Thieves' War

by Clayton Snyder

They led us to another alley that finally opened on a street. A group of men, wide and heavily muscled passed the mouth, and they pushed me back around the corner until they’d passed.

  “What the fuck?” I asked, not used to being manhandled, and not sure I liked it.

  “Fanucci’s men. They’re looking for shirkers.”

  “I’ve got a week.”

  They shook their head. “They’ll tell you that, but if they find you before, you end up on one of those billboards.”

  I made a gagging sound in my throat. They led us to a metal door just short of the alley entrance and knocked. A voice responded.

  “Enter!”

  Camor opened the door, leading us into a wide room lit with a single floating globe. A massive figure sat in a chair opposite the door. It stood, and the light caught it, making my breath catch.

  Well over six feet, the body was a mottled mass of scar and tough hide. A brain floated behind a glass window in its abdomen1. It turned its incongruously handsome face to me and grinned.

  “Nenn!” it said.

  “Tug?” I asked. “What in Camor’s puckered asshole happened to you?”

  If the god noticed the epithet, they gave no indication.

  Tug shrugged. “They found me wandering the Deadlands. Stuck me on this body. Right as rain.”

  “I couldn’t be happier.” Elvis’ voice echoed from the abdomen.

  Tug’s eyes widened. “Shut up stomach ghost! Ain’t no one asked you!”

  I looked to Camor. They gave me a shrug.

  “Hasn’t been quite right since the procedure.”

  Tug sat back down, the chair protesting under his weight. “How can the ol’ Tugmeister help you? Need a little ‘mancin’ done? Maybe want me to lift somethin’?”

  “He’s insufferable with that,” Elvis said.

  “Gods damned stomach ghost,” Tug said. “I thought I was getting an exorcism,” he complained to Camor.

  The god sighed. “Look, it’s a brain. In your stomach. Not that it’s doing you any good. No, really. Look.”

  Tug bent forward, peering at his stomach. He let a high-pitched shriek and collapsed.

  “Shit,” Camor said.

  “What? What happened?” I asked.

  “Scared himself unconscious. It happens. He once saw an iguana and ran to the other end of the city. It’s really far, in case you didn’t know.”

  “So…” I said.

  Camor held up a finger for a three count. Tug woke suddenly, gasping.

  “Holy shit!” he yelled. “I dreamt there was a ghost in my stomach.”

  Camor gave me a long-suffering look. “Tug, I need a favor from you.”

  “Yeah? I can still ‘mance with the best of them,” he said.

  I stepped forward. “I need to free Fela.”

  Tug frowned, as if searching what passed for his brain these days.

  “The goddess of death,” Elvis sighed.

  Tug pretended he hadn’t heard. “The goddess of death?” he asked me.

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  He considered once more. “Is this a Cord idea?”

  “Would I be standing here if he hadn’t had Lux stab me?”

  “Oooo, you must be pissed,” he said.

  I waved it away. “I’m always pissed. But yes, we’re going to have a conversation when I get back. You in?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  He shook his head. I looked at Camor.

  “How do we get to her?”

  “Center of town. There’s a tower there, though they keep her in the basement. You’ll have to get through guards, random patrols, and the Winter King. If you can do that, and figure out how to leave the Deadlands, you’re home free.”

  “What about you?” Elvis asked before I could.

  “I still have things to attend to here. If you free her, I’ll need to help with cleanup.”

  I nodded and looked to Tug. He stared into space, slack jawed. “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” he said, snapping out of his stupor. “Let’s go bust up these jerks.”

  “Thanks,” I told Camor on our way out. “If I end up sending Cord back this way, let him know he can come out when he’s sorry.”

  Camor smiled. “Of course.”

  We walked out the door, taking the alley into the streets. The city stretched out before us, the Winter King’s tower rising above it all. I loosed my blades in their sheathes and led the way.

  Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!

