Best Laid Plans

by D. P. Prior

  Stanley shook his head and tutted.

  ‘What if I leave the horse and cart as insurance?’ Elias said, wondering how Hector would take that.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elias,’ Stanley said.

  ‘I’ve got instruments onboard. And herbs.’ Elias raised his eyebrows.

  Stanley drummed his fingers on the ledger. ‘That old pre-Reckoning guitar? The one you used to play at the Griffin?’

  ‘Still do,’ Elias said, nodding enthusiastically, a terrible sinking feeling setting in. ‘Deal,’ Stanley said, standing to shake his hand. Elias’s grip was limper than he normally liked, but needs must… Stanley led them along the central aisle until they came to a particularly large crate standing by itself. Elias stroked the wood and gave it a resounding slap. ‘Prepare to be amazed,’ he said to Lallia. ‘I’m almost disappointed,’ Stanley said as he headed back to his desk.

  ‘I was hoping to keep it for myself.’ Elias knocked out some bolts and flicked open the catches. Taking hold of the top of a panel he pulled it away and let it fall to the floor. ‘What the shog is that?’ Lallia wrinkled her nose and peered inside. ‘That, my dear,’ Elias said, beaming from ear to ear, ‘is a motorbike.’ The chrome still shone the same as it had when he’d packed it away all those decades ago. The tank gleamed a vibrant red, its gilt star leading the eye to three letters he thought he’d never see side by side again. ‘BSA Mark IV Spitfire. 1968.’ He gave the saddle a reverent pat. ‘End of the line, but what the hell, revolution was in the air.’

  Lallia gave him a blank look. Before her time. Before Elias’s even, but for him it was a magical era; one year before the Summer of Love, the inspiration for the Golden Garden festival.

  ‘Alloy wheel rims.’ He crouched to show what he was talking about. ‘Off-road tires, the ol’ air-cooled 654 cc vertical twin, and enough horsepower to make Hector green with envy.’

  Lallia ran her palm over the leather saddle. ‘What’s it for?’ ‘You of all people should know that,’ Elias said, brushing her hand out of the way. ‘You ride it.’ He reached behind the front wheel and located a steel canister. ‘Vacuum sealed.’ He tapped the side. ‘It’ll keep forever in there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Petrol, my dear. Probably the last drop on the planet.’ Elias unscrewed the petrol cap and emptied the canister into the tank. ‘A lot of people said I sold out when I bought the ol’ girl.’ He removed his coat, wiped his fingers on it and then slung it to the back of the crate. ‘But this baby’s real technology—not that circuit board shit Gandaw was putting out. Pure craftsmanship.’

  Lallia sniffed. ‘If you say so.’

  Elias reached behind the back wheel this time and pulled out a black leather jacket replete with silver zips and a faded lightning bolt on the back. ‘Now let’s go get Rhiannon,’ he said, slipping on the jacket and taking out a pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket. ‘How do I look?’ he asked, tilting his chin and peering over the top of the frames.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Lallia said.

  Elias flicked his hair back, kicked up the stand, and wheeled the bike out of the crate. He swung his leg over the saddle and beckoned for Lallia to get up behind him.

  ‘What do I hold onto?’ She glanced around nervously.

  ‘Me,’ Elias said.

  Lallia screamed as he fired the Spitfire up, opened the throttle, and roared down the aisle.

  Stanley leapt up from his desk and shouted something, but Elias couldn’t hear him above the thunder of the engine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My guitar!’ Stanley yelled.

  ‘In the cart!’

  Lallia’s thighs pressed against his sides, her ankles crossing around his waist. Not quite the norm for riding pillion, but Elias could live with it.

  ‘Hold on!’ he called over his shoulder, and then they were speeding through the streets of Sarum like a bat out of hell.

  A CONTRACT WITH THE ARCHON

  The mawg children stood upon the rough-hewn terraces of an earthen amphitheatre. There were hundreds of them swaying and chanting in their guttural tongue. They crowded around an empty space below, which shimmered with cobalt light. A vibrant amber glow drew Shader’s eyes to the creature at the centre. The once black serpent statue was being held aloft by a cavorting male adorned with skulls and bones.

  Shader crouched by the trunk of a yellow wattle and scanned the crowd for sign of the albino. Osric drifted alongside him, a barely visible outline, like something traced in the condensation on glass.

