by Paul S. Kemp
Nix unreeled the cordage, started tying a cross knot around the plates. He worked fast and made damned sure the line was secure. “Listen, I know where the Fulcrum is. Or think I do. We’ll need a head start because we’re going to look for a way in.”
“A way into where?” Jyme said.
Egil waited, eyebrows raised.
“Ool wrote the book,” Nix said, testing the knot on the plates, finding it well secured. He stood and the plates dangled like a lure from the cord in his hand. “And that’s his clock that’s chimed every hour since anyone anywhere can remember. And if anything isn’t of this world, it’s that clock.”
Another boom, closer this time. Dust fell from the ceiling beams.
“I have this,” Nix said. “Go. Hurry.”
Neither Egil nor Jyme moved.
“You’re telling me this Fulcrum just happens to be in Dur Follin?” Egil said. “That bit about the clock is a weak table to set your theory on.”
“Agreed,” Jyme said, looking over his shoulder down the hall. “Seems awfully convenient.”
A sound carried from somewhere in the guild house, not a boom but a roar, the creature’s roar, closer and diffused by walls, but coming.
Nix slid the plates along the floor to the far side of the Vault, and eyed the ceiling for a likely perch over the door. “Unlikely unless there’s something special about Dur Follin, yeah? Some way of accessing the Fulcrum here that you can’t do in other places?”
Nix ensured the cord made a straight line along the floor, from the plates at the far end of the Vault to the doorjambs, taking care that nothing obstructed them. He’d have to yank them in and get the door shut quickly. “Think of everywhere we’ve been, Egil. Anything like Ool’s clock anywhere else?”
Egil rubbed the top of his head. “No. Nor the Archbridge, though, for that matter.”
Egil’s observation brought Nix up short. He hadn’t considered the bridge. “Shite.”
The bridge, too, seemed just as likely to be a remnant from a previous world. Now that Nix thought about it, so too did the tunnels under Dur Follin that predated the city by who knew how long.
“Shite, shite, shite,” Nix said, his conviction starting to fade. He thought he’d had it but Dur Follin could have been made and remade a dozen times. Even if the Fulcrum were accessible from the city, it needn’t be in or about Ool’s clock.
“We could’ve made it that way,” Jyme said thoughtfully. His eyes were wide, like he’d struck on something profound. “Last time? We could’ve made Ool’s clock the Fulcrum.”
Nix shook his head. “The Fulcrum doesn’t move. It can’t move. That’s the point of it. It’s a fixed spot in all worlds. Maybe it’s the clock, maybe it’s the bridge, or maybe it’s on the other side of the world. Shite, Egil.”
“No, no,” Jyme said, warming to his words. “I don’t mean we made the Fulcrum in a particular place. I mean we made you realize it’s in the clock.”
“That’s a damned thin thread of a theory, too,” Egil said, but Nix liked it and grabbed hold. He had nothing else. The book was written in Ool’s hand; that had to mean something.
“Thin thread or not, I’m going with it,” Nix said, moving to the wall and feeling for purchase. “If it’s wrong, we blame Jyme, in this world and the next. Then we fix it next time through. Agreed?”
“There won’t be a next time if we’re wrong,” Egil said. “But agreed. We’ll wait for you down the hall at the first turn.”
“Aye,” Nix said, and started to climb. “Mind that thing’s nose, though. Don’t let it sense you.”
“Bah,” Egil said. “It’ll be the plates it follows, not us. Speaking of, this is an awful risk, Nix. You don’t get clear in time…”
“It’ll have the plates, yeah. And you and Jyme won’t be able to get them back from it. But we can’t get to the clock without a lead. That thing will catch us easily. Comes to it, I’ll lock myself in here with it, then you try and bring the house down on us. Or the river. Yeah?”
Egil looked at Nix, the ceiling, the cordage on the floor tied to the plates. “You’re going to have to be fast,” he said. “Very fast.”
“I’m Nix the Quick,” Nix said. “Now go. And don’t disturb that cord as you do.”
“We’ll be close if you need us,” Egil said, and he and Jyme hurried out of the Vault.
