The City of Night Neverending

by Steven Lochran

  It came up empty.

  Then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky, an arrow zipped past Joss’s shoulder to strike the alpha raptor in the neck. The beast let out a shriek that was cut short as it tumbled to the ground. The other two raptors looked around in confusion, unsure of what exactly had happened to their leader, before both were similarly felled. With all three thunder lizards subdued, Joss drew his song to an end.

  ‘Quite the performance,’ a familiar and unwelcome voice said, and Joss turned to see Naveer standing behind him with his crossbow resting on his shoulder. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Joss replied, drawing the Champion’s Blade so that he stood with dual weapons in hand. The impostor blinked in surprise but said nothing. ‘You didn’t have to kill them. But then what should I expect of such a cold-blooded monster?’

  ‘The arrows are tipped with a natural sedative. They’ll be sore and groggy when they awaken but they’ll wake all the same.’ The impostor dropped the crossbow so that the stirrup was resting on the ground beside his boot. ‘Joss, please. Let me explain.’

  ‘No! You don’t get to call me that. Do you understand? You’re not my father. You’re just a changeling!’

  The impostor’s face fell, and Joss knew he was right.

  ‘I worked it out, didn’t I? That’s what you are. A changeling!’ The snippets of information that Qorza had shared. The skiff at Crescent Cove, sent out as burning tribute to the wraiths and to the spirits and to the changelings that steal the faces of our fellow men. It all added up to one inarguable truth, and he was repulsed at the notion. ‘A mindless creature that drains mortal emotions like a leech sucks blood. What could I possibly have to say to a leech? What could ever justify the way you deceived me?’

  Though the face that stared back at him was only an imitation of his father’s, it was a perfect one. Not just in its likeness but also in its profound sorrow. The anguish the changeling showed was enough to make Joss doubt for a moment, to be sorry for saying what he had, but he had no time to think this through.

  A shout rang out. ‘Halt! The both of you!’

  Joss and the changeling looked over to the corner of the street. Two pyrates were stalking towards them, weapons drawn and ready, their faces shadowed with ill intent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A DISTANT SHORE OF A PROMISED LAND

  ‘NO need for hostility, gentlemen. We’ll come quietly,’ the changeling said, dropping his crossbow and raising his hands behind his head as the pyrates advanced on them. Joss could only gape at the ready act of submission, betraying the creature for what he truly was. Whatever flicker of compassion Joss may have been feeling for him was swiftly and thoroughly snuffed.

  ‘What’d you do to my poor beasties? Eh?’ one of the pyrates demanded. He was wearing steel arm bracers and a leather chestplate, the claw marks that scarred his face revealing him as the raptors’ trainer.

  ‘Everyone’s showing so much concern for such coldblooded creatures,’ the changeling said with a bittersweet smile as he looked at Joss. ‘I hope I can expect the same consideration.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky not to find your teeth busted at the heel of my boot, friend,’ said the second pyrate. ‘Now get on your knees. The both of ya.’

  ‘One slight problem with that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh? And what problem might that be?’ the scarred pyrate asked. The two of them were now closer than the raptors had been, their stink so potent it wafted around them like a cloud.

  ‘Well … nothing, to be perfectly honest,’ said the changeling, his frank reply making both the pyrates pause. ‘I was just stalling until you were near enough for me to do this.’

  Whipping his hands out from behind his head, the changeling hurled a pair of throwing knives hidden within each of his sleeves. Both blades hit the pyrates in the throat, dropping them beside their stricken animals. Joss, staggered by the speed with which everything had just happened, felt his legs shake beneath him. The changeling showed no such uncertainty as he treaded over the fallen pyrates to stare at the little yellow-doored cottage.

  ‘I haven’t been back here in years,’ he said so quietly that Joss strained to hear him.

  ‘You … you remember this place?’ asked Joss, still unsure of the limits of the creature’s understanding.