  ‘We are too late, it seems. I suspect the thief has already departed.’

  ‘Is anyone going to tell me what’s happening?’ Podesta panted from a little way down the hillside.

  Shader shushed him, his attention caught by movement in the air above the dancing shaman. The cobalt sheen began to coalesce into a sphere suspended over the shaman’s head, its hue darkening as its density increased. The shaman screamed something at the assembled children and they responded with a cacophony of yapping and barking. He raised the amber statue skywards and let out a piercing shriek, the muscles in his arms and legs knotting, the veins ready to burst. The amber glow immediately dimmed. Turning in rage, the shaman pointed a long finger at one of the mawg children. The creature froze, its eyes wide with terror, and then it rose from its terrace and walked towards the shaman. As the child entered the space beneath the sphere, the shaman brought the statue down on its head with a sickening thud. The child crumpled to the ground, blood and brains spewing from its crushed skull. The shaman threw back its head and roared as the statue was wreathed in crimson flames, which licked at the sphere. The air shimmered and the surface of the sphere cleared. Within, a grey-clad man seated on a dark metal throne came into focus.

  Shader tensed. Everything about the man offended his senses. His black hair had an unnatural sheen and seemed too perfect. Shader doubted it would be ruffled by the fiercest wind. The complexion was bloodless, the clothes starched and sombre.

  The man reached out of the sphere and took the statue. He nodded once to the shaman, and then the sphere dissolved and he was gone. The shaman collapsed to his knees and the children began to talk in hushed murmurs.

  ‘There!’ Podesta hissed, breaking Shader’s rapture. ‘Heading into the trees.’

  Shader slid a little way down the hill and looked in the direction the Captain had indicated. A small figure in black was moving towards the mangroves. Cleto tracked it with the slim barrel of his Aeterna-tech weapon.

  Ned drew his cutlass and glared. ‘Must be that cunting Shadrak,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He broke into a jog.

  Cleto lowered his weapon. ‘Probably out o’ range,’ he said, before setting off after Ned.

  ‘What about the statue?’ Osric said.

  ‘Too late,’ Shader said. ‘Our best bet is to catch Shadrak and find out what he knows.’

  ***

  Shader stopped at the banks of the lake. Podesta huffed and puffed behind him and stood with his fists pressed into his hips.

  ‘Where the shog’s Rodders?’ he said in between breaths.

  Shader pointed to the longboat drifting on the far side of the lake.

  ‘Idiot’s supposed to be guarding it,’ Podesta said. ‘And where the Abyss are Cleto and Ned?’

  Footprints led into the trees on the left bank. Shader started to follow them and then drew up as he spotted a pair of boots sticking out of the undergrowth. Taking hold of them he pulled the body out and stood back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Poor old Rodders.’ Podesta removed his hat and stared at the corpse. The neck was twisted grotesquely to one side. ‘I’ll make the stunted bastard pay, lad,’ he said. ‘You have my word. First, though,’ he said, cramming his tricorn back in place, ‘we need to get the boat.’

  He started towards the jetty, but Shader placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. About fifty yards distant something large slid down the mud and splashed into the water.

  ‘Shog me for a stupid cretin,’ Podesta said. �
��Maybe you should go,’ he said to Osric. ‘Never been keen on crocs, myself. Especially not salties.’

  Osric floated to the end of the jetty and watched the rippling water in the wake of the crocodile. ‘I cannot cross water without a boat.’

  Podesta fished a long knife out of his boot and strained to see the salty. Patting the blade against his palm he reached a decision. ‘If we head back towards the ship through the jungle the crew can pick us up in the other boat.’

  Shader shrugged and started towards the mangroves, following the trail of footprints. Podesta and Osric trailed behind. Ned was slumped against a trunk, bleeding out from a slit throat.

  Podesta blanched, sweat dripping from his forehead, eyes darting from left to right. ‘Where the shog is Cleto?’ he whispered.

  Shader drew his cutlass and the Sword of the Archon and continued on a course parallel with the shore.

  ‘At least if there are more crocs up here we’ll stand a fighting chance, eh?’ Podesta said, licking his lips. ‘Gods, I need a piss.’

  Shader held up a hand to silence him. There were three large salties basking at the edge of the mangroves.

