by D. P. Prior
Nameless stopped singing, swiveled his helmed head, and then resumed, louder than before.
Ludo began to read to an imaginary congregation, in the Nousian secret language, as Shadrak thought of it; long drawn-out vowels and a sonorous tone.
Galen’s shoulders bunched up around his ears, and he closed his book. He muttered something beneath his mustache and stood, brushing down his white jodhpurs, stamping the dirt from his shiny boots.
“Pray with me, Brother.” Ludo looked up from the page.
“Quite right, Eminence. Quite right.” But Galen pocketed his book and went over to his horse, rubbing its mane and whispering in its ear.
Shadrak followed him with the crosshairs, looked beyond, into the trees; strained to listen. No mean feat, as Nameless was now in full flow above the chirping of the cicadas and the crackling of the fire.
—“My shogging fat wife with her head full of gin…”
—The hissing of fat falling on the flames.
Ludo continued to drone: “Quotidianum da nobis hodie…”
The horse nickered and stomped its hooves.
Galen did his best to calm her. “There, there, Beatrice. Easy, girl.”
Leaves rustled to the right. Shadrak swung the rifle around.
Ekyls.
The savage was crouching at the end of a branch high above the clearing. He was hard to see, his brown skin merging with the bark, the snake tattoos acting as camouflage. His yellow eyes flashed in acknowledgement of Shadrak.
“Come open the bar to us, let us come in…” Nameless sang.
Ludo was as insistent as the cicadas. “Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris…”
“Easy, Bea.” Galen stroked along the horse’s flanks.
The mule sidled up and nuzzled Beatrice’s neck.
An owl hooted.
Ekyls pointed below.
Black fingers curled around the edge of a trunk. A head peeked out, long ears twitching, slitty eyes burning into Ludo’s back. Another crept into view behind Nameless, small, naked, its dusky skin scabby and blistered.
Albert shaved off a sliver of meat with his cheese-cutter.
Nameless stopped singing and curled his fingers around the haft of his axe. He stretched then pushed himself into a crouch beside the fire.
Shadrak held his breath as he focused his senses. A mephitic stench beneath his tree; the whispering of leaves; the faintest squelch of mud. There were at least four more of the creatures below. Goblins. Nameless had said to expect them. Said they’d been here when the dwarves of Arx Gravis had worked the volcano decades ago.
They tiptoed from the trees, jagged flints raised. Shadrak almost sniggered. For a moment, he could have been back in the theater, ogling Dame Consilia’s tits and yelling, “He’s behind you!”
Two of the goblins screeched and started hopping and holding their feet. A thorny branch snapped back across another’s face, just missing an eye but snagging skin.
Nameless spun, axe scything carelessly behind, slinging green blood across the forest floor.
More goblins poured from the trees, ululating cries howling from curled lips.
Galen slashed one across the throat with his saber—Shadrak hadn’t even seen him draw it.
Another hurled itself at Ludo, still seated, still praying.
Shadrak fired. The goblin dropped, blood the color of snot spurting from its chest.
The two hopping goblins suddenly stiffened and toppled over. The one struck by the branch clawed gouges out of its own face. Purpling veins spread from a series of tiny puncture marks left by the thorns. The goblin shuddered, went into spasm, and crumpled to the ground.
A dark shape sprang at Albert. It was a mistake to assume he was an easy target on account of his appearance. The poisoner stepped nimbly aside, wrapped the cheese-cutter around the goblin’s throat, and yanked with practiced efficiency. The goblin’s feet lifted from the floor. It kicked feebly, and then went limp.
Shadrak fired into the trees, hitting a goblin between the eyes.
Half a dozen more charged at Ludo.
Galen surged into them, hacked the legs from beneath the first, and skewered the second. Before he could free his blade, the others were upon him.
Ekyls dropped from his branch, rolled, came up, and brought his hatchet down, spilling brains.
Nameless seemed to glide as he cut down one, then another.
Galen let go his saber and delivered a fierce jab to the face of the last goblin. Its head snapped back, then it snarled and leapt at him. Galen’s right caught it on the chin, lifting it into the air and dumping it on its back.
