The Traitor God

by Cameron Johnston

  “We are simply concentrating our power,” she said. “It is the logical solution.”

  “Logic be damned, I…” My words drifted off as plumes of roiling smoke caught my eye. Ships berthed at Pauper’s Docks were burning. So were maybe a dozen sites spread across the city, what looked to be the warehouses that held a goodly portion of the city’s grain. A vicious melee erupted on the docks as a mob cornered a number of armed men – surely the arsonists – and began beating them to death.

  “We are out of time,” she said.

  Cillian ran for the docks, heedless of sharp rocks and sucking mud under her bare feet. Despite taking a hefty hit to the head, she left me puffing and panting in her wake. Knowing her, she probably rose at first light and followed an exacting exercise regime. She had told me that “a healthy body means a healthy mind” at some point in the past. My dislike of her grew.

  A chain of people were ferrying buckets of seawater up onto the burning ships with impressive efficiency. Even so, sooty flames grew higher, hissing tongues of red and orange crawling up their masts. Rigging and sails flared as they went up. On the other side of the city, a pall of black was rising from Westford Docks.

  “Are they trying to burn every seaworthy ship here?” Cillian said. “This is deliberate. But why?”

  I licked my lips. “To stop us escaping.”

  “Explain.”

  “The Skinner – Harailt – was hunting down mageborn, and then he moved on to full-blown magi to fuel his blood sorcery. It seems to me he’s stepping it up, that he wants our people confined within the city walls. In an evacuation of the city, who or what would be on the first ships out?”

  “The Arcanum and the High Houses of course,” she replied. “Along with our most dangerous weapons… Son of a whore!”

  “Exactly. Nothing is getting out now.” It was strange hearing her swear at something other than me; always a rarity, and now that she was a high and mighty councillor I didn’t imagine it ever happened in public.

  A soot-smeared dockhand, yoke across his shoulders weighed down by two full buckets, slowed and glared at us as he passed. “You two scruffians just goin’ to stand here and watch? There’s goodly folk trapped. Get in line and lend a hand.”

  Cillian straightened and hoisted her chin. “No need.” Her magic flared up around her and she stretched a hand out towards the nearest ship. It started to pitch and rock as the sea churned to brown froth beneath. Gasps rippled up the waterline of people as tentacles of seawater rose around one of the ships like a sea monster about to pull the vessel under. Instead water crashed down across the deck, snuffing out flames in clouds of steam. It was an awesome display of power, more so for me than the people on the docks – they had no idea of the obscene volume of magic Cillian was channelling.

  The dockhand gaped, head snapping from the ship to Cillian and back again. A strangled choke emerged from his throat and his face reddened. “Beg pardon, magus,” he forced out. “Didn’t mean no offence.”

  “I took no offence, my good man,” she replied, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “Every life is precious, is it not? It is my duty to provide what assistance I can.”

  He bobbed his head and backed away from us as quickly as possible without actually fleeing. Everybody staring at us suddenly decided that gawping at the bedraggled magus was bad for their health and went back to hauling buckets of water down to the fires.

  “Nice words,” I said. “Did you mean them?”

  She scowled, face taut with concentration as water writhed over a second ship that was already listing badly, flames consuming the starboard side.

  “I am not a monster,” she said, “whatever you may think. I will do what I must for Setharis and the Arcanum. However, I do accept that I am a product of privilege, and capable of oversight. I’m only human, you judgmental prick.”

  I grunted. “Well said. Anyway, see you later.”

  Her concentration almost faltered, but it took more than that to disrupt the focus of a magus of her prowess. Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning with both anger and the effort of directing so much complex magic. “You are coming with me, Edrin. If you try to leave you will regret it.”

  I nodded towards the ships. “People are trapped and you are their only hope. How many will die if you try to stop me? I won’t make it easy for you.” My smile crumbled. “Don’t try to out-bastard me, Cillian. I’ll win every time. I am going to find Harailt and I am going to kill him. There is no need for your tests.”

