by Edward Cox
‘It’s clear,’ Samuel said a moment later, and he led the way down a set of stone steps leading into the cellar.
Marney’s stomach turned. In the light of wall-mounted glow lamps, beneath dusty cobwebs and surrounded by ale barrels and racks of wine bottles, were three dead bodies. Two were skeletons, sitting with alarming normality at a table by the far wall, their bones stripped clean and white as though bleached. The third was a man, still in possession of his flesh, lying face down upon the cellar floor. The back of his head was a pulped ruin. His blood pooled on the flagstones beneath him.
Samuel stepped up to the body and used his foot to roll it over. There was a neat bullet hole in the dead man’s forehead. Scorch marks on his blood-drenched white shirt, indicated where he had been shot twice more in the chest. His face was craggy, grey and desiccated, as if the moisture had been sucked from it. Thin black lines streaked out from a ragged wound on his neck.
‘This is him,’ Samuel grunted. ‘This is Carrick. He’s the treasure hunter.’
‘Ah,’ said Denton. ‘Then we have our seller –’ he turned, pointing over to the skeletons at the table – ‘and one of these must be our buyer.’
As Denton moved over to inspect the skeletons, Marney controlled her fear, just as Denton had taught her. Her mentor had already mastered his emotions and he gave off nothing that she could sense. She could sense Samuel’s alertness, however, and it was strong, finely tuned, despite his stoic exterior.
‘Look at this,’ Denton whispered.
The skeleton he was inspecting appeared human enough, except for the face. The nasal cavities and jaw were small, but the eye sockets were large and round, much bigger than any human’s, giving the face an oddly triangular shape.
‘This skeleton belongs to an Aelf,’ Denton said.
Samuel swore and moved for a closer look himself. ‘Can you tell which House it comes from?’
‘Could be any one of a hundred.’ The old empath pursed his lips, clearly confused. ‘An Aelf? I wonder what he was trying to buy.’
Samuel walked around the table to inspect the second skeleton. This one was definitely human, a denizen. Its claw-like hands were placed either side of a simple contraption comprising a square dish of metal and four metal rods that rose from each corner of the dish to meet and form the frame of a pyramid.
Marney knew this skeleton belonged to an alchemist, and alchemists were always present at the sale of magical artefacts. The contraption between its hands was a testing device, used to authenticate the merchandise. The artefact would be placed in the dish upon a bed of iron filings. The rods would siphon a little of the artefact’s energy, and whatever substance it transformed the iron filings into indicated how powerful its magic was.
Samuel studied the contents of the dish. He puffed his cheeks and said, ‘Whatever was on sale was powerful.’ He looked at Denton, and Marney felt Samuel’s deep surprise. ‘The filings have turned to glass dust.’
And that, Marney also knew, was as strong as magic got.
Samuel’s look went to the sprawled corpse of Carrick the treasure hunter, and then returned to the skeletons. ‘What happened here, Denton?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen these kinds of deal go bad before, but nothing like this.’
Denton’s brief pause betrayed a little of his uncertainty. ‘Hard to fathom,’ he said. ‘I can detect some residual emotion, which only tells me these people were alive a few hours ago. It seems, unsurprisingly, that their last response was shock … but it’s strange. There’s something else I can’t quite put my finger on.’
Marney felt a little detached from the conversation. In the gloom of the cellar, she gravitated towards a flight of stairs against the left wall. She stared up them, at the door at the top that led to the tavern. She was nowhere near as skilled as Denton in empathic magic, and she could not feel the residual emotions as he could, but she could sense that elusive something he couldn’t put his finger on. It was coming from above, but it was vague – there but not there – and it was almost human.
‘I wonder where the merchandise is now,’ Denton said.
‘Maybe the landlord took it,’ Samuel replied bitterly. ‘He probably had one look at this mess, grabbed what he could, and ran for it.’
‘No,’ Marney said peering intently up the stairs. ‘I think he’s still here.’
She flinched as Denton placed a hand on her shoulder. He too looked at the closed door at the top of the stairs.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding approval. ‘Well detected, Marney.’
