Blightcross: A Novel

by C. A. Lang

  Dannac kicked open the iron gate, and there was the sound of snapping metal. Capra skittered behind.

  “Try not to damage the new wainscoting!”

  She assumed that Dannac would know what that meant, because he casually raised his hand and said nothing to the man. They stopped at the door, where he pounded four times on the deep red wood.

  “Can you see inside?” she asked.

  “I can. There is only one person inside, upstairs.” He knocked again. “And he is not moving.”

  “Maybe he’s dead?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The dead appear differently to me, unless freshly deceased. This man is as orange as you or I.”

  Only now did she realize the implications of having left everything behind on the ship. She had no weapons, except the switchblade she always carried hidden in the ornamental band on her left arm.

  Anyway, it was just one man who couldn’t afford to pay his own rent. She wouldn’t need an arsenal for that.

  “Why did you ignore me just now?”

  “The man expected it. Most do, Capra.”

  “It seems worse here. Back in the—”

  “This is not the Little Nations.” He gazed around the side of the house. “I think we should go around back.”

  So they left the porch, while the man from the lunch counter stood with his arms crossed and puffed on a metal pipe. They ducked under clothes flapping in the breeze, and nearly tripped over a couch that was inexplicably lying askew on the grass at the rear of the house. Dannac gave a quick nod, then smashed open the back door with his boot.

  It would be quick, especially since Dannac could pinpoint the man’s location through the walls. His strange sight almost made up for his attitude.

  He couldn’t see the colour of a person’s skin, or pick up on their finer features. Still, he knew she was a Valoii. Why had he chosen to stay with her?

  He took point, and went straight for the front of the house, as if he already knew the layout. She followed and fell into her usual role of sharp observer, which usually meant watching for panels in the floor that didn’t look quite right, or authority-types closing in on their rear. But this time, she saw only dirt-smudged floorboards, empty shelves, and rubbish strewn about. There were no authority-types to watch for. This time, they were the authority. An uncomfortable thought.

  They went upstairs, and Dannac’s footsteps boomed throughout the house. Capra stepped lightly out of habit, and reached to her armband to retrieve the switchblade.

  “Time to give it up,” Dannac said. His voice echoed in hall.

  He approached a doorway, to which he gestured with a jerk of his head. He stepped into the room.

  “Don’t make me—”

  There was a sudden charge in the air, and a chill crawled beneath Capra’s skin. There was an undefined grunt from Dannac, and thunder—

  Dannac flew from the room and slammed into the wall across from Capra. She gripped her little knife and, after she saw Dannac shaking his head, showing he was still alive, crept around the doorway.

  She poked her head around first. But a confused breath caught between her lips once she saw inside. She didn’t expect that the force that had slammed Dannac out of the fight would be an obese, sweaty man, nearly passed out in the corner of a bare room. All around him there were smoked glass bottles, and a host of metal utensils—spoons and other devices she was too anxious to place.

  “Whatever you do, do it now!” Dannac’s voice was gravelly and weak.

  She gulped. The man was just lying there, eyes bloodshot and mired by a sickly cloudiness, and she did not want to accept that he was also drooling. He raised a hand, muttered something, and she felt it again—

  A buzz, a thrill, something to which she had been taught by her countrymen to react with deadly force...

  It triggered her senses and training so that she dodged the man’s etheric attack, and leaped across the room faster than the man’s pathetic eyes could track. The room took on a surreal quality—it was the first time in nearly a year that she had needed to use the vihs sensitization instilled in her by the army. This man was an Ehzeri. A powerful one.

  The skin on her forearms prickled, and she watched him for the subliminal cues she instinctively scrutinized every vihs-capable Ehzeri for by sheer habit of her training. She brought the knife into a ready position and widened her stance.

  There was a dust storm that day, and her platoon had donned their dark green head scarves. The suspected Ehzeri compound was not much of a compound at all, just a collection of tents baking in the sun...