  My head ached from the strain both body and Gift had been under, and the secret locked away in my head was ever-present in my thoughts, the power that locked it away finally crumbling. I felt like a pus-filled boil ripe and ready to burst. The mere thought of reliving those memories caused me to break out in a cold sweat, but they were also the key to defeating the traitor god that was helping Harailt.

  She shook her head slowly. “No, even you would not condemn innocent people to death. That would make you just as bad as all those uncaring, privileged bastards that you rant about with such vehemence.”

  I looked her right in the eye. I’d already killed one innocent man since returning. “Oh, I’m far worse.” And I meant it. She’d no idea about all the dirty, devious, and just plain brutal things I’d done to survive over the years; the rich had no conception of that sort of life. I turned my back on her and headed for the city, every step exuding carefree confidence. In truth I was near pissing myself wondering if she’d stop the blood in my veins, or even burst a non-vital body part, maybe one I’d really not be keen to lose. But she didn’t, instead she cursed and focused on saving lives. She thought I really was that much of a bastard.

  I didn’t examine myself too closely as to what I’d have done if she tried to stop me. I suspected neither of us would have liked the answer.

  Chapter 25

  A nearby warning bell tolled frantically. The wardens up on the walls hastily strung bows. Fearful faces stared out to sea. I followed their gaze. Hundreds of square sails studded the horizon, bearing the emblems of dozens of Skallgrim tribes. I licked my lips and swallowed, a thrill of fear rippling up my spine as I remembered those same wolf-ships unleashing red slaughter and daemons on Ironport. Of course Harailt was in league with those savages. He never had any empathy or mercy to begin with.

  The sound of bells spread across the city as more wardens spotted the Skallgrim fleet. With the fires raging on the docks, most people were still tearing in and out of the gate to help, but some stopped to point and gawp in horror. The volume of traffic made the gate warden’s work impossible and to the sniffer on duty Cillian’s magic had to have been like staring into the sun, so it wasn’t a surprise he didn’t notice a filthy barefoot scumbag like me slipping through the gate.

  Once Cillian was out of sight I felt able to breathe again, but I picked up my pace and resisted the urge to continually glance behind me. As soon as I entered the market I felt the crowd’s panic, and I didn’t need to be a magus to sense the riot birthing.

  Blood stained the stones underfoot and food stalls had already been picked bare and overturned. A wild-eyed old man with long straggly hair, dressed in nothing more than rags, deftly dodged the two armoured wardens pursuing him and clambered up onto one of the stalls so he could be seen by all. “The Skallgrim are coming,” he screamed, pointing towards the sea. Then he spun to hiss up the hill at the gods’ towers. “An end to the leeches that grow fat on our blood and toil. Rise up and put an end to the corruption of vile magic at our heart!”

  The wardens caught him, one hauling him kicking and biting from his podium while the other hefted a club and bashed the old man’s head. He flopped down unconscious, blood matting his hair. The wardens didn’t check to see if he was alive or dead, and probably didn’t care, instead hastily dragging him off with the angry crowd edging after them. Then the whispers started rippling through the crowd – High Houses – the Arcanum – gold – war – vile corruption – fat leeches – eat while we
starve – our blood and toil…

  More than swords and magic, words held real power. Regimes the world over had risen with a few whispered words in the right ears. And they’d also fallen to a few well-chosen words said to big crowds of scared people. People were like that in groups, a herd instinct sweeping them along in a flood of anger instead of fear, like cornered rats turning on a cat. I pushed in next to a gaunt woman wrapped in a ragged shawl, a refugee from Ironport by the cut of her cloth.

  Setharis was ready to explode, and that old man had just flung in an oil lantern. I opened up my Gift – finding it oddly pain-free, if strained – and scanned the crowd, locating two other agitators without too much difficulty: they were the calm ones filled with a purpose verging on the fanatic. I skimmed the surface and tasted their thoughts, felt their disdain and disgust for the depraved cityfolk they found themselves surrounded by. They were not from Setharis, though they’d spent years here. They were Skallgrim infiltrators. Who had ever heard of subtlety from the Skallgrim? They preferred to fight each other over long-held feuds rather than looking to war with anybody else. Or they had done – times were apparently changing. The men were readying to fling more words into the crowd – more torches to help start the fire.

