Bloodmage

by Stephen Aryan

  “Come on, it’s got to be my turn soon,” complained the sentry still on duty.

  “I’ve almost wiped out these two jokers. You’ll get your chance to lose soon enough,” promised one of the sentries and the others grumbled.

  Moving as quietly as possible Choss climbed over the lip of the roof and scuttled on all fours behind the nearest chimney. Pale grey smoke drifted up from inside and he smelled something earthy and acrid, a mix of damp soil and an alchemist’s shop.

  With slow precise movements Choss pulled on the punching daggers and took a long slow breath to centre himself. He risked a couple of quick glances around the corner and saw that the fourth sentry had now given up any pretence of work and stood watching the game. The other three spoke in low voices, trying to avoid being noticed by anyone inside.

  Moving as quietly as possible, Choss snuck up behind the fourth sentry. The other three only knew something was amiss when warm arterial blood splashed onto them from the dead man’s throat. Thoughts of the game were forgotten as they saw his black mask. Lashing out with both blades together he punched two of the men in their throats and kicked the last man in the face a second later. As the first two started to choke and gag he dived at the last sentry, who fell backwards off his seat. He scrambled for his weapon and frantically tried to aim his crossbow.

  When he saw Choss bearing down on him the sentry opened his mouth to scream. Choss landed on the man’s chest and punched him in the face, his blade biting through his skull. The sentry twitched once and the roof fell silent.

  Now came the difficult part.

  When Choss reached the bottom of the ladder Gorrax gestured for him to lean close so he could whisper.

  “There are many people inside, all digging and working in the black soil. They are not warriors. Four men in masks are cooking with coloured liquids. They are also not opponents.”

  “Is there anyone else?”

  Gorrax nodded. “Two more. Everyone is afraid of them. One is a Morrin, maybe Don Kal. One is white everywhere,” said the Vorga, touching Choss’s skin and then pointing to his hair.

  “He’s a local. A Yerskani,” said Choss, trying to clarify.

  “No, no. Not a pale man. He is not short. He is big like you, a cow man, but white. With red eyes and no smell.”

  He knew that Gorrax separated people into different groups in a way he didn’t understand, but he didn’t know what to make of his description.

  “Show me.”

  Gorrax led him to a wide set of grime-encrusted windows, so layered with filth that Choss had assumed they were just another section of wall. Gorrax had scraped the black and grey crud off two small panes, giving him a good view inside the warehouse. The interior was gloomy with deep shadows around the walls, but the rest of it was bathed in a pale blue light from peculiar-shaped lanterns.

  Below the window were stacks of supplies, boxes and tools more suited to tending crops on a farm than something used inside a city. However, the stone floor of the warehouse had been dug up and replaced with a thick bed of soil where dozens of people tended outlawed crops. Venthe. Bulbous knee-high white mushrooms riddled with blue veins. A peculiar creaking sound came from the fungus as it stretched and grew in the pale lantern light.

  At the front of the warehouse a space had been cleared of soil where four alchemists worked at a large bench laden with glass tubes and brass instruments to turn the mushrooms into the addictive powder. Overseeing them were six armed jackals stationed by the front door. Standing not far away was a grizzled Morrin with curved horns and beside him a tall man dressed in grey. As Gorrax had said, the man’s hair was chalk white and his skin pale and sickly.

  At this distance Choss couldn’t hear what was being said but the two men seemed to be arguing.

  “I wish I could hear what they’re saying,” he muttered and Gorrax nudged him to one side. The Vorga’s sail-like ears tilted away from the side of his face and he cocked his head to one side.

  “The white one says the new batch will not kill. It will be more powerful and addictive. The Morrin is angry, saying the white one made promises that have not been kept.”

  There was no doubt now. Don Kal sought to control the supply of the drug in the city with a more powerful and addictive version.

  Choss wondered what sort of deal Don Kal had made with the albino.

  “The white one says he must be patient. That it is not an easy thing he does. Now he is showing his manhood,” said Gorrax.

