by Lucas Thorn
“You don't want to go listening to that,” Snotshank advised. “It's been around for years. Ever since the Dark Lord fell. Best to forget you can hear it. Some say it's the spirits the Dark Lord trapped in the Wall. And because he's gone, they're getting free. Some who listen to it, they go exploring. Ain't many who listen to it ever come back. Those that do? They ain't right in the head anymore. Keep talking about stupid stuff.”
“Crazy stuff,” Forkleg said.
“Exactly.” Snotshank looked as serious as he could get. “Shit you ain't ever heard before.”
Forkleg clicked his tongue. “Kidneyshot.”
“Poor Kidneyshot.”
“Poor is right. Bastard was fucking crazy when he went in. Batshit insane when he came out. Kind of doubled up on the brain damage. When we found him, he was trying to roll barrels of black powder down the fucking stairwells. Would've killed us. Was screaming drop it, drop it on 'em. Drop it on 'em.” Forkleg shuddered. “Top of his lungs. Batshit fucking crazy.”
Snotshank scratched at his jaw, squeezing his red eyes shut. “What was it he went on about? Fucking fish, weren't it?”
“Sharks.”
“That's right!” Snotshank snapped his fingers. “Sharks. Said they were swimming in the stairs. Said they tried to bite his fucking head off.”
“Said they talked to him.” Forkleg glanced nervously at the walls. “Told him he was missing something.”
“Yeah.” Snotshank's grin subsided. “But we could've told him that before he went exploring.”
“Could have,” Forkleg agreed.
“Sharks,” Snotshank said, turning his attention back to Melganaderna who was looking from one ork to the other like she wasn't sure if they were teasing her or not. “Sharks in the fucking walls. Fucking crazy. And that ain't nearly the craziest shit we've heard.”
“Not by half,” Forkleg said.
“No. Nor by quarters. And, to top that shit off, right now we've got a bunch of fucking goblins stinking up the place and killing every fucking thing that moves. So, if you close that door, you'd best be ready to die. That axe might do real fucking nice against a few Caspies, or a bunch of Bucky's boys out there, but against a mob of hungry goblins?”
“Kiss your ass goodbye,” Forkleg said.
“And your ears,” Snotshank said. Squinted at her. “Now. That clear and fucking friendly enough for you? Or you need Forkleg here to draw you a pretty fucking picture?”
“On your forehead,” Forkleg said helpfully. “With a knife.”
Hemlock rubbed his eyes, weariness getting the better of him. “You can't draw on someone's forehead,” he said. “There's not enough room.”
“Sure you can,” Nysta said. As if to emphasise the point, she dropped a hand to Unsolicited Advice. The slim handle and short blade was sheathed snugly on the outside of her jacket above A Flaw in the Glass. “Just need the right knife.”
Forkleg pointed at her, red eyes beaming bright with enthusiasm. “At fucking last! Someone who knows what the fuck they're talking about!”
“At least one of us does,” Chukshene murmured.
“What'd you say, little man?”
“Nothing.” The warlock held up a hand defensively. “Can I just say we're wasting time? Didn't you say Her Imperial Highness was waiting for us? Won't she be pissed if you keep us out here all night? I'd be pissed if I were her.”
“Ain't our fault you're standing about like the bunch of fucking turkeys you are,” Snotshank said. “We pointed the way to the door. What else you want? Kiss on the fucking cheeks? Help pulling your pants up? Fuck that. I ain't your ma.”
“Your fault for not going there,” Forkleg said.
“That's right. We told you to.”
Forkleg rolled his eyes at them. “But instead, you wanted to argue about the doors.”
Nysta slid between the two orks. Though she moved with a laconic gait, her fingers were tight around the handles of her knives and her eyes were violet slits.
Melganaderna went next, reaching back one hand to pull Hemlock with her.
Muttered something under her breath as she did.
Something about orks and brains.
Chukshene held Snotshank's gaze a little longer, the smile on the warlock's face spreading wider. “Sharks?”
Snotshank's voice was low. “In the fucking walls.”
“I hate sharks,” Chukshene said.
“Aw, I dunno.” Snotshank smacked his lips loudly. “They go great with those fried potato things they do in Dragonclaw. Bit of salt. Some chilli. Good as fucking gravy.”
