Hammer and Bolter 17

by Christian Dunn

  Thunder grumbled and the grey sky looked swollen and ill as Dubnitz looked up at it. ‘Sacrifices,’ he said. ‘As in more than one, you mean.’

  ‘Stromfels is a hungry god,’ Goodweather said. ‘He is as hungry as the ocean and twice as wild.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ Ambrosius said, sheathing his sword. ‘These amulets then are… what? Signs of his favour?’

  ‘That poor bastard didn’t seem very favoured to me,’ Dubnitz said, nodding towards the body of the former shark-man. Several more of Goodweather’s fellow priests surrounded the body and were engaged in a purification ritual involving sea-salt and crushed seagull bones. ‘More surprised really,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’ Goodweather said, looking annoyed.

  He looked again at the necklaces. ‘They’re all the same, aren’t they?’ he said.

  ‘What are you getting at, Dubnitz?’ Ambrosius said.

  ‘They’re all the same!’ Dubnitz said, gesturing to the teeth. He grabbed one of the amulets and pulled the cord tight. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘It’s made of horse hair,’ Goodweather said, looking puzzled.

  ‘Not what it’s made of but how it was made,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I grew up in the Tannery, remember?’ Located in the maze of streets that played host to the city’s tanneries, the Tannery was a squalid, foul-smelling territory and the gangs of mule-skinners and cat’s meat-men who made it their home were as dangerous as any dock-tough or river-rat. ‘Weave-men have particular ways of making cords. It’s like a signature of sorts.’

  ‘And these all have the same signature,’ Goodweather said, examining the others. She looked at him in shock. ‘Manann carry me, but your head might be useful for something other than balance.’

  ‘Now do you forgive me?’ he said. She glared at him but didn’t reply. Dubnitz looked at Ambrosius. ‘These were all made by the same person,’ he said.

  ‘I gathered, thank you,’ Ambrosius said. ‘The question would be, who?’

  ‘No idea,’ Dubnitz said, grinning. ‘But I know how to find out.’ Dubnitz pointed towards one of the large marble statues of Manann that stood watch around the temple square. ‘If anyone will know where these are coming from it’s that little mud-puppy,’ he said, indicating the boy who was crouched on the statue and watching the goings-on in the square. His blue coat was unbuttoned, likely because the brass buttons had been pawned. A ragged sash was wrapped around his waist, with a rust-dotted sailing knife thrust through it. Bare feet and fingers clung to Manann’s marble beard, despite the rain.

  The blue-coats were omnipresent on the streets of Marienburg, especially when there was trouble afoot. If there was a riot or a festival or a brawl, they’d be there, on the fringes. People no longer even noticed them. Whether orphaned or abandoned, they all wore the same blue-dyed coats given to them by the priests who ran the Tar Street workhouses, and they all scampered through the streets like miniature northern savages, yelping and howling when those houses emptied for the evening.

  ‘What would a street-cur know about Stromfels?’ Ambrosius said.

  ‘Likely a surprising amount,’ Dubnitz said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘You wouldn’t believe what people let slip around little shell-like ears.’ Without waiting for a reply, Dubnitz strode towards the statue. When he reached it, he looked up at the boy. ‘Renaldo, you little snake. Get down here. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Talk to me from down there, steel-fish,’ Renaldo said, sticking out his tongue. Renaldo was a regular face in the Temple of Manann. Dubnitz knew he begged alms from the merchants and picked the pockets of drunken seamen in the square. He’d boxed the boy’s ears more than once for trying the latter on Dubnitz himself.

  Dubnitz grunted. ‘I have a job for you, you ungrateful little eel.’

  ‘Does it pay in food or fancies?’ Renaldo said, shimmying along Manann’s outthrust arm. He hung upside down from the extended trident, his dark eyes narrowed cunningly.

  ‘Both. Either,’ Dubnitz said. He let the shark’s tooth amulet dangle from his fingers. The effect on Renaldo was immediate. The boy hissed like the stray cat he resembled and scooted back up the statue. Dubnitz blinked. ‘That was unexpected. Renaldo, get back here!’

  ‘I ain’t taking that, steel-fish! I saw what those things do!’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Dubnitz pressed, circling the statue in pursuit of the boy.

  ‘They’re cursed!’ Renaldo barked.

  ‘Yes, well, I need to know where they’re coming from,’ Dubnitz said. ‘You don’t have to fondle the damn thing, just tell me where they’re coming from!’

