by Andy Remic
INFILTRATION
They moved through the sewers and the underground tunnels. They slithered and crept and crawled through the deep, dark, slimy places within the web of pipe outlets, within underground walkways, beneath the city’s dark secret caverns and cellars and tannery sluices and slaughterhouse gutters leading to rivers and surrounding marshes with the pulp of mashed and rotting offal.
Each one came, a crooked, bent, disjointed figure, arthritic and broken, with bent backs and odd shaped legs, with twisted arms and gnarled fingers. Their skin was like bark, some brown and soft, some grey and gnarled, some black and cracked. Their hair appeared as moss, and nodules rippled across corrugated skin like knots in wood. Many had long, curved claws of black; like mottled razors. Many carried ancient swords, chipped and battered, blackened and worn.
Despite their many deformities, the elf rats moved with care, gradually, choosing footsteps, splashing through shit and piss and offal and fish heads, the detritus, the cast-offs, the waste of the humans above who had taken their villages, taken their towns, usurped their cities, stolen their Realm.
The main sewer outlet from Vagan, the War Capital of Vagandrak, was long and high and wide. It served a population of near a hundred thousand, so had to have ample capacity. The elf rats surged through this, clumping together in tens, in hundreds… in thousands. They bobbed, sleek and wet and stained with shit, until they reached their first major obstacle. Centuries earlier, fearing some armed force might use the sewers to mount an invasion, huge iron bars had been fitted to the major inlets and sewage outlets serving the city of Vagan. And, here, the elf rats faltered, for each bar was like a tree trunk – only a tree trunk fashioned from pitted iron and sunk into deep stone anchor-blocks with precision masonry and ancient lime mortar.
“Wait!” came the hiss, and through the throng of distorted creatures hobbled one who was old, older than centuries. He wore a cloak of brown, interwoven with branches from his Heart Tree, and he hobbled forward as if in great pain. He reached the waist-thick bars and surveyed them for long moments. Then, slowly, he reached out and his hand connected with the metal. Quests grew from his fingers, thin black roots that emerged and began to twist and twine around the iron, burrowing into the solid surface like pikes gnawing through fish flesh and bone.
Slowly, the elf rat’s eyes closed, and his black bark lips began to mutter, to murmur, to summon and send, for this was Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel, Sorcerer to the Elf Rat King Daranganoth, and the most feared, merciless, powerful magick enchanter ever to walk the Elf Rat lands of Zalazar.
Zalazar. The Banished Place.
The quests had spread and were whipping, snapping, writhing. They burrowed through the first pillar with sparks and a mass of writhing, glowing black, then on, to the next pillar, and the next, eating through the heavy iron like some incredibly potent acid. The rest of the elf rats shifted backwards in respect and fear. One did not cross Bazaroth, for the sorcerer was ill tempered and capricious.
There came several great cracks, and with a sigh like the dying of worlds the arched, ancient brick ceiling sagged. There were crashes as ten, then twenty of the pillars came thundering down into the torrent of sewage, and the elf rats waited a respectful few moments as the thousands of whipping, whirling quests, like a feeding frenzy of thin black eels, snapped and withdrew into Bazaroth’s bleeding, gnarled hands. Then the sorcerer turned. And the sorcerer smiled with crooked teeth; fangs like splintered dead wood.
“Advance!” he croaked, and pointed, and the elf rats surged forward through the collected shit of the War Capital.
Grenan and Johan were grumbling again as they played blood-knuckle dice in the guard house on the southeast corner watch, down near the tanneries. They were grumbling because, despite the recent snow, the river still stank like a dead dog after three days rotting in the sun.
“I bet Frenal and Cashmik having got bloody tannery duty again,” complained Grenan, throwing down his runecards as he realised the radiant, open glow on Johan’s face was indicative of an impending win. “Go on. Take your bastard money. Buy a whore. I hope you get syphilis.”
“Now now, Grenan, nobody likes a sore loser,” grinned Johan, leaning forward and scooping the large pile of coin towards himself with both bear paws.
