God of Night

by Tom Lloyd

  Even in a Knight-Artificer city the image had seemed a marvel. Something worthy of all their industry and skill. Growing up he’d only ever seen a jerky model no bigger than his knee. It was a disappointment that, in quiet honesty, Delgar had never fully forgiven Siquil’s renowned craftsmen for.

  The Clockwork Dragon wasn’t busy as they reached it. He banged a fist on the door and its owner, Koail, opened up the barred window without the usual babble of noise behind.

  ‘Quiet night?’ Delgar asked. ‘Or are you closed?’

  Koail waved a dismissive hand. ‘A private booking, my friend, but you are, of course, welcome. Come!’

  He ushered the two inside and pulled the door shut behind out of habit. The fighting dens were a popular pastime in Siquil and betting was fierce. No one entered without Koail’s say-so. He was a genial and rotund man who seemed to constantly be sweating with nerves, but he had a tough side that meant Delgar’s patronage was more of a technicality than true protection.

  ‘Vissil,’ Koail called to his wife. ‘Drinks for Delgar and Seless.’

  While the beer was being poured, Delgar took a moment to inspect the tavern. It was indeed quiet, but far from empty. There was an air of anticipation that put him on edge. Thirty or forty men and women stood around the square room – in the centre of which was the fighting pit. Sloped sides led down to a level dirt floor about ten yards square, empty for the present but still half the onlookers were turned that way.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, eyeing the assembled strangers.

  They were mercenaries, that much was obvious from the sheer range of faces on show. A mean-looking group, all sporting red scarves around their necks. They were all drinking, but the tension was making most shift restlessly rather than enjoy the beer.

  The greater part were olive-skinned Parthish types with a scattering of darker southerners. One glowering westerner had to be Hanese while there was also a huge man even paler than the locals of Siquil. By his face he looked to be from Shuderi to the north-east where, once, half the champions of the old kingdom had come from. Delgar remembered little from his childhood lessons beyond the twelve prayers to Lord Veraimin, but they had all listened, enthralled, to the tales of the time when the kingdom had not been riven.

  ‘A duel,’ Koail told him, a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. ‘A blood duel. I told them nothing could take place until you got here, to sanction it.’

  ‘Are these our guests of honour?’ called a rough voice, confirming the Parthish conclusion.

  A burly woman with red hair stepped to one side to reveal the mercenary’s commander. He was greying and thin. Once handsome perhaps, but years in his profession had left him weathered and one-handed as well as scarred by a sparker on his face.

  ‘They are, Captain Adrin,’ Koail said as Vissil brought two tankards over.

  ‘In which case their drinks are on me,’ Adrin declared. ‘Come, join me, my new friends!’

  ‘What’s this about a blood feud?’ Delgar demanded, one hand on his mage-pistol.

  ‘Aha, the main entertainment for the night!’ Adrin said with an expansive gesture, spilling a little beer onto the mercenary beside him. ‘It’s a long and sordid tale, Corporal Delgar. I will not bore you with the details. Suffice to say that one of our number has been challenged to a duel.’

  ‘Parthish mercenaries bothering to duel rather than just drunkenly beat the snot out of each other?’ Seless interrupted in his gravelly rumble. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since one of our number was from Olostir,’ Adrin explained. ‘Please, join me.’

  He indicated two of the seats at his table and the mercenaries standing around it moved respectfully aside.

  ‘Come on, shift yourselves,’ Adrin chided his troops. ‘Give the fine men of the watch some space.’

  With that encouragement the mercenaries cleared the ground around Adrin’s table so the watchmen didn’t have armed foreigners looming over them. Delgar glanced at Seless, who shrugged. The pair sat. Adrin was accompanied by a tall, stern-looking woman and a battered older man with stained fingers and a pipe clamped between his teeth.

  ‘Our comrade,’ Adrin continued, ‘is an exile from Olostir – of noble blood you understand, but less than noble spirit. I don’t condemn him for that, the bugger’s a dear friend o’ mine, but it’s no surprise he didn’t last in genteel circles!’

  ‘And the duel?’

