by Tom Lloyd
A smile split across Amber’s face. ‘They know their limits. Trust me, even if they start singing and dancing on tables, they’ll sober up in an instant if someone draws a sword or throws a punch. That little incident was just them letting off steam.’
‘Letting off steam?’ Mikiss shuddered. The brothers had been bleeding profusely by the end of the vicious fist-fight they’d had a week back.
Aye, they didn’t do any real damage. Shart’s got too many words in him; sometimes they just come out too fast and he gets on Keneg’s tits. Keneg has to remind his brother which one’s the elder, who’s in charge.’
‘They beat each other to a pulp!’
Amber’s smile widened. ‘We got a saying in the army, “No man’s your brother till you spill blood with him.” Those two know there’s no grudge to hold; even Shart knows that he’s not going to win most of the time, but he don’t care. They kick off, get it all out of their system and forget about it before the bruises fade.’ The major gave Mikiss a friendly thump on the arm, which was still smarting from where Shart had accidentally slammed him into the wall. ‘Anyone else spills their brother’s blood, and not even the worst fiend of the Dark Place will stop them.’
Mikiss looked at the pair. Shart was chatting animatedly with the barkeep, clearly enjoying the chance to practise his language skills. Keneg was staring at the floor, happy in his own world of silence. They couldn’t be more different. Most likely half of their arguments start when Shart accidentally hits Keneg while he’s talking, Mikiss thought, watching the younger waving his hands wildly to demonstrate a point.
Presently something resembling food was brought out by a greasy-haired girl. Her eyes were dark with fatigue, betraying a lack of sleep that left her movements weary and sluggish. Even Keneg’s glare when she slopped a little of the brackish stew elicited no response.
Mikiss watched Major Amber hunker down over a tough crust of bread, though his eyes were firmly fixed on the right-hand corner of the room. Mikiss could barely see the men sitting there, a broad-shouldered man roughly Amber’s size and a smaller companion. They had been anxiously watching the new arrivals, which had prickled Amber’s instincts. Now the mismatched pair were huddled together over their table, examining something.
‘Strange,’ Amber whispered to Mikiss when he realised they were watching the same pair. ‘An odd paid of labourers: one damned pale and skinny, the other as much a soldier as I am, and from those scars on his hands I’d say one who’s seen the wrong end of a torturer in his days.’
Mikiss half expected Shart to make a joke, but the brothers were busy with their food. The only sign they gave of having heard Amber was a surreptitious loosening of weapon ties. ‘Do you think they’re here for us?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it; General Gaur said there were bad things brewing in this place. Knowing what Isherin Purn’s sort are like, I’d expect his favourite taverns to be at the centre of whatever is going on. Whatever those two are about, it might not be anywhere near legal, but as long as it’s nothing to do with us I don’t care.’
They lapsed into silence, concentrating on the food, grateful at least that the poor excuse for stew had softened the bread a touch. An hour crept past, then another. The day grew hotter as the afternoon wore on. Through the open shutters and doors they could hear the sounds of city life dwindle to almost nothing under the oppressive weight of the heat.
Major Amber advised Mikiss to try to get some sleep, and did likewise himself. Mikiss lay on a bench, trying to summon the strength to move, but even that was beyond him. He had never experienced weather like this before; even in Thotel the air moved, and during the hottest part of the day you could retire deep within a stonedun. Here, there was no scrap of breeze to offer even the smallest respite, just an overpowering helplessness that weakened both spirit and limbs. Sleep was elusive; his body jerked itself awake every time his eyes drifted closed because of the day’s stultifying oppression.
‘I hate this city,’ he muttered feverishly. ‘With my eyes closed, it feels more like the Dark Place.’
‘Don’t close your eyes, then,’ Amber growled beside him.
Mikiss gave a disconsolate sigh and stared at the dirty beams in the ceiling until he realised something. With a grunt he sat abruptly up, feeling his damp back peel away from the bench below. His head swam and he had to rub his face to restore some life to it. ‘Our friends have left,’ he said.
‘Went about an hour ago,’ Shart replied shortly. Even his natural garrulousness was defeated by the heat.
