by Tim Lebbon
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something—”
The door burst open, smashed from its hinges. It crashed past the frame and splintered wood stung the air. Kosar stumbled back as A’Meer was thrown against him. A shape burst from the opening, a Red Monk, its decidedly feminine mouth wide open in a frozen grimace of agony and shock. Kosar kept stumbling backwards, certain that his own feet would trip him, and the Monk trampled over A’Meer to get him. Its hood was snagged back by a spear of wood, and Kosar could see its bald head, veins standing out like worm-trail, red, leaking where they split the skin. Its eyes were wide and surely sightless, such was the rate of their expansion and the scarlet pooling of blood in their whites. Its hands stretched out, one of them grasping a sword that seemed to twitch at Kosar, smelling his blood.
He fell, finally, still trying to draw the sword from his belt, and kicked up as the Red Monk came at him. His feet connected and the Monk staggered back, screaming at last. Kosar was momentarily pleased, but then the Monk stumbled quickly away, still screaming, the shriek high-pitched and ragged as if its throat was being boiled.
“A’Meer!” he shouted, but the Shantasi was already on her feet, one hand holding a sword, the other sporting a slideshock. Her eyes were wide and terrified, her mouth hanging open as if to gasp in air, and Kosar felt terrified for her.
The Red Monk was running along the street. People scattered out of its way. Its arms flailed, and blood misted the air as veins on its scalp began to burst. It fell suddenly and moved onward on hands and feet, jumping from one place to the next like a foxlion, still shrieking.
“A’Meer!” Kosar called again, running to her. She had splinters in her face, several of them drawing dribbles of blood. She looked at him and shook her head, unable to speak. “We have to go after him!” Kosar said.
She shook her head again and looked at the shattered door, stepping back as if expecting another Monk to come through.
Kosar drew his sword and stepped in front of A’Meer in a foolish act of bravery. Here he was, a lowly thief, offering to protect a Shantasi warrior. He would have laughed had be not been so petrified.
“Inside,” she said at last. “We have to check, quickly, and then we’ll follow. But be careful, there are things in there. I think it was bitten by a slayer spider.”
“Mage shit,” Kosar whispered. He had heard about these creatures. Right then, he was not sure which he would rather face: a Red Monk, or a slayer.
A’Meer darted around him and slipped through the door. Her arm twitched and the slideshock whipped out, hitting something in the dark.
Kosar ran in behind her and sidestepped the still-twitching spider on the floor, fat as an eyeball. “Is that it?” he asked.
“No, I’ve never seen one like that before. The slayer must still be around somewhere.” She headed downstairs to the basement rooms, Kosar on her tail. They were checking for Rafe, but Kosar was certain that his body would not be here. The Monk—inflamed by pain as it was—had also been clean. There was no blood on its sword, none splashed on its face other than its own.
“A’Meer, that Monk is on Rafe’s trail.”
A’Meer nudged open the door at the bottom of the stairs and went in, flipping her arm out and slicing a scorpion in two as it dashed from behind a cupboard. Kosar followed more cautiously, looking around, checking the walls either side and above the door for any tell-tale shadows.
“Well he’s not here, at least,” A’Meer said. “Stay alert, there are at least five smashed jars on the floor.”
Kosar checked around his feet amongst the smashed clay shards. Nothing there. He glanced at the shelves, lined with hundred of other jars and leather containers, wondering just what else Hope kept in here. He had never known a witch, let alone been in the home of one. The hanging herbs, the jars, the charts, the paraphernalia disturbed him, perhaps because of how this place would be perceived by many: one step closer to magic.
“We have to go,” A’Meer said. She turned around, her eyes went wide and her arm flipped up quickly, the slideshock’s weighted wire lashing out and plucking something from Kosar’s shoulder. He felt the splash of its insides pattering his bare arm as the dead slayer spider dropped to the floor. “We really should go,” A’Meer insisted.
“I agree.”
They left the room to whatever was left alive, shutting the downstairs door in an effort to keep the dangers within.