  ‘Inland a bit?’ Podesta suggested.

  The trio moved deeper into the jungle and found Cleto knocked senseless amidst the foliage. He was missing his Aeterna-tech weapon and cutlass. He groaned and began to stir.

  ‘What happened?’ Shader asked.

  ‘Bastard hit me from behind. Hit me hard,’ Cleto said, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Where’s my shogging weapons?’

  ‘You OK to continue?’ Shader asked.

  ‘Try to stop me.’ Cleto’s eyes hardened as he pushed himself to his feet.

  Shader hacked a path through the undergrowth. The thick canopy of leaves shut out the sun and rendered Osric more substantial, but it did nothing to reduce the sweltering humidity. Every few minutes Shader used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Podesta shook the perspiration from his hair in a great shower and cursed Osric’s indifference to the heat.

  They cut inland for a few hundred yards and then headed west, following the course of the river. Fat black flies buzzed around them, flitting in and out of nostrils and eyes, and tenaciously returning to torment them no matter how many times they were swiped away.

  They were halfway down a steep slope when there was a blast followed by a splash. Curses were shouted and they heard the thrumming of arrows through the air, the phwat, phwat, phwat of them striking the water. Shader slipped and slid towards the noise, breaking through the mangroves into the rushes at the water’s edge. Something dark and wet cannoned into him and tumbled away before he could react.

  ‘That’s him!’ Podesta shouted, struggling back up the bank in pursuit.

  ‘Wait!’ Shader cried, regaining his feet and scanning the thick vegetation. Heedless, Podesta pressed on and was soon lost to sight.

  ‘Ain’t good for a Captain to lose his head,’ Cleto said, rubbing his chin and squinting into the trees. ‘Reckon the little shit tried to board the Placida. Fired my sodding weapon.’

  A low gurgling sound, followed by a heavy thud, came from the mangroves.

  Osric drifted alongside Shader. ‘This Shadrak is extremely skilful, it seems.’

  Shader’s eyes narrowed. He handed the cutlass to Cleto.

  The sailor looked nervous, his eyes darting all over the place. Sending him back up the slope would be testing his newfound loyalty to the limits.

  ‘Stay here,’ Shader said. ‘Make sure he doesn’t get behind us.’

  Cleto grunted, his knuckles whitening from the grip he had on the cutlass.

  Shader started up into the trees, willing himself to relax. He let his peripheral vision do the looking.

  ‘Let me go first,’ Osric said. ‘I doubt even he can slay the dead.’

  Shader nodded and glanced uneasily around as the wraith glided into the thicket. He sat cross-legged on the ground and rested the gladius across his lap. His heart was racing in anticipation of the fight, or of a swift and silent stab in the back. Fumbling with the straps on his pack, he pulled out his dog-eared Liber, thumbed through the pages, and then began to read from Aeternam in a soft rhythmic monotone. Years of discipline led him inwards where the stillness gave sway to other senses, finer and keener edged. He could feel the hot air playing over the hairs on the back of his hands, hear the whispers of the water, the gliding of the gulls on the thermals. His breathing stilled; his heart sounded like a ponderous drum in his ears. The gossamer net of his awareness crept through the jungle, caressing bark and stroking leaves.

  He did not pause in his prayer as something cold and sharp touched his throat.

  ‘Ordinarily I’d have stuck you without a word.’ Shader could feel the assassin’s breath on his ear. ‘But you’re already dead.’

  Shader smiled. ‘You’ve not noticed the blade a hair’s-breadth from your groin?’

  He’d heard the assassin’s approach, felt the air bend around him. The gladius responded to his unformed thought instantly. If he’d wanted Shadrak dead, he would have been.

  ‘Stalemate,’ the assassin said.

  There was a sudden gasp from behind Shader and the knife fell away from his throat.

  ‘I beg to disagree,’ Osric hissed.

  Shader turned and stood. The assassin was little more than three feet tall, pale-faced and with clipped, snow-white hair. His limbs were rigid and shaking, his pink eyes wide as they stared with horror at the ghostly hand protruding from his chest. Osric was hovering behind Shadrak, his head slightly cocked.