  Yenn felt it when the girl died. He sensed the passing of her spirit to the other side. He crested the rise of a small hill, the thought driven from his head by the scent of rot and ruin. Ahead, the pristine white walls and buildings of Jovan, named for the obscure god of the western nations. He approached, pausing long enough to run a hand over the etchings on the stone—the heart with a blade, and the snake devouring its own tail.

  Quiet lay over the village like a once-squealing child smothered by a careless elephant. Yenn cocked his head and peered down the main avenue. A cluster of flesh, disconnected, swarming, gathered around the chapel, bodies carried as if by ants to an enormous foot in the city square. As they reached it, each unraveled, forming the base of shin, the veins and muscle and bone of a leg. Oros, then.

  Yenn paused. He had little time to prostrate himself before the god, and less before the woman would likely return, Fela’s soul in hand. His only hope—the hope of the Seven—lay in standing with the Triad and snuffing the flame of rebellion before it began. He cracked his knuckles as the spires of the city appeared over the horizon and stretched his jaw. His lips ached, and he glanced into the city again.

  What would godsflesh taste of, he wondered? He took a step forward, then back again. His mouth watered, and he pivoted, sauntering into the city at an easy pace. A small smirk played across his lips. He reached the foot, perfect toes, perfect muscle and tendon and vein, flexing, pulsating. A strand of flesh rose to the sky, an attempt to form a leg, but it was pathetic and wasted, the skin pale and hanging. This was no way for a god to exist. This was not noble.

  He laid a rough palm on the flesh of the foot, stroked it. In another life, he might enjoy the depravity of the images in his mind. Instead, he listened for the voice of his god, but heard only a susurrus of madness. Cord had clearly broken the god, sent him into a rage. Fortunately for the Seven, Yenn was resilient. He patted the foot one more time, then leaned in and licked the tip of the massive big toe. It was salty and tried to recoil. Too late though, and Yenn’s jaws stretched wide, razor teeth already piercing the meat.

  Oros screamed in his head, and Yenn did his level best to soothe the god’s agony by thinking soft thoughts. But again, too late. The godsflesh had already begun to change him, and he felt Oros’ spirit quiver and flail as he devoured it bite by savory bite. By the time he’d finished the first toe, a nursery rhyme had sprung into his head.

  This little piggy went to market1…

  Yenn chuckled aloud and went to work.

  Tug Tuggerson, Moron

  We’d made our way past the party district of the city, finally entering what could be considered residential. I supposed even the dead needed somewhere to stop moving for a while. The streets had moved from simple grids to concentric rings, homes lined up like attentive supplicants, facing the center of the city, an open round, the circumference carved with a strange set of runes. Posts the height of a man stood from the stones, cracks at their base from the force with which they had been driven in. More of the black cables of corruption snaked between buildings, across cobbles, and up walls, in some cases thick as ivy. They crawled over the nearby circle like caressing fingers, another post at its center, something, or somethings hidden beneath their mass.

  The temperature steadily dropped as we approached the center of town, first revealing our breath in thick plumes, then coating the walls and tentacles in a rime of frost. This close to the circle, fat flakes of snow blew fr
om the cloudless sky, skirling by in small wind devils. The cold skipped through my bones and numbed my fingers. I rubbed them furiously, breathing into my palms to keep them flexible. Tug watched me.

  “I knew a girl who did that with her fingers all the time.”

  “If you finish that sentence, I will feed you yours,” I said.

  He shrugged, and we peeked back around the corner.

  No guards patrolled this part of town, no people walked the streets. A sense of desolation and loss hung in the air, undercut with sorrow. Behind us, a group of Fantucci’s men lay in a heap, missing limbs, and in some cases, heads. They’d spotted us turning into the circles of the neighborhood, hoping to catch and enforce my yet-to-be-paid residence fee. I looked at the ruin. Camor hadn’t been kidding. Tug had become something else since his procedure. It was also comforting to know that the dead could bleed. Not as comforting was the question of where those spirits went when they died a second time.