“Wait!” snapped Grenan, holding up a hand. Johan froze, grin locked to his face like the snarl on a cadaver.
“What, Gren? You can see I winned.”
“No, hold on, let’s see your runecards.”
“Aww, Gren, you bloody know I winned!”
“Show!”
Slowly, the bear that was Johan turned over his runecards and Grenan’s face was a beautiful portrait as he realised Johan held, perhaps, the worst hand dealt since the beginning of Time; certainly, since the beginnings of Fish Wife Rune Poker.
“Why, you bluffing, bluffing bastard, you cheating son of a cheating son’s bitch! I just cannot believe you did that to me! You cheating, lying, dirty bastard horse shagger! You would have sat there like a bear with its cock in its hand and let me give you my winnings. I don’t believe it! Is there no honesty left in the world? Is there no honour amongst thieves, I ask ye? Oh, you dirty, drooling scumbag.”
“But Gren, you did it to me last Tuesday!” There was genuine agony in Johan’s voice. “And the week before that, when we was playing down at Stanmore’s Fish Market. You said that all’s fair in love, war and Fish Wife Rune Poker. That’s what you said. Now you’re getting all aggravated when I did to you what you did to me. Now that’s a double standard, that is.”
“Listen, my friend. It’s not a double standard because I taught you the bloody game in the first place! Taught you everything I knows! So, if I hadn’t of taught ye, then you wouldn’t be able to win in the first place, would ye? So, if anything, I should be entitled to more winnings and you shouldn’t be allowed to cheat like ye did!”
Johan’s broad, simple face wrinkled into a frown as he tried to follow Grenan’s logic – or lack of it. And Grenan cackled as he pulled his new winnings towards himself and thought about the exotic whores down Mary Street at Old Cassandra’s. Some new ones had come in on a ship via the Crystal Sea, said to be from deep south in Zakora, foreign with all sorts of neat and dirty tricks. One man, Big Nank, had told him lots of stories. Dumb Big Nank, they should call him. Spent a whole month’s salary in less than a week, and left his wife with no money for rent or food for the five children who nagged him relentlessly.
Grenan chuckled to himself, and knew he had to be more wary…
He realised Johan was speaking to him.
“Eh, lad?”
“I said, ‘What’s that noise?’ Didn’t you hear it? Or were you thinking of those new uns down at Old Cassandra’s?”
Grenan stared at Johan with his mouth open. Sometimes the large, simple, apple-eared farmer could be surprisingly intuitive. Yeah, either that or Grenan was showing his lust and deep dirty secrets openly on his face. Like reading a bloody book with rude lithographs!
Johan was on his feet, now, sword half drawn.
“There it is again. Like a slithering sound.”
Both guards drew their swords and Johan opened the hut’s door. Outside, the night was still and black and rank. The water’s edge from the tannery lake lapped gently against the stained and scummy stone jetty.
Grenan and Johan tumbled from the cosy interior and both men felt suddenly, incredibly, vulnerable. The darkness crept in, like a bat closing its wings. For some reason, both men thought back to their childhoods.
A cold wind blew. It was edged with ice, like a glittering razor.
“I don’t like this; not at all,” mumbled Johan, sword slippery in his sweating hand. Suddenly the blade fell and clanged on the stone walkway. The sound reverberated across the tannery lake and Grenan almost jumped out of his skin.
“You big dumb bastard!” he hissed, snarling and spitting at Johan as he rounded on him. “You nearly made me shit my pants!”
“I�
��m sorry, Grenan, really. I didn’t mean it.”
The slithering came again, louder this time, and suddenly the tannery lake went from still platter, softly lapping, to a frenzy of activity as if a hundred barrels of eels had been suddenly upended into the stinking, rancid depths.
Johan took a step back.
“What is it, Grenan? What is it?”
