by Darren Joy
The city of Icarthya beyond the palace curtain wall slept unaware. Canaan would see it remain that way. They didn’t need hysteria in the streets. By the time they became aware, it would be too late.
He made a sharp gesture. Cyllo and Nape growled in unison as four exemplar guardsmen he didn’t trust stalked down a wide stairwell, chasing shadows. The palace complex was vast, including six levels and courtyards. There were also the sydarag stables, the gardens, groves, and the churches, not to mention the servant quarters and hidden passageways. They’d made arrests and interrogated over a dozen in the preceding two hours. He went through the motions, as was expected of his position. Chaos and tragedy had struck the Icarthian capital, and it was his duty to restore order. The blood-red cloaks of his exemplars were livid against the white marble interior, as they marched onward.
The fools were clueless as to the nature of their enemy. ‘They have struck at our heart,’ they had claimed. ‘A viral plot,’ they were certain. ‘A new purge,’ they offered in solution. Well, Plagueborn were the enemy. In this, they were correct, if in nothing else. The purges had been pious foolery, a wasted effort while the real threat escaped, although the inherited memory of that slaughter had proved useful. These poor imbeciles had no idea how much was at stake, and how little their misplaced faith would help them. He’d whittled down their number to those he trusted or needed. There would be time to convert others later. First, establish control.
Canaan and his remaining chosen ten, marched through an open colonnade. They emerged into the central courtyard, which was the largest and highest. He gestured and five guardians checked the darker extremities. Going through the motions. Lulling them with routine. They would turn on him, if they suspected the truth. They would resist.
‘Report,’ he demanded as they returned.
‘There’s no one,’ answered Niyala. She had the pasty complexion of most northern Icarthians, short golden-white hair, and was his second. His first choice, the desire for power was strong in her. Well, she would have it, if not quite as she’d imagined. ‘Whoever did it, they’re gone. They must have taken the princess. We’re too late. We have failed.’
‘The day I ask you what you think, Yala, will be a cold, cold day in hell. You don’t think. You do.’
The woman was slow in lowering her gaze. He noted a spasm of anger in her face. Yes, he’d chosen well, as he had with each of the ten. ‘Yes, High Exemplar,’ she said in a voice dripping with false humility. Canaan did not doubt her obedience, but he knew this one would take his place in a heartbeat, if the opportunity arose. The exemplars were nothing more than tools. Their use was nearing an end, as was the fulfilment of the plan, but he would use them a while longer.
‘She is alive, until I say otherwise,’ he snapped. ‘We find her and secure her. Our future depends on it. Understood?’
They nodded as Cyllo nudged him. Nape gripped his hand in her teeth but didn’t break the skin. He fondled their necks. He’d received the bitches as a gift from Markus Olen, on his promotion. He should feel guilt, perhaps, but he did not.
‘What are you jackdaws gawping at? Secure the grounds. Find her!’
The Throne Room was his destination. The delay in the plan maddened him, but he had no choice. There had been a guard placed on the princess’s chambers, each man he’d selected himself. He’d checked those rooms first, finding smashed oaken furniture and shattered delicate worked alabaster vases and bronze statuettes. The guards had fought, and all were dead. He had not reckoned on the girl’s Darken being so good. He had failed to discover the bodyguard’s identity. The error had cost him.
The brother was in exile in the west, though no official record of him existed. He hated delays, but he would take care of him soon. He shook his head, annoyed at letting his thoughts wander. The last remaining Todralan had to sit the throne. She would not leave this city. He knew her too well.
He marched towards the throne room with head high, mind focused. The truce would hold for a time, but it would fall apart once events got underway. He’d planned for that too. He would do his part, but he would claim his reward. Liviana Avitus did not seem to realise how precarious her position was. He was not about to enlighten her.
His ten spread out. About the courtyard’s perimeter were blackened braziers, flames flickering in the rising breeze, casting shapes. Leaf-bladed short swords in hand, they picked their way across the marble squares, like Soul & Fury pieces moving according to an invisible play master. He gave a slight smile at the thought. It was what they were about to become, pieces in a game.