  ‘Some young buck from the old country, tracked Salvir down over a year or more. Turns out he wants his head for killing his father. The usual shit about honour an’ family, right? Anyway, we was all for killing the mouthy bugger, but o’ course that’d be murder and we’re most respectful of local laws.’

  Seless laughed. ‘You mean you thought it’d be better to bet on the fight instead?’

  ‘You wound me!’ Adrin exclaimed with a broad grin, clutching at his chest. ‘Never would such a thought have crossed our minds – until Salvir said he wanted to do the duel all proper like. At that point we thought a few beers and a quiet wager might not be so awful after all.’

  ‘They’ve paid,’ Koail added. ‘A good sum for the use of the pit.’

  ‘If our boy wants to fight, we’ll not bother hanging around some back alley,’ Adrin said. ‘Too cold and there’s no beer.’

  ‘Cold? It’s summer.’

  ‘Not compared to our last posting,’ Adrin said with a theatrical shiver. ‘Not by a long shot.’

  ‘Both men are determined to fight?’ Delgar asked.

  ‘They are – both trained Olostiran duellists. Should be a good show.’

  One look at Seless was enough to tell Delgar that his friend was excited by the prospect. The Knights-Artificer of Jekir was one Militant Order that hadn’t spent much time out east trying to convert the heathens, so there was little animosity towards Olostir. All the same they’d heard tales of the swordsmen; grand duels conducted in the pillared halls of palaces or before crowds of thousands.

  ‘I’m sure we can turn our eye the other way then,’ Delgar decided. ‘So long as we get to see the pair before we make our bets, that is.’

  Adrin’s face lit up and he clapped his hands together. ‘Summon our contestants!’

  Delgar and Seless both took long drinks and settled back in their seats. Someone on the far side of the fighting pit went to knock on a pair of doors there. Soon the first of the doors opened, prompting a general shifting of feet and a rise in the mutters of anticipation.

  Delgar watched a man close to his own age walk out, tall and proud with a younger man’s lean physique on show. He wore only boots and an Olostiran kilt, an ornate rapier sheathed in his hands. When the second door opened, a shorter, younger man with a deep frown and plainer kilt emerged. Neither looked at the other, they both stared straight at Delgar as he tried to see which he would be backing.

  ‘Sorry ’bout this,’ Adrin muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘Eh?’

  Delgar didn’t get anything more out as something smashed into the side of his head. He pitched sideways, stars bursting before his eyes. An arm clamped around his throat and held him upright. He struggled in panic at the choking grip, distantly aware of hands clawing at his gun and pistol. More hands grabbed his arms and held him fast.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Koail roared in the background.

  Delgar twisted and bucked but couldn’t dislodge the hold on him. His ears began to roar as the squeeze on his neck became unbearable. In his exertions he didn’t hear what else was said – everything was just a distant burble.

  Darkness started to intrude. He felt something kick his leg and realised Seless was also fighting for his life. With every last ounce of strength left in his body he fought to free himself, but whoever was holding him had an arm like oak. His strength faltered, his body went limp, and the world faded from view.

  After that, there was nothing.

  ‘What have you done?’ Koail wailed. The man backed up against the bar where his wife ha
d retreated. Both froze in the next moment as two mercenaries levelled their mage-guns.

  ‘Nothing bad,’ a woman snapped as she eased Seless to the ground. ‘Piss me around and I’ll kill ’em both – you too. Understand?’

  ‘But … But they’re Knights-Artificer soldiers!’ Koail babbled, too shocked to take the warning. ‘You can’t just—’

  ‘I can and I have,’ the woman said. ‘No reason anyone needs to die over it.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Adrin drawled. ‘Don’t stuff like “not killin’ folks” get us kicked out of the fraternity of mercenaries or somethin’?’

  She grinned. ‘I reckon your reputation’s safe, Adrin.’

  ‘Oh no doubt,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t mean we should pass up the opportunity to further my fearsome legend though.’

  ‘It’s sweet you think you’re more’n a footnote in my legend,’ the woman said, ‘but sure, we can hire someone to embellish the truth if we survive.’ She turned to Koail. ‘Now – you and your staff are going to have a quiet night in, understand? Anyone alerts the authorities and we’ll leave a blazing ruin behind as we blow a path out of here.’