  The changeling pointed past the gate, past the fig tree. ‘I remember painting that front door. Your mother was busy gardening, planting the tree that our neighbour, Baba Yin, had given her as a birthday gift. I remember coffee brewing and fish stew cooking on the stovetop, listening to the rain pelt against the warped glass of the kitchen window. I remember telling you your nightly bedtime story, and how you’d always find some way of introducing a tyrannosaur into the plot.

  ‘I remember back to a day long before that, when you were born in the parlour, your little face red and squalling as you emerged into the world. We cleaned you up and wrapped you in a blanket, and when I held you in my arms you looked up at me with such questing curiosity. I remember how you took my finger in your whole hand, smaller than a ripening fig, and you squeezed it like you never wanted to let go.’ The changeling stopped, his voice cracking with sorrow, and drew a ragged breath.

  ‘But I remember more than that,’ he went on when he’d finally regained himself. ‘I remember the day I lost everything, and every torturous day that followed. I remember being wounded in a skirmish with Ichor’s men and retreating to the library, to your mother’s study, where I thought I remembered lying low to recuperate. And then the next thing I remember is seeing you in danger and knowing that I had to help you. And the reason for that is simple. The reason my memory goes black is that it was in the library that Naveer Sarif died.’

  Joss flinched despite himself. The changeling noticed.

  ‘Whatever I may be, I had no hand in that. I promise you,’ he said, holding a clenched fist against his heart. ‘Just as you can’t remember the day you were born, I promise you that I can’t remember claiming his identity. Until that moment in your mother’s study just now, I had no more clue of my true nature than you did.’

  ‘But how is that possible?’ Joss asked, his earlier certainty fading. ‘How can you remember so much, and feel so deeply?’

  ‘I was –’ The changeling stopped. Reconsidered. ‘Your father was an ethereon. And given the circumstances I don’t think it’s arrogant to say that he was a gifted one …’

  ‘So he summoned you?’ Joss guessed. ‘So that he could live on somehow?’

  The changeling shook his head. ‘Not at all. He wasn’t the kind of man who would try to cheat death like that, with some black magic trick. But he did know things, such as all the beasts and bogies that could threaten a ship and its crew, including the creatures that nest in places of death and despair, waiting for unsuspecting mortals so that they may take the form of a departed loved one.’

  Joss thought again of Vaal, the Ghost City, and of the spectres he’d encountered there. As much as the experience had haunted him before, it took on a whole new meaning now.

  The changeling continued: ‘If your father were here, he could quote you whole chapters of the books he’d read on the subject. He could tell you all the names by which they’re known throughout the world, such as in Mraba, where they’re known as shadowkin, or how the Norvish of old named them doppelgangers.

  ‘We simply call them changelings, and we know them as deceitful creatures that feed on the psychic energy of mortals. They use arcane abilities to draw on spiritual echoes of the dead and to invade the minds of the living, presenting themselves in a form that’s familiar to their prey. They plunder memories, torment souls, feast on the turmoil. And when they’re done, they move on to their next victim. Their next meal.’

  The changeling fell silent, still looking at the cottage.

  ‘I may not be your real father, Joss. I may not even be a man,’ he said. ‘But I am no monster. I did not search you out or prey upon you. Whatever I was before
you set foot in this city, I have no sense of that now. And while I can’t promise you much, I can at least swear to that.’

  As he looked away from the cottage, Joss almost gasped at the expression the changeling wore. He’d only ever seen it before in flashes stolen from a mirror, in unguarded and unobserved moments. He knew that pain. He’d carried it with him all his life.

  ‘My friends are in danger,’ Joss said hesitantly, as the maroon eyes before him glistened. ‘I could use some help in saving them.’

  Edgar was the first to be flung back into the cage with the other hostages, then Hero after him. Drake was the last, his injured hand crudely bandaged with rags already soaked through with blood. He landed with a painful crash into the bucket that had been left in the corner, its contents slopping over the rim.

  Gnash, the blade-legged guard, sniggered at his misfortune.

