by D. P. Prior
“Don’t forget, we have a contract.”—The sound of the wind whispering in his ears.
Didn’t quite account for the Archon, though. Weren’t even certain he had veins, never mind blood flowing in them, and if he ever shit, you could bet it didn’t stink. Weren’t clear to Shadrak exactly what he was, and that was never a good thing. Know your enemy, he always said. Or rather, know your target. Till he did, best thing to do was play along and pick up what tidbits of information he could.
“Not showing yourself today? C’mon, don’t be shy.”
Warm air blasted Shadrak’s back. He spun, pistol already in his hand.
The Archon hovered an inch above a pool of bubbling mud, hands tucked into the billowing brown sleeves of his habit. The cowl was like a cavern sheltering a bonfire.
“I need you to keep him alive.”
“Shader?”
“He must reach Sektis Gandaw’s mountain. You understand this?”
Shadrak twirled his pistol and holstered it. “Do it yourself, if it’s so important.”
“As I said, we have a contract.”
“Sue me.”
The Archon threw his hood back, and white fire burst forth.
Shadrak flung himself face-first on the ground. “All right, all right. Contract. I got you. Keep Shader alive.”
“The Deceiver is near. He knows we are failing, that our last hope is weakening. Return to Shader and be vigilant.” The Archon pulled his cowl back up.
Shadrak lifted his head, blinked to make sure he could still see, then climbed to his feet. “I ain’t stupid. I know I’m out of my depth with this stuff. What I don’t get is why you don’t do something yourself.”
“You are my hands and feet, Shadrak. You and certain others. I am of the world above. I dare not act directly, for justice would demand the same for my foe.”
“Yeah, but what if I—”
But the Archon was gone.
He’d been about to ask, “What if I fail? What if I can’t help stop this Unweaving?” Surely it was better to give the job to someone else. Someone who gave a damn. “Shogger.”
“Takes one to know one,” Rhiannon said. She strode straight past him without even a look.
“Guess that’s why they call me ‘the Unseen’,” Shadrak muttered under his breath.
So, the Archon was from some other realm, and he was afraid of acting directly in case someone else did the same. Someone presumably as powerful as him, if not more so. Didn’t take a lot to work out he was talking about the Demiurgos. Weren’t exactly much, but it was a start.
He turned to watch Rhiannon disappear into the mangroves. He supposed she must have enjoyed the hunchback’s company as much as he did. With any luck, she’d drown in quicksand, or get eaten by the three-headed bog beast. If he had an iota of Bovis Rayn’s faith, it would’ve been tempting to pray for that.
Heading back toward the camp, he gritted his teeth as Dave started up again, about how it was grace that had brought him here, grace that sent him to show Shader the way.
“Grace, my ass,” Shadrak muttered. He was about to add that it was more likely some capricious twist of fate, when a thought struck him. Grace didn’t transport freaks like Dave between the worlds, but he damned well knew what did.
He slipped the pistol from its holster as he stormed into the clearing. The hunchback was squatting by a sputtering fire that was more smoke than flame.
Shader stood apart from him at the edge of the camp, peering into the brush. “Rhia… Shadrak, did you see—”
“That way.” Shadrak cocked a thumb behind him. “Prob’ly yakking from too much bullshit.” He tramped right across the fizzing kindling and stuck the barrel of his gun in Dave’s face.
The hunchback’s eyes bulged from their sockets, a sickly yellow creeping over the irises. Drool trickled from his twisted lips. He tried to stand, but Shadrak pressed harder, and he fell onto his back. Shadrak crouched over him, grabbed a handful of collar, and put pressure on the trigger. “One chance, shogger. How’d you get here?”
“Shadrak,” Shader said. His footfalls drew close, and there was the unmistakable rasp of his sword being drawn.
“How’d you shogging get here?” Shadrak squeezed on the trigger. Just a fraction, but any more and it’d be too much.
Something sharp pricked at his back.
“Let him go,” Shader said.
“Last time I’m gonna ask.” Shadrak ignored the knight. Like the shogger had the balls to stab him in the back. If the roles had been reversed, would’ve been a different matter. He knew that from experience.
