Thief of the Ancients

by Mike Wild

  “No!” Kali shouted, pulling free of her captors. Determined to halt their progress, to prise Munch from his seat of power, she ran forwards, eliciting a warning cry from Slowhand. Munch looked at his clockwork bodyguards but then sniffed, as if using them was hardly worth the effort, and instead signalled to his people to turn their crossbows on Kali instead of Makennon – and fire. Their bolts slammed into her from every direction, the impacts forcing a series of grunts as she attempted to stagger on, and, though her reserves must have been considerable and she almost made it, she found herself faltering and staring at Munch with a look of pained surprise in her eyes. Munch sighed and drew his gutting knife from his belt, aiming it provocatively and directly at her.

  “No further, Miss Hooper.”

  “Damn you, you bas –” Kali began. But she never finished her curse. The knife flew with as much force as Munch could muster and embedded itself solidly in her chest. It stopped Kali quite literally dead in her tracks and, her breath whistling strangely, she looked dully down at the protruding blade – what little of it she could see – then, stunned and confused, dropped to her knees and, slowly, onto her face. A small groan escaped her, and, as a pool of blood began to spread ever more largely beneath her, one thought overrode all others.

  This wasn’t how she was meant to die.

  “Hooper?” Slowhand said.

  “Should you be thinking of trying the same, minstrel,” Munch advised, staring at the still and bloodied body, “there are plenty more bolts in my people’s possession.”

  Slowhand stared. The throne room was utterly silent apart from the roaring of the ogur as it battered at the bars of its cage with as much fury as the archer had in his eyes. No words were necessary, though, as Slowhand’s expression said it all. He was going to kill Munch – and very soon.

  The standoff was broken by Makennon.

  “Munch, this is insane! What if Hooper was right? If Belatron the Butcher – their creator – couldn’t control these things, what chance do you have?”

  Munch smiled, looked at his bodyguards and blinked. The four clockwork men stamped their feet as one, quaking the floor of the throne room.

  “He’s doing it,” Makennon said quietly to Slowhand. “He’s actually controlling them.”

  “Probably something to do with the fact that he’s as insane as they are. The question is, how long will it last?”

  Makennon tried to reason with Munch one last time.

  “Konstantin, he’s right. These things might obey you now but what about when you’ve razed Andon, Freiport, Scholten? Because that is what you want to do, isn’t it? But how strong will you be, then? What’s to stop your army going on to kill the very dwarves whose resurgence you desire? This is fantasy!”

  Munch glared. “You call me a fantasist? You, a religious zealot who clutches at any straw and follows any carrot that is dangled before her eyes? You pathetic woman – your whole reason for existence is a fantasy!”

  Makennon drew herself up to her full height. “I was a general, Konstantin Munch. It is my job to know when an army stands unfit to march.”

  “On the contrary,” Munch said. “It is my job to tell them when to.”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, and the massed ranks of clockwork warriors began to pound slowly towards the door. Their orders received, Munch opened his eyes, stared around at everyone in the throne room and then looked to his bodyguards. “Kill them all,” he ordered.

  All hells broke loose. Slowhand and Makennon staggered back as the four mechanical warriors began to systematically attack everyone who had been in the Anointed Lord’s party, their axes and hammers slicing and crushing, chopping and pounding, beating and tearing their bodies apart. Those that were armed tried to defend themselves with their crossbows and blades, and those that were not – the mages – with their fireballs and storms, desperately weaving cones of protection as they fought to keep their attackers back. Screams of agony echoed around the stone chamber, and its walls were splattered and sprayed with blood, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop themselves dying. Nothing at all.

  In his caged wagon, the ogur raged.

  “You little bastard!” Slowhand shouted, and, without thinking, began to run towards Munch, but Makennon pulled him back.

  “You’ll never get near him,” she said. “We have to get out of here.”

  Slowhand glared at her, knowing she was right. But still he shrugged her off, staring at Kali’s body.

  “I’m not leaving her down here.”

