‘OK,’ I say. ‘Just listen to Ronin. Don’t give in to it.’
We stumble out through the doors of Happy Tom Tom, Kyle draped in between us, and drag him through the streets, Ronin and I both with guns out and ready to shoot anything that moves. Thankfully nothing tries to stop us and we make it to the docks. The door of a blue van parked in the shadows slides open and Tone and Katinka jump out to help us. We drag Kyle into the van and lie him down on the floor.
The Witch appears with an assault rifle slung over her shoulder.
‘We need King,’ Ronin says, checking Kyle’s pulse. ‘The kid’s going to die without him.’
The Witch shakes her head. ‘He’s not part of this operation. Malachi has ordered a full investigation into him. My hands are tied.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Ronin slams his hand into the door of the van. ‘I can’t believe you’ve turned into a yes-man. You used to stand for something.’
The Witch sniffs and shakes her head. ‘Naivety. We do what we can.’
‘You’re going to let the Legion dictate to you whether some kid lives or dies? What about all those kids that died at Hexpoort? Would you go against Malachi to save them?’
The Witch’s dark eyes shine moistly in the dim light. ‘Those were my kids,’ she says hoarsely.
‘He’s just like them,’ I say, standing in front of her. ‘He’s just like me. I’m one of your kids. And I promise you that if you let that beanpole in there die, I will never, ever recover. You might as well shoot me, because I’ll be dead too.’
She stares at me for a long moment and then nods. ‘I’ll call King.’
We sit and wait. I wedge myself in next to Kyle and hold his hand.
‘Bax,’ he says woozily. ‘This shit is amazing. The fractals. Incredible.’
‘Nice.’ I put my hand on his forehead. ‘Just stay with us. Don’t give in to it.’
‘I’m magic,’ he says, and tries to waggle his fingers, but he struggles to lift his hand.
‘Yeah. You are. I can’t believe I ever doubted that.’
‘What I said about Esmé,’ he says, and looks up wide-eyed like he’s staring at angels. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about that now.’
‘It wasn’t easy for her, Bax, she told me that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I need to sleep,’ he says. ‘This trip is way too wild.’
‘No.’ I slap his face. ‘No you don’t.’
I hear the roar of a motorbike pulling up and turn to see King climbing off a Harley. He removes his black helmet and hurries over to us carrying an old leather medical bag.
He takes Kyle’s pulse, opens his eyelids gently with his claws and shines a light into them, then nods. He produces a vial of blue liquid, forces Kyle’s mouth open, and pours it in.
Kyle gurgles and thrashes, and then stiffens and lies completely still.
I rush over, but King stops me.
‘Is he …?’ I ask, tears prickling in my eyes.
‘He’s going to be OK,’ King says with a smile. ‘It was touch and go there for a second, but he’ll pull through.’
Relief floods through me and I wrap my arms around King’s furry bulk. He purrs and scratches his claws gently through my hair. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘He’s going to be fine.’
We leave Kyle sleeping on the floor of the van and join the group assembled outside under a low concrete overhang. Nom bounds up to me and grabs me in a hug. ‘That was some crazy shit, Bax. Goblins everywhere shooting at us, then this group of tourists started attacking us. Then some of the agents went batshit insane and had to be restrained. Or killed.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I say and catch Ronin’s glance out of the corner of my eye. He pulls out his hip flask and refills it from a bottle in a brown bag.
King gives the Witch a terse nod.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she says. There’s tension between them. I guess suspending a member of your staff at the command of the dwarven military doesn’t exactly make for harmonious relations.
‘Have we managed to ascertain where Lefkin is?’ she asks, turning to me to get away from those large, accusing feline eyes.
‘He’s in the sewers,’ I say.
The Witch frowns. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I’m not sure. I saw sewers, and some kind of facility beneath the city. It looked old and run-down.’
She scratches her chin. ‘There are bunkers that the apartheid government built down there, long since sealed off.’
‘It definitely looked military,’ I say.
‘It’s the only lead we’ve got. Tone, establish contact with the dwarven assault team.’