“Oh, I'll eat them,” Chukshene said. “Of course I'll eat them. I just don't like them.”
Snotshank's head tracked the warlock who squeezed past with a short cough of apology. “No. Who does?”
The two orks smirked at each other as the elf watched them from the doorway. Hemlock and Melganaderna had already gone inside and she leaned against the frame, waiting for Chukshene.
The muscle down the back of her neck felt solid and wrapped in balls of barbed wire around her spine. She rubbed at it with one hand, trying to ignore the sluggish press under her skin as a slow river of worms squirmed through the knots.
Worms she knew were made of the frozen darkness which had swarmed in Talek's Cage.
“Do you believe them?” Chukshene asked.
The elf blinked, jolted from her thoughts.
“Which part?” Rubbed at the scar on her cheek, expression suddenly thoughtful. “Ain't sure, 'lock. Wasn't really listening for the finish. Only caught the tail end.”
He pressed a hand to the smooth wall, almost mesmerised by it. While the orks giggled behind them, he frowned as though feeling the stone for the first time. “There's something, though...”
“Hey, spellslinger!” Forkleg called. “Watch out for sharks!”
He turned his head, mouth opening as though ready to unleash a flood of questions. Questions she wasn't prepared to endure. Not right now. Not with hunger itching at her belly and sleep gnawing at the back of her eyes.
“Get inside,” Nysta said, stopping him short. She waved him inward with a weary sigh. “If you really want to learn more, you can always drop them a line.”
CHAPTER THREE
The interior of the room was shrouded and dark.
Bleached grey stone sweating black stains from lifeless pores. Slivers of light glittered in the spaces between each block. Heavy pillars formed a winding maze down the length of the narrow room making it impossible to see all the way through. Pillars cracked and blistered, wounds glowing with throbbing heat as though ready to burst and send lava splashing across the scorched ground.
The left side was split by narrow openings cut into the stone. Openings which might have been used by archers. Or spellslingers. Yawning mouths ready to vomit death onto the Wolfpaw Plains and the gathered swarm below if only there were soldiers ready to go through the motions of war.
Right now, the room was empty. Empty but for a few malignant shadows beyond the pillars. A dull purple glow showered where Melganaderna was leaning, Torment resting easily against the wall beside her.
Seated in a small chair next to her, Hemlock shifted slightly to glance in the elf's direction. She could feel his eyes piercing the kind of gloom which stifled noise and light. His discomfort was plain.
“It's demonic, though,” Chukshene was saying as he shuffled along, running his hand across the smooth surface. “Something is definitely inside and it's demonic. I can feel the sigils burning inside the stone. How could he get them inside, though?”
“Because he was a god,” a smooth voice said from beyond Hemlock. Each word coiled against the next to form a sardonic chain which made the elf think of a purring cat. The kind of cat which lured you in. Called you close. Smiled. Then, with a rush of claw and tooth, spilled your blood across the alley floor. Ate your liver. “And that comes with certain benefits, I'd say.”
The warlock dusted his hands off. Saw the darkness didn't
quite leave his skin and chose to wipe it on his tattered robe as he weaved through the pillars which hid the speaker from view.
She was seated on a long couch which had once seen a great deal of use. Battered arms clinging vaguely to mottled cloth. The fragile-looking structure creaked when she moved. And she moved as Chukshene bowed lower with each approaching step.
She wore ragged leather armour which looked a little too big for her feline frame. Like it was made for someone else. Given her own relative size to humans, Nysta hesitated in thinking the woman fragile. But there was something about her which might have inspired an urge of protection in the heart of a man. Or a god.
Even one as dark as Grim.
Long near-black hair tied tight across her skull. Dark skin coated in a thin film of sweat. The look of exhaustion in her gaze spoke of trials the elf hadn't yet guessed at. As did the delicate and ornate shortsword dropped deliberately at her feet. A sword which hadn't been cleaned of the blood it had spilled. A deliberate gesture, the elf thought.
As she uncurled herself from the couch and aimed herself at the approaching warlock, her mouth lifted smoothly into a smile. A smile meant to disarm.
