by D. P. Prior
He lay prone, peeking from the hood as three mawgs come into view, sniffing the air, bat-like ears twitching. Dark fur shrouded their faces, and slitty yellow eyes glared above jutting snouts. Daggers wouldn’t do much good against their torsos. They were all knotted and gnarled, rashes of fist-sized warts and carbuncles sprouting from scaly carapaces. The legs were sinewy, bent backwards like a bird’s, ending in curved talons and spiky spurs. Need a cleaver to hack into them. Hook-like fingers with opposable thumbs scraped along the floor at the end of drooping arms. Tough and stringy like the legs. Eyes or the jaws, then, seems the best bet.
The largest of the mawgs curled its black lips, revealing a mouth like a fly-trapping plant’s, row upon row of spiny teeth all the way to the back of its throat. They had the scent of him, nostrils flaring, eyes ravenous. The big mawg growled at the others and they kept back whilst it crouched over Shadrak’s cloak, reaching out with two clawed fingers.
Stab.
Shadrak saw it at the last minute—a soft patch crying out to be a target. Felt the dagger bite. Hot blood, thick and oily, splashed over his hand.
The other two mawgs looked stunned by the sudden seizure that gripped their leader, who then collapsed, the stiletto jutting from its groin. Shadrak sprang from beneath his cloak and hurled daggers at them both. One mawg howled and dropped, a knife through its eye. The other, a blade piercing its throat, charged.
Shadrak threw himself into a backwards flip, simultaneously pulling the Old World weapon from its sheath. The mawg leapt, jaws wide, teeth bristling. Its head exploded the instant before thunder cracked and rolled down the corridor.
One shot. Good. No, more’n good: perfick. Shadrak crouched down to examine the creatures. Ammunition was hard to come by in the Maze. Six rounds left and then he’d need to search for another cartridge to slot into the grip.
Mawgs beneath Sarum would go down like a Nousian at the emperor’s table. According to the guild, they’d recently butchered their way through Gladelvi in the north,•within days of Jarmin leaving to visit Governor Gen. Maybe the mawgs were following the stench of his sandals. Maybe they hated Nousians as much as Hagalle did. As much as Shadrak did, come to think of it. Or maybe it had something to do with that piece of amber Cadman had taken from the Anchorite. Only other option was that it was a coincidence, but that didn’t sit right with Shadrak. Everything happened for a purpose. It was all cause and effect.
Hard to believe this was anything but a recce, the vanguard of thousands of mawgs swarming towards the city, merciless as locusts in a crop of sugarcane. The Sicarii weren’t gonna like it. Bad for business. How could an assassin make a living if the people were already dead, their clothes, flesh and even bones devoured? Better to leave now, cross the desert into Barraiya land and then head for Millius, or take a ship to New Ithaka. If the mawgs had found a way into the city, Sarum was finished.
Shadrak crept to the next intersection, feeling inside a pouch for an exploding globe. As he ducked into the left corridor, blue lights blinked on in succession, receding into the distance. He set off at a jog, clanging footfalls echoing throughout the Maze.
You should tell someone, Kadee’s voice nagged at the back of his mind. Give them a chance.
“Not my problem,” he said out loud, taking a right turn and stopping to check the number etched into the lintel.
People will die. Thousands of people. Children, too.
“I’m a killer. What’s it to me?”
You are my boy, Shadrak. Eingana’s gift to me. The hope of the Dreaming.
All nonsense. An old woman’s fancy, her death-bed comfort. He’d wanted to believe it once, believe that he was special, that his deformity had a purpose, his life a direction and meaning. Kadee had been a little crazy from chewing pituri, but if anyone else had said it he’d have gutted them. She’d sworn a snake-headed man had brought him to her for protection, one of her gods from the Dreaming. As a child, he’d accepted it all without question, but life had taught him some hard lessons, chief amongst them that fantasy was the twin of despair. Kadee was an oddity amongst the Dreamers, choosing to live in squalor on the fringes of Sarum, disowned by her people, ignored by the city-folk. She’d always said she did it for him, for the gods, for the Dreaming, but since she’d gone, it seemed more likely she’d done it all for nothing.