“Nous brought me,” Dave slobbered, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. “I came by his grace.”
“Bollocks!” Shadrak said, and to illustrate the point, kicked Dave where it hurt. Only, the hunchback didn’t even wince.
“Shadrak!” Shader growled. “Don’t make me—”
“What?” Shadrak yelled, slamming Dave’s head into the ground and rounding on Shader. “The holy knight Deacon shogging Shader is gonna cut me down, is he? Had the chance before, and you didn’t take it. Why should this time be any different?”
“Are you presuming upon my mercy?” Shader brought the gladius up to Shadrak’s throat, but in the same breath, Shadrak had his pistol pointed at Shader’s heart.
And then it was gone. The shortsword moved so fast, Shadrak didn’t register until the pistol was at his feet and he was staring down the length of the blade, its tip a hair’s breadth from his eyeball. His heart skipped a beat, and then his thoughts were racing—sway back, sideswipe; stamp on his toes, grab the wrist; razor star across the jugular; break a kneecap. Shader’s cold eyes seemed to say he’d read each move and had it covered; whatever Shadrak did, he’d be dead before he drew breath. And so he took the only option remaining, for the time being. He did nothing.
“Mind telling me what that was about?” Shader asked without a trace of emotion.
“My plane ship,” Shadrak said. “It didn’t just disappear by itself, now, did it? Reckon we had ourselves a stowaway. How else do you think this shogger showed up like that?”
“Faith,” Dave said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Plane ship, plane ship! What need has the servant of Nous for such devilry?”
“You asking me to believe in miracles?” Shader said, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes at the hunchback.
Shadrak thought about making his move then, but the glinting metal virtually caressing his eyeball convinced him otherwise.
“Everyone wants a sign,” Dave countered. “Or are you too blind to see the graces Nous grants you?”
Shader’s lip curled, and he looked like he was going to spit an angry retort, but instead he sheathed his sword.
“You don’t believe that horse shit?” Shadrak said.
“No.”
“So what, you want me to torture him?”
Dave steepled his fingers, and a hard look came over his face.
“Be like getting blood from a stone,” Shader said. “I vote we work with what we’ve got. Let him lead us to these dwarves, at least until we come up with a better suggestion. Just have to keep an eye on him, that’s all.”
Dave snorted at that and set about poking the fire with a stick.
Shadrak picked up his pistol and wiped the dirt from it. He fished about in a pouch for a rag and proceeded to polish the barrel. “Oh, I’ll keep an eye on him, all right. You can count on that.”
Shader nodded and drew in a deep breath. “Good. Then that just leaves Rhiannon.” He turned on his heel and slipped into the brush.
The skin on Shadrak’s cheek pricked, the way it always did when someone was paying him too much attention. He looked up mid-polish and caught Dave’s sickly eyes appraising him.
“What you looking at, freak?”
The hunchback sucked in his top lip and nodded ever so slightly before answering. “Nous is merciful, brother. He will forg—”
“Don’t even think a
bout it,” Shadrak said. “Heard enough of that crap for a lifetime.”
“Then surely you must—”
“How ’bout you shut the shog up and find something to roast on that sorry excuse for a fire. Least that way the bitch might stop grumbling when she gets back.”
Dave got to his feet and craned his neck to look over his shoulder at a dense tangle of vines.
“I’m joking, turd-breath. Ain’t nothing out there fit for eating.”
“Nous will provide,” Dave said.
Shadrak was about to cuss at that, but then the knotted vines shook, and trapped among their thorny strands was a white goat, bleating like it had no idea how it came to be there.
SALVE OF THE BLACK SWORD
The largest of the three moons bathed the swamp in silver, painting the drooping foliage with its sheen and lending it the cast of a dream.
More of a bloody nightmare.
Rhiannon plonked herself on a gnarled mangrove root just shy of a bubbling and spitting mire. Her sandaled feet trailed in the black sludge. No point worrying about it now, despite the fact it stank worse than shite and was probably crawling with leeches. Her calves were already caked from the day’s slog through it, and the hem of her robe was a besmirched ruin.