‘I didn’t hear them.’
‘Who cares?’ Amber asked, still lying on the bench with his eyes closed.
‘It’s just strange they left when it was still so hot.’
‘It’s cooling,’ Keneg said unexpectedly.
‘How can you tell?’
‘The sounds outside. Folk are getting ready to start the day again. The farmers are probably bringing their produce to sell.’
The sound of footsteps in the doorway stopped their speculation. The major raised his head, and blinked hard.
A comical figure with sweat-plastered sandy hair and a rounded belly stood at the doorway peering into the gloom at them. His arms were over-large, out of proportion with the rest of his body, hanging loose at his side. He wore the simple shirt and cropped breeches of a servant, looking out of place in this city of dust and sweat because they were scrupulously free from both - even if they did bear traces of his last meal. He wore nothing on his feet - then Mikiss realised the strange man’s feet were completely different sizes and shapes - one would have been relatively normal, were it not for the neatly webbed toes, but the other was chubby and child-sized, a squat lump with fat little toes curling into the floor. Despite the oddness of his feet, they didn’t seem to slow the man down as he lurched towards the bar, his thick arms swaying from side to side.
The barkeep gave the newcomer a reserved nod and pointed towards the major before leaving for the kitchen. The strange man turned to regard them all for a moment, then frowned at Amber. Mikiss realised the major must have claimed to be Mikiss himself, just in case there was a nasty surprise waiting for them.
‘Master Mikiss?’ the man enquired, taking a few steps towards them, his voice surprisingly welcoming, considering his evident wariness.
‘And you are?’ said Amber.
‘You are Master Mikiss?’
‘Depends on who you are.’
The strange man didn’t reply for a moment. Eventually he shrugged. ‘My name is Nai, and I am servant to Isherin Purn. Are you Master Mikiss?’
Mikiss stood up. ‘I’m Koden Mikiss,’ he said.
A broad smile flourished on his face. ‘But of course you are.’ his Menin was impeccable, with no trace of any foreign inflection. As Nai grinned, Mikiss realised they were actually of similar ages, although the servant’s weather-beaten face made him look older. ‘Gentlemen, we have been expecting you,’ Nai continued smoothly. ‘I hope your journey was enjoyable enough?’
‘It was long, dirty and exhausting,’ Amber cut in, ‘so enough of the pleasantries.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Nai replied, completely unflustered by the major’s brusque tone. ‘If you would all be so good as to accompany me?’
The barkeep brought out a covered bowl which Nai swept up with one hand, then scuttled back to the door. Mikiss groaned as he heaved his pack back up onto his shoulder and followed the soldiers out of the tavern into the blindingly bright afternoon. The sun, though lower in the sky, cast a white carpet over the paving stones and it was still hot enough to make the air in his lungs feel thin and inadequate. His knees began to tremble after only a few steps.
‘Here, let me take that,’ Shart offered. Mikiss looked up at the man’s outstretched hand and shook his head. Shart was certainly stronger and fitter, but the sodden state of the man’s shirt was testimony to how hard the journey had been on all of them. However much he hurt, Mikiss had been determined from the start not to be a burde
n, and he had no intention of starting now, so close to their goal. Shart gave a brief snort; of approval or scorn Mikiss couldn’t tell.
Mikiss was vaguely aware they were moving away from the heart of the city as they struggled on, first over uneven cobbles, then smooth packed-dirt roads lined with tall limes with wilting leaves of green and yellow and a type of hawthorn Mikiss had never seen before, its twisted branches covered in thin leaves and sharp spines.
It took them more than half an hour of walking at Mikiss’ erratic pace before they reached an area within sight of the city wall that was largely derelict. A handful of roughly mended buildings bore signs of life, but it struck Mikiss that there were no birds to be heard, not even where the trees had shrivelled fruit still hanging from their higher branches. A few people idly watched them from the shadows of doorways and windows, curious only at who might be fool enough to be out under the still-fierce sun.
This far out, past the old South Barbican that had once protected Scree, the houses stood well apart from their neighbours. Nai led them to a large, gloomy place that looked as if it had once been a country manor house until it was swallowed up by the expanding city, then abandoned to the ravages of wind and rain.