—
The proximity of the Great Spell drove the Afterbirth mad. The smell-taste of it saturated his senses, propelled him onward. He threw himself against doors, knocking them from their hinges. Now and again he smelled an occupant of the building, but only faintly. The scent of the spell—soclosesoclosesoclose—overpowered everything else. He ranstumbled through hallways and rooms, inhaling, muttering, drooling. He reached a stairway and started up, the treads groaning under his weight, but the scent of the spell faded and he stopped, his hearts beating hard, his breath coming fast. The smell was not up the stairs. He scrambled down and stood in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, inhaling deeply, mouth groaning. The smell lingered in the room but went no farther. He roared his frustration, stomped the floor so hard the floorboards cracked. He fell to all fours, the mouths in his abdomen groaning, and put his head to the floor, inhaled deeply, and followed the scent along the wooden planks until he bumped up against the wall. He felt the faint movement of cooler air leaking from under a crease between the wall and floor and realized there was a door and stood and slammed his fists into the wood until the panel gave way to reveal the opening.
Chuffing and muttering, he ran into the dark hallway beyond. The aroma of the spell hung thick in the air, so thick he felt he could almost touch it. He murmured hopefully as he ran on, the narrow hallway turning and twisting in ways for reasons he could not understand and did not care to understand for the spell was at hand and so too was his freedom from pain.
He lumbered so quickly through the narrow labyrinthine hallways that he bounced off the walls. The air was damp, the smell of it bearing the hint of the river, but he focused on the scent of the spell. Ahead he saw an open door, a room, and the scent and feel of the spell was so strong that it caused his body to shudder. Moans racked him and he rushed forward, through the door and into the room.
—
Nix levered himself between ceiling beams, looking down on the Vault, his boots pressed against one beam, his hands against the other, the tension keeping him up, his muscles straining with the effort. He heard the creature coming long before it entered the room: the heavy tread, the wet breathing. Despite himself, his heartbeat jumped. He held his breath as the creature burst into the room, and hoped that the plates distracted the creature enough that it didn’t notice him perched above it.
It moved with surprising speed, its body lurching in an abrupt, awkward flail of limbs. Wet, sloppy groans leaked from its mouth, though it somehow sounded like several voices instead of one. Blood and filth covered the oversize, ragged cloak it wore. The cloak and hood also shielded the creature’s bulbous, lumpy form and face from view, and for that Nix was grateful. He had no desire to see what lay beneath the fabric, some residual horror stitched together from some wizard’s remaking of the world.
The plates lay at the far end of the Vault, tied with the line he’d left stretched across the floor, waiting for Nix to grab it up and reel it in.
Sweat formed on his brow, ran down his face, wicked to his nose. The creature was standing right under him and he could do nothing. He watched, cross-eyed, as the drop of sweat gathered on his nose tip, stretched, and started to fall.
The creature saw or smelled or sensed the plates and its muttering took on a whine. It lurched forward—the drop of sweat fell and formed a tiny wet stain on the floor—and in its eagerness to reach the plates plowed through the chair on which Egil had sat and knocked one of the guild’s chests to the side.
Nix wasted no time. He dropped from the wall, hit the ground in a crouch, grabbed the end of the rope, and yanked, thinking to pull the plates through th
e creature’s legs, slam the door, and get clear.
But the rope jerked taut and then moved not at all because the fakking creature was standing partially on it.
Nix cursed as the creature, having heard him land, started to whirl, growling. Nix caught a glimpse of the deformed, lump-covered face underneath the hood but only a glimpse, because as it turned, it lifted its foot off the rope.
Nix reeled in the plates as fast as he could while backing rapidly out of the Vault.
The creature saw the plates skitter across the floor and quickly realized what was happening. It muttered and squealed, issuing forth a desperate, slobbery group of syllables that Nix could not parse, and charged after the plates. It stumbled over the chair it had tipped, crushing it and nearly tripping as Nix backed through the doorjambs.
Nix snapped the rope to pull the plates through the doorway and started to swing the metal slab closed. The creature, screaming, flung the chair at the door as it lurched forward. The chair caught between door and jamb, preventing it from closing.
“Shite, shite,” Nix said, kicking it clear and trying to slam the door closed, but before it latched the creature slammed into it, hitting with the force of a battering ram. The impact drove the door back, knocked Nix on his rump, and pushed the door halfway open.
“Fak!”
The creature answered his curse with a roar of its own and Nix knew he’d not get the door closed. He scrabbled for his blade, planning to die fighting, when a growl and shout sounded from behind him and he turned to see Egil and Jyme charging down the hall at a full run, their faces red with effort. Nix rolled out of their way. Egil hit the door first, followed immediately by Jyme, the two of them striking with such power that the door snapped shut. Nix jumped up and turned the large handle that secured the lock.
