by Luke Arnold
“Talents?” The Governor chortled, but no one else joined in.
I picked up the glass of whiskey in front of me and took a hungry sip. Then, I dared to look at Amari. She was smiling. She seemed… proud, I think. She reached forward and put a hand on mine and squeezed it. Then she turned to Hendricks.
“How soon are you planning on taking my bodyguard away?”
“In two days,” he announced, springing up in excitement. “Tomorrow you must rest because tonight, Shepherd Fetch, we will drink ourselves stupid! Ha ha!”
And we did. We drank till we were dumber than doorstops and Hendricks made premonitions about where our adventures would lead. I professed my enthusiasm and even started to believe it.
Sometime before sunrise, once Lark had gone to bed, Amari had the idea of enlisting me officially that very night. She used the potions from her pack to mix up some kind of green-black ink, which she handed to Hendricks along with a sharpened quill. I sat down, and she stood behind me with her arms wrapped around my shoulders as Hendricks painted a pattern on to my forearm.
The tattoo was no mere black bar this time. It was a piece of art. For an hour, we drank and he drew and Amari rested her head on my shoulder, her cheek against mine, watching him work. When it was done, we all wrapped our arms around each other and for the first and only time in my life I thought that maybe I could be part of something good.
14
I woke to thunder, lightning and pain. The Flyboy messenger, supposedly sent by The League of Vampires, was gone. It wasn’t immediately evident how he’d got in or out.
I padded around the perimeter of the room and there were no smashed windows or broken locks, just the shattered whiskey bottle and drops of my blood. I guessed that Flyboy came in through the Angel door. Even so, he’d done it with more finesse than I’d expected. The little showman wasn’t completely clueless after all.
I was less worried about how he got in than why the League might be trying to shake me off. I wasn’t hot on the heels of any trail that I could see. Maybe it was just like the kid said: a sloppy drunk, stumbling around town asking half-cocked questions about Vampires wasn’t helping anyone.
I crushed three empty packs of Clayfields as I searched for something in the house to stop the hammers dancing in my head. I checked under the desk and in the dustbin. No luck.
I looked in the mirror. A mistake. An impressionist painter had tried to do my portrait while riding a runaway carriage. None of the cuts were seeping or bleeding but the bruises had moved in. It looked like someone had stuffed a bunch of opals under my skin while I slept.
I mopped at the crusted blood that had collected in the corners of my eyes and mouth. I ran a comb through my haggard mop of hair and brushed my busted teeth and gums. Half an hour later, I still looked like a bucket of shit, I just had a cleaner bucket.
Thunder rolled through the bricks of the old building. The floorboards shivered, the gutters shrieked and the fixtures jangled in their sockets. I opened the Angel door and the wind tried to push me back into bed.
It was stupid to think of her at that moment. What could I do if the storm wanted to try to take her down? Heading up to the old mansion wouldn’t do anything for anyone.
But I already knew I wouldn’t be able to help it. I found some clean, dry clothes and headed out the door.
CONDEMNED.
Red tape was stretched across the rusted gates.
CONDEMNED.
The sign on the fence said that the site was due for demolition. I pulled it off to read the print but my eyes stopped on the logo at the top of the page.
I found the business card in my pocket. The one given to me by the cheesy developer who wanted me to kick all the Dwarven steelworkers out on their asses.
The logo on the card was the same.
I tore away the tape and slid inside but the pot and the key and Amari were all untouched. She was still sitting there, in her place, right where she should always be. For ever. I marched north to make sure it would stay that way.
Nobody believed that Sunder would survive the Coda. The fires died in an instant. Without the flames, Sunder had nothing. No power. No industry. No heating. Nothing to trade and no way to go on. A good chunk of the city died in the first month. The poor went cold and hungry in their homes and the rich took their carriages out to the wilderness to search for medicine or magic to try to change things back.
The Governor never returned, and most of the other Ministers had enough money to leave town. To their merit, some of the police stayed. Once they’d adapted to their new bodies and patched up their pride, they were the first to hit the streets and try to bring some order to the city. Then suddenly one morning, we had a Mayor.
Henry Piston was a Human; a hard-faced businessman who came to Sunder a few years before it fell. His trade was meat. With trucks and trains and wagons, Piston would provide the chicken, buffalo and bison to the hungry stomachs of the city.
Luckily for him, all the animals he farmed had no magic in their genetic make-up. The abattoirs were Human-run, non-magic machines that only took a little post-Coda calibration to get working again. He had no horses, but the biggest of the bison were saved from slaughter and employed to pull the wagons instead. So, before we had salad or new clothes or hot water, we had steak and hearty soup on every street. For most of us, that was about the best Mayor we could imagine.
Word still hadn’t spread about exactly what happened or why the world had died the way it did. Blame was thrown in all directions and, as usual, the politicians in power got a lot of the blame. The missing Governor Lark had spent taxpayers’ money on his own mansion and countless other luxuries. Many believed it was the choices made by greedy governments that caused the world to crumble. Therefore, Piston thought it would be wise to distance himself from the previous leader.
