Wheeze looked impressed. “You were right, Gurt, this new guy is sharper than he looks.”
Gurt smiled. “To answer your question, he doesn’t inform on his customers as far as I know. He gives us news on visitors and newcomers to the city. Half his customers probably feed him info to pass along to us.”
“Good arrangement,” agreed Salt. “So? He give you something good?”
“Depends what you consider good, lad. It’s bigger than whatever might be in the warehouse, anyway. We need to meet up with Brolt and Seely and get on this. Seems we might have a wolf cult in the city.”
Wheeze whistled. “Oh, Min is going to be pissed she missed this.” Salt looked at him. “Not my story to tell, sorry, Salty. Enough to know Min has a score to settle with the wolf god.”
“Amarok cultists have tried to set up in Darien before,” explained Skye. “They’re never easy to deal with. Worst thing is how generous Amarok is with its power. Near half the cultists are Godchosen to some extent. Makes them more wolflike, on top of being stronger and faster. Probably why there’s never any shortage of idiots looking to join.”
They met up with Brolt and Seely who reported that there was nothing outwardly suspicious about the warehouses they had been moving to inspect.
“Good enough for me,” said Gurt. “We’ll take a closer look tomorrow. For now, I want you two taking a look at the house across from the Last Great Inn. Double-time, soldiers. I want you to check things out ahead of us getting there.” The two ran off ahead at a jog while Gurt moved the rest of the squad forward at a forced march.
Salt was sweating hard by the time they got to the address Skeg had given them. Though he was thankful for the training he’d gone through the past months, he couldn’t believe they expected him to be in fighting form after the day he’d had. Seely met them two streets away from their target.
“Looks to be true. There’s a wolf sign on the door, though it’s been scuffed and hidden. We haven’t seen anyone go in or out since we got here, but there’s light inside.”
Gurt looked at the others. “You know how fast one of these cults can spread. We’re just waiting for Seely and Brolt to catch their breath, then we’re hitting them. Take prisoners if you can, but don’t expect any of them to surrender.” Gurt gave Salt a meaningful look.
Oh shit! This is it! Salt thought. He hefted the mace in his right hand and drew a dagger with his left. It was time to fight. Maybe to die. Dammit, there’s no way I’m going to let one of those freaks kill me on my first night out. Skye reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Then they were running toward the house. Greal smashed the door in and disappeared from sight. The others charged in after him, Brolt stood watching the street, and Salt was left to go in last. Four men and two women wearing long gray robes stood inside the single-room house. All wore looks of shock and anger. A crude altar had been built on the back wall. A stone chalice rested on it.
Gurt was shouting something about the cultists giving themselves up. But they just looked at one another and smiled. Then all hell broke loose. Three of the cultists changed.
Salt wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute they were normal if slightly crazed-looking people. The next, their forms blurred somehow and changed. Two of them had grown taller, had fangs protruding from their mouths and lambent eyes. The third changed more drastically. He grew taller as well, but his head became more wolflike; his body sprouted fur, and his fingers became clawed. The rest of the cultists scrambled to find what weapons they could. Greal didn’t hesitate for a moment. He stepped forward as soon as the change started and cut one of the Godchosen in half with his huge tulwar. Skye was only a step behind him, lunging forward to take the wolf-headed man in the stomach with her spear.
A cultist attacked Salt with an old rusty sword, and his attention was drawn away from the others. It only took a moment for Salt to realize his opponent didn’t know the first thing about technique. Not that it made him any easier to fight—he was angry and utterly fearless. Salt tried to wound him, intent on taking the man prisoner. But he fought like an animal. A few moments later, Salt was staring down at a corpse. His dagger was protruding from the man’s chest. A hand grabbed his shoulder. Salt tensed and raised his mace, only to realize it was Gurt. The fight was over. The Amarok cultists had all been killed. Skye’s spear had been snapped into pieces, and Wheeze was leaning over her unconscious form.
“She all right?” Salt asked.
“Got knocked about, but I think she’ll be fine,” said Gurt.