To nurture trust.
She might have deceived most people, but the humour in her amber-coloured eyes didn't fool the elf. This woman was dangerous. Probably more than anyone in the room.
Either side of her, a guard in matching uniforms of black leather and steel mail. Similar uniforms to most of those outside, but different in subtle ways. Like, a fringe of deep red tassles beneath their shoulders. And the buckles were larger. Brighter.
They stood like stone, radiating menace with nonchalant care. One an ork. The other a stocky man with a face ruined by scars.
The ork, like most of his kind, wore fetishes of bone and other occult materials pinned to his heavy shoulder plates and lining his belt. Many were for luck. Others for strength. Some for reasons only he could say. His green skin carried the dirt of days and a streak of blood was splashed across his face like warpaint.
His weapons hung at his side. Two hammers. Each solid metal head bigger than the skull of a horse.
The human looked less stained by war, but certainly not one who'd avoided the taking of lives. His hand rested on the brass pommel of his sword. His other on a saw-toothed knife. His eyes flicked across her uniform, drinking in her own blades with a look of undisguised admiration.
She moved forward, separating herself from the warlock's wake. Drifted with deliberate intent to the gaping windows in the wall. Feeling the intensifying gaze of the two guards as they assessed and judged.
Predicted.
They were a room of killers, she mused. Killers who wouldn't hesitate to murder each other to survive. Maybe even for reasons less than that.
The warlock knelt hastily at the woman's feet. Unconsciously brushed at his robe as if to wipe some of the dirt away and reveal something of the finery it had once possessed. Tried to look calm.
Failed.
“Your Imperial Highness,” he said. Voice a dry rattle. “My name is Chukshene. A mage from the Tower. I'm at your service. We-”
“Met once. Yes, I know.” She licked her lips. “In Doom's Reach. You were younger then. And a bit too familiar with one of the kitchen girls, I heard. She married a ditcher. Terrible man. He ate too many onions. It made him smell. Didn't it, Arvid?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the human guard said. “Pretty badly.”
“I can't stand onions, apprentice.”
Chukshene's face fumbled for an expression. Indignation. Surprise. Confusion. Back to indignation. Managed to catch his words and alter his tone before speaking. “I, uh, I'm no apprentice,” he said. “Not anymore. I passed the tests. I'm a mage now.”
“A good one?” She leaned closer, looking at him like he was a pet. Or a child she was teasing. “Can you go to Lovespurn and kill everyone for me? There's only a few hundred of them. You can pop all their heads and be back for breakfast. What do you say?”
“Well...”
“No? Well, that's disappointing.”
“I'm sorry. I-”
“But I didn't open the gate for you, apprentice. Although, you should know it was the company you keep which nearly kept you out to be nailed by a Black Blade. Caspiellans aren't trusted very much right now. Not here. Even if they're running away.”
“I like when they run away,” the ork growled. His voice, thick and amused.
“Makes them hard to catch,” Arvid said.
The Imperial Princess looked over her shoulder. Frowned. “Don't be rude. They're our guests.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologise to me, Ironthorn. I wasn't offended. Apologise to them.”
The ork rolled his eyes. Nodded to Melganaderna. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “Doesn't bother me. I don't like anyone I'm trying to kill running from me, though.” Patted Torment's long handle. “This thing's a bastard to throw.”
Ironthorn grinned in response. Though when his eyes drifted to the battleaxe, he pulled his face back into a scowl.
“Not much of an apology. But good enough,” the Imperial Princess said. Pointed to Chukshene. “So. You're not much help. Your two friends here are sort of useful, given they're good to me as hostages if the Black Blades make it through the Wall. Oh, don't look at me like that, Melgana. Yes, I know exactly who you both are. Though the stories of whitehair here and his magic are a bit unbelievable. Raising a whole city of the dead? In Grimwood Creek? I've been there, and it could hardly be called a town let alone a city. Having said that, if you can raise the dead right now, I'd happily watch them kill everyone. I'm supposed to cut your head off afterwards, of course. The Mage Tower doesn't like necromancy, does it, apprentice?”
“No.” Chukshene's voice was tight.