Ekyls was on it in a flash, hacking at its neck repeatedly until the head came away. He lifted it proudly, let the green blood stain his face and lips.
“There was no need for that!” Galen roared. “Bloody savage!”
Ekyls leered at him, licked the blood from his lips, and squared up.
Galen thumped his fist into his palm and cracked his neck.
Shadrak focused in on them with the rifle’s sight. This was going to be worth a laugh.
Ludo got to his feet, brushed the dirt off, and was about to say something, when a tremor rippled across the clearing.
Those on the ground pitched to their arses, and Shadrak yelped as he fell out of the tree. He hit hard. Pain shot up his arm. The rifle bounced, discharged, and clattered against a trunk. Tears stung his eyes. Felt like someone had rammed a dagger through his armpit. He struggled to his knees, left arm hanging useless.
A shadow fell over him, as a looming figure stepped from the forest. How could he not have seen it before? Either he was getting careless, or there was more skill here than met the eye. Skill, or magic.
A mawg vraajo glowered at him before reaching down and picking up the rifle. It was missing an ear, and a black patch covered one eye. The other was like a speck of blood in a pool of piss. It towered over him—a huge misshapen bear with jutting jaws and rows of thorny teeth. Its knuckles dragged against the ground as it loped toward Shadrak, baring its teeth in what he took for a grin. It slapped the rifle against its flaccid breasts and grunted guttural noises. He’d heard that tongue before, in the Anglesh Isles, but he was shogged if he understood it.
He struggled to his feet and started to back away. The vraajo made a clutching movement with its fingers, and he froze. Movement behind him told him his companions were getting up, but the mawg made a sweeping gesture, and silence fell in an instant.
Options, Shadrak, options!
A cold clump of panic formed in his stomach, rose through his chest, and lodged in his throat. He began to wheeze and shudder, fighting for every breath.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Nameless, barely a step behind, frozen in mid-stride, axe poised to swing but going nowhere.
With a grunt of effort, Nameless inched the great helm round till the eye-slit glared at the vraajo. He shook with the effort, barrel chest expanding as he filled his lungs. He arched his body toward the mawg, straining, straining.
“Eat… my…axe, you…shogging… hairball.”
Something invisible snapped, and Nameless catapulted forward. He swung the axe in a murderous arc. The mawg’s hand came up sparking, and Nameless was slung back across the clearing. There was a thud and a clang, the whuff of air leaving his lungs.
Shadrak couldn’t turn his head to see if the dwarf was all right—or the others, for that matter.
The mawg leveled the rifle at him and fumbled with the trigger.
Move, move, move!
Sweat poured into Shadrak’s eyes with the effort, but he was stuck. Dead in the water.
“Hey… crotch-face!” It was Nameless again, every word gasped with pain or effort. “Pick on someone… your own size. No, on second thoughts… just pick on someone… bigger than him.”
The mawg swung the rifle to a point over Shadrak’s shoulder. A clumsy finger settled on the trigger, but the gun was suddenly wrenched from its grip.
The mawg gawped, looked up. The rifle was amid the branches of a tree, suspended from a creeper wound around its barrel.
The crack of a twig had the mawg turning, but there was nothing there. It let out a whimper, then made a fist. Sparks danced across the knuckles, started to grow into dark flames. Flies swarmed from the trees and smothered them. The mawg squealed and stumbled back, shaking its hand until the flies streamed away to a single point in the air and vanished.
Shadrak’s eyes were rooted to that spot. So were the mawg’s. She even flicked a look at him, as if they now faced a common foe.
Bark, leaves, sky all melded together, bowed and folded, formed into a man no taller than Shadrak. The eyes took on more clarity: black holes that seemed to suck in all they saw. The leaves shook and became a cloak of feathers, beneath which vegetation wove itself into garments.
Bird walked from the forest, holding something in one hand, stroking it with the other.
The mawg roared, lips curling back to reveal row upon row of spiny teeth.
Bird cocked his head and gave it a disapproving look. He was stroking a mole with the tips of his fingers.
The mawg raised a hand, greenish light swirling upon the palm.