Salt nodded and walked outside. He nearly tripped over another body. Brolt had apparently seen his share of action outside. Three men lay dead outside the house. All of them showed multiple slash wounds. Brolt himself was standing over them, fastidiously cleaning his sabers with a scrap of cloth. Salt felt nauseated. He managed a few paces before he was noisily sick. Gurt and Brolt came and collected him. Gurt was carefully carrying the stone goblet from the altar.
“We need to get this back to Lera. Blood of the Wolf they call it. Something to do with how they make more Godchosen.” Salt nodded dumbly, not fully registering any of the words. “Come on, lad. The others will finish up in there. Let’s get you home.”
Word had gone out about Maran Vras’s defeat, and it had been the talk of Tolrahk Esal for a week. But that was nothing compared to the buzz that followed the announcement that Maran had recovered from his terrible wounds and had challenged the Old Man to a rematch. None doubted the result would be the same, yet everyone wanted to be there to witness. Carver looked over his slave and smiled. He had left enough of Maran unchanged so that he might still be recognized, but internally there was little that resembled the former arena champion. He had had to work quickly, too quickly for any finesse. He was sure, though, it would be enough to attract the kind of attention he wanted.
He had carefully observed the Old Man during the fight. The rest of the crowd may not have been able to see it, but Carver knew what the old champion was, and where his strength came from—a fallen Godling inhabited the old fool. It lived off the adulation of the crowds now that its real worshippers were dust. Most of its power was tied up in the glaive, likely the only artifact of its faith left on this world. It used the Old Man as a puppet, reading its opponents’ intentions from their minds and reacting to them before they began. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the new and improved Maran Vras. Maran’s mind, in the truest sense of the word, was gone. Carver had cut off all but the most basic of impulses and reflexes. There would be no reading his intentions this time; Maran Vras might have thoughts, but they would be totally disconnected from the part of his brain that was now controlling his body. Added to that was a reinforced musculature that would not only improve his speed and strength, but his control. Maran could swing a weapon with great strength and stop instantly or even reverse the motion in a way that no natural being could, Warchosen or otherwise. He was now a thing of instinct and reflex incapable of conscious thought. All he could do was follow simple commands given by his master: eat, sleep, kill.
Carver actually felt a sliver of regret when he destroyed the mind of what had been a particularly fine specimen. But a tool was needed to perform a function. Maran had become that tool. If given enough time, he might be able to rebuild the man’s mind and make him into something more. If there was anything Carver hated, it was waste.
The arena was crowded beyond capacity. The arena owners had been only too happy to admit everyone who had the coin to pay. Far more people than usual were willing to hand over the arena’s exorbitant fees after the hype of the rematch. Perfect, thought Carver. There will surely be a royal or another likely sponsor in the crowd today.
He had come early. As the owner of one of the famous fighters, the arena owners had shown Carver every courtesy. He had been shown to his previous seat and provided with the same slave to serve his needs. Most of the other seats and awnings were being dismantled to make room for more spectators. Carver had no interest in the fights today. Th
ey were of no consequence. The only thing that mattered was finding the right contact in the crowd. He had made no secret of his status as owner of Maran Vras. He had also told the arena owners that he was a mage and had made some significant changes to the champion that would make him far more dangerous. Word would spread.
Carver asked his slave about the identity of the various individuals in the crowd who, like him, were offered full seats to themselves. The slave seemed as well informed about the identity of the patrons as he did about the combatants. A fine mind in this one, Carver mused. Then his attention was drawn to a man on the far side of the arena that the slave said was Gruig, eldest son of the Drokga himself. He will be the one to take me to his father. The man was a typical Tolrahkali, golden skinned and armed to the teeth. What set him apart were his startling leaf-green eyes and his huge head of scraggly hair twisted into countless small braids. Each braid was ringed with a thick band of gold. If nothing else, the gold that fool wears in his hair would be enough for me to work for a few weeks. Carver studied the man through the afternoon as he waited for the champions to clash. Gruig didn’t strike him as anything special, but then looks could be deceiving. He would have to be careful how he handled this one. He would not get a second chance.