  The tension was building to its peak. Somebody picked up a piece of horse dung and flung it at the retreating wardens. It splattered against one man’s helmet and he turned, still holding his bloodied club. It had to be now. I placed my hand on the refugee’s arm. She twitched as I entered her mind, then stilled.

  “I’m from Ironport,” she shouted. “And Skallgrim beasts skinned my daughter alive.” For some reason I’d found that daughters usually had a more emotive effect. The crowd turned to stare. “Sacrificed for their sick, heathen blood sorcery,” she continued. The crowd needed a reminder of the distinction between our magic and their sorcery. Even the crudest peasant knew dozens of dark tales about blood sorcery.

  “No, the Skallgrim will save us,” one of the agitators started up as the warning bells on the walls tolled louder, more urgent. “They bring all Kaladon a purity that was lost, and they offer Setharis, the Free Cities, and even the heathen Clanholds a life free from the yoke of magic.”

  Time to break out the emotional blackmail. Tears started rolling down the refugee’s face. “Skinned her alive as I watched,” she sobbed. “Just like the monster that’s been killing people here.” Eyes widened in the crowd as those words sunk in. Skinned alive by Skallgrim beasts. The Skinner.

  “Lies!” the agitator shouted, drawing the eyes to him. “It is those leeches up in their palaces that caused this. They are the problem. The Skinner is one of them. They don’t care if a few peasants die. We should march up there and take the wealth that should be ours.”

  I let go of the woman, leaving her sobbing her heart out and with no idea what she had just said.

  “Sounds like he’s in league with the Skinner and the Skallgrim to me,” I shouted. “He’s a traitor. The Skallgrim want to skin us alive and drain our blood. Everybody knows the Arcanum hunt and kill all blood sorcerers.”

  All it took was giving the man in front of me a shove with a shout of “Get him!” A few members of the crowd took a step forward, more followed, and then the whole crowd surged as one, grabbing at the Skallgrim infiltrator. All that fear and anger they’d been building exploded in his face. The mob took hold of the screaming man and started tearing him to pieces. Never before had I exerted such power over the hearts and minds of people on such a grand scale. Their emotions were in the palm of my hand. I could make them dance like a puppeteer’s painted dolls and I found that I liked it.

  A person could be clever, but crowds of people were stupid and easily manipulated. The problem was that once you built it up to a fever pitch, then somebody with just the right words could redirect it. Once a riot started they were difficult to control, but that wasn’t my problem. I just didn’t want dozens of innocent people incinerated by the defensive magics guarding the Old Town. I felt giddy with my own power, the Worm of Magic purring happily in the depths of my mind. I held a truly fearful power, and it was harder than ever to resist the delicious temptation to meddle, to dominate and direct, to rule. Letting my magic loose in the Boneyards had changed me, brought me closer to the mindset that the Worm – or worse, myself – desired. How could I cope without Lynas? He had always been my conscience, the hand on my moral rudder steering me back into safer waters. Even during my years of exile he had always been a presence in the back of my mind, mentally chastising me when I contemplated going too far.

  Nauseated, I tore myself away from temptation and struggled against the tide of people, trying to avoid all the boots stepping on my bare feet as I followed the second agitator fleeing down a side street. He was the clever one, the one who had known when to shut his mouth and leave it well alone, which meant he was more dangerous than his fellows. He might know what Harailt’s end game was. I followed him as he skirted the centre of the Warrens and headed towards Westford.

