by D. P. Prior
Cadman had stopped counting at three; stopped breathing too. “As a medical man,” he stood and opened the door a crack to make sure Gaston wasn’t within earshot, “I can assure you that anything you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence. Regrettably, I’ve seen nor heard nothing of Jarmin since his little visit, and I only knew about that due to the indiscretion of one of the staff.”
“Who?”
“Forgive me if I don’t say.” Cadman stared pointedly at the chair Lallia had recently occupied.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Zara Gen pried Cadman’s fingers from the door and held it open for him. Does he suspect anything? Four, five, six—“And good luck with the templum.”
Cadman shuffled along the corridor to catch up with Gaston. The lad was frowning back towards Zara Gen’s office.
“I’m starting to think I made a big mistake coming here.”
Farm-boy in the big city? Whiskerless youth swimming with the sharks of Sahulian political life? Oh, you poor witless child, “mistake” doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Nonsense, Gaston. I’d say your arrival has been most fortuitous; a gift from Ain, you might say.” If you were a dumb savage with offal for a brain. “Come, my carriage is outside. Let’s take a look at these knights of yours, and then we’ll pop over to the templum. Tell me,” he said, putting an arm around Gaston’s shoulder, “did your Mr. Shader ever speak about the legend of the Lost?”
“The Elect knights sent from Aeterna to aid the Gray Abbot?”
“Quite, quite. I have a friend who has rather a passion for the subject. You really should meet him; I think he’ll enjoy you immensely. But first, allow me to take a look at that nose of yours. Can’t have you going around with stitches like that. People might think it’s my handiwork.”
THE MAWGS BENEATH
The five assassins trailed Shadrak like ducklings following their mother on their first swim. Hard to believe these men were killers, a couple of them big names in their own narrow orbits. He took them on a winding tour of the Maze, keeping them as far from the cluster of chambers at the hub as he could. It was bad enough bringing his fellow Sicarii to the tunnels at all, but there was no way he was going to share his greatest secrets—not unless he wanted to end up as one of the bloated corpses bobbing down the Soulsong. The guild was a brotherhood of assassins, right enough, but assassins were like the sharks in the tales Kadee used to tell him: one sign of weakness and you’re finished.
Uniform passages of shimmering metal were splashed with blue light from the globes set into the ceiling that flickered on as they approached and winked out as they passed.
Shadrak held up a hand to halt the group. They’d arrived at another crossroads and he needed to inspect the numerals above each of the four arches.
“Still know where we are?” Porius asked, looming over him, perspiration trickling from his bald head and running down the gullies of his face. “Only I was hoping to be back by now; wife’s on her own with the girls.”
Shadrak visualized his map, mentally ticking off the corridors they’d passed through. They were almost at the edges of the area he’d committed to memory and there seemed no sign of the tunnels ending. “Think you can find your way back? One less won’t make no difference. I’m sure Master Rabalath will understand.” He was renowned for his fatherly concern and compassion. Last bloke stupid enough to ignore an order had his guts pulled out and draped around his neck like a scarf.
Porius peered back down the stark passageway with nothing to distinguish it from the dozens they’d already navigated. Nothing but the numerals, that is, but they were meaningless without the legend Shadrak had discovered at the heart of the Maze, and he wasn’t about to reveal that to anyone.
“Nah, reckon I’ll see this through. Couldn’t live with myself if I left you with this bunch.”
Shadrak raised an eyebrow, cast a look over his shoulder at the rest of the group. “Thanks for that,” he said without any trace of enthusiasm. “Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.”
Shadrak had always reckoned Porius utterly unsuited to the life of an assassin: he was a family man, devoted to his wife and daughters. He’d always refused to be drawn on the reasons for his choice of profession. Maybe he’d fallen on hard times, or taken the law into his own hands only to find there was no going back afterwards. Whatever the case, Porius weren’t your typical Sicarii. He’d started his own bakery a few years back, and spent the early hours kneading dough and loading the oven. His Sicarii duties were conducted in the afternoon, and very rarely at night when the children were sleeping. He’d endured his fair share o’ crap from some of the other journeymen, who would every now and again challenge his position in the guild. When Master Rabalath told them to do something about it if they didn’t like it, the sensible ones let the matter drop. The others were never seen again, ’cept maybe if you were a fish. Porius weren’t scum like the rest of ’em, but neither was he a pushover.