But before his companion could answer, the water surged up and out, and from the froth leapt figures, twisted and deformed with skin like glistening bark. All along the lake they came, leaping from the waters and Johan and Grenan raised their swords in sudden terror but the seething mass of creatures rolled over them, sharp teeth biting at their flesh, claws slashing. Johan went down an instant before his friend, as teeth tore strips from his face, chewed off his fingers, bit off his cheek, and he was screaming and thrashing as Grenan hit the ground also. Grenan’s hands clamped around the neck of one of the creatures, which stank worse than a rotting fish corpse, and for a moment he stared into glistening dark eyes filled with insanity and hate. The creature thrashed, surprisingly strong despite its twisted physique and odd broken image, but then another was alongside it, long curved black claws sinking into Grenan’s head and he screamed suddenly as intense pain crashed through him, and he let go of the creature atop him, which surged forward, fangs burrowing into his throat. Blood bubbled into his mouth and he felt himself being eaten, slick gore running down over his chest as his hands slapped helplessly at the creatures, then at the ground, until an attacker chewed off his fingers.
With both guards still and silent and half eaten, the elf rats suddenly paused, almost as one: a gently seething mass of perhaps three hundred, maybe more, hidden in the gloom. Then their heads turned as if controlled by some central hub, a hive mind, and they looked up the long, straight street that led deep into the huge fortress city of Vagan, the War Capital. Ancient cobbles gleamed with ice. Huge buildings, edifices displaying centuries of proud heritage, theatres, civic buildings, clan houses, trade centres, museums of Vagandrak history; all stood, massive and dark and edged with icing sugar, like a picture postcard.
The elf rats started to walk, and hobble, and crawl, and slither up the street: deep into the heart of Vagan.
Belton lounged back in his chair, polished boots up the rough-sawn desk, his brass brandy hip flask in his right hand despite being on duty at the Southern Gate Guard Barracks, and feeling the warm glow of fatherhood in his head and heart and soul, seeping through him like some incredible infusion of Belief. Three days old, she was, little Mia, and as beautiful as any carving of an angel on any church or holy place, not just in the Capital City of Drakerath, but in any damn city in the whole of Vagandrak!
Tiny, she was, with pink-white skin, her fingers so small they couldn’t even grasp Belton’s stubby, guard’s finger. A spiky shock of rich black hair, a scrunched up face that was so cute it made Belton want to be sick with love, sporting a little turned up nose and little toes that wiggled whenever she squawked.
Belton knew he was in love, truly in love, and for the first time. He loved his wife, yes, but this was heart-breaking love, fill your soul full of warm honey and float along the rest of your life to the Halls of the Gods-type love. This was a love you would kill for. This was a love you would die for, no questions asked: a long hard jump into the Pit.
Belton took another slug, and peered out of the barred window. The braziers and torches flickered wildly, and snow was falling once again, giving the nearby houses and paved walkways a ghostly, ethereal ambience.
It was quiet out there, especially at this ungodly hour. What sane person would walk the streets in such foul weather?
Belton snuggled further under his wool cloak, which he’d draped across his shoulders, and unconsciously stretched his free hand towards the small log burner where flames crackled softly.
Mia. Mia!
He took a hefty hit of brandy, and peered out into the snow.
It had been a fear-laden time, for sure: his wife clutching his hand until he thought she would break his fingers, the midwife down between her legs, face calm, words soothing. And then the words he would never forget for the rest of his life. “She’s crowning, push now, Salina, push now!”
Within moments it was over, a bawling little white-pink bundle that the midwife passed to Belton with a smile. “Here’s your daughter, soldier. Hold her with care.”
And Belton had stood, big bad gruff Belton, the man who’d bettered Two Trees at the annual South Guards’ Wrestling Tournament, breaking the man’s leg; the soldier who had no fear and absolutely refused to back down. The man who’d head-butted Big Jim, breaking his nose when none said it could be done. The man who’d horse-whipped the whiskey-smuggler Abdel the Beard, taking the skin off his back. Well, there Belton had stood, grinning like the village idiot and gazing down into the amazing face of his amazing baby girl as if he was a child himself. Thinking about it now, with a few slugs of brandy in his belly, Belton realised he had probably forgotten how to smile. Now, his new baby had taught him that simple pleasure in life, and he realised, as he rocked the chair back, legs creaking, that not everyone in the world was a cynical bastard, not everybody was greedy and selfish and hateful. Not everybody deserved to be extinguished in a pit of fire. No. There were some positives to life, some good things. And for many, many years Belton had forgotten all about the good things.