Tone speaks a few phrases of dwarven into a two-way radio. A reply comes back and he grinds his teeth in frustration. ‘The dwarven rendezvous point has been compromised,’ he says. ‘The Flock found them.’
Katinka swears and stubs out her cigarette in the dirt. ‘I’ve never had much fondness for my murderous sisters, but going over to this madman is a new low.’
‘A small team of dwarves escaped and will meet us at the old sewer entrance at the foreshore. There aren’t enough of them to do it alone. They’re going to need backup.’
The Witch gives us all a grim look. ‘Welcome to the new assault team. We’re going to need each one of you. King, I know I have no right to ask you to join us, but we could really do with your help.’
King crosses his hands in front of his belly. ‘Well, I hardly think this is the time to hold grudges,’ he says. ‘I will join you.’
We pile into the blue van and head towards the foreshore. Kyle is conscious and he looks up at me with a smile. ‘Hey, Bax. I had the most insane dreams.’
‘I know how that feels,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’
‘We going to kick some ass?’ he asks, sitting up groggily. ‘I want to stab some more things.’
‘Easy,’ I say, holding him up. ‘We need you here to radio back to us.’
‘No way. I’m not sitting out while you have all the fun.’
If I thought it would have any effect, I would point out to him that diving into the sewers on the trail of a mutilated Crow wearing a crown of human teeth is not everyone’s idea of fun.
‘Listen.’ I hold him by the shoulders. ‘Remember when we were in the Spider and you trusted me? You trusted what I said and the decisions I made.’
‘Yeah,’ he says sullenly.
‘Well, you have to trust me now. You have to stay here. Let us know if there’s trouble topside so that we don’t get trapped down in the sewers.’
‘OK,’ Kyle says with a sigh. ‘I’ll stay.’
I draw Anatole. ‘You take this. You might need to protect yourself.’
We pull up in a dingy part of the foreshore next to six dwarves on four-wheeler bikes. They look like they’ve seen better days. All of them have wounds and one clutches his arm limply against his body.
‘Fucking flying bitches,’ says their leader, a squat auburn-haired dwarf wearing a black bandanna across his mouth. He looks across at Katinka. ‘They took us by surprise. We killed them all eventually but we sustained heavy casualties.’ He jerks his head to the five members of his team. ‘This is all that’s left.’
‘It’ll have to be enough,’ the Witch says. ‘If we don’t stop this, the whole city is going to tear itself apart, and then God knows where it’ll spread to.’
We leave Kyle at the van and follow a concrete ramp to where a large sewer leads out to sea. The dwarves manoeuvre their quad bikes down and blast away an old rusted gate.
‘We’ll scout ahead,’ the dwarf leader says as we group together in front of the dark tunnel.
Their bikes rev and wheelspin in the shallow water and then they disappear. We follow, trudging through the watery grime, the high-powered torch that Tone carries illuminating the graffitied sewer. It smells of salt and rotting seaweed.
Headlights blind u
s as the dwarves return. ‘We’ve got tracks. Goblins, a lot of them,’ the lead dwarf says. ‘Expect hostile engagement.’
‘Always do, buddy.’ Ronin slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Always do.’
We move forward, the dwarves cutting through the grime in a spearhead formation. I have Legba clutched in my right hand and I look around nervously.
‘How you doing, Kyle?’ I whisper into my mike.
‘OK,’ he replies. ‘Saw a group of old people attacking a security guard. It’s getting crazy up here.’
‘Well, down here is dirty and gross.’ I step over a dead seagull.
‘Good,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Shit. I’ve got to go. There’s someone coming.’
‘Be careful,’ I whisper as the line goes dead.
I’m so lulled by the monotonous action of sloshing through the dirt and grime that when the first burst of gunfire erupts I almost drop Legba. The Witch holds up a fist and we spread out through the sewer, guns at the ready. The dwarves’ assault rifles are lighting up in loud bursts but I can’t see what they’re shooting at. That is until what they’re shooting at comes running towards us in a wild, loping group. Halzigs. Lots of them. They look grey in the torchlight but still menacing.