They exited the courtyard, climbed the basalt steps. They passed through another colonnade, these pillars bearing the likenesses of Todralan ancestors. The carved faces unnerved him, as though judging him. They had no right.
The doors to the antechamber stood open, unguarded as arranged. With the imperial marshal still in the west, the city was his, at least, for a few more minutes. Doubts gnawed at him, but he forced them back, crushed them. For now, he would play her game, because it suited him, because Avitus stood well above him.
For now.
The yawning dark of the antechamber was total. Pen Luthus turned to his chosen ten. ‘Whatever we face, we stand together.’ Going through the motions, lull them until it was too late. Otherwise, things might prove ... distressing. The conversion would take a little time, but by dawn, they would be exemplars no more. They would be thraels, and his to use as he wished. Their first task would be to travel to the city of Lame and find Threadfin Todralan.
‘We fall together,’ said Altus, one of his captains.
‘For the imperium,’ said Berg, who was the other.
‘For the imperatrix.’
The high exemplar and his hapless ten entered the Throne Room. ‘For the Spectrum, and for justice,’ he whispered.
The animals stalked behind them, ears laid back. Growls rose in their gullets before they began to whine. Too late, they sensed a threat no warghound should ever have to face.
Chapter 4
A Strange Illness
A CALLUSED HAND gripped his jaw and forced his mouth open. Threadfin wanted to tell whoever it was to go kiss the Grim’s hoary backside, but managed a mumble instead.
‘Bite on this,’ said a familiar voice. His teeth grated on wood, but a spasm forced his jaw to clench. ‘You must bite down. Else, it’ll be your tongue or whatever you call that rotting thing in your head.’
‘Wouldn’t mind a bit of quiet around here,’ said another voice a little further away. ‘I thought the dead were meant to be silent? He makes more noise than a buggered darag.’
A weight descended on him as a body half straddled Threadfin’s waist. Cold fingers gripped his skin. He felt for the silver lump around his neck, gripped it tight. He was on his back on a straw filled mattress.
‘Open your eyes,’ said the voice. Hot garlic breath washed over him. ‘Fight it, you stupid grave maggot.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said the other. ‘You know, these walking stiffs never did sit right with me.’
‘Shut your gob, Pods.’
‘I can’t,’ Threadfin mumbled, tossing his head, ‘... do this.’
‘Listen up, worm breath. Open them eyes or I’ll thrash you within an inch o’ your half-life. Look at me.’
A face covered in dirty whiskers came into focus, pale and stretched, older though not old, fifty or thereabouts. Ludwole Felps, a minder who made his existence a misery. A former soldier of the Actaeon Guard, it was said. Threadfin’s father had chosen both condemned men from the dungeons, a guarantee his disowned offspring would remain forgotten. These men would face worse than a dungeon if they revealed his true nature, identity, or whereabouts.
‘Now, bite on this until the fit passes.’ Ludwole forced the peg between Threadfin’s teeth.
His other minder hovered close. A man over forty, Podral Pole was lean with filthy brown hair, and a livid scar from the corner of his right eye to his chin. Like Threadfin, he was a t
hief, although by choice. Not that he bothered with the trade anymore. Why risk capture, when they had an undeader to do it for them? Sit back and get rich doing nothing. ‘Might be he’ll swallow his tongue, and choke. Do us all a favour. Look, why don’t you leave it to me? I’ll take care of it.’
Ludwole grunted and spat, turning to regard his companion. ‘Keep it up, and I’ll cut out your tongue and use it to gag this piece o’ grolg dung. Don’t you go forgetting the last time you crossed me, because I haven’t.’
‘Hey now, what did I say? Just making observations. You’re always telling me to keep my eyes open, aren’t you?’
The old soldier turned his attention back to Threadfin with a snarl. He leaned in close. ‘What you get for us, this time? A few useless rocks some nag bought cheap the edge o’ the Glut, and a fancy clock? What good are you to me sick, eh? Now listen, you useless sack o’ bones. You’re goin’ to survive this because I’m not done gettin’ rich. If I has to watch over your miserable hide, then I should at least get smothered in gold. By the by, that fancy bow o’ yours is mine, and the dagger. Holding out on us weren’t you. Let’s call them part payment on what you damn well owe.’
