The Broken God

by Gareth Hanrahan

  Maybe they should have destroyed the Black Iron bells. Found a way, somehow – although Cari’s unsure what effect that would have on her. She’s still connected to those gods. So’s El. So is Miren, although that’s a tick in the pro-destruction column.

  Scratch. Scratch.

  And then a voice, out of her own mouth. The taste of mud and bad meat.

  “CARI. WELCOME HOME.”

  “Hey, Rat. Stand back.”

  Dol Martaine plants a small explosive charge. It’s terribly small compared to the siege charge the Haithi sappers used, and Cari knows how thick she made that wall. They scurry for cover. The bomb explodes with a sharp crack, punching a small hole in the wall of Rat’s prison. It lacks the grace of a miracle, but it’s all they have.

  When the soldiers from Haith blasted open the wall, Cari felt it. She has to assume Rasce can do the same, that he’s already moving. The gap is nowhere near wide enough for Rat to crawl, but he tears at the stone, his big ghoul claws tearing at the broken wall.

  Cari grabs a bar of twisted metal from the debris and rushes over, works from her side, trying to pry chunks of rock away to widen the gap. It’s slow going, and every instant they wait here the danger increases.

  The sandpaper sensation, in the back of her head. Rasce is coming.

  Rat stops clawing at the wall, and instead shoves a limp human form through the gap. A woman, her face vaguely familiar to Cari from the old days. Karla Hedansdir, filthy and bedraggled, but still alive. Cari pulls the woman out, pushes her into Martaine’s arms.

  “RASCE IS CLOSE. TAKE HER,” says Rat, through Martaine. “GO. I’LL GUIDE YOU THROUGH HER.”

  “The hell with that,” snaps Cari. She fishes out her new-made talisman, presses it to the wall. Spar. Miracle. Take what you need from me.

  The wall tears. Cari shudders, but she’s gone through far worse on her journeys, and barely notices the pain. Rat steps out of his prison, the rank stench of his presence bizarrely reassuring as he sweeps her up, his hug nearly crushing the life from her.

  “Yours is marrow I shall be sorry to eat,” he whispers in her ear. Then, through Karla. “THERE IS SAFETY IN THE DEEP PLACES. COME DOWN TO THE REALM OF THE GHOULS.”

  “I’m not running. I want to take Rasce down. Get back my sainthood.”

  “AND THEN?”

  “Take down the rest of them.”

  “HURRH. UNWISE. FOOLISH TO GO LOOKING FOR FIGHTS. BETTER TO LET YOUR ENEMIES WITHER OVER THE YEARS. YOU HAVE NO PATIENCE, CARILLON THAY.”

  “Spar doesn’t have time to wait. Neither do my friends on the Moonchild. We sit around waiting for the right moment, maybe it never comes. Are you with me?” It’s a gamble. There are two sides to Rat – there’s the street ghoul who was her friend, and the Elder Ghoul he’s become. The Elder Ghoul who was willing to kill her, once.

  “THE GHOULS ARE SAFE. THE BLACK IRON GODS ARE SECURE,” says the ghoul. He stretches and grins. “I AM AT LIBERTY TO ACT.”

  “You’re going to help save your friend because you’ve got nothing better to do?”

  “HURRH. AND I AM HUNGRY. HUNGRIER THAN I HAVE BEEN IN A LONG TIME.”

  “Spar doesn’t want to kill him unless we have to.”

  Rat presses his claw to his forehead. “OF COURSE HE’D SAY THAT. DO YOU HAVE A PLAN?”

  “I talk to Rasce. Failing that…” She holds up her knife.

  “FORTUNATELY FOR US ALL, I HAVE HAD LITTLE TO DO BUT THINK FOR SOME TIME. IS THAT NOT RIGHT, KARLA?”

  Karla struggles to lift her head from Dol Martaine’s shoulder. “Lanthorn Street,” she whispers with difficulty.

  In the distance, rumbling down the tunnels, a sound like thunder.

  “TEMPLE DENIAL,” says Rat. “AS IN THE GODSWAR. YOUNG RASCE USES LANTHORN STREET TO CONSUME THE SOULS OF THE DEAD. WE NEED NOT RECLAIM THE WHOLE OF THE NEW CITY. WE TAKE THAT PLACE OF POWER, AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW.”

  “You sure?” asks Cari.

  “TRUST A GHOUL TO KNOW THIS.”