  Choss squinted at the two distant figures in the gloomy warehouse and then glanced sideways at Gorrax. That wasn’t what he could see.

  “He’s doing what?”

  Gorrax sucked his teeth and tried again. “He is telling the Morrin he is bigger, stronger, more dangerous.”

  “Ah, I understand.”

  “The Morrin is not happy, but has no choice. The white one is dominant although the Morrin pretends otherwise.”

  Gorrax hissed through his teeth and ducked down, pulling Choss with him. “What is it?”

  Gorrax looked surprised. “The white one. He knows we’re here.”

  “How?”

  Gorrax didn’t have an answer, so, despite the Vorga’s protests, he risked a glance through the window. Both Don Kal and the albino were staring at him, the jackals beside them mustering for a fight.

  “There’s no need to hide any more,” said Choss, standing up and kicking in the window. He and Gorrax cleared a space large enough and then slipped inside the warehouse, glass crunching underfoot. The front door slid open and workers streamed out, running for their lives. The alchemists were not far behind. There was no sign of Don Kal or the albino, but for now they didn’t matter. All of Choss’s attention was focused on the six jackals, three of whom had crossbows.

  Without being told, Gorrax moved to the right as Choss went left, sticking to the heavy shadows around the edge of the warehouse. When Gorrax stepped out of the shadows two jackals immediately fired, both completely missing. With an inhuman shriek the Vorga ran at them and they drew their swords. Choss roared and charged from the other side, startling the remaining archer. The last crossbow bolt went into the ceiling and before he had time to reload Choss was among them.

  The first jackal, a tall Morrin woman with green eyes, hacked at him with a curved blade which he ducked and then retaliated by slicing her across the stomach. As she stumbled back clutching the loops of her innards, he stabbed her in the middle of her chest in the heart. She fell backwards off his blade and Choss deflected a blow from an axe on his left bracer. The force numbed his arm and made him stumble to his knees, but he ignored it and lashed out with his right. His blade bit into the man’s groin. The jackal squealed and fell back, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding.

  As he looked for another opponent Choss saw Gorrax rip the throat out of a local Yerskani woman with his claws and bite off the hand of another. The man fell back in shock, clutching at his stump and staring at the Vorga, who spat fingers onto the floor. With a disappointed shake of his head Gorrax twisted the man’s head around on his shoulders. The other two were already dead or choking out their last breaths.

  “Nothing. Only that one offered any challenge,” he said, pointing at the woman with the torn throat. Choss cut the throat of the last man and silence returned to the warehouse. “Do we go after the white one and the Morrin?”

  Choss shook his head. “We can’t. He’s a Don for this territory. Many more will come to fight us. More than we can handle,” he added quickly, before Gorrax suggested they stay and fight.

  “Then we are finished here?”

  “Almost.”

  Choss looked at one of the strange blue lanterns. A closer inspection revealed a metal frame holding a sealed glass dome in place, its interior filled with glowing water. He guessed it was some sort of alchemical liquid.

  Taking a shirt from one of the dead he pulled up one of the large venthe growths, making sure he didn’t touch any of it with his skin.

 
“Why do you want that?” asked Gorrax.

  “To show Dońa Jarrow.”

  “What about the rest?”

  Choss grinned. “I have an idea.”

  They tipped over the laboratory, spilling chemicals all over the ground. Choss soaked several shirts and blankets in the chemical liquid then spread them out across the field of venthe. He gathered up the lamps and cracked each one before spreading the contents around as well.

  Gorrax cocked his head to one side. “I hear many heavy men approaching.”

  “Time to go,” said Choss, striking flint and tinder. The dead man’s shirt ignited and the flame turned blue and then red. He tossed it onto the soil, which started to smoke and steam.

  They went out the front door and as they ran Choss felt heat building up behind him. There was a loud inhalation and looking over his shoulder he saw flames burst out of the front door. The warehouse began to burn and the roof quickly caught fire, destroying all of the toxic venthe inside.