Shog Sarum. It deserved to be destroyed, its people reduced to piles of stinking mawg puke.
He reached a junction and squinted at the lintel. The numbers danced a blurry jig, his head pounding with the effort of focusing.
“Leave me alone,” he said through gritted teeth to the ghostly face forming in his mind.
Kadee’s brown eyes shone with the love of a mother for a child; an only child, a special one. The hint of a smile touched her lips and she gave the slightest of nods before retreating like the sun behind a cloud.
Shadrak felt the warmth of her presence, felt himself smiling and shook his head. She’d done it again. He could never refuse her in life, and in death she was just as persuasive. Turning back the way he’d come, he started to retrace his steps, all the while working out what to tell the guild and what he could safely leave out.
He’d have plenty of time for that, though, ’cause first he had to make a detour. Still had the little matter of imperial goons coming to his house with the contract to kill Bovis Rayn. Couldn’t have people knowing where he lived, and it was about time he paid them a return visit. Begged the question, though, how they’d found him in the first place, why they’d not gone through the guild. Or maybe they had. Maybe the guild had gone to them, in which case someone was trying to expose him, weaken his position. All part of the constant in-fighting that weeded out the weak from the strong. There was no honor among assassins, which was a good thing. At least when he found out who it was that had betrayed him, there’d be no need to give a warning.
RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
Shader’s coat grew sodden and heavy, his hat lank and misshapen. Clinging clay slurped at his boots, the rain falling in sheets that pocked the track with puddles. Clouds smothered the sky with a roiling black blanket and wind buffeted the grass-trees, their leaves fanning and flapping, anchored by stunted trunks.
Splash, slurp, splash. Splash, slurp, splash: steps like the beating of a diseased heart sloshing bad blood through clogged arteries. The sound took hold like a mantra, drawing him to the still center where the storm was muffled and comforting outside the walls of perception.
The waters of the Soulsong were swollen and dangerous, yet there were tents pitched along the bank, hunched figures running between them, shouts merging with the howling wind. Swinging lanterns cast their eerie glow across the precarious village, half a dozen hemming the platform of a swaying watchtower. To the northeast, Shader could just make out the dark outline of Sarum, the spires of its Old World buildings stabbing the sky in retaliation for the downpour.
A burly spearman struggled towards him, cloak snapping like a lateen, dragging him the other way. Rain pattered against his helm, streamed down the nose-guard and soaked into his beard.
“Corporal Farley, Fifth Regiment, Imperial. Where you heading?”
“Business at the abbey,” Shader shouted above the squall.
“Best tell them to stay away from Sarum. Plague’s hit. No one gets in or out.”
“I’ll let them know.” Not that it was necessary. No one had left Pardes for a very long time. No one, that is, besides Shader.
“Evil bastard of a plague.” Another soldier approached, a captain judging by his epaulets. “Glad I ain’t in there. Captain Janks, Imperial Fifth. Off to the abbey, you say? What business could be so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow?”
“I was gonna ask him that,” Farley said, ramming the haft of his spear into the mud and doing his best to stand up straight.
The blast of a horn had everyone turning. Soldiers, bent double against the gusting winds, scurried from their tents and ran along the bank in the direction of the ocea
n.
“What is it?” Shader asked Captain Janks, who was wrapping his cloak about him like a shroud as he headed after the others.
“Mawgs, most likely. Shoggers are getting cocky again. Been driving ’em off all the way down the coast.”
“Mind if I join you?” The chill of anticipation ran up and down Shader’s spine, fuelled by flashing images of Oakendale’s dead, steaming pools of gore staining the streets.
“You know what you’re asking?”
Shader pulled back his coat a little way to reveal the hilt of his longsword. “I know evil and how to deal with it.”
“Right y’are.” Janks slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t s’pose another pair of hands is gonna hurt any.”
They ducked into the wind to catch up with the group of soldiers gathering at the base of the lookout tower.