One of them bats aside the Witch’s gun and throws her against the wall. Tone whistles and chirrups and his sonic magic slams into the back of the Witch’s attacker and send him sprawling.
I bring my gun up, but it’s knocked aside by another of the monsters and suddenly I’m in a fist fight with a Halzig. It’s not a good place to be. He kicks and I block with my leg, a muay thai block, but the force of the blow shudders through my skeletal system like a jackhammer.
I bob and weave and slam a couple of jabs into his face, but they don’t have much effect except pissing him off. A surge of confidence flows through me but is unfortunately cut short by a Halzig uppercut to the sternum that drops me to my knees. My fighting ability is reduced to cowering and covering up desperately as a volley of hard shots smash into me. I roll back, scissor his legs between mine and drag him to the floor.
I am grateful for every lesson that the Boer gave me, grateful for every shovel of dirt, every session on the heavy bag. Because it allows me to hold off the brutal attack. Not well, not gracefully, but I hold it off and stop myself from being killed. Which is enough for me.
The Halzig is sitting on top of me and trying to rain down crushing punches on my unprotected face. I wrap my legs around his waist and lock him in place, using my hands to try and control his wrists and stop him from pounding me. I punch him once in the groin, which gives me enough time to squirm out from underneath him. I catch his arm with my legs, grab the forearm with my hands and pull back. I strain, like I’m pulling the lever of a giant slot machine. The arm breaks with a satisfying crunch.
I draw the baton and snap it open. It seems to chuckle with glee in my hands. I spin it in my hands and circle the Halzig. One arm hangs uselessly at his side but he’s far from defenceless. As if to prove this, he picks up a large sharp rock with his good hand and launches it at me with the force of a rocket.
It catches me full on in the chest and I catapult backwards into the wall. The wall hits even harder than a Halzig and I drop the baton. I don’t see stars so much as an undulating wave of colours and shapes. At the same time I realise that the Halzig is heading towards me with unpleasant intentions.
His clawed hand grabs me around the neck and starts to choke me, and I scrabble for something to fight with. In desperation I reach into my mojo bag and pull out the spoon from Klipspringer’s ancestorguy. I hold it up in front of me and use it as a focus point. The Halzig grins. I draw a symbol in the air, and the Halzig’s face melts like acid has been poured on it. One of the Boer’s nastier combat spells. The monster screams and I push him over and jab the spoon through his melted eye socket. He jerks and goes still.
‘Nice,’ says Ronin, standing next to me and breathing hard. He is cut, and there’s a lump forming under his eye, but otherwise he’s OK. I suddenly feel incredibly fatigued and I grab his shoulder before I topple over. ‘You used a lot of energy with that spell.’ Ronin props me up. ‘Combined with the adrenalin of the fight, you’re going to collapse. Don’t use too much magic.’
‘OK,’ I say, breathing hard. I feel ill, like I’ve been running a marathon.
Ronin grins. ‘That’s why I prefer just to shoot them in the face.’
I fish my weapons out of the gunk of the tunnel and we regroup with the others. One of the dwarves was killed, and everyone has injuries.
‘Well that’s probably the worst of it, then,’ Ronin says. ‘A bunch of Halzigs. Seriously, what else can he have?’
I sigh. ‘You had to say that, didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Well, we know what’s going to happen now.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, sparky, you’re being superstitious.’
‘Every time you say something stupid like that, something awful happens.’
We wait for a few moments in silence, hands on weapons.
‘You see?’ Ronin says. ‘You’re being stupid and I’m going to prove it to you.
‘THE WORST IS OVER!’ he screams into the tunnel. ‘Come on, universe. Do your worst! I challenge you – no, I dare you! Jackie Ronin dares you to throw something at us.’
He turns back to me with a grin. ‘You see. Absolute bullshit. Try to think more logically. Science, not superstition, that’s the way forward.’
There is a rumble, followed by a hissing slither. We all look up in horror. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well that’s just lovely, Ronin, really lovely.’