The two smaller moons glared down at her like a pair of crooked eyes, coldly distant, the eyes of a sated predator too stuffed to pose a threat at the moment, but given long enough… Her skin crawled, and a tingle tripped along her spine. No way she was gonna chance sleeping on her own, but no way she was going back to the fire, either.
What she needed was a vigil, time to pray, get her soul back in synch with Nous. No, what she really needed was a drink, something to drown out the hunchback’s voice still echoing around her skull, calling her a whore, blaming her for Shader’s failings. Blaming her for everything. Hadn’t she done all this for Shader’s sake? Joined the Templum, dedicated her life to Nous, all so he wasn’t diverted from the destiny Huntsman, or Aristodeus, or Nous Almighty himself had in store for him? Wasn’t it enough to make the sacrifice without having Dave accuse her of doing the opposite? Wasn’t it enough she could still feel Gaston between her legs, slipping about inside like some writhing slug? That shogging, twisted, hunchbacked, dribbling freak needed to watch his tongue, coz he had no idea what she’d been through. What she’d lost.
She squeezed her eyes tight against the faces of her folks, butchered on their own doorstep. She winced at the image of Sammy running off alone, and it felt like a rock had replaced her stomach when she thought of what the shaman had done to him, how her little Sammy had rejected her, left her with nothing. Nothing but Nous, and that amounted to pretty much the same thing.
She pulled the scabbard over her head and set it on the ground. The hilt of Callixus’s sword rippled with black flame that defied the stark moonlight.
You have me, it seemed to whisper.
She scoffed and shook her head. That just about took the sodding biscuit. What, was she hearing voices now?
No.
She scrabbled back against the trunk of the tree, her hands walking up the bark till she was standing.
“Shog, I’m losing it,” she muttered. The muscles throughout her body clenched, and she started to shake. Her breaths came in staccato gasps, and she began to swoon. A pint would settle her, or maybe a couple. Always did the trick in the past. Shog, a bottle of wine, even. Spirits. Anything. She looked from side to side, as if she expected to see a bar or a wine rack. Her mind’s eye replayed her showing up at Gaston’s with a bottle in either hand.
Only yourself to blame, whore.
She gagged and almost chucked up her guts.
The sword hilt pulsed and twitched, and her vision narrowed until that was all she could see. She fell to her knees, reached out with a shaking hand, and caressed the pommel. A sigh blew through her mind. Whether it was hers or someone else’s, she couldn’t tell. She curled her fingers around the handle and pulled the blade free. Acid coursed through her veins, and her heartbeat tripled, hammering out a dizzying tattoo that built and built till it threatened to explode from the top of her head. She turned the sword, brought its keen edge to the inside of her forearm. She gasped as the skin popped and hot blood seeped out. It stung at first, but she pressed deeper and then sliced, drawing the blade across her arm till oozing rivulets ran toward her wrist, pooled stickily in her palm, and dripped between her fingers. She shuddered and gasped. The sword hilt felt like a burning coal, and it sent tendrils of soothing heat deep into her muscles. Her shoulders dropped, her heart rate slowed, and she leaned back against the welcoming bark.
She started at a footfall in the undergrowth. A shadow loomed, and she dropped the blade, clutching her arm to her chest to keep it from being seen.
“Shit,” she hissed as the front of her robe was soaked with hot wetness. She grimaced, shut her eyes tight, and clenched her jaw as Shader stepped out of the gloom and tilted the brim of his hat to cover his eyes. Nous all pissing mighty, she knew it was him coming. Why the shog couldn’t he just leave her alone?
She turned her back to him, felt the tension rack up a notch. Perhaps, in the dark, he’d not seen.
“You all right?”
Rhiannon looked at him over her shoulder, forced a smile. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Dave. You shouldn’t have to listen to that. Maybe I should have—”
“It’s fine. Really.” She smiled again, but her lips were drawn taut over her teeth. She wasn’t fooling anyone.
