleeding pens came into sight soon—a circular building, large, with a domelike roof. There were no windows, and they could see the only entrance, a doorway with a curtain. No door.
Fayne reached into his back and withdrew his short swords. He looked at Zabrielle. ‘Keep a weapon ready. Summoning your blade might take a second we can’t afford.’
She nodded and summoned a scimitar, green like the rest. It floated beside her, and she reached out and grabbed it, reducing its ethereal glow with a brush of her palm. They left their trustworthy shadows, Fayne leading, and crept towards the entry. It was unguarded.
They entered and found themselves in a dim corridor, one stretching all the way across the building. Empty. In the light of a solitary torch they saw the entrances, about twenty of them, doorways to rooms, all with similar curtains, and no doors.
Wordlessly, they split up. Gruesome sights met them as they parted one curtain after the other, but they carried on without hesitation, room after room. Room after bloody room. They met the doctor soon, a large man in a butcher’s apron, gloves stained with blood. He was in one of the rooms, sifting through slippery pieces of human in a tub. Zabrielle cut his throat without a second’s thought and moved on to the next room.
The Gunsmith.
He was strung up on some sort of infernal machine, a skeletal framework with chains and cogs that had him hanging by his hands. He was wearing only trousers—his torso had been cut over and over again over time, a sea of scabs. The freshest were bleeding, trailing thin streams of blood into a wide basin below him.
Fayne headed for the machine, quickly checking its mechanisms, while Zabrielle examined the Gunsmith. His eyes were closed.
‘Gunsmith,’ she whispered.
No response. His face was bruised, scarred, mutilated. Innumerable cuts, purple swellings, broken cheekbones. Dried blood on the overgrown beard.
‘Gunsmith, awaken!’ Zabrielle whispered with urgency.
Slowly, she saw his dry lips parting. A breath, becoming something legible. ‘Who . . . who . . .’ The faintest of sighs.
‘A rescue,’ Zabrielle replied, observing.
‘. . . water . . .’ the Gunsmith pleaded.
‘We have none,’ Zabrielle told him.
‘No traps,’ Fayne said, turning the gears and letting the chains loose. The Gunsmith dropped into the basin of his own blood, and did not move. Zabrielle cut his cuff links and Fayne picked him up, heaving him over a shoulder with some difficulty.
‘Heavy?’ Zabrielle asked, heading out, checking the corridor. She looked back, and for a moment saw Fayne eyeing the blood in the basin. He was silent, watching the thick red blood, the dark blood, sometimes glimmering in the light.
‘Fayne?’ she called again.
The assassin looked at her with his glassy eyepieces. ‘Dardi. My strength is no longer what it was,’ he grunted. ‘Must move fast.’
But their movement was slow, Fayne slowly crumbling under the weight of the Gunsmith as they exited the pens and headed back. Zabrielle heard the assassin pant for the first time, and she could not help but see the drops of blood they were leaving on the ground.
She ran a healing hand on the Gunsmith’s wounds but could not close them.
It was just before dawn, in the wee hours of gradual light stealing into the sky that Gray saw them climbing the hill. Hurriedly, he went and woke Maya up. His sister was up in an instant, and they watched as Fayne and Zabrielle scaled the last few steps.
Fayne gently lowered the Gunsmith to the ground, and moved off, wheezing loudly through his mask. Zabrielle went to her bag and withdrew her goatskin. She moved to the Gunsmith and poured water on his lips. His lips moved and then parted, unconsciously saluting the liquid. As Maya and Gray watched, he drank some water and then his lips closed again.
‘Smith?’ Maya asked, bending on a knee.
Slowly, blearily, the Gunsmith opened his eyes, bloodshot and worn. ‘Maya Ghosh,’ he said. ‘Tell-tell . . . Adri it’s Victor. It’s his father.’
‘We know,’ Gray said from behind Maya. ‘We came to rescue you.’
‘Good lads,’ the Gunsmith mumbled, closing his eyes again. ‘Shouldn’t have. Save . . . yourselves.’
‘We can make Victor pay for this, Smith,’ Maya said. ‘Help us.’
‘He’s not . . . weak. He was already a . . . a prodigy . . . genius . . . impossible to . . . to . . .’
‘There must be a way,’ Maya interrupted.
The Gunsmith coughed loudly, spraying Maya with blood. Gray recoiled for a moment. Maya did not flinch.
‘Too late for me,’ he said in between smaller coughs. ‘Lost . . . too much. My wife . . . my son . . .’
Gray opened his mouth in sympathy, but Maya spoke before him. ‘We went through a lot to rescue you, Smith.’
‘Bad . . . bad investment,’ Smith coughed.
‘Everyone told me that and I believed otherwise.’
‘I thank you . . . for your trouble. Where . . . where is Adri?’
Maya looked at Zabrielle, who slowly brought out the soul gem. Smith looked at it briefly before turning his eyes away. ‘Plague take Victor,’ he swore softly. ‘I lack the strength . . . I’m a maker of . . . of weapons . . . yet there’s nothing I can . . . give you. They took away . . . everything.’
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