Led by Samuel and his rifle, the group left the carnage in the cellar and ascended the stairs. At the top, the door was locked. Denton used his phial of acid to open it, and they crept into the tavern.
Marney supposed that at any other time Chaney’s Den might have been described as a homely place – in a rundown sort of way. The bar area was a rectangular shape, though not particularly wide or long. The carpet was worn and threadbare in places, its pattern eroded by years of passing feet. Time and tobacco smoke had not been kind to the paint on the walls; and the varnish on the small, round tables and their chairs was in need of revamping.
The wall-mounted glow lamps were on, but down low. There was an open fireplace, but it had not been cleaned, no fresh kindling and wood had been laid, and the fire had been left to burn to dead ashes. A few empty tankards lined the bar top, and the ashtrays on the tables had not been emptied. Chaney’s Den appeared abandoned, but not to the senses of an empath.
There was a muffled thump from above. Marney worked to calm her anxiety as the group made its way through a door behind the bar, and then up more stairs to the tavern’s living quarters. When they reached a landing, Samuel motioned for Marney and Denton to wait. He disappeared through an open doorway. A moment later the glow of the rifle’s power stone signified his return, and Samuel beckoned his fellow agents in after him.
In a musty and cluttered living room, a middle-aged man sat in an armchair. At first Marney thought he was dead. But in the glow of Silver Moon that shone through a window, she could see his chest rising and falling in slow, sleeping breaths. His unshaven face was pale and coated with a sheen of sweat. His features twitched as though his dreams were bad. At his feet was a leather satchel. The flap was open and it was filled with Labyrinth pounds.
Marney and Denton kept a safe distance as Samuel passed the satchel back to them. Then he stood before the sleeping man, aiming his rifle at his face.
‘Wake up,’ he demanded, kicking the man’s foot.
The man flinched and snorted, blinked open his eyes, and frowned at the barrel hovering before his face.
‘Are you Chaney?’ Samuel asked.
The man’s gaze found the three people behind the rifle and he nodded vacantly.
Marney sensed emotions within the tavern landlord, but they were so vague it was almost as if they were fading in and out of existence. He smelt bad, too, with a hint of rotting vegetables.
She frowned at Denton beside her. Even though the old empath kept his troubled gaze firmly on Chaney, the sound of his voice filled her head.
Don’t be alarmed, he said, I can sense it, too.
What does it mean, Denton?
I don’t know yet, but while his emotions are phasing like this, we can’t control him. Stay focused. Keep your distance.
‘I know who you are,’ Chaney said. His throat sounded dry. ‘I suppose you had to come.’
Denton spoke next and his voice was kind. ‘Tell us what happened here, Chaney.’
The landlord gave a hoarse chuckle that ended in a coughing fit. ‘This happened,’ he said, tapping a terracotta jar that sat on a table beside the armchair.
He didn’t try to prevent Denton stepping forwards and taking the jar. The old empath stepped back to Marney’s side, and she leant in for a look as he studied the artefact.
It was a simple loo
king thing, around the same size and shape as those used for jams and marmalades. It was empty, though evidence of a wax seal remained around the lip. It was plain and undecorated, but Marney didn’t get much more of a look before Denton slipped the terracotta jar into his coat pocket.
Chaney took a shuddering breath. ‘I didn’t ask any questions. Carrick said he had some big sale going on and he’d make it worth my while if he could use my cellar as a meeting place. I don’t know what was in the jar, but it’s put a curse on me. I’m sick.’
His words were slightly slurred and he fought to keep his eyes open. Marney felt his emotions pulsing weakly, like a heart struggling to beat.
‘Tell us what you know and we’ll do all we can to help you,’ Denton said, but Marney knew it was a lie.
‘Help from you lot?’ Chaney tried to give a weary chuckle; he seemed all too aware that his number had been up from the moment the Relic Guild disturbed his slumber.
He wiped sweat from his pale face. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. There was screaming. Never heard men scream like that before. Then it was quiet. Took me a while to pluck up enough courage to go down and see what had happened. Wish I hadn’t now … it was all so quiet …’ His head nodded back towards sleep.