Bird made a peculiar clicking noise, and a tree lashed out, vines snaring the offending arm. More strands snaked out, wrapping wrists and ankles, and lifting the mawg spread-eagled into the air.
Ignoring his captive, Bird moved among the companions, clicking and growling deep in his throat.
Shadrak’s muscles twitched, and a thousand needles pricked at his veins. With a sigh, he sagged to the ground.
Groans, coughs, and murmurs came from the others as whatever spell held them was broken.
Shadrak tried to stand, but his limp arm overbalanced him. He shifted his weight and tried again, this time reaching his knees.
“You no say there mawgs.” Ekyls glared up at the vraajo and spat. “No smell, this one. Magic.”
Ludo knelt beside Shadrak and examined his arm. “That was quite a fall, Brother. May I?”
Shadrak winced as the adeptus gingerly took hold of his arm.
“Can you grip my hand?”
Shadrak could, but weakly.
“What about raising it?”
Dead as shog. All he got for his efforts was cold, stabbing agony.
“Galen, some assistance please,” Ludo said. He adjusted his spectacles on his nose, gave a nervous cough. “Just support him, will you?”
Strong hands gripped Shadrak from behind.
“Don’t worry, old chap. The adeptus used to be a field chaplain. He’s done this a thousand times.”
“Done what?”
Crunch!
Shadrak screamed. The ground lurched, but Galen held him firm. Nausea smothered him like a blanket, and he swallowed down bile.
“It will be sore for a while, and you may have some weakness,” Ludo said, “but, Ain willing, it will heal.”
Bird was staring at the roasting rabbit, lips moving silently. He made an elaborate gesture with his fingers before turning away.
Albert dabbed at the blood on his hands with a handkerchief. When he’d finished, he waved it around with a look of distaste. He looked like he was going to drop it in the fire, but instead he muttered something under his breath and pocketed it. He picked a bit of flesh from the spit and tasted it, sniffed dismissively, and then ambled over to the mule to forage through his packs.
Nameless watched Bird through the eye-slit of his great helm. He belched loudly, rubbed his guts, and strode from the clearing, axe over one shoulder.
Ekyls nodded his head after the dwarf. “He strong, that one.”
Bird looked up from stroking the mole, pebbly eyes moist and mournful. “Even for a dwarf.”
Shadrak felt the urge to question him. There is something about this dwarf; something that not even I expected, Aristodeus had said. He’d almost let that something slip, but the homunculus with the dreadlocks had stopped him.
Bird seemed to read Shadrak’s thoughts, and offered him a smile that was both reassuring and regretful. Before he could say anything, Ekyls raised his hatchet at the vraajo.
Bird’s voice cracked out. “No, Ekyls of the Mamba. This is not the law.”
Ekyls gnashed his teeth. “What you know of Mamba law, homunculus?”
Bird continued to stroke the mole, his black eyes inscrutable. “I know much of the Mamba. More, perhaps, than you.”
Ludo raised his palms to Ekyls and cautiously advanced.
“One more step, priest, and me chop you,” Ekyls said.
Galen pulled Ludo back by the shoulder and drew his saber.
“Mawg attack us,” Ekyls snarled. “Use magic. Now me smash skull.”
“You will do no such thing, bondsman. At least, not until we have questioned it.” Albert was back at the spit, slicing off strips of meat and sprinkling them with spices.
Ekyls sucked in a deep breath and then skulked over to the fire to sit cross-legged beside him.
The mawg let out a guttural growl that might have been laughter. Its bloodshot eyes rolled slowly around the scene, taking in everyone and everything.
Galen thrust his chin toward it. “Don’t suppose it’s with the ruddy giant, is it?”
“Stake my gonads on it,” Shadrak said.
Galen frowned.
They’d expected goblins, but if they’d known about the vraajo, the plan would have been different. Less haphazard. More certain. At least, Shadrak’s would have been.
“With the death of Sektis Gandaw, the mawgs run wild,” Bird said.
Shadrak nodded. “But a vraajo without its pack? That ain’t usual.”
Albert left the fire and hunted about on the ground until he found a metal caltrop. He cleaned it with a rag and dropped it into a pouch of boiled leather.
