by D. P. Prior
A shadow fell over the group as the wraith floated toward them.
The sandy-haired knight’s eyes widened. “In the name of Nous!”
“Callixus,” the blond one said. “Stay out of this. He’s mine.” He twisted Shadrak’s arm behind his back and pressed his mouth close to his ear. “I know what you did, you stunted little bastard. And I have a little surprise for you. Remember the preach—”
“He has something that Dr. Cadman needs,” hissed the wraith. “Give it to me and none of you will be harmed.”
A grizzled warrior, not much taller than Shadrak, pushed through the cordon of knights, sparks crackling around the head of a war-hammer.
“Be gone, demon,” the dwarf snarled, “or I’ll give thee a taste of my hammer.”
Callixus drew a black sword, the blade a shifting length of smoke as immaterial as his body. As he drifted closer to the dwarf, Callixus and his sword grew more solid, the blade hardening into obsidian wreathed in black light. The dwarf raised his hammer to strike, but an old woman in a white robe stepped to his side. Her head was shaven, her face broad and stern. She held a small black book in her hands and proceeded to chant the words she read there.
“Non timebo mala quoniam tu mecum es.”
The wraith faltered and glanced at the book, the fire in his eyes dimming.
“Aeternam. It’s been a long time since I heard it spoken.”
The woman looked up from her reading. “It is still the language of the servants of Nous. His spirit can never be driven from you, brother, even in death. Go in peace. I will pray for you.”
Callixus looked from her to Shadrak before ramming his sword back into its scabbard.
“Mater, I have… I have done…”
“I know,” the woman said. “It was you who attacked the Gray Abbot, wasn’t it?”
The wraith lowered his head.
“And you led the forces that attacked the templum.” The woman closed her book and studied the wraith with the sort of look Kadee would no doubt have given Shadrak, had she been alive: a look both sorrowful and compassionate. “You have been lost, brother, but Ain will find you. Don’t despair. He will not forsake you. Now go to your master and tell him you found nothing down here. I know it’s a lie, but Ain will forgive it.”
Callixus wavered a moment more then rose into the air.
“I will do as you ask, Mater, but know this.” He fixed Shadrak with a smoldering glare. “I will come for you, assassin. You are not as unseen as you like to think.”
The wraith turned in midair and merged with the shadows.
The blond knight’s grip slackened slightly. Shadrak glanced out of the corner of his eye. The lad was trembling. He looked up, hatred flaring from damp eyes, and at the same time Shadrak remembered where he’d seen the face before. Not the exact same face: the one he recalled was older, but the cheek bones, the chin and the nose, there was no mistaking where they’d come from.
“Like I was saying,” the lad said through gritted teeth, “I’ve got a little surprise for you. I know who you are. Face like yours ain’t exactly hard to spot.” He released his grip so that he could draw his sword.”
It was all Shadrak needed. He twisted his hips and spun round, crashing his fist into the sandy-haired knight’s nose. The lad fell backward in a spray of blood. Shadrak barged through the ring of knights and sprinted down the tunnel, tripped and catapulted himself straight on top of a groaning, sweat-soaked woman lying on the floor. The corridor was littered with coughing and moaning people; there was no way past except by clambering over them. He glanced back and saw the knights with their swords drawn blocking his retreat. Up front, he could see a fat priest and three priestesses who’d been tending the sick. One of the women made a path for him, weaving in and out of the bodies on the floor. He recognized her from the Griffin, too—she’d been the drunkard who’d left early. Her black hair was tied back in a long ponytail, her face pale, the eyes set in dark circles. Blood stained her white robe around the shoulder, which was noticeably padded—no doubt bandaged over-zealously by an amateur.
“Stop him!” the blond lad yelled, pushing his way to the front of the knights.
The woman with the dark hair folded her arms across her chest and frowned at Shadrak. “Who the shog are you?”
An elderly priestess put a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Rhiannon! Language!”
“Don’t let him past,” the blond lad said. “He’s Shadrak the Unseen, the assassin who killed my dad.”
Bovis shogging Rayn. Spineless Nousian bastard. Squealed like a pig when I shot him. Wonder if his son will do the same.