The woman leaned back, stretching her legs across the couch. Yellow eyes narrowed slightly. “They don't like a lot of things these days. Did you know, I hear they found a young lad in Ravensholme a few weeks ago. Idiotic boy was playing with things he didn't understand. Things which the Mage Tower finds offensive. Which even Grim found offensive. Surprised? I know. It surprised even me to know he found anything offensive. Especially after what he did to build this place. It wasn't pretty at all. So many died to build it. Their blood was used to paint the earth. Their bones used to pierce the ground and bring the molten blood of the world from its burning veins. Sounds delightful, doesn't it? He said it was the only way. He knew he couldn't keep Rule back forever.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, suddenly tired, but pushing through with a clench of her jaw. Her eyes flashed as she turned back to him. Voice hissing free. “He's dead now, apprentice. His corpse rotting somewhere deep in the ground. So deep I didn't even get to see his body. I didn't get to say goodbye. Can you imagine how that feels, apprentice? To have your love stripped and murdered. Have it stolen. Then locked away. Can you even begin to understand the kind of hate that creates in a heart?”
“I'm sorry.” The warlock shook his head, not sure what to say. “But I'm, uh, I'm really not an apprentice, Your Highness.”
She shot from the couch, arms reaching straight and fast. Sharp fingers took his robe and lifted him off his knees. Baiting his yelp of surprise with power her slender arms didn't look to possess. Yellow eyes flared bright as she stared deep into his.
While no one else moved, the two guards shifted their hands in preparation. Eyes flicking across the room.
“The small-minded pawns of the Mage Tower want to reach into the past, apprentice. Grim united the Fnordic Lands and its fragmented kingdoms and clans in a fist of savage iron, forging the Empire with strength and will. He bound us. Broke us. Remade us. Stronger. And they want to ruin that. They want to pull the empire apart and resurrect kingdoms they think will be easier to control.” She ignored his struggle as he tried to work himself free without touching her. “They want to lead, apprentice. Lead with their words. And their decisions which take years to be debated a
nd decided. Decisions which will weaken us as we splinter and divide. They will doom us all to chaos. They offer thrones to men who haven't the ability to rule. Men with spines of velvet and silk. They offer gold, apprentice, to men swollen with greed. Men who would sell us to Rule for just a few moments as king on a throne of sand. Look around you. We stand here, in the shadow of the Wall. A wall he built to keep us free. And do we defend this wall from Rule and his barbarian hordes? No. We fight ourselves. We turn our axes and our hammers on each other. We cut ourselves to pieces with our swords. Out there are two men. One for each side of the Wall. General Buckinum on one. King Scarrow to the other. Two dangerous men. And then there's the goblins. Who knows what they want? They're killing, not talking. Which makes a change for the Friends of Eventide. I am surrounded. Surrounded by death. But I won't have it. I won't. We will never fall. We will stand at the Doomgate, and we will kill them all, or we will die trying. Now you know where we stand. Tell me, apprentice of magic you cannot understand, where in all this shadowborn chaos do you belong? Where will you stand?”
The warlock shifted in her grip, glancing first at Hemlock who offered nothing. Then at Melganaderna, who had her own gaze firmly on the ork. Then at Nysta, whose back was mostly to him.
He sighed.
Wrenched his eyes back to the feral gaze of Asa, the Imperial Princess. Daughter of the Emperor. A woman who could order his death for no reason but whim. Who'd done so many times to many men.
A woman of strange and secretive fire made alien by the immortality gifted to her by a god. A dead god who'd loved her. Burned for her.
“I stand with the Wall,” he said. Slowly. Testing each word before uttering. “I stand with you.”
She held his terrified gaze a few heartbeats longer than he thought he could endure. Then dropped him to his knees and swept back to her couch. Layered herself with a dark cloth and studied him, face impassive.
“I knew you would,” she said at last. Firm in conviction. Oiled with satisfaction. “That's why I opened those gates, apprentice. Because I knew you would serve me. When I saw you out there, it was as if Grim had sent you at last. As if, even from beyond the grave, he worked to protect this land. Bucky thinks he can wear us down. Beat us against the Doomgates, painting it with our blood. But there's a chance. A slim one. Slimmer than that kitchen girl you left behind.”