The other four were shoggers through and through. Kilian and Julul were obviously green as snot and yet cocksure little pricks with it. Shadrak must’ve missed their induction into the Sicarii, which was a shame ’cause he’d have prob’ly black-balled ’em. Julul looked about as fit as a tub of lard and was probably a virgin of the razor. Kilian was older, lean and lanky with a spiteful look about him: a look that would one day get him killed as he didn’t look like he could back it up with anything more than a limp slap.
Kelvus and Deggin, on the other hand, had been around for years. Always worked as a pair; shared the same mannerisms and dress sense. They were your classic journeymen, garbed in black and brown with heavily laden baldrics crisscrossing their torsos. Kelvus was s’posed to be the more deadly, but Deggin was cunning as a shithouse rat. Alone, they were second-rate cutthroats, but together, they were a tricky couple o’ scuts. Shadrak couldn’t exactly say he cared for ’em all that much. It was one thing to take pride in your work, but these two went about it with inhuman glee.
Even now they spoke in hushed voices, flicking the occasional glance at their companions, no doubt sneering and plotting. Albert once told Shadrak of his plans to poison them following their part in the Marsden-family massacre. Albert had secured the contract and coordinated the strike only to have Kelvus and Deggin alert the watch whilst they disappeared with the takings. There was no place for grievances in the Sicarii—guild-members were meant to settle their own scores. Right now, Shadrak was wishing he hadn’t persuaded Albert to stay his hand. Maybe then Master Rabalath would have chosen some better companions—perhaps even Albert himself. He might’ve been a poisonous, back-stabbing bastard, but at least he was good at it.
“Left,” Shadrak said, leading the way and not bothering to see if the others were following.
He knew they would be. His brother assassins both feared and despised him, and not just due to his freakish looks. None of ’em, not even Rabalath, had been able to work him out. He always kept himself apart and guarded his secrets jealously. The masters were aware that he was often economical with his intelligence, and yet they put up with him out o’ the respect he’d brought the guild. Time and again Shadrak had succeeded where even the most skilled of assassins had failed. He’d survived his fair share of plots, too—enough to make him something of a legend among his peers. Reputation had grown into mystique, and that made him virtually untouchable.
The party stopped at yet another intersection.
“How the shog are we supposed to track them down here?” Kilian asked. “It all looks the same. No dirt, no footprints, no nothing.”
“Hear that, Kelv? Boy’s keen to catch himself some mawgs,” Deggin said. “Reckon he’ll be able to face ’em without pissing himself?”
Kilian glared, but wisely said nothing. Deggin gave him a knowing smile and chuckled.
“How come it’s so clean now?” Julul said. “When we came in the floor was covered in shit.”
“Maybe the shit grew legs and a fat arse so it could follow us around asking stupid qu
estions,” Kelvus said, imitating a whining brat.
Julul’s mouth hung open, his eyes flicking to the others as if he expected them to say something—tell Kelvus off, p’raps, like in the nursery.
“Ah, don’t worry, big boy,” Deggin said, thumping him on the shoulder. “He’s just kidding, ain’t you Kelv?”
“Nope.”
Kilian crouched down so that his face was level with Shadrak’s. That nearly got him a knife in the eye for taking the piss, but fortunately for him, Shadrak recalled something Kadee had said about giving the benefit of the doubt. He weren’t comfortable with the idea, but he’d do it for her.
“This is a waste of time, Shadrak.” Kilian spoke softly as if he were trying to avoid giving offense, but Shadrak couldn’t help finding the tone patronising to the degree that he had half a mind to forget Kadee’s Dreamer bullshit. “We could walk in circles for days and still not see a single mawg.”