  “I have no fucking idea what’s going on,” says Dol Martaine. “Not one single clue. But that—” he jerks his thumb towards the rumbling noise, “sounds like trouble.”

  The underworld reshapes itself to make a path for Rasce.

  He descends like a swooping dragon, every step carrying him closer to Carillon Thay. The memory of her runs through the stone, like her tainted blood runs through his veins.

  He can see her in the visions, although it hurts to look at her, psychic feedback stabbing his mind’s eye. She’s in the depths of the New City. She’s not alone – he’s aware of the Rat, of Karla, of another mortal man, but Rat only barely exists to him, and even Karla is just a smear of greasepaint, a fleeting wisp of flesh and bone. Carillon, though – she’s like him.

  The dragon-tooth blade in his hand. He’s barely conscious of having a mortal body – so much of him is in the city around him, now.

  She senses him coming. She and her companions scatter, like ground troops before the flaming breath catches them. Rat and the mortals hastening down one tunnel, Cari fleeing a different way. Experimentally, he reaches out with his mind and tries to squash her, to close a fist of stone around her, but the miracle’s countered. Does she still have some claim on his city, or is this some lingering reflex of Spar?

  It’s better this way, though. More personal.

  He slams the tunnel ahead of her closed, the stone melting and re-forming in an eye blink. Cari spins around, a cornered alley cat, a knife in her hand. She draws her blade across her palm, bloodying it.

  He conjures a doorway for himself and steps into the passageway. The floor’s littered with pipes and broken machinery, more debris from the old Alchemists’ Quarter swallowed by Spar’s rebirth. He’s a creation of that alchemy, too, in a way – Doctor Vorz’s tinctures burn within him as he works the miracle, sending a pulse of light through the stone.

  Rasce sees her at last with his own eyes.

  “You look like him,” says Cari. “Artolo.” She steps lightly over the treacherous debris, a sure-footed thief. Circling around, knife in hand.

  “My uncle. You maimed him.” The memory of the brief, one-sided duel between Artolo and the Saint of Knives runs through him, something else he’s taken from Spar. “And I’m told you stole his ship. Is he still alive?”

  “People – and gods – who come after me and mine end up dead. Ask the fucking Lion Queen.”

  Rasce laughs. “Behold! The dread Saint of Knives! And your Cousin Eladora, the grey eminence behind the scenes. Sending spies and assassins to torment me.”

  “Something like that.” Cari adjusts her grip on her knife. “Listen, we don’t have to fight. Spar says—”

  “The ghost still speaks to you? Where is he hiding?”

  Cari scowls. “Never mind that. Spar says that you’re not a complete shit. There don’t have to be more killings. The city’s big enough for both of us, right?”

  “To hell with this city. I shall be gone, soon. I shall fly with Great-Uncle.”

  “Fuck it, I’m fine with that. You go. I’ll stay with Spar. I’ll…” The Saint of Knives spits on the floor. “I’ll even come to some arrangement with the dragon. Keep Eladora’s bloody peace, right? Look, I’ve seen how bad things can get. The world’s fucked enough without us adding to it.”

  Rasce steps closer. “Then take the ash. Swear to serve the dragon. You take my place here.” He makes the proposal lightly, but as soon as the words pass his lips he realises how perfect it is. She’ll take on the burden of the city, the role she was made for. He can fly with Great-Uncle again – and he’ll return to Guerdon between flights.

  Return to her.

  It’s a solution as perfect as the architecture of the New City, as elegant and soaring as the towers. His heart leaps. “Cari. Gods – I’ve shared Spar’s memories. I’ve been him. There are things he never told you. I know how he loves you. He is dead, but I – I am alive. I can love you. We are alike – who else knows you as I c
an? With your gifts added to mine, my place as Great-Uncle’s favourite is assured!”

  “Fuck that.” Cari stares at him with disgust.

  “Join me! You want your sainthood back? Have it! I shall give up that power gladly. The gods of Ishmere want you dead? To hell with them! Become Eshdana, and we shall protect you! Only take the ash, beg Great-Uncle’s forgiveness, and all shall be well, yes?”

  “What about Moonchild? What about the people I brought from Ilbarin?”

  “They crossed the Ghierdana. Their lives are forfeit to the dragon – but I am Chosen! Great-Uncle will spare their lives, I promise.” He spreads his arms and proclaims his words with pride. “I say to you, you have the word of the dragon!”

  Cari’s eyes widen. A shiver runs through her.

  “Adro,” she whispers. The name means nothing to him.

