Cadman's Gambit

by D. P. Prior

  Shadrak felt the tug of the music once more and scratched at the skin of his forearm. The wound in his thigh was already healing, no more than a dull ache. The story had washed over him, drenched him with emotions he didn’t care for, made him passive. The part of his mind that always remained outside, watching, commenting, assessing, had slept. ‘Cept for the tiniest spark that screeched its silent warning, told him what to do to bring himself back. He focused it now on the bard’s techniques. If he could work it out, expose the illusion, the charm would lose its hold on him. If he was right, he’d be free to glean information rather than wallow in sentiment.

  The words, that was where he’d start. Separate them out, analyse their meaning, root out any mention of Eingana. He’d always had an analytical mind, always been able to out-think his opponents, observe their behaviour and predict their movements. Principle was the same.

  The bass-line thumped at the back of his mind: di dum, di dum, di dum.

  Shadrak’s vision started to blur. Images danced before his drooping eyelids.

  Di dum, di dum.

  He shook his head and fixed his eyes on the posters plastering the wall behind the bard—line drawings of angular people, all cylinders and squares; a pointed tube soaring skywards with smoke spewing from its tail; symbols, slogans:

  “NO MORE GLOBAL-TECH!”

  “IT’S YOUR GARDEN, MAN!”

  “SEKTIS GANDAW, GLOBAL-TECH WHORE!”

  Shadrak slapped himself on the cheek, trying to drive the grogginess from his head. What was the bard saying? Listen to the words. That was the way to break the spell.

  ‘Adoni’s breathing became fast and shallow, and he felt as though the walls and ceiling were moving in to crush him.’

  Di dum, di dum, di dum, di dum.

  Shadrak reached for the stiletto, sluggish fingers coiling around the hilt.

  ‘Sticks, or something else, cracked beneath his feet, and he occasionally stumbled over small rocks.’

  Di dum, di dum, di dum.

  Shadrak tried to focus on the nook beside the empty fireplace, the high round table with its vacant stools. Saw Bovis Rayn sitting there after closing, a Nousian Liber on the table before him. The idiot was smiling, thinking no doubt he’d made a convert, and never realising he’d made a mistake.

  Di dum, di dum. Shadrak had played the freak card, used his sickly pallor and dwarfishness to arouse sympathy. Bovis had lent a fatherly ear, promised confidentiality. Said he was tight with the landlord at the Griffin, could meet him there after hours. No one would see them coming or going. He’d still been beaming with sickening benevolence just before his skin mottled and black drool trickled from his mouth.

  Di dum. Shadrak tried to summon the feeling of tightening the cord around his throat, splitting the skin and half severing the head. Wasn’t how it happened, but that had been the plan—keep ‘em guessing; save himself some…what was it that fat bastard had called them?…bullets. He was sure Albert’s toxin would’ve done the trick by itself. Hadn’t earned his reputation as the guild’s master poisoner for no good reason, but it never paid to take chances.

  Di dum, di dum. Bovis flung the table over. They wrestled, thunder-shot went off, glass cracked.

  Di dum. Fired again—Shadrak swooned at the remembered pain.

  Di. Hit Bovis with a backhander.

  Dum. Levelled the thunder-shot at the shogger’s head…

  Numbness seeped into Shadrak’s fingers; his arm hung limp. He bit down on his bottom lip, tasted salty blood. If he could just focus on the words…

  ***

  Adoni could see nothing. He shuffled sideways along the passageway, face scraping against stone. Every footfall was marked with a crunch or a snap, occasionally a squelch. The air grew thinner the deeper he went, clogged with dust and the stench of something rotten. He slipped and fell, jarring his ankle. Steadying himself with his hands against the walls, Adoni tested the floor with his toes, found a ledge and gingerly lowered his foot. Finding solid floor, he stepped down and repeated the action, each time descending, turning and twisting deeper into the darkness.

  The passageway widened and levelled off, his heart racing as he could no longer feel the left wall. Stumbling forwards, fingers stroking the rocky surface to his right, Adoni became aware of the faintest of glows at an unknowable distance. Letting go the security of the wall, he took a faltering step towards it. Fixing his eyes on the light, scarcely daring to blink in case it vanished, he crept further into the gloom. He calmed himself by mumbling the name of Eingana and drawing in the stale air with long, deep breaths.