“Best to keep your distance until I’ve found them all.” He beamed as he scooped up another. “Enough poison on them to fell a horse.”
Galen glared at Ekyls, sheathed his saber, and hurried over to Beatrice so he could check her hooves.
Albert lifted the thorny branch that had struck the goblin out of the way with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that was rather nifty.” He looked around with a self-congratulatory smile.
Nameless emerged from the trees, fastening his britches. He took a long look at the mawg. “No sign of any others. Think we got the lot of them.”
“Moths to the flame, my dear,” Albert said. “Just like when I was a boy with my first love of lepidoptery. Hunt the hunters, eh? Best way to weed out goblins.”
Albert was right. Goblins were easily overcome in a straight fight, but that was not their way. They would harry their quarry, picking them off one by one. They were almost impossible to hunt: sly and stealthy, barely visible in the dark.
“So,” Shadrak said to no one in particular, “what are we gonna do with the dirtbag?” He flicked a look at the vraajo hanging from its wrists.
“The Mamba tribe knows the mawgs well,” Bird said. “They speak the language.”
“Surprised you don’t,” Shadrak said, eyeing the mole.
“Not natural,” Bird said. “Creatures of Sektis Gandaw, remember?”
“Bondsman,” Albert said.
Ekyls was sullenly drawing shapes in the mud with a finger.
“Do be a darling and ask the wretched thing where the entrance is.”
“And if there are any others,” Shadrak added.
“Entrance, goblins, mawgs,” Albert said, as if reiterating a shopping list to a child.
Ekyls stood without complaining, shouldered his hatchet, and strode over to the mawg. He made some low growling noises deep in his throat, and was answered by a snarl. Ekyls’ hatchet came down. There was a scream, a spray of black blood, and the vraajo spat teeth to the ground. New ones immediately slotted into the gaps from the rows behind.
“This is preposterous,” Galen said, covering Beatrice’s eyes and looking to Ludo for suppo
rt. “Downright barbaric.”
Ludo shrugged, as if he were helpless to intervene.
Shadrak knew the sort. Always preaching nonviolence, but then turning a blind eye when it came to making a stand. He’d have a justification for staying out of it, and probably a bunch more for what Ekyls was doing. Some shit about the greater good, most likely.
He scoffed and turned his attention back to the torture. Compared to him, Ekyls was an amateur, but it’d be amusing, and they might even glean a snippet or two of useful information.
Ekyls bashed the mawg with fist and axe, over and over and over. Gore stained his arms to the elbows, spattered his face. The mawg’s howls of pain turned to whimpers. Its breath rattled and sputtered in gasps. In between beatings, it barked desperate responses to Ekyls’ questions. Shog lot of good it seemed to be doing the poor bitch, but you had to admit, it was a spectacle.
Albert jingled his pouch of caltrops and held up a glass vial to Shadrak. “Out of the two, this was the more effective. Scorpion venom blended with the poison from five different species of jellyfish from Portis. The other was a bit slow. Still, might be good ingested.”
Shadrak suppressed a growl. Couldn’t the fat shog see he was trying to concentrate. He knew better than to upset Albert, though, so he accepted the vial and squinted at the contents.
“Better than the mamba stuff?” He swirled the liquid inside.
“Oh, no. Good grief, no.” Albert pulled another vial from his pocket—a long thin tube this time. “Still holds its place as the philosopher’s stone of toxins.” He kissed the glass and tucked it back away. “As far as I know, it’s the only distillate of mamba venom on Aethir. All thanks to our dear friend Ekyls. Even in its natural form, it did for the other scouts the chief loaned me. Should have killed him, too. Would have done without my expertise.” He gave a slight bow. “I bet even Sektis Gandaw never found an antidote. And, do you know, it was surprisingly simple. Once you understand the basics of old Earth chemistry, of course.”
Shadrak handed back the vial. He’d heard it all before: Albert’s quest for the venom of a Malkuthian black mamba; his stay with the tribe; his display of “great medicine” in return for the scouts. The serpents were sacred to the Mamba tribe, the offspring of their snake-headed god.