Gaunt stood up slowly and looked around the hilltop temple.
He was breathing hard and felt the blood coursing through him for the first time since he left the west.
He looked at the mystic for a long time, weighing up the veracity of his offer.
Finally he spoke, low and measured.
“You give me my revenge, Rag-time, and I’ll bring all of Hell back with me and lay it at your feet.”
25
In small basement lodgings at the edge of lower east Sparkside, a bruised and battered woman lay on a bed. She barely remembered arriving at the front door, propped up by the bearded ranger. All she remembered was incessantly mumbling this address and refusing to be taken to the hospital. When Constable Lemuel Vark opened the door in his housecoat and slippers, he just stood there for a moment with jaw dropped. Then he ushered them inside. Maeve was barely in the door before she collapsed into his arms.
Now five hours later she was bandaged, hydrated and sitting propped up on some pillows. Lemuel sat patiently by her bed and listened to the tale of her attempted assassination by dark forces within Free Reign.
Maeve strained her neck forward from the pillow and took a sip from the cup offered by her constable.
“Ooof! Lemuel what is that?”
“Chamomile tea, Ma’am. Good to calm the nerves.”
“Don’t you have any coffee?”
“I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day, Inspector.”
Maeve took another pinch-faced sip and swallowed it down. She smacked her lips and leaned back on the pillows. She hadn’t been brought tea in bed since she was sick as a child. She looked up and smiled at Vark from beneath her bruised eyelids.
“Lemuel, we’re not at work. Call me Maeve. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in and helping me. I’m not sure who to trust anymore, but you’ve always been a rock.”
Vark took the cup and handed her a bowl of hot soup. Maeve took one spoonful and then set it down on the table beside the bed. She nodded to Vark in appreciation. Maeve was still shivering a little from the freezing effects of the river, but a small fire was crackling in the hearth and it warmed her face. Vark looked sheepishly at the floor for a few moments, smiling inwardly.
“Inspector isn’t actually what most of the lads at work call you, anyway.”
Maeve braced herself for the barrage of insults.
“Really? Do tell? Should I be nervous?”
Vark grinned.
“They call you the sabre toothed sparrow.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Small but tenacious.”
Maeve frowned and mulled this over for a few moments, then she smiled despite herself. She looked at Vark over the cup as she took another sip of tea.
“It’s becoming slightly less disgusting. I think I’m acquiring a taste for it. It could use a shot of Old Tawny in it though.”
Vark laughed and stood up.
“I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thank you again Lemuel.”
Vark parted the curtains and looked out into the busy nighttime street.
“So you seem to have pissed the wrong people off. You can stay here as long as you want, Maeve. Get back on your feet. I’ve redressed those wounds as best I could, but if you have any sense you’ll just stay laid up there in bed and let me bring you disgusting tea for a few days. But I can already tell that you’re not going to do that are you?”
Maeve sat up further and with a grimace swung her legs around the aside of the bed.
“You’ve worked with me for too long. Can you pass me my boots, I need to stand up, test my legs.”
Vark brought over her battered boots that had been drying by the fire.
“Slowly Maeve, you were knocked off the side of a mountain, it would take the wind out of anyone.”
Maeve took one boot and ever so slowly slid it over her foot.
“I’m fine, I think. Tougher than I look.”
Vark nodded as she dressed.
“Whoever took a pop at you, they probably think you’re dead for now, until those bodies are found. But once they know you’re not, I don’t think they’ll stop until the job’s done. Shouldn’t we get you to the Priory, get you some protection?”
Maeve stood up and tucked in her shirt. She went to pick up her holster until she realized her gun was three hours away in a river somewhere.
“No. I know who tried to kill me. It was Crawl. High Councilor Crawl of Candlehill. Those assassins had his mark on their wrists.”
Vark shook his head and stared at the fire.
“Is nothing sacred? Why? Why would Crawl hurt his own city like this?”
“He’s been studying demonology, Lemuel. Perhaps it was arrogance or vanity, but I think he thought he could control it, that he was better than it. But like everyone else who has ever dabbled with it, it’s driven him insane.”
“So he could have been the one who let it in? The demon the Vigilante is hunting?”
Maeve tentatively tested her shoulders and then slipped one arm into her jacket sleeve.
“I know who the Vigilante is, Lemuel. Until a year ago he was a man called John Gaunt. One of Free Reign’s own Wing Clippers. Jonas Reach murdered his wife, left him for dead. He’s back for revenge.”
“The ghost that follows him. That’s his wife?”
“Pretty extreme huh?”
Vark helped Maeve button her coat and then stood back to assess if she was capable of anything, let alone catching a killer. She stood to attention before him and squared her shoulders. Vark still thought Maeve looked like she had just returned from a warzone.
“With the connections and influence Crawl has, I can’t trust anyone at the Priory, Lemuel. I need to do this on my own.”
“I can help you.”
“You already have, so much. I won’t risk your career or your life.”
Vark met her gaze.
“It’s my job too, Maeve.”