“Well, well, well,” Shadrak said, drawing two knives from his baldric and flicking his cloak back from his shoulders. “Bovis Rayn had a son, and there’s me thinking he was just some dried up Nousian turd.”
The lad took a step forward, eyes narrowing, knuckles whitening from gripping the sword too tight.
Good, thought Shadrak. Nice ’n’ easy.
“You got a name, boy?” Shadrak said, dropping into a crouch. “Or should I call you Squealer, after your dad.”
“You and me,” the lad said. “One on one.”
Even better.
“OK, you’ve got me. Ready when you are.”
“Gaston,” said the sandy-haired youth from the pub. “Don’t be a clacker. There’s enough of us to bring him down without anyone getting hurt.”
“Shut it, Barek,” Gaston said. “This is between me and him.”
“Gaston, you’re being an arse,” the black-haired woman said—the old girl had called her Rhiannon. “Listen to Barek.”
Gaston licked his lips and took a careful step forward. “Don’t think I can take him? I might not be as good as Shader, but at least I’m not the one lying dead in the templum with this shogger’s knife in my back.”
The old priestess appeared behind Gaston and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Gaston,” she said. “This is not our way.”
“Maybe not,” Gaston said. “But it sure is mine.”
The knight’s attack was so fast that Shadrak had to sway backward to avoid being skewered. His heel touched something that caused him to stumble and Gaston took full advantage, lunging for his chest. Shadrak turned the blade with his left-hand dagger and made a feint with the right. Gaston’s head snapped back out of reach, and Shadrak shot a quick glance at the obstructions behind. There was a narrow path between the patients, which he instantly committed to memory. As Gaston came at him with a combination of thrusts and slices, Shadrak danced away backward on the balls of his feet.
Gaston pressed forward like a man walking a tightrope, one arm outstretched for balance, the other tracking Shadrak with the tip of his sword. Shadrak threw a dagger, which Gaston batted aside to clatter against the metal walls. The second knife grazed Gaston’s cheek as Shadrak continued to retreat, one step, two steps, and then back-flipped past the remaining bodies. The fat priest and the priestesses scurried out of the way.
Shadrak came to his feet at a crossroads, which afforded him more room to move. Gaston stepped past the last of the bodies and charged before he could draw another dagger. Shadrak ducked beneath a slash, spun on his heel, and kicked Gaston in the shin. The sword arced down, but clanged from the floor as Shadrak rolled away, springing to his feet with a sword-breaker in his right hand and a push-dagger in the left.
Gaston circled him warily now, reaching down to feel his shin with his free hand. Shadrak dropped his shoulders allowing his cloak to fall forward. The lad took the opportunity and stabbed toward his head, but the sword-breaker came up, catching Gaston’s blade in its comb-like slots and holding it firm. Shadrak immediately stepped in and punched the push-dagger between Gaston’s ribs. Could have finished the scut there, but Kadee distracted him and Shadrak pulled back.
Gaston clutched his side, blood dripping through his fingers. He glared at Shadrak and snarled, taking a two-handed grip on his sword and coming on with huge clubbing blow
s. Shadrak threw himself out of the way and rammed the push-dagger into Gaston’s kidney. The lad screamed and backslashed with the sword, but Shadrak jumped clear. Ignoring Kadee’s pleading face, he was about to step in for the killing blow when Rhiannon came hurtling into him from out of nowhere. Shadrak’s head cracked against the wall and he dropped his blades. Her fists were a hazy blur as she pounded his face and for a moment he couldn’t react. Instinct took over and he sagged to the floor, rolling out of the way of a vicious kick. His hand slipped inside a pouch and took hold of a glass vial, which he shattered against the floor. There was a flash, and black smoke filled the corridor. Without wasting a single look back, Shadrak pelted down the left-hand tunnel, one hand patting his pocket to make sure he still had the Statue of Eingana.