“We’re making a systematic search of the tunnels.” Porius came to the rescue. “Takes time, lad, but it’s the only way to get the job done.”
“Why don’t we split up?” Kelvus shuffled from foot to foot, thumbs rubbing against fingers, desperate for something to do.
“Because we’d waste even more time when I had to come and find you,” Shadrak said. “Just remember, you’re here ’cause Rabalath sent you, not because you’re of any use to me. You can either shut up and do as you’re told or shog off down the tunnels and starve to death. I’m good either way.” Oh, he’d pay for that remark once they returned to the surface; you could be sure of it—unless, of course, Shadrak made the first move.
When they passed the passage where he’d killed the three mawgs, Shadrak could find no sign of the bodies, not even a trace of blood. Either more mawgs had come for their dead, or the Maze’s spectral cleaners had blown over them, breaking down the corpses like they did the sewage, and leaving nothing but gleaming metal in their wake.
The group moved on to the right where the corridor doubled back on itself, wending its way north of the city centre. The Maze was truly colossal, maybe even extending beyond the suburbs, and yet there was no indication of who’d built it, and why. Must’ve been very old, Shadrak reasoned—at least as old as Sarum’s foundations, and shog knows when they were laid.
They continued their meandering path for what seemed an age until Shadrak’s nostrils flared at the smell of roasting meat and he gestured for the others to stop. There was another odour too, subtler and harder to identify…
“What is it?” Porius asked, moving to his side.
Mangy dogs—the merest ghost of a whiff mingled with the sterile air of the tunnel. “I think we’re getting clo—”
Before he could finish, Kilian and Julul pushed past and took a left turn.
“Wait!” Shadrak hissed, but they ignored him. Kelvus followed suit, Deggin sauntering up from behind.
“Cacking yourself over a few mawgs, Shadrak? Surely not,” Deggin said, walking backwards as he passed so that Shadrak could see the derision on his face. “Thought you said you killed three by yourself. That means that Kelvus could take six, and I’m good for four at the very least. Porius could handle a couple, I reckon, and the boys one each. How many do you s’pose there could be?” Deggin spun away and swaggered round the corner.
Porius looked at Shadrak before shrugging and following the others. Shadrak held back to check the ammunition in the Thunder-shot. His fingers ran over the knives in his baldrics and the other assorted weapons he kept concealed on his person. Satisfied that all was in order, he drew his black cloak about him, pressed his back to the wall and crept in pursuit.
The passageway opened onto a circular area about fifteen feet in diameter. The walls were smooth and metallic like the corridors. Kilian was ahead of the group poking at a joint of sizzling meat suspended by a hook from the ceiling, the heat apparently coming from a glowing red cube on the floor.
“Dead end,” Kilian said, picking off a piece of flesh and tasting it.
Julul swore and then sat petulantly with his back against the wall.
“What’s this?” Kelvus bent to examine the cube. “Aeterna-tech?”
“Buggered if I know,” Deggin said, running his thumb along the edge of his knife. “I’ve heard o’ mawgs with weapons and the like from before the Reckoning. They say they got ’em from Sektis Gandaw. Time for caution, I think.”
“Bit late for that,” Shadrak muttered under his breath, eyes flicking in every direction. What Deggin said made sense, though. Gandaw was meant to have created the mawgs by joining wolves with humans and something reptilian before his disappearance at the time of the Reckoning. Kadee had been obsessed with the legends, blaming Sektis Gandaw for all the ills of her people and preparing for his return. Wasted fears; a life tarnished by paranoia. For all her prophesying, Gandaw hadn’t shown, and Kadee had long since gone back to the ground.
Porius began to walk around the circular space, feeling its walls with the tips of his fingers and delivering sharp raps with his knuckles. Shadrak held his position in the corridor, watching the way they’d come, finger resting lightly on the trigger of the Thunder-shot.
Something moved into sight about twenty yards down the passageway. Another shape joined it, and then another. The five Sicarii were talking carelessly now and hadn’t noticed the hunched and shaggy shapes loping towards them. Shadrak waited until the creatures were almost upon him before easing a small vial from his pocket and hurling it. As it struck the floor the glass shattered. There was a flash of light, a sickly smell, and then the thud of three bodies hitting the ground.
