by Mike Morris
Now Jack knew the threat the Nostros posed. If just one of them made it ashore in Abios, then Abios could be lost forever. It was all too easy for a Nostros to change a human into one of their creatures.
The challenge for the Black Dogs was to get everyone else to realize that, to understand why they had to take time away from the fields, the forges and the markets to build watchtowers and beacons and train in the militia. Instead, everywhere the Black Dogs went, they were shouted at and insulted. People hid from them, pretended the men of the house were either dead or elsewhere, or just kept their doors locked.
The Dogs weren't diplomats. They were warriors, so they found the endless negotiations and arguments frustrating. As the months dragged on and autumn turned into winter, the general feeling was progress was far too slow. None of the Dogs knew when the Nostros would come, but none doubted they would, so time pressed down on them. All they could do in the meantime was ask, beg, cajole, threaten and force the general population to help them. With so much coastline to prepare, the Dogs were spread far and wide, their resources almost at breaking point.
Then Bridgewater happened and everything got worse. A couple of corrupt nobles were one thing, easily dealt with, but the red-cloaked foes who had attacked them were another matter. Someone was organizing an army of humans to stand against the Dogs, creating a force to help the Nostros. Jack shook his head. He still found it unbelievable. He only hoped there would be a special place in hell for traitors like that. Nial hadn't wasted any time in coming to the capital to report what had happened. They needed to find the traitors before it was too late.
Jack had arrived with the others the night before. The Order had a monastery near the royal palace and the men had settled there. However, Nial had given Jack the morning off from any duties. He knew Jack's brother was in the city and told him to take the time to see Brendan. Even with everything going on, the big man still put his men first.
Jack could've taken his horse from the stables and ridden down to where Brendan lived but he'd decided to walk instead. He needed to feel the city beneath his feet, hear the banter on the streets and breathe the dirt in the air. Of course, Grayston wasn't the same as most parts of the city. It was spectacular — large mansions and rows of terraced townhouses, all with immaculate pavements. The effects of money were everywhere. The streets were wide enough in places for four carriages to drive side by side and some areas had their own private parks and gardens.
He got curious looks from the people he passed but at least no one was hurling abuse at him. The knights were still a rare sight in Arbour, but everyone recognized the black uniform, the collar around his neck, saw the guns strapped across his chest and on his hip and the long, curved sword sheathed on the other. A few people he passed actually said hello or tipped their hats.
He passed neighborhoods where he and Brendan had gone on the rob when they were younger. Places he'd been chased away from at the end of a stick. He even saw the jail where his mother had sold her sons to the Order for a couple of silver coins. He'd hated her for that for a good while. He couldn't understand how she could've done such a thing. Looking back now, it was like someone else's life. He saw faces in the crowds of men his age; working in a blacksmith's forge, carrying bundles of goods from cart to stall, selling knick-knacks and trinkets, delivering meat and fish, and couldn't help but wonder what he would be doing if fate hadn't put him in the hands of the Black Dogs.
Of course, as he crossed over Magistrate's Square, he saw the scaffolds. No one was being hanged that day, thank God, but the sight of them hit home. Truth was, it was more than likely Jack would've ended up strung up and doing the dance sooner rather than later. The road he had been on wasn't the sort that led to an apprenticeship at a blacksmith's; it went straight to the gallows. His mother's choice and the Dogs had certainly saved him from that.
He passed a man selling news pamphlets from behind a wooden box and smiled as he saw the front cover of one. The headline shouted 'The warrior queen of Grosnar'. Another story about Lin. Somehow she'd become famous after they'd returned. The story of the escaped slave girl who'd joined the Black Dogs' raid had gotten out and become public. Of course, the pamphlets had nearly everything wrong about her. She wasn't ten feet tall, nor did she wield a flaming sword. But she was definitely one of a kind. He smiled. Maybe he should take one of the pamphlets back to Whitehaven and show her. She'd hate the attention, of course, but it would be a good excuse to see her.
Truth was he missed her. Missed her a lot. The feelings he had for her weren't the sort a priest should have, he knew that. He knew it only too well. He'd done his best to forget them, pretended they weren't what they were, but he never believed his own lies. Little things would make him think of her, and that was that again.
She'd felt the same about him once. They'd spoken of it in a snatched moment in Grosnar, with death waiting on both their shoulders. Looking back now, he'd been a fool. Said a load of nonsense about other lives, if things were different. He should've told her the truth. Told her he loved her. Maybe when he saw her next he'd say something.
It took an hour to reach the Thyme and the change was quite dramatic. As Jack got closer to the river, the streets became more congested, the clothes around him a little more ragged, faces a little more pinched. There were less horses and carriages and far more people on foot, carrying goods or pushing carts. The buildings got less luxurious and far more practical. Mansions swapped places with warehouses, townhouses made way for shacks. Houses stretched along both banks of the river from east to west and well out into the water, propped up on stilts, some more precariously than others. Boats and skiffs zipped this way and that, ferrying people across from one side to the other while others sat on the murky water trying to catch any fish dumb enough to swim their way.