  It was over. He’d destroyed the venthe and found proof of who was responsible. Dońa Jarrow owed him now. She had promised she would speak to the right people. It might be only a matter of days before they could reopen the arena. Choss quickened his pace, eager to share the good news.

  CHAPTER 23

  Byrne borrowed a sack from a nearby tavern and took their grisly find with them back to Bav’s house. Fray’s hands shook as the adrenaline wore off and he began to feel lethargic. Byrne showed no ill effects and didn’t say anything, but Fray could see by the set of his jaw that he was annoyed Bav had escaped.

  Fray bought a hunk of bread and a couple of skewers of smoked fish from a street hawker, which he wolfed down. By the time they got back to the house he wasn’t shaking, but was no less anxious.

  Bav’s mother was where they’d left her, sat at the kitchen table, staring at its surface for answers. She didn’t stir as they came inside, or even when two more Guardians and a squad from the Watch showed up. One of the Watch was sent to fetch reinforcements and the rest to keep away onlookers, leaving Fray and Byrne to search inside.

  “There’s something behind there,” said Fray, pointing at the wardrobe. “I saw it earlier.” Byrne peered through the small gap into the gloom and his nose wrinkled at the smell. Even working together they couldn’t move the wardrobe any further and had to get two members of the Watch to help them, all four trying to ignore the stench. Behind the wardrobe was a handmade opening and a narrow set of crude stairs leading down.

  Byrne lit a couple of candles and after stripping off his weapon and jacket, he could squeeze through the hole. He’d barely been down there a minute when his voice drifted up.

  “Fray. You should come down here.”

  Fray stripped off his jacket and sword, and bracing himself against the crude walls, slowly made his way down the stairs. Eight steps down Fray ducked under a low wooden support beam and found Byrne standing in the centre of a small room.

  “Tell me what you see,” said Byrne. The tone of his voice suggested this was another teaching moment.

  The earth walls had been covered with wooden planks and then crudely plastered, creating a mottled and uneven surface. Several thick wooden support beams criss-crossed above their heads. It gave Fray some hope that the ceiling wouldn’t collapse and bury them alive any time soon. It must have taken Bav months to dig out the stairs and tunnel.

  The walls, ceiling and floor had been painted white and then every inch covered with letters in a strange swirling language he didn’t recognise. Fray tried to make sense of the script and find letters or words, some kind of pattern, but it seemed nonsensical and random. At the centre of the room sat a stone plinth as high as his shoulder with several alcoves on the base. Each of these held an old yellowed scroll. Even without embracing his magic he didn’t want to go near them as they made him uncomfortable. Being in this room made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and it had nothing to do with his fear of the roof collapsing.

  Resting on top of the plinth sat a fat book, its pages covered with more of the same language.

  Sat in the furthest corner was the source of the unpleasant smell. The desiccated corpse of a man with tight skin and hands turned into claws. Just like the other victims.

  “What do you see?” asked Byrne.

  “It’s an altar and maybe this is a temple,” said Fray, gesturing at the walls. “Someone was murdered upstairs and I think it was Bav. The real one. The killer took his place and has been posing as him for some time. Months, judging by all of this.”

  “Your father and I faced something like this before,” said Byrne. “Twice in fact. The first was maybe ten or eleven years ago. A woman from Zecorria. The last one was five years ago.”

  Fray’s head whipped around, seeking out Byrne’s face for more detail, but he’d already turned away.

  “What is he? What is all of this?” asked Fray, desperate for answers.

  “Your father called them Flesh Mages,” said Byrne. The name made sense given the grisly find they’d made after chasing Bav through the city.

  “How does it work? What do they want?”

  Byrne didn’t answer. Instead he picked up one of the scrolls and slowly unrolled it. Fray noticed a strange symbol on the back of the yellowed paper. Byrne glanced at its contents before putting it back.