  He stopped at an intersection and looked back. I slowed, made myself look exhausted, hanging my head and dragging bare feet through street filth. His gaze slid straight past me. Looking at the ragged state of me nobody would expect I was anything other than a deranged beggar, and Setharis had no shortage of those. He slunk down an alley and out of sight. I tailed him further west. He paused at a crossroads and I ducked into the shadows of a doorway as he carefully looked in all directions before heading right. I sidled up to the wall and carefully peered around the corner. He stood a mere pace away, dagger in hand. I lurched back as the point darted for my eye. A door thumped open behind me and I spun to see two heavy-set men emerge.

  I backed away, holding up filthy hands. “I don’t want no trouble. Just some food if you got any?”

  The infiltrator sneered and the two men reached for me.

  Back the way I’d come, somebody cleared her throat.

  “Die,” Cillian said.

  All three men twitched, blood gushing from nose, ears and eyes as they crumpled to the mud. I winced, expecting to experience Cillian’s wrath myself.

  “Skallgrim infiltrators,” I said, when her magic didn’t burst me like a rotten tomato. “How did you find me?” I eyed my prospective lead’s blood pooling in the mud and thought it wise not to rub her mistake in her face.

  She gazed at the corpses, her face grim, and I wondered if she had ever before used her magic to kill – until now I’d only theorized her deadly potential. “I followed the trail of devastation,” she said. “It took me a while to work my way through the angry mob. After that I followed the tracking ward I had placed on your clothing.”

  She’d done what? I started sweating, wondering if she’d placed some nasty surprise in me ready to explode on command.

  She smiled thinly, glanced at the corpses by my feet. “It is war then.”

  “We have been at war quite some time,” I said. “We’ve only just noticed.”

  She gave a terse nod. “You are not the fool you pretend to be, Magus Edrin Walker, and I am only just starting to realize that.” Her eyes bored into me. “I am on to your game.”

  I swallowed, smiled sickly. “Ah, that.”

  She paced the cobbles. “The Arcanum had deemed it impossible for the Skallgrim to ever unite. Of the great powers, Setharis has been in economic decline for the last fifty years and our closest allies in Ahram and Esban consumed by infighting. We will receive no aid from them. It is an advantageous time for the Skallgrim to expand their territories.”

  If she was being straightforward with an untrustworthy cur like me then things had to be truly bad. Either that or the blow to her head had been worse than I’d thought.

  “It stinks, Edrin,” she said, “stinks of long and meticulous preparation for conquest, and patience is not something the Skallgrim have ever been noted for.” She was reinforcing my own disquieting suspicions. “Over the years far too many of our ships have gone missing, and our agents in other lands
have been turning up dead with depressing frequency. They must also be involved with the Magash Mora in some manner, but again the Skallgrim tribes lack the knowledge necessary to create such a creature. I feel an unknown power behind all these events.” She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes widening, “Harailt was posted to our embassies bordering their lands ten years back. It cannot be coincidence this all happens here and now.”

  “You believe me then?” I asked.

  “It would seem to match up. We have no time to debate this. Their infiltrators will be all over the city trying to incite the masses and there is no knowing how many of their warriors are already inside our walls.

  “You did well,” she said. “You played that angry mob as deftly as any minstrel ever plucked strings.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now, tell me how you managed it without touching them all?”

  I grunted. “You saved those sailors from a fiery death quicker than I’d expected.”

  “I sit on the Inner Circle for a reason. Don’t change the subject.”

  We passed from the dark of the Warrens into a wider street, one lined with newer wood. It probably hadn’t existed for long enough to acquire a name yet. People were dashing to and fro, some holding bloody noses or makeshift weapons, all avoiding eye contact.

  I could have lied to her, come up with some pretty story wittering on about body language, expression and posture, but events were already too dangerous and spiralling out of control. “Oh, that?” I said. “I don’t need to touch you to get into your head. I haven’t since I was a mere initiate.”

  She lurched to a stop and a trace of fear seeped into her expression. “Just how strong are you?”

  A woman ran down the street, toddler wailing in her arms. She hammered on a door, panting for breath. It creaked open, then swung wide. An older woman hugged her tight. “A mob is ransacking that fancy brothel,” the first woman said. “Best keep your girls indoors.”