A crowd had gathered outside. Children ran back and forth, collecting handfuls of the smashed front door to show their friends later as they bragged of what they had seen. Adults hovered further away, their caution born of experience telling them that, really, this was not their business. And striding down the street, three militia rattled their swords with self-importance.
“Oh Mage shit,” Kosar said. “They’ll keep us talking ‘til dusk.”
“Stay close to me, don’t say a word, and try not to listen too hard to what I have to say.” A’Meer glanced back at Kosar. “Think of something else, how we can track the Red Monk. Just how do we do that?”
The militia stopped, standing side by side so that they blocked the street and the route Kosar and A’Meer had to take. What had she meant? They would track the Monk easily. There would be a trail of people in the streets, chattering about what they had just seen, how much blood there had been, did you see that thing it was running like a dog, a woman, it was a woman you say, but where did all that blood come –
“Urgh!” One of the militiamen was holding his ears and the others, cowering back against a fence on the opposite side of the street, looked so terrified that A’Meer may as well have been the Red Monk itself.
“Kosar, come on!” she called. She ran past the militia, and Kosar heard her mutter a gentle apology.
“What was that?” he asked as he followed. She did not answer. They ran to the end of Fifthborn Circle and turned left, following knots of startled people that were still drifting in the street like sparrows bobbing in the wake of a passing hawk. People stepped quickly out of their way and Kosar tried to smile at them, to tell them that there was nothing to fear. But suddenly, in the distance, there was. A scream, high and loud and enraged, not from a human throat. From much further came a similar response, winging across the rooftops and startling birds and giant moths into flight.
“What in the name-”
“Shit!” A’Meer cursed. “There are more. It’s calling them.” She paused, panting, slideshock hanging from one arm and dragging in the dust. “If we keep following we’ll come up against other Red Monks. Unless we catch it in the next couple of minutes, take it on, take it down and then get away.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Kosar said, expecting her to offer him another quick, easy way out. He was only a thief, after all.
“I’m scared.”
Kosar reigned in his surprise. “So is Rafe, I suspect.”
A’Meer lowered her eyes, examined the dust-caked mass still stuck to her slideshock. Then she nodded and set off again, running, expecting people to get out of her way. They did not disappoint her.
The trail was easy to follow. The dried road dust held splashes of black blood, but even had they not been there, the expressions on the faces of those around showed the way. The streets were lined with stunned people, some of them shocked at the sight of the bleeding, screaming woman, others—those few who perhaps knew the true nature of the Red Monks—even more terrified. Rumour of the Monks’ presence must surely have spread throughout Pavisse by now, but seeing one agitated and in action drove home the mortal danger that the town was in.
A’Meer went first. Kosar watched her black hair braids bobbing as she ran, the weapons in their slings, belts and scabbard tied in tight to her body so that they did not rattle and shake.
What did she do back there to those militia? A few muttered words and she had them whimpering like babies. What power? What talents could do that?
The Monk screeched again ahead of them, closer than be
fore.
“How long ago?” Kosar asked a startled sheebok herder. He stood with his herd pulled in tight around him, as if they would offer protection.
“A couple of minutes.” He glanced down at Kosar’s sword, still unsheathed and warm in the thief’s hand. “You’ll need more than that.”
Kosar ran fast to catch up with A’Meer. “It’s close!” he called, but she did not need telling. They skirted around a huge old machine, its tendrils long since fossilised into broken stone spurs that still reached in vain for the sky. On its far side a man was lying on the ground, holding a heap of slippery intestines in his lap. He too was looking to the sky. A small girl was hugging him and shouting. She had her face buried in his neck. People hovered around, not knowing what to do.
“Come on,” A’Meer said quietly over her shoulder, as if afraid that Kosar would stop to help.
Kosar glanced at the man as he ran by and for a second their eyes locked. He looked away quickly. There was nothing that could comfort a man about to die with his daughter’s tears wetting his skin.
