by J A Hutson
I share a quick glance with Shalloch and Vesivia. “But are you . . . I mean, can you swing that?” I’m worried because we have to fight as a squad – and a berserker wildly swinging an overweight ax does not seem conducive to small groups and tight spaces. I see the same concern in Shalloch’s face.
Bright Eyes snorts, her nostrils flaring. She raises the huge ax and brings it slicing down with great force, but instead of stumbling forward she suddenly halts the downward swing. The rest of her body doesn’t move at all, and the ax-head is perfectly still, with no trembling in her wrist or arm. I have to admit I’m a little impressed.
“I suppose it will do,” Shalloch says with a shrug. “The Manticore are whole once more. It is good to have you here, kvah.” Then he steps forward, loosening the sword in his sheath and taking up a shield.
We drill for the rest of the afternoon, working on integrating a two-handed ax with our swords and shields. It proves impossible, as the kvah way seems antithetical to ordered, coordinated combat, so in the end we agree that if trouble arises she shall rush ahead and simply start swinging. We will follow in a more disciplined group, and she can fall back if our enemies recover from the initial shock of her charge.
I haven’t fought with a shield since awakening in the red wastes, but I find that the movements come to me as easily as sword fighting. Block for the one beside you, then strike out with your sword expecting that they’ll protect you as well. In cramped confines I can see this being a very effective strategy.
Twilight is just creeping into the sky when we finally finish. Breathing hard, I toss my shield and sword onto the piles that the servants will later move back to the armory.
“What kinds of dangers will we see down there?” I ask Shalloch as he gently places his cutlass beside the other weapons. He seems to have a real fondness for that particular sword, and I wonder if it is the same blade he wielded in his past life as a pirate – no, sorry, a swashbuckler.
Shalloch turns to me, his face flushed. “All sorts.”
He’s in a good mood, and I can sense that he’s happy with the way we’re fighting together. He claps me on the shoulder as we start to walk back towards the eating hall. Behind me I hear Vesivia ask Bright Eyes a question, and though the kvah’s response is unintelligible, it doesn’t sound angry or sullen.
“First, you should realize what the sewers are,” says Shalloch. “They serve an important function. They carry away wastes from dwellings, and provide a place for water to drain during the wet season. Disease would be rampant in the city if the water was not allowed to flow.”
“But you make it sound like they’re a massive system. They don’t need to be so big, surely.”
“The sewers were built in the Age of Madness,” Shalloch explains. “Every empire and kingdom reacted to the disappearance of the gods differently. Here in Zim, the Purple Emperor was sure that the sudden silence of the divine meant that a cataclysm would soon smite these lands. That we had been abandoned. So he ordered the rudimentary sewer that already existed to be expanded. He believed the people of the city needed a place to flee for when the end came swirling down. He built an undercity nearly as sprawling as what was above. It’s said he was so obsessed with its creation that eventually he abdicated his throne, passing the scepter to his son, and vanished into the depths.”
Shalloch points at a spire of red brick stabbing the sky. “See that? That’s the temple of Servinial. She was the first to ascend to sainthood after the gods vanished. Here in Zim, that’s what brought an end to the Age of Madness. The saints gave people hope again. And so the next emperor stopped expanding the undercity – it was a terrific waste of wealth and resources, after all, and most of it lay empty. Such a dark and shadowy place is fertile ground for dangerous things.” Shalloch pushes open the door to the eating hall. “For a long time no one cared very much about what dwelled beneath their feet. Then things started to creep out of the sewers and people began to disappear. Dams made by vrow blocked the flow and the water closets in rich homes stopped working. Sewage flooded the streets. So the Department of Public Works was formed. At first it was staffed by a battalion of elite soldiers. But the attrition rate for those who went below was too high.”
Shalloch slides onto a bench, and I join him. Moments later a servant places a wooden platter in front of him with a hunk of meat and a wilted pile of greens. Shalloch sighs, shaking his head.