  The glow came from a niche in the far wall, spilling amber radiance upon a bowl and cup set on the floor. Adoni crouched down, the light revealing a carpet of bones studded with empty-eyed skulls staring at him like messengers from the Void. Grubs wriggled in the bowl. He snatched up a handful and crammed them into his mouth, savouring their moist meatiness. Picking up the cup, his nostrils flared at the pungent odour that burned all the way to his brain, but not unpleasantly. He touched his lips to the fluid, which was sweet and thick like honey. Draining the cup, he fell back on his haunches and started to twitch and shake, warmth coursing through his veins, effusing from his skin and radiating outwards. A reddish glow washed across the floor and painted the walls and ceiling of a cave pocked with holes and scarred with fissures.

  ‘Would it like to see more?’ a voice grated from somewhere to his left.

  Startled, Adoni dared not breathe.

  ‘Is it hungry? Does it thirst?’ asked another voice, reedy and croaking.

  Adoni had the heart of a startled brolga. He shot looks all around but saw no one.

  ‘Would it like to see more?’ repeated the first voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Adoni whispered.

  He shielded his eyes as the amber glow from the niche flared, catching dust motes in its beams.

  ‘Many have come here.’ The grating voice again, this time from behind. ‘We have spoken to all. Most screamed, tried to flee, but others outside stopped them leaving. Many lost their minds and attacked us with rocks and lengths of bone. How is it that you talk instead?’

  Adoni turned around and froze. Before him stood a gigantic naked man with a brown muscular body and the head of a crocodile. Tawny eyes with slitted pupils fixed him with a hungry stare.

  There was a rush of movement to his right and Adoni spun to face another man-like creature, this one squat and dwarfish, with a bloated belly and the head of a toad. Its long tongue darted out. Adoni threw his hands up and recoiled.

  With one eye on Crocodile-head, the other on Toad, Adoni said, ‘I do not know. Maybe I am too scared to scream.’

  Crocodile-head nodded.

  Toad sucked his tongue back in and hunkered down, thighs bulging, ready to spring. ‘Funny fellah, you are. Too scared to scream!’

  Crocodile-head eyed Toad for a second. ‘This one is different. He has power, like the Wapar Man.’

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Toad, his eyes popping.

  ‘I am called Adoni.’

  ‘Sunset,’ Toad said. The creatures looked at each other.

  ‘Sahul gave it to my father on the dream quest.’

  ‘End of the day.’ Toad’s tongue snapped out at an invisible fly. ‘Last of the light. Blood light. Sahul has not spoken to you? Given you a soul name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come with us,’ said Crocodile-head, plucking a glowing sack from the niche. A section of the wall dissolved, revealing a rough-hewn stairwell wending its way into the depths of the earth. With Crocodile-head before him and Toad behind, Adoni started to descend into the darkness, guided by the amber glow from the sack.

  He was led downwards for an eternity, knees burning, heart rattling like the Wapar Man’s gourd. Finally they came into a vast cavern with scores of tributary tunnels. Great dusty cobwebs draped from the ceiling a hundred feet above, many still holding their victims: large bats, the occasional human, and mottled skeletons with legs lik
e an emu’s, dangling arms, and wolfish skulls.

  A shadow moved across one of the larger tunnels, sending a twinge through Adoni’s guts. At a gesture from Crocodile-head he crept closer, and away from the illumination offered by the sack. Something massive waited in the mouth of the corridor.

  ‘Welcome, my child,’ a voice sounded in his head.

  He went to it willingly, heart leaping with joy. Something brushed against him, tugged him towards a bulbous body. Silky strands stuck to his flesh as he was twirled and wrapped. Rows of eyes glinted; mandibles clicked, dripping fluid into his mouth. It burned as he swallowed, but tasted good.

  ‘What do you hear?’ The mandibles moved in time with the voice.

  Only Adoni’s head protruded from the casing; he had lost all sensation below the neck. For the first time he could remember, he felt at peace. He closed his eyes and drifted.