The Monk screamed again and was answered by several separate cries. The complex warren of streets and alleys misled the echoes, confused direction, until Kosar was sure that they were surrounded by Red Monks, closing in quickly and ready for the fight. We could die here, he thought. We probably will. A’Meer is terrified of one injured Monk, and now there are several closing in, almost as if they’re herding us.
A’Meer ran fast, and it was not long before Kosar began to feel his age. The summer heat sucked sweat from him, soaking his shirt and trousers and fusing them to his skin. A’Meer seemed not to tire. It was as if she was eighteen, not over a hundred. Another Shantasi mystery, he thought.
They came to a courtyard filled with milling people, and sensing the urgency a few of them pointed the way. A’Meer ran into the mouth of a small alley, glancing down now and then at the blood spotting the ground, and Kosar followed. They passed a line of washing hung out to dry, and he saw spray patterns of blood across the lower edges. Either the Monk had caught someone here, or its veins were still bursting from slayer venom.
“Not far now,” A’Meer said.
At the next corner Kosar caught sight of the Monk’s red cloak flitting out of sight around a bend in the alley. A machine bridged the path, and several people stood high up, whooping and waving and urging them on. Kosar had been to tumbler fights once or twice, and this small crowd reminded him of that. How much more would they be entertained soon?
Around the bend the Monk was revealed, loping along on feet and fists like a wild dog. Blood spattered every time it landed on its hands, dripping and spraying from ruptured veins. The toxin should have killed it long before now—it would be bleeding inside, too, stomach filling with blood, arteries ripping and demanding more and more of its heart—but it seemed as strong as ever. The madness A’Meer had spoken of was serving the Monk well.
They ran through another square, people shying away from the blood-soaked demon, and into another small street.
“Here!” A’Meer called, and the Monk turned at the sound of her voice.
Kosar stopped. He almost turned around and ran, ready to find himself a hiding place from which he would hear the quick battle to come. Because it would surely be over in seconds. The Monk was an image from Kang Kang, every bad dream, every demonic legend ever told in Noreela; blood-soaked, insane, its skin red with rage where it was not already pasted with its own vital fluids. One eye had burst yet still it saw, sensed, sent its fury their way through a long-fanged mouth. Its teeth dribbled with saliva, diluting the mess on its chin. Its arms waved, feet pounded at the ground, and it did not slow down for an instant.
The Monk still sought its quarry, and no threat from behind would tear it from its pursuit.
A’Meer plucked a small crossbow from a pocket on her shoulder, brought her arm down and fired in one swift movement. The bolt struck home in the thing’s burst eye socket and it screeched, turning and running faster. The Shantasi reloaded without slowing, fired again, reloaded, fired. Each bolt found its mark—one in the back of the Monk’s head, one at the base of its spine—but the impacts seemed only to pin its cloak tight to its body.
“I’ll take it, you get the boy,” she called.
Kosar wanted to argue, but he knew that she was right. She was the warrior here and he was the thief, used to stealing things and concealing them.
They turned another corner and emerged into a large square, the crowds already apparently disturbed by something … and then Kosar saw them. On the far side of the square, heading for a wide gateway leading into a park, Rafe was running with an old woman. The witch, Hope. Kosar hoped that she lived up to her name.
The Monk screamed then, too loud to be human, too enraged to be sane. The witch and the boy stopped and turned, wide-eyed and terrified of this frenzied thing closing on them.
The witch reached into her shoulder bag and pulled something out.
A’Meer flicked out with her slideshock and caught the Monk’s ankle, tripping it and pulling herself down into the dust.
“Take them away from here!” A’Meer shouted at Kosar. She was already on her feet, thrusting her arm at the Monk, slicing its cloak and flesh with the slideshock.
Kosar skirted the fight and went to the witch and Rafe, smiling at the boy, hoping that he could ease his own fear as well. The witch’s eyes flickered down to Kosar’s drawn sword and she raised her hand, ready to throw something at him, something green that squirmed and flexed in her palm with sickly, stagnant life.
“No!” Rafe said. “He’s a friend.”
Kosar reached the boy and hugged him tight, an unconscious gesture.