Samuel kicked his foot again. ‘What happened down there?’
Chaney’s head snapped upright. ‘Two were already nothing but bones. But Carrick – he’d gone mad. Like a bloody animal, he was. Three times I shot him, and he didn’t go down until I took off the back of his head. What else could I do?’
‘You defended yourself, as you had the right to,’ Denton said softly, but his tone carried a subtle inflection that caused Marney to shiver; it was the tone of one addressing a dead man.
‘Old Carrick still managed to take a chunk of me with him, though …’ With some effort, Chaney rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing a crude wound on his arm from which dark lines spread out over his skin like black veins. ‘Bit me like the animal he was.’
‘Chaney, I need you to focus,’ Denton said. ‘Did Carrick tell you where the artefact came from?’
‘Maybe.’ Chaney shook his head, and Marney felt his emotions wane. ‘It’s hard to remember.’
‘Did you see who was buying it?’
‘I told you I can’t remember,’ Chaney hissed. ‘Please help me. Whatever cursed Carrick is in me now. I can’t control myself at times, I—’
A thump made the three Relic Guild agents tense. It came from the back of the room, behind a closed door. There was a second thump, and then silence resumed.
‘Who else is here?’ Samuel demanded.
‘Oh,’ Chaney said. ‘That’s Betsy – my bargirl. She was here when everything kicked off. I … I think I bit her. She locked herself in the bedroom. Hasn’t come out since.’
Can you sense anyone in that room, Marney? Denton thought to her.
No, she replied.
Neither can I.
Chaney groaned and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Samuel looked at the empaths over his shoulder. ‘Move,’ he whispered.
At that moment Marney felt Chaney’s every emotion fall flat, and even the vaguest of pulse of feeling disappeared. The black veins that splintered out from his bite wound had now snaked up his neck, creeping up the side of his face. The smell of rotting vegetables grew more pronounced.
Denton grabbed Marney’s arm, and they backed further away from the landlord. Samuel remained standing over him, coolly aiming his rifle.
Chaney’s breathing was shallow. He grinned, revealing long white teeth in receding gums. ‘I know what’s supposed to happen now,’ he said, and to Marney’s senses, his voice carried the undercurrent of a scream. ‘But you won’t take me to the Nightshade. I’ll have your throats first!’
Chaney leapt up from the armchair with a roar of fury.
Samuel pulled the trigger. The power stone flashed and the rifle spat.
With a rumble like distant thunder, the fire-bullet took the landlord in the chest. A hot wind whipped around the room as the magic began incinerating his body from the inside out with the intensity of a furnace. Within seconds, blistering, orangey-red flames reduced Chaney to ashes, bones and all. Dry heat and the smell of burnt flesh filled Marney’s nostrils. She felt Denton’s empathy helping her to control her panic.
The armchair was covered in scorch marks and ash. A patch of carpet was burning. Samuel stamped it out and waved smoke from the air.
At the back of the room, the banging began again at the bedroom door, more violently this time, and it was accompanied by a bestial grunting.
Samuel turned to Marney with a sneer. ‘Sometimes, open aggression is the only option. You should remember that, too.’ He then strode across the living room towards the bedroom.
‘Samuel, wait!’ Denton snapped.
As the banging continued, Samuel paused at the locked door. He looked back at the old empath with a harsh expression. ‘What?’
‘Chaney’s illness has obviously spread,’ Denton said firmly. ‘Perhaps you should try to capture something for Hamir to study, something more substantial than a handful of ashes.’
Without a word, Samuel slid his rifle into its holster on his back and drew his revolver, thumbing the power stone. He leaned back and kicked the bedroom door open.
A second passed, which to Marney felt like an hour, and then a shadowy figure sprang from the room, lunging for Samuel with clawed fingers and long, gnashing teeth. With a flash of thaumaturgy and a low, hollow spitting sound, the revolver fired. A bitter wind moaned. The figure of a woman fell to the floor at Samuel’s feet, frozen to ice.