  I ducked back into the alley, frowning. What would Cord do in this situation? Probably jump out, and then die. I didn’t have the luxury of everlasting life however, so I tried to think of the second-best plan. I looked at the corpses in the corner, and I swear to the gods, I heard the short bastard chuckle in my head. Fuck. I needed a vacation.

  “Tug,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  He pulled his head back into the alley.

  “How far can you throw someone?”

  He held his hands about a foot apart. I squinted at him.

  “How far is that?”

  “Long way.”

  “How did you ever pass the tests in Tremaire?”

  “He’s very smart in one area,” Elvis replied.

  Tug ignored the conversation. He’d found a stick on the ground and chewed it vigorously.

  “Like a savant?” I asked.

  “Yes. An idiot savant. Without the savant.”

  Tug was extremely angry with the stick. Normally, I’d let an idiot chew on a stick. In this case, it was distracting. I let an exasperated sigh and tired to pull it from his mouth. He held on for a moment with his teeth.

  “Give me the stick, Tug.”

  He growled in his chest.

  “The stick!”

  He let go, and I dropped the slimy piece of wood.

  “How the hell did you even find a stick in the Deadlands?”

  He shrugged, and I took a cleansing breath. Elvis cleared his throat—er, brain.

  “Why don’t you ‘mance the bodies, Tug?”

  Tug lit up. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  I held up a hand and smacked myself in the head. “Gret’s balls.”

  “What?” Elvis said.

  “What?” Tug repeated.

  “You’re a necromancer.”

  “Yeah, so?” Tug said.

  “I know you won’t remember this in five minutes, so I’m just gonna tell you. When I get back, I’m committing patricide. Now forget I told you that.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Fuck me sideways. Look, a necromancer in the Deadlands should pretty much be godlike, right?”

  “Oooh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Elvis said.

  “Not your fault. You’re a brain in a jar attached to a sentient penis.”

  “Hurtful, but true.”

  “Anyway—Tug, send one of those bodies out and let’s see what happens.”

  A look of concentration crossed Tug’s features, and the air grew dense for a moment. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen. A rustling from behind drew my attention, and I spun to see the bodies twitching and spasming. One by one they found their feet and shuffled toward the mouth of the alley in slow succession. We stepped aside, and they entered the round. Their slow plod crept over tendril and stone, nearing the center. When they finally reached it, I had Tug halt them.

  “Now what?” Elvis asked.

  “Have them try to yank that black shit off. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  They attacked the black morass that had piled like diseased vine. Each tendril they ripped away caused a shrill cry to go up, and I kept a lookout as they worked, not willing to let someone or something sneak up on us. The last thing I needed this close to my goal was a clobbering.

  Elvis cleared his brain. “Ahem. You need to see this.”

  The tendrils had been half cleared, revealing a startling tableau. A woman, petite, dressed in a shimmering gown of gray, hands clutched around a blade in her heart. On the other end of the wide sword was a stocky man with the close-cropped hair and heavy armor of a career soldier. His arm extended from the hilt of the sword, and even in profile, the sneer on his face plain as day.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “The Winter King,” Elvis said.

  Tug’s zombies stood around, lax again. I had him release them, the corpses falling into boneless piles of gore and ruin once again. I took a breath, then a tentative step into the circle. Nothing came for me. Nothing moved. Emboldened, I approached the frozen combatants, or perhaps murderer and victim. Why did this man want death dead? What could he gain from it?

  I leaned in close, peered at his clothing. A simple locket hung from his wrist, worked into a charm. I reached out, and the world rippled and bled.

  Death waited patiently; a stone at the bottom of the sea, but the when did not matter to Os. Only the where. He stared out the window set above the kitchen basin, hands wrist-deep in water he'd drawn from the well and warmed in a kettle. The few dishes he owned soaked in the steaming water, forgotten for the moment. Beyond the window, a green field interweaved with white and yellow waved in a gentle breeze. Heads of baby's breath and wildflower nodded as if in agreement to the whisper of the wind. Beyond that, rolling hills, the river running to the sea, and cities, cities of wood and stone and now, silence.