“Then cover for me. Get me a weapon and a see if you can find a recent map of the warrens, as reliable an edition as you can.”
“You’re going looking for the Vigilante yourself.”
Maeve stopped on her way to the door. She shook her head quietly and smiled in disbelief.
“Want to hear something strange? Apart from you, he’s about the only person whose motives I can trust. Not agree with. Trust.”
Vark walked to the table and picked up the evening journal. He ruffled the paper and scanned for a story.
“I might have a lead for you. This morning, another girl was taken from the streets. Another one for our mysterious cult? No body has turned up yet, perhaps she is still alive?”
Maeve took the paper from him and skimmed the story.
“If the Vigilante knows that too, I think I might know where he is headed.”
26.
In the catacombs beneath the Old Reign cemetery the girl was led down the long winding staircase, her blood red silken robes trailing like liquid down the stone behind her. Each step down felt warmer on her bare feet, as if descending to some special Hell dedicated only to her.
She had been kept in her room all day, priests visiting her every few hours.
They came in, Fallen in high collared formal suits, severe and prim. It made her feel vulnerable, standing among them in only the thinnest shimmering of silk, she was conscious of every contour of her young body, every pathway to intimacy on show, while they kept their power and dignity quietly to themselves.
They walked around her, inspecting her, running their long grey hands across the smooth pale skin of her arms and slender neck. She felt their deep sunken eyes burning into her as she stood there, afraid and exposed.
Long subtle fingers tipped with sharpened nails braided her hair in a way so delicate it sent shivers throughout her skin and involuntarily drew her nipples forward through the silk.
They anointed her with fragrant oils, vanilla, honey, and something dark and animal that smelled of blood.<
br />
They asked her to sip wine that had a strange effect on her. Even one small sip filled her mouth with rich spice, the essence of Wintermass in a single glass. But as it reached her stomach a sudden excitement rose, a swirling promise of warmth and pleasure, like someone kissing the very inside of her. She felt her skin tingle and feelings rose inside her that she knew she should not feel.
She had been kidnapped, manipulated, drugged, taken from her family. She was here as these creatures plaything, a trammeled creature, being circled by starving wolves.
To her surprise and shame, something was awakening inside her that liked them watching her. She caught the desire in their eyes as each of them circled in front of her, serious formal dangerous creatures a hundred times her age, and it was like the light from their eyes gently stroked her skin as it was drawn across her.
No, this was wrong, she was good, she had always behaved, for her family, her school, her friends. Always put them first, never complained, never allowed herself to feel a single selfish thought. She knew that these creatures were looking at her with such hunger and desire, like something they wanted to feast upon.
She had been raised on staunch morals, school principals, abstinence, denial, been told those things were virtues.
But she was still scared.
She did not know what ritual they had planned for her in the darkest catacombs of the cemetery.
Now, as she approached the double doors at the bottom of the steps, the fear and excitement became intertwined, confused, merging into one cocktail that made her want to run, either away or towards whatever was waiting for her behind those doors.
When the doors were opened by dark robed priests the sight that greeted her inside made her heart tremble further.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself back in the library at home, a room thick with dust and familiarity and the safety of routine. Spending her days pouring over books, reading about life, wars, passionate love affairs, poetry of tragedy and death, world shaping moments. Every occurrence in these books she had studied all her nineteen years was committed by people who did not read about living, they had lived.
Great Kings who had laid waste to entire continents and shaped the destiny of cultures, star crossed lovers so impassioned that they took their own lives rather than be apart, great showmen and musicians who would let no paltry raised eyebrow get in the way of their full experience of being in this world. Basking in glory, relishing being adored. She suddenly wondered what was so highly regarded about being demure and meek, apologizing for being real.
She looked into the high vaulted candlelit chamber beyond, where shadowy figures waited hungrily for her, dark feathered wings outstretched, and she knew right then that she had to voluntarily cross the threshold, step forward into whatever they had planned for her.
She looked at the doorframe, surrounded by faintly glowing Angelic script, and knew that her willing step would cause a magical binding to occur, infusing her every subsequent action with symbolism and power. She knew what waited in there for her, that they were expecting her to break the oldest taboo.
She felt her shivering voice, tiny in this stone corridor.
“It...it is forbidden...to touch a Fallen in such a way.”
The tall elegant priest by her side gave her a small smile. He brushed her red hair from her incredibly pale cheek and nodded slowly.
“Yes, but so are most things that give us real knowledge.”
“What do they want to do to me?”
“Whatever they please.”
“Will it hurt?”
“A little. But pleasure and pain will become pedestrian terms to you shortly. Old fashioned words for describing small sensations.”
She looked at the script around the doorframe. She took a deep breath of the incense filled air and stepped forward, shedding her old life like a constricting snakeskin.
A tall Fallen stood before her with a grin on its skull face. He was larger than the rest and his face was painted with the ancient markings, giving him a savage look. Yet in contrast his suit was immaculate and fitted his huge frame with tailored perfection.