  ‘I wonder if it is unchivalrous,’ Osric withdrew his hand into Shadrak’s ribcage, his eyes narrowing to fiery slits, ‘that my hand can pass through you unhindered, and yet…’ Shadrak started to spasm. ‘…I can curl my fingers around your heart and squeeze it quite palpably.’

  Shadrak’s shaking fingers edged towards one of the pouches on his belt.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Shader said, putting his Liber away. ‘I doubt you have the means of harming Osric here, and even if you did, I’d gut you before you could blink.’

  Shadrak ceased struggling and hung his head.

  ‘My statue…’ Shader began.

  ‘Hardly yours,’ Shadrak said. ‘Unless you’re calling yourself Eingana.’

  Shader drew in a deep breath and thumbed the edge of his sword. ‘What happened back there?’

  Shadrak was quivering uncontrollably, his eyes fixed on his chest where Osric still had a grip on his heart.

  ‘Didn’t stay to find out. Did my bit and buggered off before they realized there was fresh meat hanging about.’

  Shader lifted the albino’s chin and stared him in the eye. ‘How long have the Sicarii worked for Sektis Gandaw?’

  ‘They don’t,’ Shadrak said. ‘Just me, and not by choice. If I get my way, I’ll not see that coldblooded shogger again.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ Shader asked.

  ‘Ask the mawgs—’ Shadrak gasped as Osric’s fingers emerged from his chest. ‘I don’t know,’ he rasped. ‘Came to me with magic when the mawgs got me. Only saw the top half of him floating in a sphere. There were pictures behind him—flickering pictures, and dark metal walls. You’ll be lucky to find him in Sahul, I reckon.’

  Shader turned away and grimaced. The trail had gone cold. Two pieces of the statue in Cadman’s hands, and the body with Sektis Gandaw. Were they in league? If there really were five pieces of the statue, where were the other two? Maybe Huntsman would know—if he could be found. It had all started out so simply—retrieve the Grey Abbot’s Monas. The longer this went on, the worse things got, the more acutely Shader felt his failure. Ain only knew what had happened to the Grey Abbot. If he was honest, that was the least of Shader’s concerns. There were others he felt responsible for. Others he couldn’t bear to lose.

  ‘We need to head back,’ Shader said to Osric. ‘Go after Cadman.’

  The albino looked up at that. ‘Cadman?’

  ‘You know h
im?’ Shader said.

  ‘He’s the one who started all this. Sent me to Broken Bridge to find out all I could about the statue from some scruffy bard. After that we dragged in an old hermit and took a piece from him—a fang. Cadman wanted me to keep working for him, but the guild wouldn’t have liked it. It was straight after the business with the hermit that mawgs started appearing under the city. Went with a bunch of amateurs to root them out and that’s when I got into this mess with Gandaw.’

  ‘Does Cadman know about Gandaw?’ Shader asked. ‘Are they working together?’

  ‘No idea.’ Shadrak gasped and fell to his knees as Osric withdrew his hand and loomed over him.

  ‘Let us hope not,’ the wraith said. ‘Three pieces of the statue is a lot of power.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Shadrak said, clutching his chest and taking long stuttering breaths.

  ‘It will be,’ Shader said, ‘if Gandaw gets the other two. Even a self-centred bastard like you will have to stand up and take notice. Everything is threatened. Everything.’

  Shadrak stood and dusted himself down. ‘And I should care, why?’ he said. ‘Shogging world’s screwed in any case, and before you suggest it, I don’t take sides. Show me the money and I’ll consider it, but otherwise take your best shot or let me go.’

  Shader’s hand tightened on the hilt of the gladius. Osric’s eyes simmered and he drifted so close to the assassin that Shadrak shivered.

  ‘You got ’im?’ Cleto called, trudging up the slope. ‘Hold ¼im still and I’ll bleed the little shogger.’

  Shadrak dropped into a crouch, eyes flicking dangerously, fingers brushing against his pouches. Shader pushed up close and touched the tip of the gladius to his throat.

  ‘Am I going to see you again?’ he said with ice in his voice.

  ‘No one sees me,’ Shadrak said, ‘if I don’t wanna be seen.’

  ‘You know what I meant.’ Shader pressed harder, breaking the skin.

  ‘You won’t get no trouble from me. Not without a contract, and I think the chances of that are pretty slim. Reckon your enemies might as well save their money. Cadman and Gandaw can sort you out.’