Janks cupped his hands and threw his head back. “What is it? Mawgs?”
“No, sir!” the horn-blower yelled back, pointing to the west. “There’s a boat coming up the river.”
Even as he spoke, it drifted into sight, prow low in the water, lone mast supporting a patchwork sail. Mist partially obscured the view, but as the craft approached, Shader spotted a stout figure at the helm. Devilish horns glinted in the lamplight spilling from the mast. As it drew nearer, though, he saw that it was a helmed human, dwarfish and powerfully built, with a great mane of gray hair and a long braided beard. He wore a dark habit beneath a pale cloak embroidered with a red cross. The wind tore at his garments, revealing glimpses of heavy banded armor underneath. The dwarf held a war hammer aloft, the boat seemingly steering itself.
“Shog me,” Janks said. “It’s the Fallen.”
Resounding murmurs came from the soldiers. Shader shrugged and shook his head.
“Maldark the Fallen.” The captain’s voice quavered. “It’s said he’s sailed the waterways of Sahul since the Reckoning.”
“Shall we stop him, sir?” asked Corporal Farley.
“I’m not sure that we could.” Janks turned to watch the boat float silently past in the direction of Sarum.
“What’s he doing here?” Shader thought aloud.
“Who knows?” The captain continued to stare after the boat. “Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, that the Fallen arrives right on the heels of the plague?”
“Sorcery?” Shader’s fingers curled around the hilt of the gladius.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing’s for sure: wherever the Fallen’s seen, death’s not far behind. Stand down, everyone!” Janks called over the wind. “You need a tent for the night?”
“I’ll press on to the abbey.”
“Suit yourself. Tell me one thing, though, “fore you do. You a Nousian?”
Shader felt his face tighten, his mind racing for the right response. The captain was watching him as if he already knew the answer.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got no orders on that account. Reckon the Sicarii get paid more than enough for that job. You’ll get no trouble from me.” He leaned in closer. “Haven’t the stomach for it. I’m curious, mind, as to what business a fighting man has at the abbey.”
“As am I, Captain. As am I.”
Shader shook Janks’s hand and set off along the bank. He headed west until he came to a wooden bridge, slipping and sliding his way across the Soulsong and into the shelter of Darling Wood. A path through the trees opened upon a scree slope ascending to the lone spire of Pardes.
***
The Gray Abbot observed the approach of the figure through the storm. He sat motionless as the gargoyles flanking him atop the tower, wind and rain lashing the parapet, but leaving him dry and unruffled. Idly, he fingered the amber eye of the wooden Monas nestled in the folds of his habit. His thoughts labored through strands of memories clinging like cobwebs heavy with the husks of insects. Images of brothers long since turned to dust; reconstructions of the faces of family and friends that had been erased by the centuries; and something older, just below the surface: the specter of Otto Blightey, invisible, sunken like a crocodile in a muddy creek.
The revered friar had once held sway with the chief powers of Nousia, even the Ipsissimus himself. His influence had extended with his longevity, a perdurance that had been widely seen as the fruit of holiness. The Gray Abbot shuddered at the emerging memory.
Was he so different?
Thoughts of the nefarious friar often dominated his meditations and he’d long since given up trying to banish them. He was astute enough to discern the warnings his unconscious was sending him with increasing frequency. He understood that every soul, no matter how holy, always harbored a shadow side.
“No.” He throttled the thought before it led him where he didn’t want to go. “I am not like Blightey.”
Deep breathing settled his nerves, blunted his fears. It was the instant relief he used to feel upon sipping his first wine of the day. With calm restored, it was easy to assert that the memories need not refer to his shadow side; they could equally be interpreted as a warning against judging Blightey too harshly. Perhaps the connection between the Gray Abbot and this specter from the past lay in the ultimate goodness of their intentions, the only difference being that, for Blightey, the ends had uncompromisingly dictated the means.
He turned at the sound of the door slamming in the wind. Frater Elphus bustled out into the cold, fat fingers tugging his cloak about his ample frame.
“Frater Shader is back, Pater Abbot. Should we let him in?”