He shunned the marble mansion and instead took over two manors at the top of the city. He made one his home and the other his office: colossal brick buildings built by the greatest masons around, with wooden interiors that never seemed to age.
On the hill beside the manors, there stood a huge boarding house created for the sons and daughters of wealthy foreign dignitaries. Every room was once reserved for the self-important spawn of favored nations. Now, each was assigned to a Minister whose duty it was to put the city back on track: The Officer of Automation, The Senior Head of Flocks and Herds, The Minister of Aging and Mortality. I marched past each room, reading signs, till I found the door marked Land and Housing. I went for the knob without knocking.
Locked.
I slammed my fist against the door. Nobody came, so I hit it even harder. And harder again. I would have broken the panel if it hadn’t been made of old-world mahogany.
“He’s not in.”
The calm voice was carried on the heat of a huffing steam-engine. I turned to see Baxter Thatch waiting behind me, hands in the pockets of a death-black suit. Balanced over a beer barrel chest was the face of a nightmare brought to life. Skin of smooth obsidian held eyes of fire and fixed into a furrowed brow were the curled, red horns of a ram.
Baxter had been a friend of Hendricks. At one time, even a friend of mine. If Baxter was male, you would call them a gentleman, but Baxter was something else, in more ways than one.
“Hello, Fetch. Long time.”
I nodded, suddenly aware of the state of myself: shaking and violent and out of breath. Around the room, civilians were standing at attention, worried that the madman might be tired of hitting doors and would turn to them instead.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
Baxter placed their stone hand on my arm and gave it a little squeeze.
“I only have a few minutes, but they’re yours if you’d like to talk.”
15
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Baxter said, with more empathy than I’d expected. There was no ignoring the noise outside the office walls where people called for justice in events far more immediate than mine. My
pain was old and dry and covered in cobwebs. It was decayed and clichéd and had become a bore to everyone but me.
“It can’t happen,” I said.
“It is happening. This city must move forward. Away from the pain of the past and everything the Coda put us through.”
“By destroying her?”
This wasn’t the first time Baxter and I had had this conversation. A couple of years ago, I convinced them to come to the mansion with me and try to move her body. That was before we realized Amari had sprouted roots that were embedded into the floor. The worst damage was done that day. I was so angry with us for breaking her that I made Baxter swear they’d never touch her, and hadn’t seen them since.
“She’s dead, Fetch. But you aren’t. Neither am I. Neither are those poor voices out there who need land and hope and a fresh start. It’s time to clear the corpses from this city and start again.”
Baxter had already taken their own advice. The room was newly decorated with the kind of government paraphernalia that screams, We have a plan! Maps and charts and positive messages, photos of empty plots under labels like Center for Rehabilitation.
“When the hell did you become a bureaucrat?”
“A year ago. The Mayor needed more strong minds to steer this wayward ship back on course. You’re looking at the Minister of Education and History. I curate the museum, help with the syllabus for the new school system and have a say in city preservation.”
“Preservation? Well, you’re off to a cracking start.” It was a petty stab and Baxter knew me well enough not to make a point of it.
“It’s not only hard for you, Fetch. She was special to all of us. Before you ever knew her, I was—”
“What do you know about Vampires?”
Baxter stopped with their mouth open. I didn’t want to hear whatever story made her special to them.
“What about Vampires?”
“You’re the new Minister of History, or whatever. Perhaps you can help me separate the facts from the phony. How did we end up with them?”
“End up with them? You think of the Vampires as a nuisance?”
“No. I just know there’s always some kooky legend about how each magical creature came to be. I never really got the Vamp one.”
They nodded; still suspicious, but happy to steer the conversation away from the rocks.
“It started thousands of years ago, back when the known magical species were far fewer and the Human population inhabited most of the west. Five factions of warring Human tribes put aside their hatred and agreed to a treaty. They combined their resources, shared their land and brought their villages together. The time they’d once spent making weapons or fighting was put into construction and creation. The town was called Norgari, and it soon became a true masterpiece of markets, farms and homes. On the cliffs above the town, overlooking all their subjects, the founders carved out a fortress and called it The Chamber. It was to be the symbol of unification. A monument to their safe new world. The selected leaders of each faction were granted the honor of living there so that they could watch over their people and serve from on high.”
Baxter’s new role as teacher was showing itself. I was getting the dressed-up bedtime-story version with all the frills.
“The construction of the town was a huge success. Almost instantly, the population forgot that they had ever been at war. Norgari became a haven in the eyes of its inhabitants and served as a testament to the strength of Humanity.
“But, as we have seen in history many times before, an unchecked pride in one’s people is the enemy of peace. The very day the tribes forgot that they had once been adversaries, their fearfulness turned to the world outside.
“The Werewolves from Perimoor soon came wandering, wanting to be included in this new utopia. Then the Satyrs from the Groves arrived, searching for assistance and refuge. The people of Norgari, unified in their national pride, felt no remorse when they refused their neighbors entry.