Shader’s eyes flicked to the sword on the ground. He took a step toward it.
“It’s all right. Leave it,” Rhiannon said. “I was just… You know.”
“I’ll wait for you back at camp.”
Rhiannon nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, do that. I won’t be much longer.”
He turned, but before he’d taken a step, her heart leapt into her throat.
“Deacon.”
He spun to face her. “Yes?”
“Do you trust him?”
“Dave or Shadrak?”
She gave a little laugh. “Either of them.”
“Dave, I don’t know. Either he’s from Nous, or he’s from the Demiurgos. Right now, I’ve no way of knowing. Shadrak, on the other hand, has something of a track record.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Shader glanced at the black sword again, his eyes lingering too long for comfort. “Nothing.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Rhiannon.” Shader stepped in close.
She tensed, wrapped her arms tighter about her chest.
“Rhiannon,” he said again. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
She let out a shrill, hysterical laugh. Shog, she sounded like a loony. “You mean a confession?”
Shader’s hand snaked out, gripped her by the shoulder. “I’m not a priest.”
She gave up hiding what she’d done to herself, twisted round to face him, let him see her cut. “Well, you sure act like one.”
He released her shoulder and cupped the back of her hand in his, gently lifting her arm. She watched him intently, bracing herself for the scolding.
“Rhiannon,” he started, then clenched his teeth. With enforced softness, and without looking her in the eye, he said, “Need clean water.”
“Got any booze?”
Shader shook his head. “Pity. That would have done it.”
“For drinking, I mean.”
Shader let go of her hand and drew his gladius.
Rhiannon winced and pulled back. She stared at the blade like it was a snake poised to strike. Her heart was racing again, and she was breathing ten to the dozen. On the ground, the black sword hissed, though whether out loud or in her mind, she couldn’t tell.
Shader frowned and shook his head. “I was going to have it heal you,” he explained. “Never mind.” Instead, he cut a strip from the hem of his surcoat, re-sheathed the shortsword, and proceeded to bind her forearm.
; Calm washed over her in cool waves that lapped at her burning nerves.
“What’s going on, Rhiannon? Between you and Nous, I mean.”
“Could ask you the same question.” Her arm smarted from the cloth, and she tried to snatch it away, but Shader’s grip was too strong.
“Grit your teeth. There, all done.” Shader tucked the loose end in and sat down on the root. “I was skeptical about your calling, first off, but back there, at the Templum of the Knot, you seemed…” He struggled for the right word, chewed it over. “… happy.”
Rhiannon snorted and lowered herself beside him. “Yeah, well a lot’s happened since. Pain and suffering’s meant to temper you, isn’t it? Sort the wheat from the chaff.”
“I don’t know any longer.” Shader cupped his chin in his hand, absently stroked his stubbled cheek with his fingertips.
“You might at least quote the Liber at me, chapter and verse. Soror Agna would have done, in any case.”
Shader nodded, but he may as well have been a hundred miles away, talking with someone else. “Adeptus Ludo always used to lecture about the golden thread running through the Liber. I had this suspicion he was a bit of a crank, a heretic even. Stupid, really, because of all my teachers, he always spoke the most sense. The Gray Abbot said pretty much the same thing. He told me the scriptures we have now were cobbled together by the Liche Lord of Verusia posing as a pious friar. You see, somewhere in this tome—” He slapped the pocket of his long-coat. “—is an original teaching. It’s still there, according to Ludo. At least, the essence of it is, just waiting to be teased out.”
Rhiannon shifted to get comfortable. They’d not mentioned this at the templum. Soror Agna had always insisted on the literal truth of the Liber. For her, there were no inconsistencies that couldn’t be surmounted with faith. The priests had all been the same, unquestioning in their obedience to the written word, and if a passage was unclear to them, they would defer to Mater Ioana.
“You know, I never thought of it before,” Rhiannon said. “I’d always assumed it was the word of Nous or Ain or whatever. Never could get my head around that stuff. But sometimes the priests would argue about what a verse meant, and they’d go to Ioana for interpretation.”