Threadfin groaned, and not because of the pain, which had eased a bit. He always hid his crossbow and dagger before coming to this villa. He liked that crossbow. Hard to come by. At least, his thoughts were clearer. Maybe he could get his stuff back before Felps sold them, if he could get up and move.
Dust dribbled from wooden rafters above, as the villa quivered from a mild earth tremor. There had been many of those since their arrival a decade ago, but Threadfin had grown up with tremors, which were worse closer to the capital. Anyhow, they never bothered him, and few were strong enough to raise an eyebrow at, save one a few years back, when thousands perished near Byrsa.
Candle and torchlight sputtered throughout the airy villa as the room suffered another shake. The thief sounded as though he was praying.
‘Pods, quit that mutterin’ o’ yours. There’s none up there, or anywhere else, who’ll listen to the likes o’ you.’
‘You’ve seen what happens. You’re not blind, man. Might be, you’d be better off troubling yourself with a few supplications of your own. Can’t hurt, can it. I’ve never seen grave spawn do anything like that afore. A few prayers can’t hurt.’
‘There’re fleas on that parchment you call a hide, who’ve a better chance o’ being heard. Now, shut it.’
‘Is he worth it?’ asked Pole with a snarl, coming closer. ‘Don’t know half what you think you do. Do him and let’s get going. The lad’s had a foot in the grave since day one, so what’s the difference?’
Threadfin tried to grab the old soldier’s arm, while forcing out the peg with a leathery tongue. He felt a strength in his body return, alien and frightening. ‘I have to get back to Icarthya. Listen to me ... I’ve seen it.’
Ludwole stepped back from Threadfin’s hand. He stared at him with an unreadable expression.
‘Come on, Lud,’ urged the other thief. ‘The garrison don’t care what happens to him. No one does. If we’re questioned, we can say he tried escaping. We’d no choice, with heavy hearts and all that shit. Imperial orders, right? Besides, I’m sick of these damned tremors. I want to go elsewhere, where the ground stays still.’
‘I can’t help her ...’ Threadfin’s affliction had worsened. It had done that a few times now. He’d lost count. He was useless, no worse, a freak. Couldn’t do anything for his sister. Pole was right. Perhaps the world would be better off. Then again, he doubted the world would notice.
Ludwole appeared to be listening. Threadfin thought he saw Pole’s hand holding a bronze dagger. He was hiding it from Ludwole’s view, or was Threadfin delirious again? Was he going to kill him if Felps didn’t? A small dagger wouldn’t do it. Need a bigger blade to decapitate him. Yes, feeling delirious.
‘It’s our chance to be free men again,’ continued Pole, ‘to go where we please. We’ve saved enough loot. You look worn out. There’s a bit of the Valtari red left. I’ll take care of business here.’
Ludwole’s hand went to the bone hilt of an iron short sword at his waist. Now, that would do the job. One cut to the neck, two, and Threadfin’s worries were over. The old soldier’s knuckles whitened as he stared at his associate. Then, at last, he turned his gaze on Threadfin. ‘You’re a pox on us all, Todder, like the rest o’ your family, but I’m done with that city. There’s no going back. You’re stuck with us, like it or no, my prince.’
‘Don’t call me that. I don’t ... deserve it.’
‘No, you don’t, no more than you deserve us, but you’re stuck with us and us with you. Hell’s wrath on us all is what you are.’ Then he turned to face Pole again, his hand still on his sword hilt. ‘And as for you, you’ll do as I say.’ There was an edge to his tone. ‘You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to—’
Threadfin let out a wail. It felt as if someone had split his bones to the marrow, eating away at his body and soul.
‘It’s happening again. Here, bite down.’
‘Oh, divine angels above,’ prayed Pole. ‘The lad is dark business if I know anything. I mean, look at him. What is that black stuff?’
Fluid-like and blacker than pitch, whatever it was it oozed from every pore and opening. Threadfin had seen it before. It writhed and pulsed as though living. Maybe, he thought, as though analysing it all from a distance, and perhaps feeling more delirious, it’s my dead half.