“What the shog—” Kelvus began, but his words were cut off by a succession of hissing noises as sections of the wall around the circle slid upwards. Mawgs poured from the openings, rabid eyes blazing yellow, claws like daggers tearing into the assassins. Porius went down first, throat ripped out, blood spraying all over. Dozens of the creatures scrambled out from their hiding places, giving the Sicarii no time to defend themselves. Shadrak fired into a gaping maw lined with row upon row of needle-sharp fangs. The creature staggered, the mawgs behind pulling it to the floor and ripping at its flesh in a feeding frenzy. More and more of the beasts swarmed into the circle, smothering the assassins like an avalanche. Deggin was the last to scream, arms torn from their sockets, great gouts of blood gushing all over the gleaming walls.
Shadrak began to edge back along the corridor wrapped in his cloak, but more mawgs cut off his retreat as they rounded the corner. At their head was a giant female, bare breasted, hair braided and adorned with bones. Shadrak raised the Thunder-shot and fired, but a wall of dark green light flew up around the female, stopping the bullet in mid-flight.
Looking frantically about, Shadrak saw that the mawgs behind had finished with his companions and were loping towards him, blood staining the fur of their faces, strips of flesh and sinew stuck in their teeth. The female raised her arms, plucking at unseen forces above her head. Shimmering mist swirled about her hands and the air reeked of sulfur. She threw back her head and barked strange words that set Shadrak’s skin crawling. He fired mindlessly into the mass of fur, thoughts racing, seeking an escape, probing for vulnerabilities, picking targets.
And then the mawgs were all over him and he’d fired his last shot.
KNOTS
The empty eyes of the Dark Mother of Ain were like tunnels that opened onto the Void; invitations to take the final leap that either led to the Supernal Realm or oblivion. The statue stood out from the triptych altar-piece in the Lady chapel and provided the priests of the Templum of the Knot with a focal point for their meditations.
Shader tried to focus on the knots of the prayer cord dangling between his knees, but his eyes seemed to have a life of their own. Rows of votive candles glowed like marsh gas through clouds of frankincense rising from a censer. Death-rattles and hacking coughs from the nave syncopated his thoughts and set him cursing under his breath. He saw a flash of white and looked up to see S
oror Velda scurrying between the pallet-beds, no doubt offering false hope to the victims of the plague.
His shoulder throbbed beneath the broken links of his chainmail, blood staining the surcoat a deep crimson. He fumbled at the Gordian knot on the prayer cord, but he was too tired for impossible tasks so he moved on to a simple dog-shank and tugged out a section of the line. Almost immediately, his thoughts shifted from teeming ruminations about the Gray Abbot, Eingana, and the mawgs to a cavernous stillness that swallowed awareness of everything but his rapt focus on the unweaving. That’s where Ain was at one with his people: the place in which Shader had come to hear his voice.
“It could heal your shoulder, you know.”
Shader resisted the impulse to sigh as Elias Wolf dropped down on the pew beside him.
“My statue—Eingana. Be right as rain in a jiffy, only he’s bound to throw a fit if you use it. Huntsman, I mean.”
Shader pulled the prayer cord back over his neck and took the serpent statue from his pocket. It had lost its glow and faded to a dull black. He ran his thumbs over the empty eye sockets and traced the indentations where the fangs should be. The scent of stale tobacco reached his nostrils and he bent to examine the serpent’s mouth, scraping out burnt leaf and ash.
Elias gave a little cough. “On second thoughts, perhaps you’re better off having the priests look at the cut. I got away with using it a couple of times, but then it started to give me the creeps. Like someone was watching.”
Shader held the statue out in front of him and stared at it. “I feel nothing.”
“Good,” Elias said, clapping him on the back and then snatching his hand away as if he expected to get hit in return. “Then he’s probably just after me, what with me being so famous and all. Suppose I’ll just have to get a new hash tray.”