“Shantasi warrior,” the witch said, and the tattoos on her face twitched in surprise.
The Monk was standing again, pure insane determination overcoming the ragged break in its ankle, and it was trying to make its way to Rafe. Between it and Rafe, however, stood A’Meer. She closed in, lashing out with her sword, ducking, parrying, thrusting again, sinking its tip into the Monk’s exposed neck and spinning on her feet. Blood arced from the wound and splashed a sheebok tethered to a stall nearby, setting the creature screaming as second-hand slayer venom burned into its eyes.
The crowds had pulled back to the edges of the square, fascinated with the fight, some of them calling out and cheering as a blow was landed by either side. They had no loyalties, Kosar realised, and no real understanding of what was happening here. They were simply enjoying the spectacle.
“We have to get away from here!” Kosar said.
“That thing’s come for me,” Rafe said. “But who is she?”
“She’s a friend. Rafe, we have to get you away.”
“Aren’t you going to help your friend?” the witch said.
Kosar glanced at the fighting couple. “No. She told me to take Rafe and find safety. She’s trained in this. She’s taken a Monk before.”
The witch’s strange tattooed face showed mocking disbelief. “She can’t be much of a friend if she lies to you like that. And you can’t be much of a friend leaving her alone to die.”
“The boy’s precious-”
“I know that! That’s why he’s coming with me!”
A’Meer shouted behind him and Kosar spun around, afraid of what he would see. The slideshock had wrapped around the Monk’s thigh, and now the Monk was twisting on the spot, blood flying, hauling A’Meer in. She was struggling with the clasps on her wrist and forearm, trying to free herself, when the Monk stopped and lashed out with both swords. She ducked. A trimmed lock of her black air floated on the agitated air. And then she stood quickly, flinging a spiked ball into the Monk’s face. She used the second’s respite to cut the blade of the slideshock and step back out of the Monk’s killing range.
“We have to go now!” Kosar said again. “The Monk called others, and if they converge here everyone will die.
“Then we should slow them down,” the witch said. And cupping
her hands around her mouth she shouted: “There are more of these things coming! Quickly, get out of here! Go! Find somewhere safe to hide! They’ll kill you all!” The crowd started to stir, a few people hurrying away, but most remained.
At that moment the Monk landed a sword blow on A’Meer’s arm. She screamed and fell, and a flap of skin fell back along her forearm exposing the meat beneath.
“There! See?” Hope shouted. “These demons will slaughter every single one of you and eat your children!”
This time the reaction was more extreme. Most of the people poured out of the square, clogging narrow alleys and streets, pushing and falling and fighting as panic took over.
“You’ve sent them straight at the other Monks,” Kosar said, but even as he spoke he realised the cool logic of what she had done.
“It may give us some time,” Hope said. “Your friend needs help.” She nodded past Kosar and he turned to see A’Meer on the ground, kicking out in an effort to put distance between her and the advancing Monk. It had raised both swords and was grinning through shattered teeth, spitting blood and enamel ahead of it. A’Meer rolled away from the shower of gore—with her open wounds the slayer toxin would be the end of her—and the Monk bore down.
“A’Meer.” He took a faltering step, paused, felt the sword in his hand send a hot pulse through his palm.
“I’ll tell you where we are!” the witch called out. Kosar turned in time to see her and Rafe moving toward the park with a few other people.
“How?” he called.
“I’ll tell you.” The witch’s voice faded quickly amongst the shouts and screams of the others. Rafe glanced back once before he vanished, and the look on his face convinced Kosar of what he had to do. The boy was scared and bewildered, but he seemed to trust the witch.
A’Meer was in trouble. Her arm was bleeding badly, and as she scurried backwards across the ground the Monk gave her no chance to stand. It thrust down with its swords, A’Meer spun in the dust and dodged them, kicking out at its wrists and snapping one with an audible crack. The Monk screamed and stood back … and then, eyeless though it now was, it knew that Rafe had gone. It kicked A’Meer out of its way and advanced on Kosar.