When Maran Vras finally took to the sands, the crowd went into a frenzy. Carver was pleased to see so many of them pointing to his gladiator and making wild gestures. Indeed, Maran Vras had grown since his last fight. He stood nearly an arm’s length taller than he had a month earlier. His muscle mass had increased so much that his skin looked to be straining to contain it. There was no show of being a brute, no pacing and growling like an animal. Maran Vras stood quiet, his customary mace and shield held at the ready. It will be a short fight. Carver allowed himself a small smile.
The Old Man dragged himself to his customary place in the center of the sands. Carver was doubly pleased to see that most of the crowd didn’t even notice him entering the arena. All eyes were still fixed on Maran. The arena master made some big announcement that Carver paid no attention to. The crowd howled its approval, and, at last, the battle was joined.
Maran Vras moved smoothly toward the Old Man, who seemed to be confused, a clear look of puzzlement on his face. The puzzlement turned to shock when Maran darted in and struck him, the mace crashing against his left hip. Blood flew. The Old Man stumbled. Maran darted in again, this time landing blows on both his opponent’s arms. Bones snapped audibly. The Old Man tottered on his feet for a few moments, then slowly his grip on the glaive failed. The weapon fell away from him. A small cry of pain and desperation passed his lips. No one would have heard it at all were the whole of the arena not staring in shocked silence. Maran was without mercy. His next attack broke the Old Man’s jaw and opened up gouges across his face. He attacked again and again. Blood spattered and more bones crunched beneath his blows. In another moment it was all over.
Blood soaked the sands. Maran wasn’t even breathing hard. He stood impassively over the broken and mangled body of the champion. Carver noticed that the glaive, lying abandoned in the sands, was visibly corroding. It wouldn’t last long, nor would the Godling who had inhabited the fallen champion. The uproar in the arena was deafening. Half the spectators were cheering wildly; the others were angry and shouting. Whatever their position, one thing was undeniable. The arena had a new champion. Maran Vras’s name would live on for a very long time even if he never fought again.
Carver wondered idly if Maran was taking any satisfaction in his newfound fame and glory, locked away in the back of his own mind as he was. He shrugged and swept those trivial thoughts from his mind. A slave was approaching, fighting his way through the crowd that was moving in the opposite direction toward the exits. Ah, this is it.
“Sir? Are you the one they call Carver?” the slave asked with a deep bow.
“I am.”
“My master, Gruig Berrahd Tolrahk, asks that you attend him.”
Almost too easy. Carver held up his walking stick. “Please inform your master that I will come to him as quickly as I am able.” He turned to the slave who had been attending him. “Slave, collect my winnings from the arena master and bring them to me.” He shuffled slowly toward Gruig. He could almost smell the man’s impatience as he hobbled forward. Young, impatient, and rich. I couldn’t ask for a better target.
“Greetings, my lord Gruig. How can a twisted thing such as myself serve a great lord of Tolrahk Esal?” Gruig’s lips thinned slightly in annoyance at the obvious sarcasm. Not as stupid as I could have hoped perhaps.
“I have never seen anything like that.” Gruig made a vague gesture toward the sands where Maran Vras was still standing over the Old Man’s corpse, waiting for further instructions. Arena slaves were standing a safe distance away, nervously looking at the gladiator. Carver sent a mental command to Maran Vras to meet him outside.
“Thank you, my lord. I do have some rather unique talents when it comes to modifying living creatures. This, I’m sorry to say, is not my best work. I found myself short of funds and was constrained by the arena fight dates.”
“I would like to see more of what you can do. Funds are still an issue?”
“Less so than they were, my lord, but mine is an expensive trade.”
Well used to being asked for coin, Gruig nodded. “You will come to the palace. I will instruct the guards to expect you. You will be given whatever you need, within reason, but no gold. In two months’ time you will show what you can do to the Drokga.”