  Koail opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. He nodded. ‘I understand. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Just keep quiet and out of the way.’ She pointed down at the two guards. ‘Someone shift these two into one of the fighter’s rooms. Strip them and tie them up.’

  ‘Strip them?’ Vissil gasped. ‘Oh. Oh!’

  ‘No!’ Koail said a moment later. ‘You can’t be—’

  ‘A lack of ambition has never been my problem,’ the woman replied.

  ‘But it’s madness! It’s suicide!’

  One of the mercenaries, the big Hanese with the tattoo on his face, laughed at that. ‘Both o’ those are something of a speciality of ours,’ he said. ‘Watch and learn, my friend.’

  ‘Or rather, don’t,’ the woman added. ‘Doing either might get you killed.’

  Chapter 2

  In the darkest hours of night in Siquil, three figures had the winding streets to themselves. Two soldiers in the livery of the Knights-Artificer of Jekir supported a tall dark-skinned man with greying hair. A cloudy night left the skyriver a merest suggestion. It was barely noticeable that the soldiers weren’t as pale as most Knights-Artificer. Nor that the coat of one barely stretched across his broad frame.

  The pair escorted their charge, hands bound behind his back and unsteady on his feet, to the fortress that occupied the eastern flank of the city. As with many Knights-Artificer buildings, it was a piecemeal construction that had been near constantly developed over the two centuries of its existence.

  Their destination was the watch-house on the northern corner. It was flanked by the ugly block of the city gaol and the Lesser Tower, while behind stood a large complex of buildings. A mage sanctuary nestled there with barracks and workshops, a fortress wall and the imposing presence of the Greater Tower beyond.

  A gas lamp sputtered outside the watch-house portico. Its weak pool of light revealed little beyond their uniforms. In the brief seconds it took to reach the door, even an observant guard would have noticed little. The iron-grey uniform, slashed with red, showed one to be a sergeant, one a corporal. No voice challenged them as they entered the gloom of the portico. When the sergeant banged a fist on the door it opened moments later. Yellow light spilled out, illuminating the muzzle of a mage-pistol to the surprise of the man who’d opened it.

  ‘Wha—’

  He didn’t get any further. Lynx unceremoniously jammed the muzzle into his mouth and shoved him backwards. The hallway of the watch-house was a square room with a smooth stone floor, partitioned by a wooden wall across the middle. A heavy door was set into that partition with a large barred window. Two Knights-Artificer stared in astonishment through the barred window. Before they could react, the pair flinched, then simply folded up, collapsing to the ground.

  By the time the soldier who’d opened the door had got over his surprise, Toil had slipped around behind him. She swung an arm around his neck just as Lynx removed the pistol and used his free hand to punch him in the gut. Winded and outnumbered, the soldier went down quickly. Lynx scrambled up the nearby steps to check the cramped guardroom above the portico. There was only space for two men to crouch in there anyway, but on a quiet night in the city the soldier who’d opened the door was alone.

  As Lynx descended, Toil checked through the bars in the partition. She had her pistol at the ready, but all that came from the far side was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Toil shook her head. ‘I trust you, Sitain,’ she said, ‘but bad luck can catch us all out.’

  ‘It’s all clear,’ Sitain replied, ‘so come and get me out of this bloody cell.’

  Lynx peeked through the barred window. ‘No difficulty in getting arrested then?’

  She made an obscene gesture but laughed a moment later. ‘I used all my charm to get the job done,’ Sitain said. ‘Just like you Cards taught me.’

  ‘Pah, you can’t teach talent,’ Toil snorted, ‘only hone it. Atieno, get the lock. Lynx, the bolts.’

  Both men jumped to their assigned jobs. Lynx secured the door they had entered through in case someone happened to follow them in. Atieno placed his hand over the metal lock of the partition wall’s door.

  ‘These clever little artificers with their ingenious little locks,’ he muttered to himself. ‘It’s almost a shame to waste their work.’