The sewer system is full of fat, congealed fat; our modern diet of greasy food clogs our sewers as badly as it clogs our arteries. Rivers of the stuff begin to pour into the tunnels ahead of us, bringing parts of the city with it. Broken glass, pieces of metal, and other things that don’t dissolve when thrown down sinks and toilets, embedded in the swirling yellow, grey and beige mass.
‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘What’s happening? It’s something bad, isn’t it?’
‘Well, to unpack your question,’ King starts, ‘it’s not so much just blindly happening as—’
‘The short version, please,’ Ronin growls.
King sighs. ‘Yes, bad. The egregore has reached a critical mass and he’s using it to create nightmares.’
The fat continues to pour from the sewers into the tunnels. It seems to be held together by some kind of invisible force.
‘Can we destroy it?’ asks the Witch.
‘We can goddamn try,’ Ronin replies, and he sweeps the Blackfish from under his coat and fires in one smooth motion. The sound of the gunshot goes through my skull like a hammer and the intense ringing in my ears causes me to lose balance for a second.
‘We’re in a confined space,’ I say, shaking my head to try and get rid of the sound. ‘Some warning would have been great.’
Ronin grunts his indifference, his eyes on the fat. It seems entirely unperturbed at having been shot.
‘We’re going to have to hit it harder than that.’ The Witch’s voice is grim.
‘We need blood to channel enough magic to gut-punch that thing,’ Ronin says.
‘Well don’t look at me,’ I protest. ‘I’m an apprentice, not a blood sacrifice.’
‘Rats,’ Ronin says. ‘Or birds. There must be something in these sewers we can use.’
‘Actually there are several tribes of rat living here,’ Nom says matter-of-factly. ‘A complex socio-economic system. They use bottle caps as currency to—’
‘We need to catch some of them and bleed them dry,’ Ronin interrupts.
Nom’s nose seems to twitch like a bok-boy’s. ‘I will put your proposal to them,’ he says.
He rests his head against the wall and emits a series of squeaks. There’s a scratching sound, and dozens of rats squeeze themselves from a crack and assemble in front of us. Their spokesperson, a large grey rat with red eyes and a scar on it
s face, stands on its hind legs and addresses us.
‘Ambassador Sadler from the Seventh Tribe of Dust and Mud welcomes you. The Seventh Tribe has heard your pleas and graciously responds,’ Nom translates.
‘I could just grab them,’ Ronin whispers, eyeing the fat pooling in the tunnels ahead. ‘Stop yapping and let me grab them.’
Nom glares at him and chitters to the rats. The leader responds.
‘They say that they have felt the presence of the intruder in their realm. They have martyrs willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good.’
The rats present themselves to us, their necks bowed. It doesn’t exactly feel right, but the sangomas have no such qualms. Magic is a dirty and dangerous discipline.
Ronin grabs a handful of rats, slashes them open and drips blood on to the floor of the tunnels. He hands me a couple. ‘Take them,’ he says. ‘You’re going to need them for later.’ My nose crinkles in disgust.
Ambassador Sadler chirps angrily. ‘He says you dishonour their souls and deny them access to the Great Sewer if you do not use them,’ Nom says.
I take the dead rats and tie them by their tails to my belt.
The Witch opens her mojo bag and pulls out a rattling string of beads. She ties it to her ankle and stomps on the ground, and the beads snap sharply like a snare drum. She sets the beat and Tone picks it up by clapping his hands, a sharp, syncopated rhythm that echoes off the tunnel’s walls. Ronin nods his head, swaying from side to side like a gnarly old red tree in the breeze. They begin a droning call-and-response song, chanting in Xhosa, Zulu and Afrikaans. Their voices complement each other, not exactly harmonious, but strong and commanding.
A coiling mess of dirty yellow energy rises up from the rat blood and rushes towards the fat. When it hits, the mass is pulled apart, and for several seconds lumps of fat hang in the air like they’re suspended on a giant loom. Then it’s sucked back into shape again and the energy snaps out of existence with a high-pitched metallic ringing sound.
Ronin leans on his knees panting heavily and spits on the tunnel floor. Tone does some kind of breathing exercise, and even the Witch looks unsteady on her feet.
Kill Baxter Page 25