Jack walked across the Arbour Bridge, trying not to slip on the ice-covered surface. He stopped when he reached the center. He used to believe that precise spot on the bridge was the heart of Arbour. To the north, you had the rich areas of Grayston. To the south was his old neighborhood of Brixteth. Downriver to the east were the main docks, where the big barges full of coal that would help keep everyone warm over the winter were unloaded, as well as all the other goods that were shipped to the capital. To the west was Hampford and the royal parks where deer still roamed. Each area was as different as night was to day, but somehow they all worked in harmony with each other. Each made Arbour unique.
Jack grinned. It was a great city. It was his city and, by God, he was glad he was back.
Now it was time to see his brother.
Brendan had left the Order almost immediately after they returned from the raid on the demon castle of Grosnar. Everyone had tried their best to get him to stay, but Brendan wouldn't listen. He'd been a prisoner of the Nostros for four months, during which time he'd been tortured and, even worse, the demons had fed on him. Jack had seen Brendan's body — it was covered almost head to foot in scars from where they'd bitten him. Brendan said he couldn't cope with the way the priests looked at him, and he knew there was no way he'd ever fight again, so he had to leave. Jack understood. His own brush with death at the hands of the Nostros still haunted him and it was nothing compared to what Brendan had endured.
Jack crossed the bridge and stepped into Brixteth. Immediately, things were different. The roads were narrower, often barely wide enough for a cart to pass down, and every surface was more potholed than flat. The buildings on either side of the streets climbed up into the sky, layer upon layer stacked up this way and that, most kept upright by no more than a wish and a prayer. The air was thick with smoke from the wood and coal fires that burned behind most doors and from the various factories scattered around. Jack hadn't thought much about it when he was a kid but now, looking at the state of the neighborhoods, it was a miracle the place hadn't burnt down from a stray log or lump of coal.
People bustled along the streets with their heads down, avoiding eye contact, knowing full well that, i
f they were caught looking at the wrong person, there was a good chance blood would flow. They moved fast, eager to be someplace else, somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere there was money to be made, either by hook or by crook. Hard people lived in Brixteth — they had to be — it was the only way to survive.
Even so, everyone gave Jack a wide berth. No one wanted to mess with a Black Dog if they could help it.
He walked without thinking, past the old church, and thought of Father Heath whose sermons Jack had worked so hard to avoid. What would the old priest say if he saw Jack in his uniform? Probably wouldn't believe his eyes. Then again, there were still some days when Jack couldn't believe it either. Not many people would've thought Jack Frey would end up a warrior priest.
He touched the silver circle that hung around his neck. God had chosen him for whatever reason to become a Black Dog. He just wasn't sure whether that was a blessing or a curse.
Jack passed Jerry's Bar, where his mother used to work. A couple of drunks lay in the gutter, snow settling on them, while another vomited cheap beer over the stoop. He walked past Big John and Hamish's houses and a part of him was surprised not to see them standing on their doorsteps, trying to put the world to rights. He hoped it was just the weather keeping them indoors and that they'd not moved away. The grumbling old men were a Brixteth institution.
Mrs. Waters' old place was still there, at least. It was shut for now, but maybe Jack could persuade Brendan to go there with him for lunch for old times' sake. He'd love to see her and say hello. It was Mrs. Waters who'd persuaded him to go back to Whitehaven after he ran away when he was fifteen. He'd sorted out some thugs for her and she'd given him some good advice in return.
He turned a corner and nearly bumped into a woman, her eyes wide with fear. She grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Have you seen my daughter? Her name's Shelly. She's only twelve years old. Blond hair."
"I'm sorry. I haven't..." Jack began, but the woman didn't wait to hear more. She was off and running, screaming her daughter's name. It was bad weather for the girl to be out in but she should be safe enough. Brixteth looked after the young.
Jack could still hear the woman calling as he turned left into Grolling Lane. It was a narrow road, even by Brixteth standards, with barely more than a pavement separating the two sides of the street. Brendan had rooms in a building halfway down. Number twenty-seven. Jack found it easily enough and pushed the front door open.
It was dark inside, empty except for a small table next to the door. The dirt-grimed windows did a good job at stopping what little natural light there was. A draught sneaked in through a gap under the front door and carried the chill of the day up the stairs.
Brendan's room was on the third floor. The stairs creaked as Jack made his way up and he couldn't help but wonder why his brother had chosen such a poor house to live in. The order gave him a pension that would've allowed him to live somewhere decent. He stopped outside Brendan's door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
There was no reply at first, the silence dragging on to the point where Jack thought he might have the wrong address, but then he heard the shuffling of feet. "Who is it?" called a voice, fragile and weak.
"It's me. Jack."
Another age passed before a bolt was dragged back and a key turned. The door opened a crack and a sliver of Brendan's face appeared, one eye peeking out to confirm it was indeed his brother standing there. "Jack."
Jack smiled. "Are you going to let me in?"
His brother hesitated, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. Then he stepped back, allowing Jack to enter.