“So, eventually, the soldiers were replaced with those less valuable. Slaves, prisoners, and the mentally unstable.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the direction of Vesivia, who sits beside him. “They dump us into the dark, and we do our best to keep the water flowing and the streets above safe.”
I try a hunk of the meat, and then wince as a burned bit stabs the inside of my cheek. “But what’s down there? What are we going to fight?”
“Vrow are the most common. They walk like us, but their limbs are longer and their skin is all slimy, like a frog’s. They build nests that clog the waterways. They’re not too dangerous, except to the untrained or ill-prepared. Breed like horny rabbits, they do – two can turn into two hundred in an eyeblink.
“Then there’s the humans. Surprising number of them squatting down there. Some just want to be left alone, like escaped slaves. Others are thieves, murderers, madmen. The Red Mouth gang moves around in the undercity, always one step ahead of us. Robbers and cannibals, they are. Also, after the gods vanished, their faiths were outlawed for a while – something about how if they’re going to leave us behind, well, fuck ‘em – and a few of the faithful moved underground with their relics and ceremonies. Then after the Prophet appeared –”
“Blessed is his soul,” murmurs Vesivia between bites.
“The Prophet?” That name is familiar. I remember the women I saw on the walls when I first arrived in Zim, singing the sun awake.
Shalloch waves his hand. “Later, Talin. Well, after he showed up the old gods were somewhat rehabilitated, so most of them moved out of the depths. But a few of the worshippers of the darker gods stayed down there. If you’re going to sacrifice puppies, or whatever, it’s a good place to do it.”
“These things – the vrow and the men driven below – they don’t seem too dangerous.”
“Well, then there’s the monsters,” Shalloch replies with sigh. “Serpents longer than a wagon. Big clumps of living goo. Rats the size of cattle.”
“You’ve seen all of these?”
“Some. Others are just legend, I think. Like the Pale Man.”
“He’s real,” Vesivia interrupts. “I saw him, once. At the edge of our phosphorous lantern, watching from out of the dark.”
Shalloch squirms uncomfortably. “Maybe you did. The shadows play queer tricks down there.”
“Who is he?” I realize that several others are listening intently to what the swashbuckler is saying.
Shalloch shrugs. “A ghost? A demon? A madman? He’s said to prey on the topsiders. Some, like her” – he jerks a thumb at Vesivia – “say they’ve seen him slipping through the murk. Unnaturally thin, glowing faint white in the black. And there’s others that may or may not be real, too. The Vrow King. The Blind Worm. Lots o’ stories, but most are probably just fantasies. What I do know,” he says, pointing at me with his fork, “is that squads disappear down there. Two months ago, the Phoenix just vanished. Poof. Four hard veterans with only six months left on their sentences. We went to look for them, but we found nothing.”
“Except the scratches on the wall,” Vesivia says quietly.
Shalloch looks around at his rapt audience. Whatever he’s remembering has left a mark on him. “Aye. We got to where they were supposed to be, and there were just these gouges on the wall like how animals sharpen their claws in the forest. Except this was solid rock.” Shalloch takes a hurried sip of his ale.
Quiet falls at the table, except for the sounds of chewing and slurping. I wonder if the regular citizens of Zim know about the creatures lurking beneath their feet.
<
br /> I recall something from Shalloch’s explanation that piqued my interest. “Who is this Prophet you were speaking of?”
The swashbuckler nods in the direction of Vesivia. “I’ll let her tell you. She’s the zealot.”
The Zimani swordswoman jabs her elbow into her lover’s side. “I have faith. I’m no zealot.”
This is the first time I’ve heard the normally taciturn and soft-spoken Vesivia string two sentences together.
“The Prophet,” she begins, and I can hear the emotion in her voice, “is our hope.”
A mutter of assent from several other Zimani at the table.
“He is the shepherd sent to guide us while the gods are away.” Vesivia must see my confusion. “The Age of Madness was the same in Zim as it was in your own homeland. Without warning, all of the gods fell silent. No more miracles, and the priests lost their healing powers.”
“I’m from far away,” I say quickly. “I don’t know about this Age of Madness.”