Back at the Nightshade, Marney stood next to Denton in a corridor, and together they stared through a tinted window into a quarantine room. They watched as Hamir studied Betsy, the young bargirl from Chaney’s Den, who was now thawed and struggling weakly against the thick straps that secured her to a metal gurney. Two other agents of the Relic Guild had been called in to assist Hamir: the apothecary Gene and the healer Angel. The three of them wore grey protective suits, though the hands of Angel and Gene were not covered by gloves.
Behind them, the back wall of the quarantine room was lined by five tall glass tanks. Three were filled with preservative fluid in which the remains of the dead floated. The skeletons of the Aelf and the alchemist were curled into the foetal position, slowly turning in the fluid. But the lifeless eyes of Carrick the treasure hunter seemed to stare out of the tank, across the room, through the tinted window, almost to glare accusingly at Marney. The bullet wounds in his chest and forehead were dark and ugly.
Next to Marney, Denton ran a hand through his silver hair. His expression was pensive and, although his emotions were shielded, she could tell he was troubled by the way he began crumpling his hat in his hands. Samuel was absent, having been summoned to see Gideon, the Resident. Marney felt tired, drained, but she had come to accept in recent months that sleep was often a luxury the Relic Guild could not afford. Besides, the events at Chaney’s Den played heavy on her mind, and she was in no hurry to discover what dreams they might inspire.
On the gurney in the quarantine room, Betsy’s skin, mottled with ice burns, had turned a sickly, clammy grey. There was a crude bite wound on her neck from the teeth of the tavern landlord. Black veins slithered out from the wound, snaking across her face and body and limbs. As the last of the effects from Samuel’s ice-bullet thawed from her, she struggled against her restraints with increasing strength, gnashing her teeth at the agents around her; but the tight strap across her forehead ensured she could bite no one. Her eyes, a dirty yellow colour, rolled in their sockets as if she had no control over them.
Hamir watched impassively as Angel touched her hands to the bargirl’s chest, and then felt down her torso. Angel was in her late forties, a doctor at Central District Hospital by day. Seen through the clear visor o
f her protective suit’s hood, her face was lined with concentration. Wherever Angel touched the girl’s body, her hands gave off a light flare, her skin tone brightening with the soft radiance of healing magic.
After a few moments, Angel said, ‘As best I can tell, her internal organs have stopped working.’ Angel’s voice seeped through the walls of the quarantine room and sounded as clear as if she stood in the corridor next to Marney. ‘How her body can still be functioning is a mystery,’ she continued. ‘It just doesn’t make sense. Her heart’s not beating. Her brain isn’t conscious. She’s not even using her lungs.’
Hamir looked at the other Relic Guild agent in the room. ‘Gene?’
Gene was a slight, elderly man, around the same size as Hamir. Not quite as old as Denton, but not far behind, the apothecary wore small, round, wire-framed glasses and a serious expression. He always presented a bedraggled and put upon appearance. He walked to the head of the gurney where he pressed his hands to the patient’s neck. Slowly, carefully, he pushed both his index fingers through her skin as easily as if they were sharp needles.
Marney was disturbed by how young Betsy was; perhaps even younger than her. Marney looked to the dead bodies in the tanks at the back of the room. The terracotta jar they had found with Chaney was now with Gideon, and Marney found it hard to believe that such a simple looking artefact could be responsible for such terrible things.
‘This is strange,’ Gene said as he extracted his fingers from Betsy’s neck. ‘I’m pumping her full of antitoxins, but this virus is killing them before they can enter her system. I can’t get a handle on what it is.’
Hamir nodded. ‘She is petrifying.’ The necromancer’s normally unreadable expression became resigned. ‘However, the process is incomplete. While the virus is still active, there is a slight chance we could reverse its effects.’
Hamir took off the gloves of his protective suit. ‘Angel, if you would, please focus your magic around her heart and try to restart it. Gene, concentrate your efforts there also. I will try to hold the virus back and give the heart a chance to pump your antitoxins throughout what’s left of her bloodstream.’