  ‘Let me help you up,’ Edgar said, slipping beneath Drake’s arm to take his weight. Hero was quickly beside them, ducking under the other arm to help Edgar pull Drake up onto his feet.

  ‘Don’t be fretting over him too much now,’ Gnash chided them as he slammed the cage shut. ‘Admiral’s fixing to feed him to the void first, from what I hear.’

  ‘Then I’ll have lived longer than your brother, at least,’ Drake shot back through clenched teeth.

  Gnash stared through the bars, his gusto gone. ‘Something happened to Gnarl?’ he asked.

  ‘Thrall killed him,’ Hero said, refusing to mince her words. ‘Just so you know the breed of monster you serve.’

  Gnash’s head dropped as he considered the news. ‘My brother – dead?’ he said, before raising his face again in a wide, toothless grin. ‘Bless the Shadow God and all his hallowed court! I never could stand that smug, insufferable prig!’

  The pyrate laughed heartily to himself as he bolted the cell shut and hobbled away, leaving the prentices to struggle in what little light filtered through the bars. The other hostages cleared a path, allowing Lilia to push forward and inspect Drake’s hand as Hero and Edgar gently deposited him on a pile of rags in the corner of the cage.

  ‘Such barbarism,’ the physician sadly noted as she examined Drake’s injury. ‘Though thankfully a clean wound.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Drake said to her as she went about patching him up, while Hero ran a gentle hand over his cheek, her concern radiating through her dark goggles.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ she announced, looking at Edgar. ‘Now.’

  ‘If you have a plan, I have more ears than a herd of blind mammoths.’

  Hero arched an eyebrow at his choice of words, then quickly shrugged them off. ‘Simple,’ she said. ‘We steal a set of keys and bust out when the guards aren’t looking.’

  ‘I see one small problem with that idea,’ Edgar replied, though whatever he was about to say next was quickly cut short as Hero reached into her sleeve and produced the keys that had adorned Admiral Ichor’s belt.

  ‘Really? Because I don’t.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A SNOWFLAKE FALLING INTO A FIRE PIT

  JOSS and the changeling swept silently through the streets of Daheed, moving with speed. While the changeling ran ahead with crossbow loaded, Joss had sheathed both his weapons, though he kept a wary hand on the hilt of his humming knife – partly due to the chance of encountering more raptors, partly because of the crossbow.

  Earlier, when he had traversed these streets on his own, they were a confounding maze in which he’d lost countless hours. But with the changeling’s guidance they unfurled before him like a scroll with a broken seal. He could already see the library dome, which sat off to the east, while they continued on towards the south.

  ‘Don’t we need to stop at the library first and collect all the liquid fire pots?’ Joss asked, keeping his voice low as he drew closer to the changeling.

  ‘I took the initiative before coming to find you, and transported everything we would need to Ichor’s campsite,’ replied the creature. ‘I had a lot to contemplate after you left. It was good to keep busy.’

  ‘You carried all one thousand pots by yourself?’

  ‘Hardly,’ the changeling said. ‘I worked out I only needed to plant a dozen or so in key areas. The spreading fire should set off the rest of the stockpile, with hopefully enough time for everyone to get to the submersibles.’

  Joss noticed that the changeling avoided saying anything about ‘us’ or ‘we’, but decided not to question it.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to mention,’ the changeling went on. ‘What you did back there was very impressive. With the knife and the raptors. I’d heard tell of paladero ways and of course seen illumigram recordings, but it’s quite a different thing in person. Who taught you how to do all that?’

  ‘Sur Verity Wolfsbane of Round Shield Ranch, the paladero to whom I’m prenticed,’ Joss answered, keeping his answer as formal as he could. Though he wouldn’t be impolite for as long as they were allied, that didn’t mean he had to be warm and friendly.

  ‘I’d always – your father, I mean – he’d always hoped you might some day show interest in spellcraft. That you might learn to be an ethereon yourself. In seeing you weave that magic on those raptors, it feels you weren’t too far off.’