  “You won’t get near her, either, you fool – those things will tear you apart.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  Again, Makennon grabbed him, but this time by both arms and more forcefully, spinning him to face her. Her gaze – her intense gaze – was for a second no longer that of the Anointed Lord, aloof and ruthless, but that of a professional warrior, the general she used to be. In it was the sadness of one who had lost one of their own together with the harsh pragmatism that acknowledged that in what they did someone had to fall in battle. It was inevitable.

  “She’s dead, Lieutenant. The battle is lost. Anything else is suicide. Retreat with me. Now.”

  Slowhand was suddenly furious. “And where the hells do you suggest we retreat to, General? Have you any idea what your religious scheming has unleashed here? How many people on the peninsula are going to die?”

  “I don’t know! But there must be something that can be done to stop this. But first we need to retreat, regroup. You know that.”

  Slowhand swallowed. “There is something we can do,” he said, suddenly. He unslung his bow, quickly strung an arrow and aimed it at Munch’s head, squinting to get a bead through the clockwork warriors. “I might not be able to get near him but I can finish that bastard from right here.”

  But he didn’t loose the arrow. Because what he had just noticed was that in all the confusion the ogur had escaped its cage.

  And it, and Kali’s body, were gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE STORM OUTSIDE Martak had worsened dramatically since Kali and the others had entered the sub-aquatic complex, and was now in stark contrast to its shelter, making it seem almost welcoming despite the nightmare the place had been. Forks of lightning split a night sky blackened by the eclipse, the flashes of light so severe it seemed the universe was, with homicidal slashes, slicing itself apart. A freezing wind caught and flung back to the cliffs by the Stormwall chilled and cut straight to the bone. The wind did not prevent the heavy rain from hammering straight down, however, and it was the wet, cold crashes of the raindrops on her flesh that kept Kali from fading into the oblivion she knew was very close.

  She wasn’t dead, that much was clear, but neither did she have long to live – she could feel it in every fibre of her fading being. Her body had been battered too much, pierced too many times, and she had lost too much blood to hope – even with her newly discovered powers of recovery – to survive. The fact made her feel immensely sad. She had hoped to live long enough to make a difference, but she hadn’t. She had come so far, done so much, and yet she had failed.

  Failed herself. Failed Slowhand. Failed Twilight.

  Most of all, she had failed Merrit Moon.

  Her regret and diminishing consciousness was so debilitating that for a while it did not occur to her to question where she was. But then even she couldn’t ignore the violent shaking of her head any longer.

  She groaned, eyes attempting to take in her situation, but her view bouncing everywhere. Then, what vestige of fear of death remained in her already dying form cut through her much more sharply than any bolt or knife, including Munch’s, could ever have done. Because she saw that she was slung in the massive, green-tinted arms of a beast that was pounding up the cliff steps outside Martak, a beast that she dimly recognised – but mainly smelled – to be an ogur. What was more, the ogur was roaring, again and again and again.

  This was it, then. The moment.

 
; Her vision come true.

  It was too much for her. Finally, too much. She hadn’t asked for any of this, and she was no longer strong enough to fight the inevitable. With a great weariness and a long, drawn-out sigh that became hopelessly lost in the stormy night, Kali Hooper felt her body relax and then felt herself die.

  I’m sorry, old man...

  “THERE!” KILLIAM SLOWHAND shouted as he saw her slump in the ogur’s grip. “She’s there!”

  “Slowhand, keep back!” Makennon warned.

  Not a chance, Slowhand thought. The disappearance of Kali’s body had been the catalyst he’d needed to flee Martak, his desire to rid Twilight of Konstantin Munch overwhelmed by his concern for his ex. He and Makennon had made for the exit just before Munch’s army had begun their slow march through it and, frankly, he had all but forgotten about the dwarf and didn’t much care. But if there was anything he could do to stop Kali suffering at the hands of this thing that, for whatever reason, had taken her, then he would do it.