‘This is where Purn lives?’ asked Amber sceptically. It had once been a fine building, but now, surrounded by a high, rusted iron fence with wild undergrowth encroaching on it, the house looked neither inhabited nor habitable. Its nearest neighbour was in even worse condition, bearing the unmistakable black smears of fire-damage.
Mikiss sniffed the air. Here, more than elsewhere in the city, there was a smell of decay. Most of it was the house, he suspected, but there was something beyond the stink of unwashed bodies and rotting vegetation: a sharp smell of decayed meat. Perhaps this was just a hint of the horrors one might find in the home of a necromancer.
‘This is where my master lives,’ Nai confirmed. ‘Much of his work is conducted in the cellars, so we do not need all of the rooms. You are welcome to make use of whatever space you find above ground, and the house is reasonably sound, but I do suggest you keep clear of the attic. The floor is especially bad up there.’
Shart craned his head up to the roof, noting the large gaps in the tiles. ‘I see what you mean about the attic,’ he muttered, ‘but your idea of “reasonably sound” might be a little different to mine.’
‘It serves our purposes,’ Nai replied, ‘and of course we would not want anyone passing by to think there might be value in investigating the building.’
‘Don’t you have guards?’
‘Most certainly,’ the servant said with a small smile that filled Mikiss with foreboding, ‘but they lack both subtlety and the sense to make distinctions between children playing and enemy agents.’
‘As well as a heartbeat, no doubt,’ Shart muttered.
‘As well as a heartbeat,’ Nai echoed with strange enthusiasm. ‘And we prefer to keep a low profile, especially as tempers in the city are running somewhat high.’
‘Have there been riots?’ Major Amber asked.
‘Nothing overly dramatic, but the mood in the city has changed. There is no desperate scarcity of food yet, but that hasn’t stopped fights breaking out most nights.’ Nai gestured up at the pale blue sky and said gravely, ‘Since the weather turned, the people of Scree have been acting like animals. They rut and fight and scream in the street. Before long the city will begin to tear itself apart.’
He turned back to the house and gave a heavy sigh that seemed to begin in his feet and rise all the way up to his strange sweat-flattened hair. Then he shook himself abruptly and pushed aside the gate for the soldiers to enter.
‘Welcome,’ he intoned as each passed him. Mikiss felt a shiver run down his spine, as though some malevolent spirit had stroked the hairs on his neck and then fled. The fact that Nai carefully replaced the broken, rusting gate just confirmed to Mikiss that something unholy prowled the grounds.
A weed-infested gravel path led from the gate up to a tall stud-tied door flanked by a pair of columns covered in rusty lichen and a vibrant green creeper that covered part of the building, obscuring several windows.
The rubbish and broken planks piled up on the doorstep led Shart to assume there was no way in from the front. He led the way round to the right, following patches of gravel that were all that remained of the original drive to the rear of the building. The fence was fifty paces or so from the house, yet somehow Mikiss felt crossing that distance would be a harder trek than it might at first appear. Buried in the undergrowth, partly swallowed by untended rhododendron bush, he spotted a small stone housing, some two feet high, with some sort of metal grille at its entrance. Mikiss wondered how the people of Scree buried their dead and shuddered.
Around the back of the house was the first sign of habitation, a neatly swept courtyard surrounded by a low wall. The rest of the grounds remained wild and untended. One enormous pine overshadowed the area. Next to it were three smaller trees, just shy of twenty feet tall, spreading their spiky-leaved branches in a dome that reached almost to the ground.
‘Gentlemen, leave your packs here,’ Nai said, gesturing at the courtyard floor. He had barely finished speaking before four thumps indicated they had acted immediately. Nai smiled, noting that the soldiers might have shed their packs, but they had not cast off their weapons.
He crossed the courtyard and walked past the sun-blistered door to a large iron panel, almost five feet square, set at an angle on the floor. He gripped the thick iron ring, grunted in effort and hauled the panel up and open.