“My lord, it would be a great honor to be your guest in the palace and to put myself in the service of your father.” Carver did his best approximation of a bow with his walking stick and twisted back. Gruig stood abruptly and walked away, leaving Carver alone in an almost-empty arena. No long speeches. The Tolrahkali do have some positive traits after all. And just like that the full resources of the city-state are nearly at my fingertips.
Carver arrived at the exit in time to see the arena master hand a heavy bag of coins to the slave. Carver took the coins and on a whim asked, “How much for this slave?” He handed over the requested coins and walked out.
“Thank you for purchasing me, master. My name is Roga.”
Carver stopped and turned a burning stare on the slave. “You will speak when necessary and never again interrupt my thoughts. Now lead me to the palace by the quickest road.” He gestured to the maze of streets that he had only just started to get used to. Roga bowed deeply and walked ahead a few paces.
CHAPTER 6
Beren got to his shop to find it already open. Jerik was already at work making as many weapons as he could in a short time. Gerald was frantically running back and forth ordering and reordering everything in the shop. Neither of them were surprised to see Beren back.
Jerik said, “I’ve been finishing any weapons I had started. I figure more weapons might be needed so this is the fastest way for me to get anything finished. After that, I guess I can make spear points or something easy.”
“That’s good thinking. I guess I’ll do the same and put simple runes on the weapons you finish. Just pass them out to me as they’re ready and I’ll do something to them,” Beren replied.
We’re just passing time, and we both know it. If these weapons are really needed, that will mean the soldiers are dead and the city is as good as lost already. Beren started losing himself in his work. Gerald would come into his workroom at odd intervals with food or water. Beren would drink and eat dutifully and continue working almost without noticing the interruptions. He had to admit, the premise of being useful helped. He had rarely worked so quickly or so well, and it wasn’t long before an odd assortment of weapons was piled up next to his worktable, each with a rune of strength or quickness engraved into it. He almost made himself believe, if he could just get enough weapons runed, somehow, everything would be okay.
It was late in the afternoon when Beren got up and stretched. He’d never worked so long in one sitting before. He usually got caugh
t up in a discussion with Jerik or Gerald about some new idea or a particularly exciting match. He realized he hadn’t seen either his friend or his son in hours. Time for a break, he told himself.
Suddenly he heard a scream from the front room of the shop. A moment later his door was kicked in, and a tall man in unfamiliar leather armor burst in. It never even occurred to Beren to defend himself with his talent. He reached for the nearest thing at hand, one of his carving tools, and threw it at the man. It bounced off his breastplate, and the man only laughed before smashing his fist into Beren’s stomach. The edges of his vision started to go black. Beren teetered on his feet for a moment before falling over. The enemy soldier stepped over him and raised his sword, preparing for a killing blow. A soldier, yes, that’s who that is. So the city is already lost. They are inside the walls. And that scream from the front room . . . Beren was near panicking as his mind connected the events. He reached back and grabbed the first thing he could and swung it at the man’s legs. A moment later the Abolian’s armored weight crashed down on top of Beren.
Convinced that he would soon be dead, Beren struggled to push his assailant off. Then he noticed the soldier attacking him wasn’t moving. He tried to shift the man off him and was surprised when the man rolled off him easily, his body limp. A sword was still buried in the man’s leg—the sword he’d been experimenting with for weeks. A small patch of blood was visible where it had slipped through the joint behind the knee and pierced the skin. Poor workmanship that. Still, not a deep wound, nothing life-threatening certainly, he thought, before his mind snapped back to the here and now. His eyes went back to the sword. A dozen runes on the blade still shone at full power. Beren reluctantly reached for the hilt. What have I created? He pulled the blade out and inspected it carefully, first with his eyes, then with his talent.
The internal network he had traced inside the blade was brimming with power. The almost absurd profusion of runes he had carved into the blade were slowly activating, one after the other. All of that energy drained from the unfortunate man who let me prick him with it. He checked the soldier carefully, expecting him to jump up and attack again at any moment. But there was no denying it. Beren’s sword had killed the man by barely cutting into the skin of his leg.
The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 11