“With these first acts of selfishness, the paradise of Norgari was vanquished as soon as it began. We all fear the other, and if we ever make friends with our enemy, the first thing we do as allies is identify some new foe. There is no real peace, only the brief moments while we turn our heads from one adversary to the next.
“When the outside tribes were told that they were not welcome in the town, they vowed to tear it to pieces. Lycum and Satyr joined forces, intent on breaking down the walls of the Human city that had dared to turn them away. It quickly became clear that the Norgarites were not going to win this war.
“The members of The Chamber were already failing their first test. In desperation, they turned to Uldar Jerrick, the original Necromancer.”
Baxter really laced that last part with school-room dramatics. So much so that I let out a little laugh.
“You must excuse me,” they said. “I’ve been doing school tours at the museum lately.”
“Carry on.”
Baxter sat back in their chair and reapplied a more mature tone.
“Do you know how the Necromancers came to be?” I shook my head. “Perhaps a story for another time. For now, all you must know is that Uldar Jerrick was a great Wizard. That is all the people of Norgari knew when they offered him a large sum of money to drive off the forces from their gates. The Wizard agreed.
“The next night, when the tribes came down the hill with flaming torches and spears, they were met by a terrifying sight. Standing around the city, shoulder to shoulder, were the lifeless bodies of the warriors that had already fallen in battle. Dead men and women from both sides stood up to oppose the invading army. Some of the undead soldiers had only just finished bleeding out, while others had been buried for days. A legion of dead enemies and friends stood at attention, all with empty eye sockets, open jaws and pale hearts.
“The people of Norgari shut up their doors and cowered under their beds when they saw the empty vessels ready to defend them. Some even fled into the mountains or took their own lives in fear.
“Outside the walls, some attackers broke down when they recognized their fallen allies. Men and women who they had seen die days before, apparently alive and ready to oppose them, with maggots crawling from the cracks of their skin.
“Some warriors of Perimoor took hold of their strained nerves and attempted to convince their comrades that the sight before them must be a vision: a mirage conjured from their fears by wizardry or witchcraft. They charged at the walls, hoping that the undead figures would vanish upon their approach. But, no. The empty-eyed sentinels moved to attack, and the Lycum were forced to fight.
“The Werewolves’ claws tore through flesh and rotten skin, but the wounded did not fall. Skeletal fingers without muscle or meat flailed out wildly and ripped the tongues and eyes from the Satyrs’ heads. The bony puppets tore their attackers apart, unburdened by pain or remorse or disgust at their actions.
“After witnessing the mutilation of their allies, the invading army fled the city with their bladders empty and their nightmares full. Norgari, in one sense, was saved.
“In the morning, Uldar Jerrick arrived at the doors of The Chamber to collect his pay, but the pale-faced noblemen refused. As soon as the dead had collapsed back into silent corpses, the people of Norgari had rushed to the ears of their leaders. They implored them not to pay this man whose magic was surely evil.
“More people turned out to banish Uldar than had stood up to fight the invaders. When Uldar saw this, he nodded and left Norgari without complaint. Then came the curse.
“Uldar found a way to punish the whole city with a spell that infected only a few. When the handful of chosen nobles awoke the following morning, they did not leave The Chamber. Civilians came clamoring but the curtains were closed and the doors were shut. They shouted at their leaders to be let in, but there was no response. Not until sundown.
“On that first night, the doors of The Chamber opened and the noblemen, possessed by some ungodly thirst, emerged from their outpost to pre
y upon the people they had been charged to protect.”
I’d heard snippets of that story before but never told in its entirety. I thought about Edmund Rye, working at a school full of little children and wondered how their parents had been able to clear this story from their minds.
“Thanks, Baxter. That helps.”
“It’s Edmund Rye, isn’t it?” I met Baxter’s amber eyes and did my best to neither confirm nor deny their suspicion. “Principal Burbage gave me some half-assed story about him taking leave and heading out of town. It seemed a strange excuse.”
“You know him well?”
“Professionally, mostly. Though I would hope that he considers me a friend. A curious mind for a creature his age. Most of us who have lived for centuries seek comfort in the old traditions. Edmund would always get excited at the thought of something new. What’s happened to him?”
I decided there was no point hiding from the old Demon. Baxter had tried to be sympathetic to my frustrations, and I’d be a dick if I didn’t return the favor.
“Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he’s not. Nobody has seen him or spoken to him in days. Unless you…?”
Baxter shook their head.
“A fortnight at least since I saw him. He brought a bunch of students to the museum. I’d say we haven’t had a proper chat in over a month. Nothing seemed strange. The usual discussions of myth and history. If I think of anything helpful, I’ll let you know.”
“And I, you. Thanks for the story, Baxter.”
“Come by the museum any time. That’s usually where I am.”
“Will do.”
I tried to get out of there before Baxter asked the other question again.