  “It’s the same as before,” he said, gesturing at the scrolls. “They’re written on human skin.”

  Fray hiccupped and tasted his smoked fish again, but thankfully didn’t vomit. The symbol on the scroll was a tattoo that had come with the skin.

  “We need to get all of this catalogued. Then have someone fill in the hole.”

  “Why won’t you tell me about the killer?”

  Byrne’s face looked gaunt and slightly villainous in the flickering candlelight. “Let’s speak to the mother first. Here’s not the right place to talk about all of this,” he answered, gesturing at the corpse by his feet and the human-skin-covered books. Fray wasn’t satisfied but he took a deep breath and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. This wasn’t the end of the discussion, but he put it to one side, for a little while at least.

  Despite moving away from the altar Fray still felt unclean and in desperate need of a wash. His skin itched with a peculiar sensation as if encrusted with grime that moved. Byrne seemed unaffected and his expression gave nothing away. Even when they were settled at the kitchen table opposite Bav’s mother, with sunlight coming in through the open door, Fray still felt uncomfortable. Slowly he realised it wasn’t just the magic, it was the whole house. It was saturated with sorrow and fear.

  “I knew it wasn’t him, not really,” said the old woman. “At first it was just the little things. Phrases my Bav never used. The way he said things, like he didn’t care about them and that people were just things. Once, near the start, I asked him what was wrong and he told me I was senile.”

  “When did you first notice he was different?” asked Byrne.

  “Maybe six months ago, but he’d been pretending for longer. Over time the changes became more obvious, like he’d forgotten who my Bav was. Like he’d worn him thin, like an old shirt full of holes.”

  “You saw something,” said Byrne, studying the old woman’s face. All Fray could see was her fear, regret and a terrible sense of loss.

  “I came home early one day and found him in his room. He never used to spend any time in there. I heard him moving things around and digging, but I barely saw him. That day I pushed open the door and saw him lifting that old wardrobe.” The old woman’s haunted eyes found Fray. “He picked it up like it was light as a feather and covered that hole with it. Then he saw me watching from the door.”

  The old woman looked away, her eyes drifting into the past and shame crept into her face.

  “I knew then, but I was scared. So scared,” she whispered. Fray moved to take her hand but she flinched away. Byrne gave him a withering look and shook his head. “He said he’d skin me and use my o
ld bones in his dark magic.”

  “Did he say what it was all for? Why he was doing any of it?” pressed Byrne.

  “No. After that we barely spoke, except when we had to,” she said, and then swallowed hard and revulsion crept into her expression. “He insisted on calling me mother.”

  Four more Guardians came in through the front door and Fray felt relieved at their presence. While Fray showed them what they’d found, Byrne asked the old woman a few more questions, but it was obvious she didn’t know anything more.

  They left her sat at the table, staring at nothing. Members of the Watch and Guardians moved around the house, never interacting with her. She’d been a prisoner and was now a ghost in her own home.

  Byrne set a fast pace and Fray had to concentrate on where they were going to keep up and avoid walking into anyone.

  “We need to speak to the Khevassar. Tell him what we’ve found,” said Byrne. “He might know something about this. He and your father talked at length about cases. I’ll also look through my old notebooks at Unity Hall. After that we should go through your father’s journals.”

  “I’ve read them several times,” said Fray. “There’s nothing in them like this. I’d remember someone shedding their skin like a snake.”

  “What about his last case?”

  “There’s no reference to it. The last few pages were torn out,” said Fray. Up to now he had assumed Byrne had done it to protect him. Being told that his father had died was traumatic. Reading diary entries written by his father in his last few days about the case, his fears, suspicions and hopes, when Fray already knew the outcome, would be unbearable. However, buried in those pages might be clues about how to fight this Flesh Mage, whatever that was. Fray knew they would be looking to him to use his magic to fight, but without any training or being shown how, it would be nearly impossible.

  Fray felt a terrible weight settle on his shoulders and his mood darkened until he and Byrne wore matching scowls.