“Hello. My name is Rammiel Emberdark. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You look beautiful tonight.”
The girl walked forward and felt the predatory eyes of a group of skulking Fallen peering at her from the gloom.
“I’m not sure why I’m here. They’ve made me drink something. I’m a little confused.”
The tall Fallen extended a taloned hand and beckoned her in.
“Don’t worry. Everything is about to become very simple for you.”
The girl tentatively reached out her shaking hand.
Within an hour she was unmade.
Her terrified screams echoed in the ruined catacombs but the Fallen were too busy eating to care.
27
THE VIGILANTE’S TALE PART 9
Gaunt sat cross legged on the cold stone flagstones of Rak-Tan Dang’s study. The mist priest knelt in front of him and was taking Gaunt through a guided meditation technique to calm his body and awaken his mind prior to opening the portal to the Underworld.
A brazier burned low in the corner. Bookshelves lined the walls and scrolls were stacked high around the room. A chalkboard was pinned to one wall scrawled with diagrams that Gaunt could make little sense of.
Rak-Tan Dang breathed out slowly and opened his eyes. Whereas Gaunt had initially found him flippant and a little comical, now he seemed somber and sage. His little eyes burned bright in the light from the diminishing coals. In a pensive voice he spoke.
“There is something you need to know before you agree to this. Of all the dangers you will face, time will be the worst.”
Gaunt stretched out his back a little and cracked his neck.
“I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll keep looking until I find Izzy and this jade whatsit you need.”
The mist priest shook his head slowly, the long beak casting a shadow on the fire-lit wall.
“That’s not a luxury you will have, John. There are mountains where I come from, that reach so high into the clouds, that when a man reaches a certain point, his body is dying. There is no more air for him to breathe. It becomes not a fight against the mountain, but a race against time and death.”
Gaunt fixed the creature in the eye. He wondered if this plan could get any worse or more desperate.
“You saying I’m on the clock too, Rag-Time?”
The mist priest stood up slowly and walked to the brazier to warm his hands. He glanced back over his narrow shoulder at Gaunt.
“No breathing man is born to walk that road. From the moment you cross over, your body will be dying, as sure as if the air were being robbed from your lungs.”
Gaunt stood up, ignoring the pain in his joints. His knees popped and his voice sounded loud in the quiet chamber.
“What the hell do you want me to do, hold my damn breath?”
Rak-Tan Dang cocked his head to one side as he fought for the words in Gaunt’s tongue.
“I don’t think there will be any real breath for you to hold. What you’ll be holding tight inside you like a breath, the only thing keeping your feet moving, will be your soul.”
Gaunt blew out his cheeks and slapped his belt in exasperation.
“Alright. Keep hold of my soul. Gottit. So how long do you reckon I’ll have?”
Rak-Tan Dang smiled and raised a long black finger.
“Were you an ordinary man? Don’t think you’d make it past the front door. It’s the residue in your blood, the thaumaturgy that gives you tougher skin than most. Here, your tainted blood gives you dreams and signs. Over there, magic makes the rules. It’ll be like a shield.”
Gaunt raised an eyebrow.
“But only for a while.”
“For long enough. If we are lucky.”
Gaunt began to strap on his gunbelts. He sheathed his big hunting knife and tucked his shortsword into his belt. He brought out two knuckle
dusters from his kitbag and slotted them into the shoulder harness that carried his ammunition. Finally he threw on a tatty brown longcoat and scarf. He picked up his hat and dusted it off, staring into it like he was going to find an answer written there.
“Alright then, I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You got all your fancy tools?”
Rak-Tan Dang took his staff from the shelf and walked to the centre of the room.
“I’m ready. Is there anything else you require?”
Gaunt patted himself down, wondering if a single piece of his kit would do him the slightest good on the other side. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a crumpled rillo.
“One last thing you could fix me before I go over.”
The mist priest offered him a tiny toothed smile.
“Anything.”
Gaunt lit the rillo and took a long drag. He felt like he might need a pep-me-up before doing this.
“Strong coffee.”
Rak-Tan Dang smiled and nodded.
“I’ll boil some water, John. It should be nice and strong for you by the time you get back.”
With that he stepped into the chalked circle and slammed his staff into the flagstones. The stone walls began to shake and with a horrendous fleshly ripping the air in front of the mist priest opened.
Gaunt stood silhouetted stark against the unholy light that bathed him.
As the world was sliced by the staff of Rak-Tan Dang, Gaunt was forced to raise a hand to his eyes against the glare, feeling like a baby about to be born into a world of pain. He suddenly experienced a sickening sense of vertigo, as if he was not looking across a room but down a bottomless well. He ground his boots into the flagstones, bracing against a pull that felt too much like gravity.
The tear was pulled wider, a wound separated by forceps to dig for a bullet.
The light seared Gaunt’s brain like chilled sunlight but provided no warmth.
Despite his nothing-to-lose attitude and lust for revenge, in that moment Gaunt felt an all too human fear creep up his spine.
SMOKE AND BLADES Page 19