Vesivia glances at me quizzically. “It was the same everywhere, even across the world’s seas.”
“Very far away.”
She narrows her eyes at me. Finally, she shrugs. “Well, with the disappearance of the gods, everyone panicked. There was chaos, riots, war. Zim was one of the few places that stayed whole, under the bronze fist of the Purple Emperor and his imperial legions. Then men and women started turning into saints – not true divine, perhaps, but near enough that it calmed the people. For a few centuries, things stayed this way. And then later, quite unexpectedly, the gods started speaking again. Through the Prophet.”
“Blessed is his soul,” intones a grizzled old Zimani near us, sketching a circle in the air.
“He was born a farmer far to the east, they say,” Vesivia says.
“I heard he was a fisherman,” interjects another, and Vesivia waves him quiet.
“There are many stories. But they all agree that he arrived in the court of the Purple Emperor two hundred years ago, claiming that the gods had revealed the truth to him. That he was their final messenger in this world.”
“And what was the message?”
“That the world was ending, and the gods would return when it did. Their disappearance was a test, but before the darkness swallows everything they will reward those who kept the faith and spirit them away to paradise. That is why Zim is now known as the Twilight Empire. We are fated to be the last and the greatest empire in the waning moments of this world.”
Vesivia must see the skepticism in my face. “It is the revealed truth, outlander.”
“I’ve met priests before, and they all claim to have special knowledge. Why did everyone listen to this Prophet?”
“Because he has powers that were lost with the gods,” Vesivia replies crisply. “And he has other signs of their favor.”
“Such as?”
“For one, he looks to be a young man – I’ve seen him, from afar, and his beard and hair are still black. But he came out of the east over two hundred years ago. It is said he will not die until the divine return to this world.”
Despite the fervor in her voice and the light in her eyes, I’m still not convinced. I only have a shallow well of memories to draw from, but all the priests I’ve met have been more interested in control and keeping secrets than providing true enlightenment. I don’t want to make an enemy of Vesivia, though, so I simply nod and return to the remnants of my disappointing meal.
I’ve managed to choke down most of my charred mystery meat when Shalloch taps the table to get my attention.
“Cassus is here,” he says, and Vesivia glances up sharply.
I look around until I find him: the grizzled old sergeant is wending his way between the tables, an ivory scroll case clutched in his hand. I notice the other squads are avoiding making eye-contact with him, burying their faces in their food as he passes. But they needn’t worry – he seems intent on getting to our table.
Shalloch recognizes this as well, as he puts down his utensils and sighs.
“What does he want?” I ask.
Shalloch doesn’t look at me when he answers, instead watching the old soldier as he comes closer. “Means there’s a job to do. I think we’re headed out.”
Cassus arrives at our table and glowers down at us. Shalloch nods in a manner just a hair removed from insolent. “Sergeant,” he says, and then the others around the table murmur the same.
“Manticore,” Cassus says, brandishing the scroll case he’s carrying. “You lot have been getting fat and lazy the last few weeks. But I saw you out on the fields today – looked to me like you finally learned how to fight with these two green-ears. Would you agree?”
Shalloch puts his elbows on the table and shrugs. “Starting to look like a squad, Sergeant.”
Cassus pops off the end of the scroll case with his thumb and slides out a cream-colored piece of vellum. “Good. This was just delivered to me. Seems the water has stopped flowing somewhere in district thirty-two.”
“That’s under the Brocade,” Vesivia says softly, and Cassus grunts.
“Aye. Lots o’ rich twats unable to flush their shits right now, and they’re not too happy about it. Exarch Velius wants us to head out there tonight and get it sorted.”
“Little late, isn’t it?” Shalloch says languidly, making a show of trying to pick something from between his teeth.
Cassus’s face purples. “Late? You’re a saints-blasted prisoner here, son! Unclogging drains is going to get your sentence commuted instead of where it should finish, with you twitching at the end of a hangman’s rope!”