The Gray Abbot shifted his focus back to the external world and sighed. Another ghost, this one from the more recent past, began to intrude upon his consciousness.
“Would you leave a brother out in the cold?”
Elphus lowered his eyes and scurried back inside wrestling the door shut. The Gray Abbot sighed again and became aware that he was chewing his bottom lip.
“Ain,” he shivered, rubbing his arms. “It’s freezing.”
Rising from his stony perch, he moved effortlessly against the wind, the door opening for him like a welcoming friend. Back inside the abbey, the weight of the feelings of the brothers bore down upon him and he once more felt his age. Reaching for the rope railing, he made his arduous descent of the spiraling stairs and hobbled along endless corridors under the gaze of statues of the Luminaries and the Dark Mother of Ain until he came to the chapel. He’d occupied the same choir stall for centuries, and it was here that he always returned when he needed guidance. Lowering himself onto the hard wooden pew, he let the words of prayer spill forth of their own accord.
***
Shader paused before the wrought iron gates of the abbey. Aeterna seemed suddenly even more remote than the other side of the world. It was as if he had never left Pardes, as if the time at Oakendale, the weeks of travel and the tournament had been a tantalizing dream.
You will live and die here, Frater Trellian had told him when he’d first arrived as a postulant. Pardes is your tomb; here you will be buried with Nous.
The romance of sharing the death of the Son of Ain had carried him through the first few months, but deep down he’d always known it was a temporary arrangement. Simplicity and contemplation drew him like a moth to the flame, but he’d recoiled from the burn.
Lifting the latch with tremulous fingers, he pushed through the gate and closed it behind him. One last trip, he’d told the Gray Abbot; a final expiation, then he could accept the cold hand of Nous. The tournament was supposed to end his life of action, lay to rest the striving for excellence. Reach the heights and then abandon the old life. No regrets, no wondering what he might have achieved.
His feet scuffed against the stone path wending towards the abbey doors. The final steps of Deacon Shader leaving the world of conflict, power and struggle. He walked the way of the luminary one dragging footfall at a time. Resounding steps. Deliberate. Gallows steps.
Maybe he should have stayed at Oakendale. They’d been good times; some of the best. Shader had moved into the Old Mint, which had be
en disused since the end of the Sarum gold rush. The locals had fed him at the request of the village council, but the initial gratitude of the people towards their liberator had soon worn thin. Resentment surfaced towards the man who lived among them, ate their food, but did no work. He’d meditated upon the advice of Luminary Tajen, for whom work was as crucial as prayer, and determined to earn his keep. He founded the White Order to bring both Ain and security to the village, and to oppose all manner of evil, wherever they should find it. A bit idealistic, maybe, but if you didn’t differentiate between what was for Nous and what was against him early on then you gave the Demiurgos his opportunity. The young of the shire, devoid of hope for a better future, had flocked to him.
The White Order’s numbers quickly swelled like the waters of the Delling in winter. He’d started the recruits off on horsemanship, something the locals already knew a lot about. Next had come sword practice, something they wanted to know a lot about; and then he’d introduced the Liber and the unraveling of knots on the prayer cord. Create a bridge for people to cross, Adeptus Ludo used to say, hook them with what they know, what they desire, and then lead them to Nous as meek as little lambs. This was to be an Order purer than even the renowned Elect, a beacon of holiness in a distant outpost, whose light would be seen from Aeterna like that of a far off star.
Gaston had taken to it like a fish to water. This was a much more palatable approach to his father’s newly acquired religion. Bovis hadn’t approved, though, forced Gaston to make a choice. The lad had put his trust in Shader, dreamed of being like the Elect, of perhaps one day serving in Aeterna. Probably wouldn’t have gone down well with the Ipsissimus—a renegade knight training an unauthorized Order—but Shader never said anything to discourage him. All Gaston’s trust, his hard work and dedication, the loss of his family. Shader sighed. In a few more years the lad would have made a fine knight, but instead, Shader had abandoned him along with all the others. Promised them the life eternal and then left them in the same life of drudgery he’d just saved them from.