  He looked down at the water, at his own reflection in broken circles rippling out with the movement of his hands. Craggy features, dark circles under the eyes, hair shorn close. He had never been a handsome man, not that it mattered. But he'd had a family, and that did. They were dead now, like everyone else. He looked down again, and pulled his hands from the water, shaking them off, then drying them on a nearby rag. He gave the plates beneath a scowl. He wasn't sure why he still did this. No one would visit. No one would peek in through a window and remark to their neighbor on Os' cleanliness.

  Os stared through the open window for a minute more. He listened to his own breathing in the silence. Most days were like that now. A preternatural stillness that cloaked the world like a blanket. On good days, the wind stirred the leaves and the rushes and lent a lifelike ripple around him. On bad, the quiet crept inside Os, like a wedge in a stump, splitting his skull open. He'd tried to fill the quiet, once. But he could only sing the same songs, talk to himself for so long before he felt it futile. Now, despite the silence, the idea of using his voice frightened him, as if the sound would do the inverse of his fear and split the outside world.

  He took one more deep breath, and with its exhale, made a decision. He turned from the open window and walked through the house, fingers lingering on objects as he passed. Luc's pitcher of dried wildflowers, the petals withered and sere. He smiled at the memory.

  "Why?" he'd asked.

  "The smells," Luc had replied.

  "What smells?"

  Luc gestured in vague circles that took in their home. "The smells. The onion and the sausage and the-" he pointed at Os' boots. "Those."

  Os held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Fine. Fine."

  The memory faded and Os looked down at the pitcher again. He remembered how they'd not kept the stink of rot from his doorstep and shook his head. He walked past, into the front room. El's toy, a carved lion, lay on its side on the floor. He knelt and picked it up.

  "She needs a toy," Luc had said.

  The child they'd taken in played on the floor, cooing gently. Os knelt beside her.

  "El."

  She looked
up, smiling, and reached for his cheeks. He chuckled and lifted her, cradling her and rocking back and forth.

  "Seems she has a toy already," Os said.

  Luc fixed him with his no-budge stare. "A toy, Os. Or I will find her a cat."

  "A cat?" Os made a face.

  He straightened, leaving the toy on its side. It had only cost him a few pennies to commission, but El had delighted in it. He stared around the room, at the overstuffed couch, the end tables, the books and the blankets. Os walked to an alcove beside the front door and rummaged around for a minute. His fingers closed on a scabbard, withdrawing the long knife. His chest tightened for a moment, and then he tied it to his belt. He knew he wouldn't need it for but one purpose. He opened the door to the bright summer day and stepped out.

  The wind was clean, a small miracle Os found himself grateful for. In the early days after the Chant, bodies rotted in the sun, in their homes, in the fields. The Chant. Os found himself cursing the magi who had dreamed it up. An end to war. An end to strife. What they had forgotten in their working was that life needed to struggle, to fight against entropy, to survive. When they cast it, it broke that will, and men and women, bird and beast simply laid down, and stopped living.

  Some, like Os, survived. Either their will overpowered the magic, or they were one of the rare immune. But inevitably, the loneliness caught up to them, and they went the way of friends and family. Blade or poison or rope or the opening of veins, the method mattered not, only the result. Some banded together, survivors clinging to survivors like clotted blood. In the end though, they all fell. Memory and emotion were powerful drugs, and under their influence, even the strongest could break into a shambles.

  The path crunched beneath his boots, breaking the silence into mercifully small parcels. Glimpses of white flashed between the grasses, and Os turned his head, facing down the path. Had there still been birds, he imagined his passage would have disturbed their feast. Instead, bone and cloth bundles lay undisturbed in the long grasses of the fields, tools rusting in fallow soil. The glint of sun on steel drew his gaze, and he flicked a glance over to an abandoned plow, harness and leads drooping. The sight drew out the memory of Onder's pride in the tool.