Shalloch sighs and pushes away from the table. “No need to be rude.” He turns to us. “You heard the sergeant, Manticore. Seems we have a job to do.”
As I stand, I share a quick glance with Bright Eyes. She looks confused and uncertain.
“Come on,” Vesivia says to us, taking a last bite before tossing the rest of her meat down and rising. “We’re going to the armory.”
“Late, he says,” I hear Cassus mutter again incredulously as I follow the rest of Manticore squad towards the door.
8
It was the word ‘sewer’ that had confused me. When I first heard it spoken by Exarch Velius, I imagined a narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel, with a river of shit flowing through it. I’m not sure if that idea came from the murky recollections of the mind I’d imbued when Poz first gave me the babbleroot, or if it was some understanding I had from before I lost my memories. In either case, this is not what I thought a sewer was. This is much more of an undercity.
We are standing in a huge vaulted chamber lit by strings of glowspheres. The ceiling is smeared with grime and lichen, but I can still see the faded remnants of impressive murals. The largest by far is of a crowned Zimani garbed in stately purple robes holding an orb and a scepter. Through the center of this room cuts a wide canal filled with dark water that is fed by three smaller channels emanating from tunnels. This canal then empties out through the gated entrance we passed through, tumbling down the side of the hill in a fetid torrent before merging with the fast-rushing river below. Two dozen bronze-armored soldiers are milling around this antechamber; some are trying to dispel the chill by huddling around a fire, while others are positioned behind barricades of sharpened logs, unsettlingly large ballistae trained on the shadow-choked tunnels.
A young soldier with a crest of red feathers in his helmet jogs up to us. He recognizes Vesivia and they clasp forearms.
“Ho, Menechus,” says the Zimani swordswoman. “How goes the watch?”
The soldier removes his crested helm and holds it in the crook of his arm, then runs a hand through his curly hair. “Ho, Vesivia. Cold and smelly, as always.” He nods curtly in the direction of Shalloch. “You’re still with the pirate, I see. He hasn’t earned his way out of the department yet?”
“Soon, boy,” Shalloch replies with a smirk. “You can be sure I’ll be enjoying my freedom, dicing in a grog house, long before you are relieved of shi
t duty.” They also clasp forearms, and despite this exchange I think there’s some affection between them.
“And these two?” Menechus says, turning towards Bright Eyes and myself. “Fresh meat for the dark?”
“They can fight,” Vesivia says. “Better than the last two, at least.”
The young soldier gives us a measuring look. “I hope so. But still, I won’t bother learning their names until they emerge from the tunnels again. It seems like every time I introduce myself to the green-ears they don’t come back.” He winks at me. “So please don’t misunderstand my rudeness, salah – it’s for your own good.”
“How are the tunnels these days?” Shalloch asks, and the soldier turns his attention from us.
“Quiet. The water is flowing, or at least it has been. What has brought you here tonight?”
“Cassus got a scroll that the plumbing in the Brocade is fouled.”
Menechus chuckles. “Ah, so the rich have to smell their own shit? Poor ducklings.” His brows knit together. “But under the Brocade? That’s as safe a district as there is. Shouldn’t be anything in those tunnels.”
“Perhaps there’s been a collapse and the flow is blocked. Doesn’t have to be anything dangerous.”
Menechus shakes his head. “Ever the optimist, eh pirate?”
“Gets me through the day.”
“And if we want to get through this night and find our beds,” Vesivia interrupts, “then we need to be off.”
The soldier steps back and sweeps his arms out to indicate the tunnels. “Of course. The undercity is open to you, fearless warriors of the Public Works.”
“He seems to know you pretty well,” I whisper to Vesivia as we slip through the makeshift fortifications and approach the looming darkness.
“Menechus is the son of my mother’s cousin. I remember dandling him on my knee when I was a girl.”
I glance at her in surprise, thinking back to the young soldier’s aristocratic bearing. “He looks like a noble.”
“Aye. We’re from different tributaries of the Kalui family. Minor streams of a mighty river, but enough to help him get a commission in the officer corps before he started shaving.”