  Then, in a swift motion, she drives her knife into Rasce’s ribs.

  Baston’s woken from an uneasy sleep by rumours of fire up near the dracodrome. Someone’s set a storehouse full of Lyrixian military supplies alight. Explosions and the flash of burning phlogiston light up the night sky, like Dredger’s yard all over again. A thrill of pride runs through him, and he wants to run out there and join them, but they’ll never trust him again – and his oath still binds him, anyway. If he betrayed the Ghierdana, he’d only bring more trouble with him. Better to stay here, in this lonely house, and do what he can from within.

  There’s no sign of Rasce. Baston put guards on the door of the bedroom, but now there’s a second door in the room, leading outside. Rooms can’t hold someone who can reshape the city. Without Rasce’s miracles, they’re blind – no idea what’s going on beyond the walls of the compound. All they can do is hunker down. Hold the Lanthorn Street compound and wait out this storm.

  Baston walks the walls, a loyal sentry. A few troublemakers throw stones at the compound. There’s a moment of excitement when one lad flings an empty tin can over the wall, and everyone fumbles for gas masks thinking its withering dust. But aside from that, the first few hours are quiet.

  Then, outside, a gunshot.

  Baston moves to the window, carefully standing to one side so he’s got cover. The courtyard outside is dark and empty, but the gunshot was close at hand. By the main gate, maybe.

  There should be more guards out there. He left half a dozen watching the walls.

  Baston moves to the hallway. He checks the locks on the main door – it’s heavily barricaded, just like it should be. He shouts up the stairs to the sniper. It’s young Nic tonight. A Brotherhood boy.

  “Nic? See anything?”

  Gurgling, like the boy’s swallowed his tongue. The sound of a body falling in the attic. Then a voice, oily and thick, from his own mouth. “BASTON. OPEN UP.”

  Scratch. Scratch from the far side.

  “OPEN THE DOOR, BASTON.”

  “I can’t do that, Rat.”

  “HURRH. QUICK NOW. DON’T BE A FOOL.”

  “Is Karla there?”

  “SHE IS ALIVE. OPEN THE DOOR AND YOU CAN SEE HER.”

  “I can’t. I swore an oath.” He backs away from the door. “Go away, Rat. Go back to your tunnels. Leave here in peace, and the Ghierdana won’t come after you.”

  “NO.”

  The door shudders as a huge weight slams into it.

  As soon as the knife goes in, Cari knows she’s fucked up. She feels the blade skitter off some barrier – an armoured vest beneath Rasce’s jacket, maybe – and slash Rasce’s side, a shallow cut. Not the lethal blow she needed, and she knows that was her only shot.

  So now she runs, pushing past him to flee the way he came.

  The tunnels become a nightmare. Rasce can’t attack her directly with a miracle, but he can throw up obstacles, conjure chasms beneath her feet. She finds a stairway leading up, but it melts away when she sets foot on it. Another tunnel she tries suddenly floods, a spasm in the stone breaking open a water pipe.

  All the while, Rasce pursues her. He’s slow, limping, clutching his side with one hand, but he won’t stop. The Ghierdana never stop.

  Then – she’s out. She races up a staircase, each step vanishing behind her, but she’s too fast. Night air on her face, honest Guerdon drizzle, and she’s out. The towers of her home rising above her. Rasce lashes out with a miracle, and the tower above her convulses and calves a huge chunk of masonry. Spar used that trick before, to squish invaders, and Cari’s ready for it. She steps to the side, knowing exactly where it will land. She springs atop it, and from there to a windowsill. From there, up to the fresh scar in the building’s flank, climbing for the rooftops and the gutters that have always been her domain.

  Rasce follows, but he’s slow and she’s got the edge. She can’t draw on the stone the same way he can, but she can twist his miracles, blunt them and steal them. He conjures a spear of stone, and she uses it as a stepping stone to reach higher ground. He conjures a wall, and she hides behind it, uses it to get close enough to cut him again.

  “Hey, I killed your uncle,” she taunts him.

  “My uncle failed the dragon. I will not!” shouts Rasce. He picks up a lump of rubble from a rooftop and flings it at her with inhuman strength, but she dodges. Someone cheers from one of the nearby towers, and the call’s taken up by other voices. The city’s turning on Rasce.

  “Going to kill the dragon, too!” shouts Cari, and a shout of approval goes up. “I killed Pesh, remember? You think one lousy dragon is going to—”

  A shadow falls across the rooftop, blocking the light from the glimmering towers. Snuffing out the shouts and cheering.