  ‘Ikel!’ Renaldo crowed, eyeing Dubnitz suspiciously from behind Manann’s crown.

  ‘What’s an Ikel?’ Dubnitz said.

  ‘It’s not a what, steel-fish, it’s a who,’ Renaldo said. He stood on Manann’s shoulder and leaned against the statue’s head. ‘Ikel the marsh-man. He came into the Tannery about a week ago. He’s been shilling those teeth in the Beggar’s Market. Oleg the blind beggar tried to filch a few and Ikel cut him a sharp smile over his kidneys.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time Oleg had to digest a bit of steel,’ Dubnitz grunted. ‘The Beggar’s Market, you say?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘What’s Ikel look like? Is he an inked-up gentleman, perchance?’

  ‘Like a squid shat on him,’ Renaldo said, nodding.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Best scarper Renaldo, lest the Marsh Watch get hold of you.’ Dubnitz watched the boy slide away into the growing dusk and turned back to Ambrosius and Goodweather. ‘Beggar’s Market,’ he called out, tossing the amulet up and catching it. ‘Fellow called Ikel.’

  ‘You have a way with children,’ Goodweather said.

  ‘I’m something of a hero to the downtrodden, yes,’ Dubnitz said, puffing out his chest.

  ‘Be that as it may, is the boy’s information good?’ Ambrosius demanded. ‘Can we trust it?’

  ‘As much as anything heard on the streets,’ Dubnitz said, tossing the necklace back to Goodweather. ‘I think Ikel was here earlier. Watching the festivities.’

  Ambrosius’s eye narrowed. ‘Hnf. Priestess Goodweather?’

  ‘Stromfels is an enemy of Manann,’ Goodweather said, dumping the necklaces into the pouch on her belt. ‘Our missionaries in the marshes and in the north have been attacked before.’

  Ambrosius sighed. ‘Fine. You two will go to the Beggar’s Market. Find this Ikel. Take him into custody.’ He looked at Dubnitz. ‘That means I want him alive, Dubnitz.’

  ‘But of course, Lord Justicar,’ Dubnitz said, banging a fist against his cuirass smartly.

  ‘You want me to go with him?’ Goodweather said, her tone implying that she hadn’t heard Ambrosius correctly.

  ‘You have worked together before, yes?’ Ambrosius said, pulling on his horse’s reins and turning about. ‘Far be it from me to break up a successful partnership. Get me Ikel.’

  ‘But–’ Goodweather began, following Ambrosius.

  ‘And do hurry,’ Ambrosius said, ignoring the priestess.

  ‘But-but–’ Goodweather said, watching Ambrosius ride away.

  Dubnitz coughed into his fist. Goodweather turned and glared at him. ‘What?’ Dubnitz said.

  ‘Let’s just be about this,’ Goodweather snarled.

  Luckily, the Tannery was close to the docklands. Marienburg was in a tumult. The streets were packed with people fleeing in one direction or another; some sought the safety of the temples while others huddled in taverns and shops. Though the shark-things were few, the rumours of them were flying thick through the canal-streets. Looters were mistaken for daemon-worshippers and the armoured knights of the Order of Manann for the black-iron clad warriors of the north. Mobs of panic-stricken citizens burned the buildings of their neighbours as old grudges blossomed into violence. Through it all, the rain pounded down like the tears of Marienburg’s many gods.

  Several times Dubnitz was forced to fend off the attentions of the opportunistic and t
error-maddened. His sword was heavy with blood as he forced Goodweather through the throngs clogging the streets. However, those throngs thinned as they entered the Tannery, eventually disappearing entirely.

  The Beggar’s Market occupied a natural meeting point between several side streets in the Tannery. The stink of boiling fat and rotting meat was thick on the wet air. The streets were empty of life, save the scrabbling of rats in the gutters. Something crashed in the distance. Dubnitz wondered if another of the shark-things was loose somewhere. Ambrosius had said as much. The thought made his muscles tense. The haze of still-burning fires danced above the rooftops like a false dawn.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Goodweather said. She had her hood pulled low, and the symbol of Manann was displayed prominently on her chest. ‘I should be at the temple. There are things to be done.’

  ‘Are they more important than countering the machinations of the minions of the shark-god?’ Dubnitz said, his palm resting on his sword hilt. Drying blood dotted his armour, hiding the piscine designs beneath red splashes.