MAMBA
It was dark inside. Darker even than home when Mommy and Daddy turned off the lanterns and blew out the candles. Back then Sammy had cried himself to sleep. Sometimes Rhiannon had crept into bed beside him and snuggled him up. He missed the warmth of her body pressed against his back almost as much as he missed Mommy and Daddy. The world had grown much darker the day they’d been taken from him, but not as dark as it was beneath the Homestead.
He could hear Huntsman’s breathing from somewhere behind, but he knew he’d get no comfort there. This was the place of testing, the place where Huntsman had found his power. The place where Sammy would find his, if he was worthy.
Something crunched beneath his feet, causing him to jump backward and whimper. With the next step, his foot came down on a hard object that rolled away. Sammy lost his balance and tumbled to a carpet of twigs, or shells, or something else. He felt the tears coming and started to sniff, but he refused to cry out. Huntsman had done it and so would he. If there was magic to be found under the tabletop mountain then Sammy was going to find it, no matter what.
“Ssssssssss.”
Sammy clamped a hand over his mouth and tried not to breathe. The sound had come from somewhere to his left, a hissing whisper that set his spine tingling. His eyes strained against the darkness, but he could see nothing. He waved his other hand in front of his face, but still there was only black. He listened, trying to screen out the pounding of his heart, hoping to hear Huntsman’s breath, feel his presence.
Nothing.
Silence.
Darkness.
Sammy turned around, looking for the chink of light from the entrance, but even that had vanished around the bends in the tunnel that opened onto the cave. He started to panic. How could he get out? He had no idea which way he faced. He could spend forever scratching around in the blackness and still never retrace his steps.
“Sssamuel.”
Two yellow pinpricks flared like twin suns in an otherwise starless night. They swayed and grew larger, slits of black cutting through their centers.
“Sssahul ssspoke of you. The boy who talksss with antsss. Huntsssman isss here with you?”
Sammy shielded his eyes as fire sprang up illuminating the Dreamer’s face.
“I am,” Huntsman said, a small blaze crackling on the palm of his hand. He held it out to the speaker, who stepped into the glow.
A scaly head took shape around the yellow eyes, and a long forked tongue tasted the air. At first, Sammy thought it was a giant snake, but then he realized the long wavy neck was sprouting from the body of a man—a huge black man, thickly muscled and naked but for a cloth covering his loins. Sammy scrabbled backward across a sea of bones, seeking the safety of the dark.
The snake-man raised a bulging arm, his palm facing Sammy.
“Ssstay, little one. No need to be afraid. I am Mamba.”
Huntsman gave a slight bow and held out a hand to Sammy, who used it to pull himself to his feet and then hid behind the Dreamer.
“Mamba is friend, Sammy,” Huntsman said. “A god of Barraiya People.”
“Not a god,” Mamba chuckled deep in the coils of his throat. “Sssimply an elder. You have a mother, Sssammy? A father?”
Sammy shook his head, a lump forming in his throat. He squeezed Huntsman’s hand tighter, and the Dreamer stroked his hair.
Mamba rolled his head and blinked. “Ssso sssorry.” He crouched down and peered at Sammy through the crook of Huntsman’s arm. “But you have grandparentsss, yesss?”
Sammy nodded. He’d not seen Grandpa Piet and Nana Josie since they’d moved down south when he was four, and Granddad Tom and Granny Anwen weren’t talking to Mom and Dad again. Sammy wondered if they even knew what had happened; if they cared.
Huntsman stood aside as the snake head pressed close to Sammy’s face, its long tongue darting out and licking him on the nose.
“Ssso you know what it’sss like being a grandchild. My people are not godsss, really. But we are the grandchildren of Eingana, and many people think her a goddesss.”
Huntsman’s brows knit together and his lips curled back. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head.
Sammy flinched as Mamba’s tongue flicked out again, moistening the end of his nose. He tried to give a stern look, but a laugh slipped out instead. Mamba’s tongue dabbed him on the ear and then an eyelid, and Sammy spluttered and gurgled before bursting into great peals of laughter.
Mamba laughed with him, poking at Sammy’s ribs with his big black fingers. Huntsman was grinning from ear to ear and then roared with mirth as Sammy gave a big slobbering lick to the snake-man’s face.