  Her mouth turned dry, and she hesitated to strike. “Look... you’ve got a problem... I can see that...”

  Dannac called out from the hall: “Don’t talk to him, kill him!”

  She ignored him. “There must be a place you can go.”

  The man shifted and knocked over several bottles. “Need more of it. Got to. You?”

  What was he asking for? Medicine? No, there was something else wrong with him. She tried to think of her training, of what this kind of erratic vihs discharge could result from. Emotional turmoil, illness, inebriation, old age—

  Whatever the cause, she had to act before the charge racing through the air and tingling her skin reached its critical point and the man attacked her once again.

  She flipped the knife around, and was about to dart in close enough to put the man into a hold, when it came.

  All she saw was a crackling light spread across her eyes. When a breath later she opened them, she lay crumpled in the corner opposite the Ehzeri. Her head ached, and any amount of light only acted as a hammer to pound the pain deeper into her skull.

  Fat man, magic gone awry, paid in full...

  There still pressed in her palm the reassuring bulk of her knife. There was still time to—

  A metallic glint sailed through the room, followed by a meaty thud. She gathered herself, recoiled once she found the Ehzeri spewing blood from his head. A small hatchet stuck from his forehead.

  Dannac stumbled in and helped her stand. “I told you to kill him.” Her legs cramped, and she was instantly reminded of the familiarization training, of being intentionally attacked by a magic wielder. “You should be dead.”

  She leaned on her thighs and tried to catch her breath. “I didn’t think we’d be sent to remove a vihs-capable squatter. I didn’t think there was any of that going on here.”

  “Me neither.” There was a hard note in his voice, more than usual.

  “Do you gain satisfaction from taking down someone from a family who still has power? With a dull hatchet, no less.”

  He pulled the weapon from the dead man’s wound and dropped it. “Come on, the man outside paid us to remove this person. He may be dead, but he is still here.”

  Vasi’s nose twitched at the smell of the ancient book pressed against her face. Her eyes felt stiff and her heart jolted at the sudden awakening. When she opened her eyes, she found herself sprawled across one of her lab’s many benches.

  A pounding arose from the door. Frantic pounding. “Vasi, open this door right now. Are you in trouble in there? Hm?”

  She stood, dazed for a moment. The dream was still there, like a translucent blanket draped over her perception. Blackness, like in that horrible painting she had been analyzing... complete blackness, as if she were in the painting’s presence and being drawn into its abyss.

  “Vasi!” More pounding.

  Sevari. What did he want? She braced herself and concentrated on the heavy door’s locks. It took more effort to move them than usual, thanks to the black dream dampening her thoughts.

  Sevari stormed in, all polished boots and crisp brown uniform. He made a quick tour of the lab, heels thudding and hands laced at his back.

  “What took you so long?” He picked up a book, began to page through it.

  “Sorry, Leader. I was... indisposed.”

  “There is something off about you. Are you ill? Should I send for a surgeon? I had t
hought that your kind could heal yourselves, but perhaps there are some things best left to the medical profession.”

  “No. I am fine. I just...” Lying to Till Sevari was a bad idea. “I think the painting is affecting me more than I had thought. Even though it’s locked in your museum, I felt drawn into it.” She turned away.

  “Damned Helverliss.” He put his hand on her shoulder, which made her cringe. “All the more reason I need you to unravel the mad artist’s secrets.” He resumed his stomping. “Although, perhaps your visions may be a clue. Perhaps the painting’s power is communicating with you. Or even some buried aspect of the artist himself. Maybe we could even manipulate him through this link...”

  She thought for a moment. Sevari knew more about his obsessions than anyone, but even to an Ehzeri with farfetched abilities, this seemed a bit silly.

  He held his fist to his lips and paced. “What did you see?”

  She shrugged. “It was just a crazy dream, Leader. I—”

  “What did you see, Vasi? Hm? Tell me. It may be important. It may be the secret we both need to understand Helverliss and his horrible artwork.”