  He flung himself over riser after riser, pursuing the ogur all the way to the top of the cliffs, and there stood panting heavily, watching in disbelief as the ogur laid Kali’s body gently down onto the rocky ground. Nevertheless, he ran forwards, attempting to shield her from whatever was the beast’s intent, but the hulking creature batted him away like some buzzing insect, sending him smashing into nearby rocks. Slowhand picked himself up, wiped blood from his mouth and, roaring, went for the ogur a second time, but a loud roar from the beast that was much, much louder than his own – not to mention a steely grip on his arm from the now caught-up Makennon – held him back.

  Panting even more heavily, Slowhand unslung his bow and aimed an arrow directly between the ogur’s eyes, impossible to miss even though his grip wavered uncharacteristically with grief and fury. The pouring rain slicking down his hair, running in rivulets down his face and reminding him so much of the walkway on Scholten Cathedral. He addressed the beast through clenched teeth.

  “Leave – her – alone.”

  The ogur stared directly at him, an unexpectedly sad and thoughtful expression in its eyes making him falter in his intent. And then, while the still-wavering Slowhand shook his head to shake the water from his eyes, the ogur did something he hadn’t expected at all. It pulled the crossbow bolts and the gutting knife from Kali’s body, tossed them aside and then removed a strange blue amulet from around its neck and instead strung it about hers. It deliberately let go of the amulet – almost as if it were giving it to her – and then, after a few seconds, touched it again.

  Again, the ogur stared at him, and somehow Slowhand knew it was asking him to wait.

  Somewhere behind those primal eyes, Merrit Moon saw the desperate figure of Killiam Slowhand, continued to struggle for dominance of his transformed body and prayed the archer would give him time. He had no idea whether what he was about to try would work – as far as he knew scythe-stones had never been used twice, or in such a way – but if it did then Kali Hooper would live again.

  His action would come at a price, though. The transference of his own life essence to Kali would likely kill him in turn, but even if it did not – if Thrutt had made him strong enough – then it would leave him so weak that he would no longer be able to fight the assertion of the ogur within, and he could be trapped within its form for the rest of his life. But it seemed a fair and just trade – after all, it was he who was responsible for her being here in the first place, was it not? Besides, she was his Kali – the closest thing to a daughter he had – so what choice was there, really?

  He actually willed his life away.

  A blue wisp appeared between ogur and corpse, and, feeling its hungry tug like a meathook through his heart, Merrit Moon had to struggle against his own instinct to survive, forcing himself to remain where he was as the process continued. The wisp became a snake, and then a cloud that filled the air between them, and then Kali’s body took on a blue glow as it became suffused with the stuff of himself. Moon felt suddenly as if he had been folded inside out and pulled away, and then the cloud was snatched into Kali, and then it became a snake and a wisp once more, and then it was gone. The sound of the amulet doing what it did – a long sigh – was echoed by one of his own, and then his body slumped to the ground with a thud, breathing shallowly.

  Kali Hooper’s eyes snapped open. She coughed. And then she sat up, abruptly, ramrod straight.

  “Great gods,” Slowhand whispered.

  “Lord of All,” Makennon said.

  “Slowhand?” Kali asked.

  The archer scurried to her side. His voice trembled, partly in wonder at what he had just witnessed, partly in thanks that – somehow – he had Kali back. “H-hey, how you doing?”

  “Ohhhh, you know...” Kali said weakly. “You?”

  “Ohhhh, you know. Fled certain death, watched you come back from it, now starting to wonder once again whether we have a chance of stopping an invincible clockwork army intent on destroying the world – in other words, your usual.” He hesitated, looked doubtful. “You up to speed with this?”

  “Unnh. A-ha.” Kali coughed again and held her chest, from where she found her fatal wound had gone. And as she did, she caught sight of the figure beside her, and scrambled back on the ground.

  “It’s all right... I think,” Slowhand said. “I don’t know how or why but... the ogur helped you.”