  ‘What do you hear?’ the voice asked again.

  ‘Whispering. A word spoken over and over. A name.’

  ‘Sahul’s gift to you. What is the name?’

  ‘Huntsman.’

  ***

  Barek rubbed his eyes open, stifled a yawn, and stretched out his dead legs. It looked like everyone else was still out of it, seated unnaturally stiff as the music washed over them. His gaze fell on a midget in a dark cloak, face shrouded by a cavernous hood. Barek looked away. He could have sworn the bloke had red eyes. He shuddered and checked to see if he was being watched. The midget was facing the stage, apparently as entranced as everyone else.

  Even now, with the charm broken, Barek could feel the bard’s words tugging at the back of his mind, beckoning him, lulling him into passivity. He made his way to the bar, but there was no service. Sneaky Nigel was gaping at the stage, a thin trail of drool running from the corner of his mouth, half-filled jug poised beneath the pump. Checking that no one was looking, Barek prised Sneaky Nigel’s fingers from the handle, took a gulp of warm beer, and plopped down onto a bar-stool.

  He shook the sleep from his head, trying to focus on anything but the music. No word of a lie, it was a good tale, but Barek liked to keep his wits about him. Always had, ever since the beating he’d taken from Gaston when they’d both had a gutful of piss. Gaston was like that with beer: he’d be all smiles and laughter, and then the eyes would go and the violence would start. Barek just fell asleep mostly.

  He scanned the captive audience, shaking his head at his brother knights listening like awe-struck kids. Rhiannon Kwane was sat by herself, obviously bored out of her mind, and drinking like a fish. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Drowning her sorrows, Barek reckoned. He couldn’t blame her. They’d all been hit hard by Shader leaving, and her most of all.

  He looked away, but not quite fast enough, and took another swig. There was a loud thud and when he looked back Rhiannon was slumped over the table in a pool of her own vomit, the half empty pitcher beside her head. For a moment Barek was tempted to go and grab it, but then he thought she might’ve chundered in the beer. Rhiannon shook her head and pushed her chair back with a sound like nails on a chalkboard that cut across the music. Bouncing from person to person, and with no one seeming to mind, she stumbled out of the door and let it slam behind her.

  The midget watched her go and then glared at Barek as if to make the point he knew he was being observed. Blood was pooling on the floor beneath his chair, and he made rhythmic stabbing motions with his hand, the fingers rigid, closed around something…a blade?

  Stab, drip, drip. Stab, drip, drip…

  ‘Crikey, it’s hot in here,’ Barek muttered under his breath, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyelids felt heavy, wouldn’t stay open, and visions of stark bushland and unforgiving skies insinuated their way into his dreams.

  ***

  Huntsman’s knees clicked as he crouched at the base of the Homestead and held out a hand. Jirra shuffled closer, skin daubed white, grey hair framing a face like fruit that had been left too long in the sun. He handed the bundle to Huntsman and stepped back amongst the Barraiya People, all streaked with white, arms smeared with their own blood, looking like ghouls of the desert. Ekala was watching him with rheumy eyes, one hand on her daughter Cardinia’s shoulder, the other hugging her granddaughter close. Huntsman peeled back the paper-bark securing the bundle and held out the contents for all to see: the ochre-stained bones of the Wapar Man.

  ‘See what is left of our Kadji.’ He lifted the skull and the people covered their eyes to protect their souls. ‘See what is left of our Clever Man.’ He moved the skull through the air, causing the people to bow and moan. ‘Walu the Sun Woman has taken his flesh, and now we must give his bones to the Homestead.’ Huntsman turned his back on them and stooped to place the Wapar Man’s skull in the opening. Something grabbed it and whisked it away inside the rock. He pushed the rest of the Wapar Man’s remains inside, nodding as they were snatched. Shaking off the last dust of his Kadji, Huntsman waved the paper-bark before the people and let it fall to the ground.