  That biting tone, that impatience, gave her a cold shiver. This change in pitch often preceded executions. “Okay, let me think. It was black, just like the painting. The abyss.” Closed eyes, forced serenity. Sevari’s agitated breath beat against her neck. Damn his nonexistent personal boundaries...

  She relived the blackness, a sucking void that lived inside the enchanted painting. Nothing new.

  “It’s just the same thing over and over again, Leader. I doubt my impressions of the void is of any use to us.”

  Sevari snorted and shuffled his feet. “This project is taking far too long. How can one insane artist evade my entire research wing? Hm? I have studied for decades, and still this damned fool’s work eludes me.” With a sigh, he resumed his stomping course through the laboratory.

  “We’ll get it. It’s not—” Like a bolt of lightning, an image shattered the void. An image of deep blue, of sensuous curves. She gasped.

  “What is it?”

  She barely heard Sevari, and was more concerned with focusing on the figure. Not a figure—a person. With... wings?

  “It’s an archon.” Her voice trailed off. Of all things to see, why did it have to be this?

  “A what?”

  The archon turned, lashing its forked tail like an annoyed lion. A beam of moonlight splashed its face, illuminated sharp fangs. Vasi’s chest rattled. She muttered, hardly audible, “I vowed never again...”

  “What is this?”

  She stumbled over her words. “An archon. She’s beautiful. But...” An uneasiness came over her, and the image disappeared. Still a presence lingered inside her, as if the archon were watching. “Perhaps you call them angels. Whatever you call them, one must take notice if they see one.”

  “An omen, you say?”

  She rubbed her temples. “I am not sure what it means. It could just be my overworked mind.”

  “Nonsense. Everything has meaning, Vasi.” He hummed to himself, and his strange thought processes reared once again in his nervous tapping and jiggling. “Angels, really. Perhaps they are trapped in the painting, and waiting for us to release them. If he has trapped shadows inside, why not angels?”

  “I don’t know that—”

  Sevari clapped loud enough that she flinched. “I had, in my studies, begun to doubt that these angels, or any divine force, really existed. Of course, there are the worldspirits, but those are merely ideas that move us, not actual beings with tails and fangs. Perhaps these archons, as you call them, are agents of the worldspirits.”

  “I really think that—”

  “When things deteriorate to such a poor state as they have, perhaps the worldspirits, these intrinsic ideas, have no choice but to incarnate as the angels and direct us more deliberately. Yes.” He stormed towards the door. “Thank you, Vasi. You have given me a lot to think about. Now, let’s get back to work on that painting. Blightcross needs its power.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, Leader.”

  Watching Sevari disappear into the hall comforted her some, but when she returned to her bench, something gnawed inside. It was as though the archon’s gaze cut into her, all the way from beyond the gap. Was it judging her?

  It had been years. Five, at least, since she had left what was now called Mizkov for Blightcross. Why now?

  Stories. Nothing more. What mattered was here, now. And that just happened to be unravelling arcane secrets for a madman.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Capra tended to avoid jobs in which the task involved dumping bodies, so this one was a first for her. But it wasn’t as if evictions usually ended this way.

  Or perhaps here in Blightcross, they did. Whatever the case, anxiety about the encounter clung to her like the haze that permeated the air in this city. The money meant nothing; if she had been patient, they could have found something easier and more profitable.

  She still couldn’t make sense of this city. On one street, she suspended her guilty conscience as they passed a remarkable, asymmetrical building of grey concrete. Around it, traditional half-timbre designs dominated the block’s architectural canvas, their squat windows betraying a deep jealousy of the new style. This was nothing new to her. What bothered her was the government notice pasted to the front of the beautiful structure: Condemned and Appropriated By The Decency Commission.

  It seemed wherever she found comforting progressive elements from the Little Nations here, they were stifled by the shit growing around them.