  “Helped?” Kali said, puzzled. She picked herself up, her own metabolism aiding the effects of the amulet, and studied the creature. It was weak but conscious, and its face seemed almost to ripple before her eyes, caught somewhere between the beast she thought it was and something heart-thuddingly familiar. She touched the amulet around her neck, remembered seeing it on the old man, then moved to touch the ogur’s face. And as she did, the ogur’s hand moved over hers and moved it gently down, much as another had in the Warty Witch a long, long time ago.

  Kali swallowed. There was something familiar there – and the eyes.

  “My gods,” she said. “Merrit?”

  “What?” Slowhand exclaimed.

  “It’s the old man,” Kali said, excitedly. “I don’t know how or why but he’s here, inside this, this... thing. The cave in the World’s Ridge, where I last saw him – he didn’t die!”

  “Oh, Hooper, come on –”

  “Your friend is correct,” Makennon said. “Munch told me how this happened, about an artefact. Its effects are meant to be temporary but...”

  Kali looked at the ogur, concerned. What had, a moment before, seemed so familiar in its eyes was fading, as if Moon were going away, and as she watched the spark in them faded to something feral – the eyes that she remembered from the beasts in the cave. The ogur emitted a dull growl, then, and as if afraid something worse might follow, roughly shoved her away, rose and stomped along the cliff.

  “We have to do something to help him,” Kali said.

  “Hooper, I’m not sure we can,” Slowhand cautioned. “It seems to me that in doing what he did he’s sacrificed something.”

  “Like what?” Kali said.

  Slowhand looked grave. “Like himself.”

  “Then let us hope his sacrifice has not been in vain,” Makennon said. Her attention had been drawn by a series of quaking thuds from far below. “Because they’re coming.”

  The three of them turned to look down the steps leading to Martak, and at their base saw that the first units of mechanical warriors had completed their slow march from the throne room and emerged from the cowl. They marched in the same organised lines of five, in rank after rank after rank, filling the jetty with their broad bodies, metal feet pounding into the stone, and, as they gradually drew closer to the steps, rocks at the top of the cliffs began to tremble and shed scree that bounced and skittered below.

  Their assault on the peninsula would soon begin.

  “We have to stop them,” Slowhand said.

  “Oh brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.”

  “I see the old
Hooper is indeed back.”

  “Well, honestly...”

  “If you two are finished,” Makennon said, “I think someone’s already ahead of us on that one.” She pointed a little way along the clifftop, where the ogur was pushing its shoulder into a boulder that balanced there, clearly trying to dislodge it and send it crashing below.

  “I think it knows what it’s doing,” Makennon said.

  “Damn right,” Kali said, smiling. “The old man’s still in there somewhere.”

  “Well, are we just going to stand here or are we going to help it?” Slowhand enquired.

  “Him,” Kali corrected.

  “Fine, him. Come on!”

  The three of them joined the ogur behind the boulder and leant their weight to pushing it, and with a dull rumble the giant piece of rock dislodged from its perch and went tumbling away, bouncing first off rocks and then onto the stone steps. With a series of crashes that were audible even over the storm, it continued down, bouncing two then three steps at a time, then more, gathering momentum as it went.

  The mechanical warriors did not even react to its approach, their minds – Munch’s mind – intent on their single imperative of reaching the surface and the humans who dwelled there. The boulder smashed into their front rank and sent five warriors staggering back, causing a knock-on effect behind them, and as the giant rock continued to roll through the second and third ranks their relentless march was momentarily thrown into confusion, the affected warriors trying to recover from the impact, those behind attempting to march on around them. Then, in unison, five of the giant dwarven battle hammers were swung at the boulder and it was shattered first to rubble and then, to dust. The warriors’ march continued, the damage to them insignificant.

  “We need more boulders,” Slowhand declared. He repeated the statement more loudly to the ogur as if, somehow, being an ogur made it deaf. He then pointed at more boulders, just to make himself extra clear, but the ogur had already stomped towards them of his own volition. “Yes, more boulders!” Slowhand agreed needlessly.