  ‘Minions,’ Goodweather repeated, looking at him.

  ‘What would you call them?’ Dubnitz said.

  Goodweather merely shook her head and looked around. Empty stalls lined the walls of the buildings on either side of the street. On any other night, rain or not, those stalls would be crammed with men and women selling their wares. The Beggar’s Market was almost a parody of the great mercantile squares that occupied other parts of Marienburg. Here was where the poor came to buy and sell their pitiful wares; they were doing neither tonight.

  ‘How do we tell which stall we’re looking for? And where is everyone?’ Goodweather said.

  ‘As to the latter, I can only guess. But as to the former… there!’ He pointed. The shark’s jaws were larger than any beast Dubnitz had had the misfortune to meet in the sea or otherwise. They spread wide on a rough cut wooden post mounted over a dingy stall. ‘They’re not a subtle folk, these worshippers of the shark-god.’

  ‘No,’ Goodweather said grimly. ‘Stromfels is as subtle as the oncoming storm.’

  ‘And as remorseless,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That explains that. The people of the Tannery have always had a nose for trouble. They go to ground like rats when trouble rears its head.’ He held up a hand. ‘Hsst…we’re being watched,’ he said softly. Goodweather twitched and looked around, her fingers sliding towards the knife on her belt.

  ‘Why didn’t the Lord Justicar send any men with us?’ she muttered. The knife in her hand was hooked and serrated, the blade engraved with the name of Manann.

  ‘Probably because he had none to spare, Goodweather,’ Dubnitz said, his eyes flickering across the street. ‘The whole city is going up in flames and inundated with monsters. Finding one man, no matter how important, isn’t high on his list of priorities.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee that Ikel is even here!’ Goodweather snapped, looking around warily.

  ‘So who’s watching us then, hmm?’ Dubnitz said. The two of them had moved back to back instinctively. The rain had picked up, coming down now in semi-opaque sheets. Thunder snarled and then, the deep tolling rolled through Dubnitz’s bones. Goodweather gasped and clutched at her chest. The puddles of water collecting on the street rippled and the rain wavered into weird shapes.

  Shapes rose suddenly from the street, clad in rags and trash, their faces masked by blackened peat bags. Swords, axes and clubs were gripped tight in grimy hands. In silence, they rushed towards the duo. Dubnitz drew his sword and chopped upwards into an attacker’s skull in one smooth motion, cutting the man in two from chin to pate. He turned as another, carrying a rusty billhook, leapt wildly at Goodweather. The priestess flung out a hand, and a fistful of fish-scales drifted towards her attacker. The flimsy, tiny scales pierced the man’s chest, arms and face like tiny arrows, leaving blisters and burns in their wake. The man screamed and fell, clawing at himself. Goodweather swept her hooked knife out and cut his throat with one economic bend of her elbow.

  Dubnitz shoved her aside as an axe dropped towards her head. He caught the blade on his own, and sparks dripped into his face as the two weapons slid across one another with a squeal. He kicked out and was rewarded with the sound of snapping bone. The axe-man fell, and Dubnitz caught him on the back of the neck with his sword. The head rolled loose into the gutter.

  There was a scream from behind him and as he turned he saw a cultist stagger, clawing at the billhook sticking up from his back. Goodweather put a boot and jerked the confiscated weapon loose. Dubnitz inclined his head and she gave him a sharp nod. Then, her eyes widened and she hurled the billhook.

  Dubnitz cursed and fell backwards. The billhook scraped across his cuirass as it caught his attacker in the throat, dropping the man into a heap. ‘Nice throw,’ he said, straightening up and turning towards her.

  ‘Not really,’ she said, as the last of their attackers pressed the edge of his notched cutlass to her throat meaningfully.

  ‘Drop your sword,’ the man growled, his voice muffled by his mask.

  ‘No,’ Dubnitz said, starting forward.

  ‘I’ll kill her,’ the other said.

  ‘He’ll kill me,’ Goodweather added.

  ‘No he won’t,’ Dubnitz said, drawing closer, the rain pattering across his armour.

  ‘He won’t?’ Goodweather said.

  ‘I will!’ the cultist said.

  ‘You won’t,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Because if you do kill her, I’ll hurt you for it.’

  ‘I do not fear death,’ the cultist said.