  “Look, a leather shop.”

  Dannac spread his hands. “So?”

  “So, I left everything I own on that damned flying boat. I can’t work as a thief or saboteur in loose trousers and a frilly blouse.”

  “Ah, yes. Your... work outfit.”

  How could the old bastard argue with practicality? She paused to remember her measurements, then darted into the shop.

  The young man at the counter could only blink at her request. “It’s not like any work clothes I ever saw. Are you sure this isn’t for some unwholesome activity?”

  She sighed. “I do a lot of climbing, you see. Climbing, falling, skidding, and everything else you could think of. This is what works. Now, will you make this or are you going to make me find someone else?”

  The young man cleared his throat. Probably the kid was imagining what she’d look like in such an outfit. “Yeah, give me a few days.”

  “Sooner.”

  “A few days, lady. Look around you, everyone’s wearing workwear from this shop. I got plenty of pieces to finish.”

  She stomped and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll come back in a few days, then.”

  Back into the street, she found Dannac with his arms crossed, gazing at the passing carriages. He turned to her. “What was his price?”

  “A little higher than usual.”

  “Let me go in and renegotiate.”

  She placed a hand on his chest. “Relax. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Maybe not to a decadent Valoii, but we aren’t really in a position to—”

  She shoved him along. “Yes, we are. Now, what we need more than bargains is a damned job.”

  Two hours later, Capra conceded that they could only afford the most basic housing for the night. The prices at even mediocre inns were ridiculous. How could there be a housing problem when there was so much unused, barren space in this godforsaken place?

  They settled on a four-storey brick inn, the name of which Capra couldn’t read. At this price range, the name probably didn’t matter anyway. On stepping into the lobby, she reeled with second thoughts and regret—she convulsed in a fit of sneezing, a strange tingle biting in her sinuses. Even more encouraging was the iron cage built around the front desk.

  “I’ll let you deal with this,” she said, and further surveyed the lobby.

  Dannac spoke briefly with the attendant, and before long, though not
nearly long enough for her liking, they headed up crumbling stairs towards their room. A tackiness clung to her boots and made sticky sounds along the floor, and many rooms lacked doors. Some rooms held ten or more occupants, and there was a constant thumping and yelling that seemed built into the architecture. A few tenants appeared to be regular working people who could find no better place to live, but leathery faces marked with knife scars and talk of ransom and contraband fluttered through the halls, and the former must have been the exception in this building.

  It wasn’t all gloom and depression, though. They had escaped Alim, and the human stains existing in and around this building would insulate them if he aimed to continue searching for her. She might prefer a luxury resort, like the Baron had booked for them, but this was safer.

  A table was the room’s only piece of furniture. On the floor they sat cross-legged and drank short bottles of small beer. Capra had visited the water pump on the ground floor, and decided to pass on it. Of course, Dannac would drink anything, but she was determined not to let him put grey sludge into his body.

  After a while, he said, “You need to stop stressing yourself over it. It is done. The man was near death anyway.”

  She looked up from the community newspaper, which she could barely read on account of her lax knowledge of the Tamish written language. “How do you know? He needed help, not to be killed.”

  “He attacked us.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  There was something wrong about Dannac trying to convince Capra, a Valoii, that killing an Ehzeri was necessary. No doubt everyone back home, on all sides, would at least have a laugh over it.

  Wind, so hot... sun beaming on a dozen cavalry sabres...

  “From what I have seen, this was not isolated.” Dannac pointed to the paper. “There are many Ehzeri here. Many from empowered families.”

  “But why?”

  “Someone told them that exchanging their birthright for temporary financial gain was better than fighting your people.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  He shook his head. “Individual use of vihs will deplete the Ehzeri familial power forever. That is what happened to my family.” He was silent for a moment. “Since not all Ehzeri in each family are working here in concert with each other, it will only deplete what few family lines are left with the ability.”