Mamba hoisted him into the air and twirled him around, Sammy squealing with joy. The snake-man let him go in midair. Sammy screamed, and then Mamba caught him and tucked him under a massive arm, patting him on the head.
“Ssseemsss all right for a white fellah.” Mamba did a pretty good impression of Huntsman.
“He isss not bad,” Huntsman jibed back. “Thisss here isss a very ssspecial boy.”
Mamba put Sammy down and looked closely at him. Sammy lowered his eyes and snuggled in beside the snake-man, taking hold of his hand.
“We ssshould take him to sssee the othersss,” Mamba said. “No other whitesss have come to the cavesss asss friendsss.”
“Nor spoken with ants,” Huntsman said.
Mamba gave Sammy’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Want to meet my family?”
Sammy liked the big snake-man. He was friendly and funny. Maybe his family would be, too. “OK,” he said.
Mamba crouched down and offered Sammy his back. “Jump up, little Sssammy. Old Uncle Mamba will carry you.”
Sammy wrapped his arms around the scaly neck and clung on with his legs as Mamba straightened up.
“Down we go,” the snake-man sang as he trudged into the dark. “Down, down, deep down.”
“Down, down, deep down,” Sammy joined in.
“Into spider’s lair,” Huntsman added, and then gave Sammy a big grin that said it was going to be all right.
ARABOTH
A warm breeze caressed him as he stepped lightly over a carpet of silken rose petals beneath a sapphire sky. He ate up the leagues with easy, effortless, strides, the fallen petals giving way to polychrome sands flanked by glistening silver pinnacles; a majestic shimmering city born from the very earth itself.
He paused for an age amid the glint of the silver monoliths, savoring the crispness of the air and rejoicing in his independence from its life-giving gases. Something beat within him, but it was no heart of flesh. No, it was a harmonious note, binding him together in unity with all that he gazed upon and much more.
He would have sat there forever, so content was he, but something called him onward like the whispering of a familiar lover. He learnt quickly. He now no longer strode the glorious landscape, but merely surveyed its horizon and found himself present at his chosen destination with the speed of thought. And yet there were no thoughts as such, merely an unselfconscious harmony that bore him along gently, as carefree as a sleeping babe.
A glade appeared in the distance, and in an instant, he stood beneath its trees. These were no ordinary trees. Instead, they
rose to impossible heights and shone with the light of stars. Ripe and succulent fruit hung from laden branches and he savored the sight of their beauty, but did not eat of them; there was no need.
An old man with a white beard and sparkling eyes sat cross-legged beneath a tree. He wore a simple brown habit pulled in at the waist by a dark leather belt. His feet were shod in plain sandals and a begging bowl rested in his lap.
As the wanderer approached, the old man’s form shimmered and transformed, the years falling away. His now naked body grew toned and muscular, his eyes sharp and as blue as the sky. A dazzling luminosity shone forth from his flesh causing the wanderer to shade his eyes until they adjusted to the brightness.
“Welcome, Frater.” The man smiled. “I was called Jarmin, and I see no reason to dispense with that name.”
“Jarmin?”
“Jarmin the Anchorite. I dwelt in the city of Gladelvi.”
“And now?”
“And now,” Jarmin chuckled a little at some secret joke, “I just dwell.”
“What is this place?”
“This is the waiting room for the End of All Things; the forecourt of the Garden of Eternity.”
“And I am?”
“You were called Deacon Shader, Frater.” Jarmin’s smile was radiant, full of compassion. “And if you like, you shall remain Deacon Shader.”
“It is a name as good as any. May I sit here awhile.”
“But of course,” Jarmin said. “You may sit for all eternity if you wish.”
As he settled himself beneath the tree, Shader became aware of his own nakedness and the perfect form and function of his body, which also glowed, although not with the intensity of Jarmin’s.
“I am dead, then?”
“Slain by a knife in the back and a demon.”
Shader frowned as thoughts began to form and disappear, like dolphins arcing their way through choppy seas. There was a captain, a lad with a sextant, a big black cook. The smell of grilled cheese wafted into recollection and was gone. “I don’t remember.”