  ‘I hardly wove any magic. They still kept coming for me. I may have only had a humming knife instead of a proper song sword, but Sur Verity could have used a twig and still brought them under her control.’

  ‘You’re young,’ the changeling said, with a return of that same knowing smile. ‘You’ll learn.’

  Joss could feel his face betraying him, a similar smile tugging at his lips. He frowned it away, along with the peculiar sense of pride that came with the changeling’s comment. They continued on, the library receding into the distance, while the hot bonfire glow that emanated from the Thousand Sacred Stairs grew brighter.

  ‘We’re getting close,’ the changeling said, even more hushed than before. ‘We should approach from the rooftops. That way we’ll have a better vantage point and less chance of being spotted.’

  The changeling led the way again, up the side of a ramshackle hut and, from there, upward again to the city’s skyline. Hopping from one roof to another, they quickly came upon the encampment. It looked just as crowded as before, though now all the pyrates were lined up to chant and sway in unison, their dark hymns gaining strength and resonance.

  ‘We need to plan our move,’ the changeling said, handing Joss a brass cylinder with a red orb embedded in its barrel.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘A shadowscope. Normally a useful etherical tool for spotting spirits on the high seas at night. Now even more useful for spotting Ichor’s cronies. Look and see.’

  Joss turned the device over, extended it to its full length and pressed it to his eye. The camp was lit up before him in bright red tones, allowing him to see everyone up close, in perfect detail, despite the gloom.

  The majority of the camp was on its knees, bowing as low as possible while reciting the same guttural, indecipherable words that Joss remembered the Stitched Witch using as part of her attempted blood ritual. He shuddered at the memory, as well as at the thought of what a whole legion of dark disciples could accomplish if left unchecked. He then caught sight of Thrall, who had once again assumed the stage on the First Step to deliver the same sermon he’d been giving back when Joss and the others had first arrived.

  ‘I’ve already deposited six explosives on the outer edges of the camp,’ the changeling explained, pulling out a sack of carefully wrapped balls of cloth. ‘But that won’t be enough. I’ll need to infiltrate the camp and hide more of these pots around the Thousand Sacred Stairs to create a wall of fire between Ichor’s men and the hostages in the cage. If we can trap the pyrates behind the fire lines then we stand a chance of getting everyone to the submersibles before the flames spread too far and set off the cache back at the library. I’ll need you up here keeping a watch over everything and covering me wi
th the crossbow. When I’m done, we can ignite the pots using the incendiary arrowheads I brought. Can you handle that?’

  Joss lowered the shadowscope and looked at the changeling. ‘No,’ he said.

  The creature wearing his father’s face blinked. ‘Well, it’s quite simple,’ the changeling replied, pointing at the bow. ‘You load the bolts here, using the stirrup for leverage –’

  ‘No. I’ll do it. I’ll go down and plant the explosives.’

  ‘Joss, I don’t think that’s wise. There’s a whole army of ruthless cutthroats down there, not one of whom would hesitate in running through his own father.’

  Joss furrowed his brow and the changeling winced.

  ‘Poor choice of words,’ he said. ‘But the fact remains that if you’re caught down there you’ll be lucky if you’re killed on the spot. If you’re unlucky, they’ll make you suffer first. There’s no way I’m letting you take that chance.’

  ‘I’m not going to sit up here out of harm’s way while my friends wait in a cage to be executed,’ Joss replied.

  ‘Joss, please try to understand –’

  ‘No, you understand. You’re not my father. There’s no way you’ll let me take that chance? There’s no way I’m trusting you not to throw that chance away!’

  Again, the changeling’s face was bruised with a look of deep hurt. Joss refused to let it rattle him. Not when Edgar’s, Drake’s and Hero’s lives were hanging in the balance. Of course, the changeling wasn’t willing to concede the fight just yet. He was still holding the bag of explosives with a firm grip. They stood staring at each other, a tense standoff only interrupted by a scream of fury that rang out from the campsite below.