‘Fetch some sheets,’ Ludwole ordered. ‘Cot’s soaked.’
‘Don’t have any of those. Looks like he’s rotting away right in front of us. Although, he was a bit ripe to begin with if you ask me. Whatever that black wet stuff is I can see myself in it.’
‘Rags then.’
‘None of them either. Used the last wiping my arse an hour ago.’
‘Bite, damn you.’ Ludwole tried shoving the peg back between his teeth, but Threadfin turned his head away. The pain was growing beyond bearable limits, as the second skin formed.
‘Folk’ll hear your screams,’ he hissed at Threadfin, ‘and them soldiers what’s patrolling out there. It’ll make things worse if they discover you like this,’ and he thrust the stick into Threadfin’s mouth, jarring his worn teeth.
‘Pods,’ he growled, ‘get out o’ here if you aren’t gonna be o’ use, and warn me if anybody takes interest in this villa.’
‘Nah, think I’ll stay.’
‘Oh, for the love o’... get over here, then. Hold his legs. I swear the filth he brings back isn’t worth all o’ this.’
Threadfin’s vision blurred. He felt them hold him as he kicked and flailed. He heard Pole curse in that colourful manner, and for a weird moment, felt like laughing. The situation was absurd.
In his peripheral vision, there was what looked like a second skin around his naked body. His shadow extracted itself, no longer wanting any part of him. Well, if his own shadow wanted up and off, that said it all. By then, he knew he was screaming, but a part of him felt separated from it all. Yes, he felt like laughing. The detached part did at least. The stick wedged between his teeth turned shrieks into muffled wails. His withered body convulsed. It was hilarious.
Thunder rumbled above and beneath. Thumps and snarls echoed in his ears, but he was too terrified to imagine their source. Opening his eyes, he saw the echo of a head in his peripheral vision.
The trunk of this darker Threadfin extruded itself. As the head began to rise away from his own, he thought he saw horns, though no other features were visible. Were those wings? His flesh appeared to swell as his reflection gained substance. It no longer looked like Threadfin, but more like a beast. The two men were no longer holding him, but standing back, wide-eyed. Pole was muttering again. Threadfin saw shadowy wings swiping the air. It all appeared to him as though seen through a dirty warped mirror.
Then, it was over. The apparition deflated, collapsing into him. It surprised him his guardians remained
at all. Anyone else would’ve fled hours ago.
As soon as he was able, it was exactly what he planned to do.
Chapter 5
A Warning at Breakfast
BREAKFAST IN THE villa kitchen was a sombre affair. Ludwole paced, scowling in thought. Pole picked at his nose as he gorged on an egg, squirting yolk on his leather shirt. He placed his blackened feet on the battered table and leaned back into a wicker chair.
The wooden shutters on several windows stood open, sunlight brilliant against the whitewashed interior. A wall lizard, its hibernation interrupted, scuttled along the nearest window frame to snaffle an insect.
Threadfin hadn’t spent many hours in this villa over the years, visiting only when necessary. It was a small two-storey complex of ten rooms, each with a balcony, and a ten-foot protective wall. It also possessed a dirt courtyard, a sydarag stable with no mounts of course, and two servants who Threadfin never saw, and wasn’t certain existed.
This was his first morning out of bed since falling ill. He’d been too weak, and to Ludwole’s annoyance, unable to work. The crossbow and dagger had satisfied for all of five minutes. Threadfin had kept a few choice items on his person, which Felps had found, but fortunately, he’d hidden the rest.
Five days since Crawl’s warning, and nothing. I should be full dead by now, he thought with a wince.
He stared at his wooden plate. On theirs were two large duck eggs, smoked ham, and a hunk of crumbly grolg cheese. Watered wine in wooden goblets by their elbows, fresh baked bread, and olive oil to dip it in. On his was a heaping of stewed kelp, or guck as he called it, since that’s what it looked like. Whatever was in such food, it sustained him, giving him a certain vitality. He picked at a maggot on the back of his hand. He’d tried eating other types of food, but it never agreed with him. Once, he’d had to pretend. He didn’t bother anymore.