  The air around his hand darkened and seemed to twist inward. Flecks of grey-blue burst in the air before, with a jolt, Atieno shoved his hand right into the metal. Fat drops of silvery liquid ran out from beneath his hand, forming trails down the old aged oak of the door.

  ‘Almost a shame,’ Toil agreed, ‘but right now it’s just in our way.’

  She yanked the door open and strode through. A row of three iron cages were set into the wall. In the nearest was Sitain, the young night mage holding onto the bars as though impatient to be released. A bundled figure lay on the cot of the next, unmoving.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Some beggar,’ Sitain said. ‘I got the impression they take pity on him from time to time. Let him sleep in the cell where it’s warmer than outside.’

  ‘You put him out?’ Toil asked.

  Sitain’s scowled. ‘Course I bloody did. No witnesses, right?’

  Atieno went to the cage door and slipped finger and thumb around the bolt that kept it closed. Again his magic darkened the dim room for a moment. Then the metal seemed to collapse in on itself and run out onto the floor. Sitain opened the door so quickly she almost hit him with it, giving the man an apologetic look as she slipped through.

  ‘That’s better,’ Sitain said, wringing her hands.

  Lynx clapped a hand on her shoulder. She tensed before biting off whatever bitter little comment she’d been about to say. For all that she was rightly afraid of ending up a prisoner somewhere like this, Lynx was the one who knew most about such things.

  ‘Time for the next step,’ Toil said, turning to the corridor beyond.

  There were two doors, one off to the right and a second at the far end. Only the one at the end was locked, but the first thing Toil did was find a key for the nearer of the two. That led to the rest of the watch-house where the danger lay. She inserted the key and locked it before slipping a few slivers of metal in around it. Turning the key a little one way then the other, it wasn’t long before the mechanism jammed entirely.

  ‘Sure that’ll hold?’ Lynx whispered.

  ‘Long enough,’ she confirmed. ‘That’s the easy bit.’

  ‘Won’t they just put an earther through the door?’

  Toil shook her head. ‘Inside their own damn fortress? It’d punch a hole right through the building – they’re zealots but they’re not insane.’

  She turned to Sitain and brandished a second key. ‘Barrack rooms – ten yards from there,’ she said softly, pointing l
eft, ‘to there,’ moving right. ‘Put them all out, okay?’

  The other three stepped back to let Sitain do her thing. They all knew her control was far better now – perhaps lacking in sophistication, but this wasn’t ritual work. Raw night magic would knock out anyone she directed it at. Thanks to the Labyrinth of Jarrazir, Sitain was the most powerful night mage in all of Urden. The question for her these days was holding back enough.

  Lynx felt his skin grow warm as Sitain prepared herself. All three of the watching Cards glowed with white light. The willow-pattern tattoos they’d acquired in the Labyrinth pulsed as Sitain drew on the reserve of power. He felt rather than saw the wave of magical energy surge out from Sitain’s outstretched hands. The mage looked like she was conducting an orchestra or operating a puppet. Reaching out with deft little flicks of the fingers, she was getting a sense of the rooms beyond to limit her sweep.

  Lynx held his breath, but no sound came even once she’d broken off.

  ‘We good?’ Toil breathed.

  ‘Good,’ Sitain agreed, looking a little glazed for a moment until she gathered herself.

  ‘How about you?’ Lynx asked.

  ‘Light-headed,’ she admitted, ‘but I’m fine. Give me a moment and I’ll be ready.’

  Lynx nodded and readied his mage-gun just in case. Toil unlocked the door and eased it open. There was a broad corridor that opened out into a common room. Doors left and right led to a bunkroom and officers’ mess. Most of the soldiers were in bed of course, already snoring by the time Sitain put them into a deeper sleep.

  Three men had been in the common room. Lynx rescued one from drowning in a bowl of stew. Atieno batted out the smouldering ends of another’s hair that had fallen too close to a candle. Beyond that, all was fine and secure. They spent a short while tying hands and gagging the soldiers, all except for Sitain who found herself a chair to rest in. By the time they were done she looked much recovered and repeated her feat upwards. Standing in the centre of the room she looked like a sorceress out of an old book Lynx had once read.