  “Yes,” whispers Rasce. Cari’s distracted for an instant, terror clutching her heart. For all her bravado, she’s still powerless here. And an instant is all it takes – the stone beneath her liquifies, catching her and trapping her in place.

  Rasce approaches, slowly, painfully. Limping like Spar. For him, the stone is solid, and he walks unhindered.

  “You still lose,” Cari gasps. “Rat knows about Lanthorn Street. And he’s got Spar. Temple denial, fucker.”

  The dragon’s shadow passes. Taras does not land here.

  “I always win,” Rasce whispers, and there’s no joy in his voice.

  The door shudders again as the Elder Ghoul smashes into it.

  When Baston knew him, Rat was a scrawny little wretch, wiry with ghoul-strength, but small. He’s grown since then. The beast on the far side of the door is as heavy as an elephant – but the door holds.

  Another crash. The whole of Lanthorn Street shakes, but the door’s reinforced, stone bound with Rasce’s divine will, and the ghoul can’t break through.

  A scuttle of claws. Rat’s moving, climbing the outer wall of the house. Think. Where would he go? What’s the easiest way in?

  The attic window. The sniper’s nest. Baston grabs a weapon and runs, pounding up the stairs. Once the ghoul gets inside, there’ll be no way to stop him.

  He rounds the top of the stairs and fires blind. The heavy blunderbore, Dredger’s cannon, roars as it fills the attic room with shrapnel. Rat yowls in shock as the blast catches him in the face. The ghoul topples backwards, falling from his perch to crash into the courtyard below. Black blood stains the white stone of the attic windowsill.

  Baston darts over to the edge and looks down. Rat pulls himself upright, paws at his head. One of his horns cracks and comes away when he touches it. The whole side of his face is a bloody mess, one eye dark and ruined.

  “Give it up, Rat! We belong to them now, the dragons and the gods. You can’t beat them. We can’t beat them.” He reloads the blunderbore, aims it at the Elder Ghoul. Dares Rat to try climbing again.

  Instead, the ghoul glares up at him, and Baston feels tendrils of Rat’s thought creeping into his mind. Penetrating him like tree roots, pushing blindly at the foundations of his mind. A slurry of rot and fetid grave-earth slithering into his throat. “HURRH. MY KIND EAT THE BONES OF GODS. YOU CANNOT STOP ME, MORTAL CHILD.” The Elder
Ghoul is a demigod of sorts, with powers far beyond those of its lesser kin. The tendrils press on, a chill creeping through Baston’s spine, his stomach. His fingers become utterly numb, and the blunderbore falls from his frozen hands.

  Rat chuckles, wipes away the blood, and begins to climb again.

  But Baston’s done his duty. He’s held the line for long enough.

  Taras swoops down like a thunderbolt.

  One swipe from the dragon’s mighty claws knocks Rat from the side of the building, smashing him back down to the courtyard below. The dragon lands, its massive wings filling Lanthorn Street. Rat, who was so large and potent a moment ago, is a tiny, fragile thing compared to the dragon.

  And tiny, fragile things can easily be broken. Great-Uncle’s jaws close on the ghoul’s torso, and he lifts and shakes, snapping him like a hunting dog kills a rat.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Victory is heralded by a greyish morn, the low clouds laden with sleet. Rasce shivers at the table, and the delicate Lyrixian pastries on his plate are as unappetising as ash. Arax does little to settle his stomach, but he still pours himself a second glass, then a third, before he closes his eyes, looks inward.

  Three prisoners. The largest, Lord Rat, is still unconscious out in the courtyard. They’ve manacled the ghoul while Great-Uncle decides what to do with the creature. If the ghouls want their chieftain back, then the Ghierdana shall demand a high price. The stolen weapons of Black Iron, perhaps. It would be good, Rasce thinks, to correct Uncle Artolo’s failure at the last.

  The second prisoner is downstairs in the cellar. Rasce stumbles downstairs, the steps warping themselves to conform to his unsteady gait. He will not fall here.

  The cellar’s almost empty. Doctor Vorz’s acolytes are down in the harbour, weaving the noose they shall throw around Guerdon’s sea trade. Rasce is alone in the cellar apart from one other living soul.

  With a wave of his hand, he causes one of the graves to yawn wide and vomit up its contents.

  Carillon Thay.

  There’s an ugly purple wound on her forehead, where he struck her last night. She appears unconscious at first, but she’s watching him through half-closed eyelids.