The room was just as bleak as the rest of the house; bare floorboards, all soiled and stained, walls that were more mold than plaster, and not much else. A heavy black curtain hung over the window, casting most of the room into darkness. A cot sat in the far corner with a melted candle next to it, and a chair lurked by the window. The fireplace was covered in cobwebs. There was a pile of wood next to it but Brendan obviously wasn't concerned about the coldness of the room. Looking around, Jack spotted Brendan's sword lying on a shelf. It too was coated with dust.
His brother shuffled over to the chair and fell onto it. He looked Jack up and down. "When did you get into Arbour?"
"Last night," replied Jack, trying not to show his shock at his brother's appearance. Brendan's skin was deathly pale and he had sores around the corners of his mouth. His hair had thinned in the months since they'd last seen each other and hung lank and greasy over his face. He wore an old tunic, buttoned up to his neck, as filthy as the rest of him, but still he shivered with the cold. Jack hadn't expected to see Brendan as bad as this. It unsettled him, made the hairs on his arms rise.
Brendan pulled a patchworked blanket over his shoulders. "Who are you here with?" The words were lifeless and disinterested in whatever the answer may be.
"I'm serving under Brother Nial. The Nostros ..."
Brendan flinched at the name and drew his legs up into the blanket. There was no hiding the shaking in his hands.
Jack went to him. "Brother, I didn't mean to upset you."
"No. No. No ... you didn't. You couldn't. I do it well enough myself. Of course, the Nostros." Brendan's head twitched this way and that as he rubbed his ear against his shoulder. He looked up, eyes catching the light from the window. "They're coming?"
Jack knelt down beside his brother, took his hand, and tried to rub some warmth into it. It was awful to see his brother in such a poor state. "We hope not, but we're making sure we can stop them if they do try. There's nothing to worry about."
Brendan mouth twitched with a flicker of a smile. "You always were a bad liar, brother."
"Come back with me to the barracks," said Jack. "Everyone will be glad to see you. We can get you a bath and some clean clothes, something to eat."
Brendan's tremors increased. He waved a shaking hand. "I don't do that. Leave here. No. Better I don't. Better I stay. Have to stay."
"When did you last eat?"
"Yes, yes. That's right. Food." Brendan looked up, seeming to brighten. "I'm all right, Jack. I'm your big brother. You don't have to look after me. I'm better on my own. Got a job to do. You've got a job to do."
"You're not on your own. You have me. You have the Order."
Brendan tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. "Have you seen the slave girl we rescued? Have you seen Lin?"
The question threw Jack for a moment. He felt the color find his cheeks. "Lin? She's fine. She's still at Whitehaven, driving everyone mad. They're not used to having a girl there."
"Is she going to come to Arbour?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen her in nearly a month. Why'd you ask?"
Brendan's head twitched once more. "No reason. No reason. No one wants to know. No one."
"Are you sleeping better?"
"No. No. Not sleep. No time for sleep. That's when the ... the Nostros ... the Nostros are ... the Nostros ..." Tremors ran up Brendan's body and his shoulders and arms jerked about uncontrollably. He slid off his chair and fell into Jack's arms, grimacing and grinding his teeth. Jack held him as best he could, stroking the back of his head and shushing as their mother had once done, his heart breaking at what his brother had become — at what the Nostros had done to him.
When Brendan had calmed enough, Jack led him to the cot and settled him down, pulling the blanket over him. "I'm going to get some food," said Jack, brushing Brendan's hair back from his face. "Some clean water, too. You'll start to feel better with something inside you."
Brendan said nothing, just stared past Jack at a spot on the far wall.
Jack left the room and took the stairs quickly. If Mrs. Waters' place wasn't open, he knew of a baker's not three streets away where he could get some fresh bread at the very least.
Jack had only gone a few steps when he heard a woman scream, her voice full of pain and anguish. He ran, following the noise, dreading what he'd find.
A crowd had gathered around the entrance to an all
ey three roads away from Brendan's. Jack knew it from when he was a kid — Sigil Street. He pushed his way past everyone and saw the woman from earlier. She'd found her daughter. Shelly, twelve years old, blond hair, half-covered in snow and very dead.
The mother cradled her daughter in her lap, weeping and wailing over her. Jack went to help when the girl's head rolled to one side, exposing her neck. The sight stopped him in his tracks.
Jack knew exactly how she died — except it was impossible. His hand went to his neck. The wound matched his own scar.
The girl had been murdered by a Nostros.
4
Lin
Lin was late. She'd spent too much time watching the snow fall from her cottage window like some silly child. She pulled on her boots and grabbed her coat, cursing herself. It wasn't as if she had anything else to do that day after all.
Her cottage was tucked away in the grounds of the monastery at Whitehaven, far enough from the main buildings to ensure she had to run if she was going to be on time. Knowing her luck, she'd slip on some ice and break something, but Lin didn't slow down. Some risks were worth it.
She flew past a group of students, with their shaved heads and grey uniforms, ignored their stares and open mouths. She knew they all talked about her — bad enough she was the only woman in a monastery with over five hundred men and boys, but once you took into account she was the only person born and raised in the Middle Kingdoms to ever come to Whitehaven, Lin was notorious.