  ‘I didn’t say anything about death. I said I’d hurt you. And I will. I will personally oversee your sentence in the Temple of Manann. I will put the Question to you again and again, until you are nothing more than shark-chum. Your every moment will be an eternity of agony, my friend, and I will not let it end,’ Dubnitz said mildly. He stopped and extended his sword. ‘It’s your choice, of course.’

  The cultist shoved aside Goodweather with a cry and launched himself at Dubnitz. Dubnitz beat aside the cutlass with an almost gentle gesture and spun around, swatting the man on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. The cultist dropped onto the water-logged street like a pole-axed ox. Dubnitz looked at Goodweather, who was rubbing her throat. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Nice speech,’ she said.

  ‘I meant every word,’ he said softly.

  ‘Of course you meant it. You always mean what you say, when you say it. That’s the problem, Erkhart,’ Goodweather said. Dubnitz fell silent. He occupied himself with jerking the cultist to his feet and shaking him into sensibility.

  ‘Up,’ Dubnitz barked. The man groaned and Dubnitz prodded him with the tip of his sword. ‘Where’s Ikel? Did he know we were coming?’

  The cultist didn’t answer, shaking his head. Dubnitz lifted the man’s chin with his sword. ‘Talk, or I’ll begin carving the Litanies of the Sea on you, friend. And my friend here has enough salt to do the job properly.’

  ‘Erkhart…’ Goodweather began.

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dubnitz said, glancing at her. She shook her head.

  ‘So do I. Hold him,’ she said. As Dubnitz swung the weakly struggling cultist around, Goodweather scooped up two handfuls of rainwater. She murmured into her cupped hands, and the water bubbled in a strange fashion as she placed it beneath the cultist’s nose. Steam rose from the water. ‘Take off his mask,’ she said. Dubnitz complied. The cultist was a pale faced, pop-eyed man, with strange ritualistic scars on his cheeks and forehead. The steam wavered in the rain and then plunged up into his nose and eyes. The cultist shuddered and gurgled.

  The hairs on the back of Dubnitz’s neck rose as the body in his grip went slack. ‘What are you–’ he began. Goodweather silenced him with a look.

  Finally, she stepped back. ‘Release him.’

  Dubnitz did, and gladly. The prayers of the servants of Manann were a strange, wild thing and though he served the god, Dubnitz knew that
there were mysteries that he would never be privy to. The cultist jerked back and forth, gurgling. ‘Lead us to Ikel,’ Goodweather said, her face slick with rain and sweat. Her eyes showed the strain of what she was doing. The cultist spun and staggered, like a marionette. Then, with a moan, he stumbled off.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Goodweather said hoarsely. Dubnitz followed her.

  ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘A simple trick, though I’ve never tried it with anything larger than a seagull,’ she said. She rubbed her head. ‘As long as the steam stays in him, he’ll do as we say. Manann will compel him. But once it escapes…’

  ‘Hopefully he’ll get us to where we need to go then,’ Dubnitz said.

  The cultist led them on a crooked, circuitous route through the Tannery. As they entered a badly lit cul-de-sac, the deep, black tolling happened again, and it made Dubnitz’s head feel as if it were fit to burst. Goodweather grabbed her head and nearly sank to her knees. Prayers to Manann burst from her lips in desperate speed. The cultist shuddered to a stop as it happened, steam rising from his ears, mouth and nose. The street seemed to be submerged beneath murky water and vast, terrifying shapes slid between the buildings, swimming from shadow to shadow.

  Dubnitz opened his mouth to speak, and bubbles flowed into the air around his head. The rain had become something else entirely. His limbs felt sluggish and leaden and as the echoes of the deep boom faded, and those immense, terrible shapes shot past and over him into the city faster than any bird, the world snapped back to normality.

  Goodweather clutched at her amulet, her thumbs pressed tight to the trident symbol of Manann. She looked at him, her face pale and her eyes wide with horror. Dubnitz knew that his own face was likely the mirror image of hers, but he shook it off.

  The cultist lay limp on the street, his body contorted and rigid. Dubnitz didn’t have to examine him to know he was dead. ‘I think we’ve found the place,’ he rasped.

  The store front had seen better years. It was shabby even by the standards of the Tannery and it smelled of rotting fish. A number of the latter had been nailed to the lintel, their blank eyes staring out at the street. It was only by looking carefully that Dubnitz could tell that the fish had been nailed up in the shape of Stromfels’s symbol. He felt cold and sick and he hesitated before the door.