  ‘The Wapar Man has gone to the gods of the Dreaming. May he watch over the Barraiya People, may he…’

  The droning of a thousand bees filled his ears, punctuated by a thwop, thwop, thwop, and the roar of a waterfall. Huntsman stared to the north where black dots spewed into the sky. Birds maybe, but he’d never seen so many. The people turned to follow his gaze, looking from the sky to Huntsman as if they expected him to know what was happening. He was the Clever Man now, he was the Kadji. The Wapar Man would have known what to do, but Huntsman could only stand and watch as the shapes drew nearer, silver glinting in the failing sun.

  ‘Kutji spirits!’ Jirra cried and looked to Huntsman. ‘The Clever Man knows what to do. He will steal their power, make it his own.’

  Huntsman stared blankly at Jirra, and his hands began to shake. Even if they had been Kutji, he wouldn’t have known what to do; the Wapar Man had never shown him. Jirra blew air through his lips and turned away, then the people began to scatter.

  Huntsman pressed himself against the face of the Homestead, fingers fumbling inside the sack hanging at his hip. The flying things fanned out, great metal beasts with flashing blades and wings as wide as twenty men. Thunder rolled, and smoke spewed from their maws, striking the earth and bathing the people in flames. A group turned back, sprinting towards him, hands outstretched as if he could save them. Huntsman’s fingers tightened around the object in the sack, stroked along its curves, heart pounding, thoughts racing. Is this the time? Should he open the sack after all these years? ‘You will know when the time comes,’ the Great Spider had said. ‘Do not uncover it until then. He must not find it. Keep it hidden.’

  A blast ripped into the runners, spraying him with their blood. One woman kept stumbling forward, screaming his name, hands reaching for him. Ekala. Huntsman took a faltering step towards her and then ducked as a shadow closed in from above and a deafening roar filled his ears. There was a staccato peal of thunder, a whimper, and a dull thud. When he lifted his hands from his eyes, Ekala lay sprawled out before him, blood pooling from a score of wounds. The earth shook, and flames licked at the sky. Clusters of Barraiya People swarmed towards the Homestead, for there was no other cover in the bush. A flock of metal birds swooped above them, dropping silver eggs the size of boulders. Upon striking the ground, the eggs split open, the metal within warping and twisting, sprouting legs, arms, and domed heads, each with a single glaring eye. Huntsman started to climb, fingers and toes searching out holds in the sandstone. He glanced over his shoulder at the Barraiya People huddling together with no hope of escape, but swiftly turned away before the metal men were upon them. He struggled on towards the summit, tears stinging his eyes, the death-cries of his people carried on the breeze.

  Forcing himself to the flat surface of the Homestead, Huntsman opened the sack, amber rays drawing the metal beasts like moths to the flame. The summit began to explode as he reached inside and pulled out the contents.

  ‘Eingana,’ he wh
ispered at the radiant amber statue of a serpent poised to strike, eyes aflame, and fangs like lightning. ‘The power of life and death,’ the Great Spider had told him. ‘The Mother of the Dreaming.’

  Blast after blast pounded all around, showering him with rock and throwing up twisting plumes of smoke. Huntsman settled into the waking-sleep, his mind awash with all manner of wondrous beings that flew, scuttled, crawled, and slithered. The creatures of the Dreaming writhed and reproduced endlessly, his mind full to bursting. His left hand reached for the knife in his belt, his body incandescent with the power streaming from the statue. Taking hold of the bone hilt, he raised the blade and plunged it through his heart.

  CHILDHOOD SWEETHEARTS

  Gaston squinted and looked up from the page. A moth fluttered into the lantern twirling above the porch, fizzed and popped, then went still. He rocked back in the chair, flicked the hair out of his face and scratched his itching scalp. Time for the annual trip to the barber’s, he reckoned. Long hair was a bloody pain in the summer. Shame, though. Always was when he had his locks trimmed, Mum used to say, back when they were still talking. She’d told him the girls would love his long blond hair, and she’d been right. Dad used to say he looked like a…But that was before he’d met Soror Agna; before he became a preacher. Doubtful he’d say it now, even if he still thought it. Wouldn’t be saying anything ever again. Not after last night. Gaston blinked back the tears. Hadn’t let them fall yet and wasn’t about to start now. Weren’t exactly on speaking terms when the ol’ man was alive. Dying wasn’t gonna change that any.