Feeling suddenly melancholy, and realising maybe he shouldn’t really be drinking brandy on duty, Belton stood and moved to the rough-plank door. He opened it and chilled air rushed in, destroying the cosiness of the barrack room. The street was deserted, as he would have expected at this time during the middle of the night. He shivered. It felt like somebody had walked over his grave and, frowning, he realised his life as a soldier was done. Done and gone and buried. He’d fought at Desekra Fortress against the mud-orcs; he’d nearly died a score of times. But now, he realised, he had a little baby girl to look after, to bring up in the cold cruel world, and a massive responsibility shifted and lay across his shoulders like a heavy leather cloak. What would little Mia do if Daddy got killed in a stupid pointless battle? Who would be there to look after her?
He pocketed his brandy. No.
It was time to finish this life of soldiering. Time to put it behind him.
And do what? mocked a sardonic part of his consciousness.
He smiled. That didn’t matter.
Belton would find a way. He always did.
To the left, two cats shrieked as they came flying from the gloom of a darkened alley. They crouched in the middle of the road facing one other, hissing, each with a paw raised threateningly, ears back, fangs displayed.
Belton grinned.
Nature of the fucking beast, he thought.
The cats attacked, an insanely fast scrabbling of claws as tufts of fur flew. And then… Belton blinked, turning right, as at least a hundred figures drifted and limped down the street from gates now twisted from their hinges. A blast of… something hit Belton, a warm wind, filled with the scent of… of pine? Like a pine forest after heavy rain. And Belton staggered, eyes wide, staring at the creatures filling the street, moving past him, ignoring him… until he drew his sword, mouth suddenly dry because this… this was not a fucking good place to be, and he had to get back in, grab the bell, sound the alarm–
“Atta–” he started to scream as three of the creatures detached from the flood and launched at him. He grunted, side-stepping, sword hacking down to chop into a creature’s neck. The iron blade bit deep, crunching through bone and flesh, but the creature seemed to shrug off the wound and came on, claws slashing for him, pushing past his own considerable strength like a root easing through the cracks in a stone wall and it all happened so fast, panic splashed across him and he felt fangs puncture his neck, biting – no chewing, burrowing – into him. He started to punch the beast as the other two bit into his arms, and with legs kicking he was dragged out and away from the barracks, into the throng of c
reatures that, in the sudden panic and chaos of thrashing, seemed to have the faces of elongated rats…
Belton lay on the cobbles, gasping, blood bubbling on his lips.
The creatures had moved on. Past him. He needed to ring the bell.
His hand came up to try and stem the flow of blood at his neck, and with horror he realised all his fingers had been chewed off. Only his thumb remained, his whole hand looking misshapen and strange and frightening.
I’m going to die.
The concept arrived suddenly, completely formed, and a shiver racked his body. He could feel the thump of his heart. Felt it slowing.
No, he thought. No!
Who would look after Mia?
And he pictured the beautiful babe in his arms, her little scrunched up face, that little upturned nose.
And silver tears glistened on his cheeks.
Chalandra was having a very bad dream. Dressed in her white wedding dress, the one she’d never had a chance to wear, she walked through never-ending fields of black poppies. She stopped, knelt, plucked one – and recoiled as she realised the centre of the flower was the screaming face of a man, face writhing, teeth gnashing. She strained to push herself away from the flower, and although she could gain distance at arm’s length, she could not force her fingers to open; could not drop the abomination.
She awoke with a start, the taste of last night’s liquor bad on her tongue, sour against her teeth. Her daughter, Torney, stood in the doorway, a figure of shadows highlighted against the background of lantern light.
“Mummy? I’m frightened.”
“Tush. Come here, child.”
Torney padded forward, bare feet slapping naked floorboards. Chalandra held back the covers and Torney climbed in, snuggling up to the warmth of her mother, head tucked neatly under Chalandra’s chin as the woman stroked her girl’s long, luscious hair.