Mikiss noticed that the panel was more than an inch thick. He was impressed. Nai was neither tall nor particularly solid, yet he hadn’t been hugely taxed by the fortified cellar door. Clearly there was more than just strange feet to this servant; he would bear close watching.
Nai stepped back, a lopsided smile on his face and a triumphant edge to his voice as he announced, ‘Gentlemen, allow me to present my master, Isherin Purn.’
Looking into the cellar, Mikiss could see nothing at first, then outlines started to suggest themselves. The faintest of lights grew out of the darkness, not lamplight, but a strange green glow with no visible source. He made out steps leading down to a wide room, with a table, or maybe a bench further back, with smooth curved shapes upon it. He didn’t look too hard because at the foot of the steps was the silhouette of a man, quite still and silent, with that strange green light playing around his head and shoulders. Mikiss could not suppress a shiver.
CHAPTER 19
Fires danced in the twilight, the heat prickling his skin. Fragments of stone and brick under his feet made his footing treacherous as he picked his way down the street. Somewhere behind him he heard a scream, a voice he knew as well as his own - wife, lover, friend? He couldn’t tell. His memories were filled with clamouring voices, mingling in his ears, drowning each other out before he could identify any of them. Each one triggered a new wave of guilt, but faded before he could attach a name or deed.
In the distance came other sounds: people shouting, the splinter of wood, the groan of disintegrating walls, the high ring of steel meeting steel. The voice behind him screamed again and this time he turned to face a misshapen creature with blood on its claws and bodies lying at its feet.
Gripped with fury, he left his shining sword in its scabbard and leapt forward, mailed fists outstretched and reaching for the creature’s throat. They slammed together and spun off into the wall of a building that crumbled under the impact. They collapsed with it in a cloud of dust, still holding hard to each other. He felt the clouds massing above, growing in intensity and power; their strength filled his arms and he twisted his fingers around the creature’s wrists, feeling something snap. His thumb drove deep into the desiccated flesh of his foe.
The creature howled and broke its grip on him, scrabbling to escape but unable to evade his swinging fists. He connected, watched its chest crack and crumple like dried plaster struck by a hammer. He kicked out, smashing it to
the ground, then used his own great weight to pin it down.
He roared with triumph as his lingers surrounded the paper-like skin of its throat and began to squeeze, harder and hauler. It scrabbled ineffectually, beating at his huge shoulders to no effect, emitting a stifled whimper of fear.
His hands tightened, breaking bones and crushing its windpipe until the creature moved no more - and only then did he see the fear in its eyes. Only then did he look at its face and realise that during the struggle it had become his own face, haunted and afraid, even in death. He released his grip, stumbling backwards in horror from the armoured corpse that lay beneath him. As he retreated he fell, but there was no ground beneath him to stop him, only high banks of earth rising up on either side as he fell deeper and deeper. The light from the fires grew distant as he descended into the darkness of the grave.
Isak flinched, suddenly realising how fast his heart was beating. The dream that afternoon was a new one, wrecking his sleep as he hid from the relentless sunshine in the cellar of the house they had taken. It lingered in his memory even now, several hours after nightfall. He recognised the taste of fear in his mouth, the vivid images in his mind and the ghosts of sensation on his fingertips. This was no ordinary dream; the similarities to his long-standing nightmare about Lord Bahl’s death were all too apparent. Even in the hot night air he could feel Death’s cold touch on his skin. He wondered if this too was prophetic.
‘But what does it mean?’ he whispered to the night. ‘How could I have been fighting myself? I died, but the black knight wasn’t there. Is anything set, or has my corrupted destiny now turned me away even from that?’
He wiped a hand across his brow, feeling a slick sheen of sweat under his fingers. They had been in this city less than a day and already he was hating it. Even on the Chetse plains he’d never felt such heat. He didn’t need his Crystal Skulls to tell him that this was far from natural; every fibre of his being told him so. There was magic in the air; a bitter, dirty pall hanging over the city that made his head throb. He felt both light-headed and disembodied, and yet burdened by the weight of the Land. He found himself unable to separate one confused thought from the next and his foul mood only deepened.