On the other side, the creature slammed its body against the door so hard the metal groaned, again, again, again. Its shrieks and screams sounded almost pitiable, as though it were terrified to be in such a small space. It was screaming something, the words unintelligible.
“Little earlier next time, yeah?” Nix said to the priest, thumping Egil on the shoulder. He grabbed the plates and shoved them and the rope back into his satchel. “Let’s go. This door won’t hold.”
“Aye,” Egil said.
“Where?” Jyme asked. “The clock?”
“Aye,” Nix said. “Like you suggested.”
“You suggested it,” Jyme protested.
“What do you say, Egil? Seems to me old Jyme’s trying to slip the blame should things go wrong.”
“I’d agree,” Egil said.
“Fak you both,” Jyme said.
“And that’s well told,” Nix said. “Now let’s go.”
They sprinted back through the tunnels, the boom of the creature against the Vault door chasing them the while. Halfway through the tunnels that formed the warding symbol they ran into Rusk—literally.
Egil, in the lead, plowed over the Upright Man and knocked him down. Rusk had a blade in hand, and his shirt and cape were covered in blood.
“Shite,” Egil said. “Sorry, Rusk.”
Egil and Jyme helped Rusk, whose face was flush, to his feet.
“Where is that thing?” Rusk said. “It can’t be hurt. It can be cut, but it doesn’t hurt it.”
“I told you that—” Nix began.
“You told me it was hard to hurt!” Rusk said, almost taking Nix by the shirt but thinking better of it. “Not impossible to hurt! I’ve got twenty dead in the street and the Watch on its way.”
Another boom sounded from behind, the creature assailing the door. Rusk’s eyes widened at the sound.
“Do you have a way to flood these tunnels?” Nix asked. “Collapse them?”
Rusk looked at him as if he were stupid. “What? No.”
Nix had figured. “The creature is locked in the Vault—”
“The Vault!” Rusk exclaimed. “We have valuable swag in there!”
“Go get it if you want,” Jyme said.
Rusk stared blades at him.
Nix continued. “That door won’t hold, Rusk. You oughta clear the guild house. Just get everybody out. When that thing gets loose, it’ll come after us. It’ll only bother you and yours if you get in its way.”
“So don’t get in its way,” Egil said, then, “Wait, were you running here to help us? Or to have a go at that thing yourself?”
Rusk clamped his mouth shut and didn’t answer.
“Maybe he just figured whatever we have that the creature wants must be worth having,” Nix said.
“Maybe,” Egil said, eyeing Rusk. “But ballsy either way.”
“I got no shortage of balls, priest. Now, where’re you three planning to go? If what you say is right, there’s nowhere to run from this thing. It’ll tear down the city. No one will be able to stop it.”
“Best you don’t know where we’re going,” Nix said.
“Sorry about this, Rusk,” Egil added, sincerely.
“Fak you,” Rusk said, making a cutting gesture with his gloved hand. “And give me back that morphic key you stole, priest. Yeah, I know you lifted it. But I’ll have it back, just in case the city isn’t in ruins by midday.”
Egil handed over the key as another boom shook the walls.
“And speaking of what it wants?” Rusk asked.
Nix shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“You wouldn’t,” Jyme said.
Rusk studied their faces. “Well then, fak you again, and that’s for all three of you, and meant sincere. You remember that you owe me when this is done. Owe me big.”
“We owe you,” Nix agreed.
“When it’s done,” Egil said.
They stared at each other for a moment, then all of them turned and ran, the booms of the creature assaulting the door still echoing behind them. On the first floor, they found doors hanging crookedly in jambs, broken bodies of guild men strewn here and there, pools of blood, toppled furniture.
“Gods,” Jyme said. “Watch’ll have a day with this.”
“I have enough of them I pay that I can keep them out of here. It’s the street I’m worried about. Anyways, I’m clearing the house,” Rusk said, and diverted down a hallway. “Luck to you three.”
“And you,” Nix called after him, as Rusk started shouting for everyone to get out. To Egil and Jyme, Nix said, “We remake the world, maybe we have him forget we owe him?”
“I don’t know,” Egil said. “I’m thinking he earned it.”
“Fair point,” Nix said.
The front door of the guild house, thick and reinforced with iron bands, had been knocked from its hinges and lay flat in the foyer. Bodies of guild men, heads and faces crushed and bloody, lay on the ground around it. The creature’s bloody footprints led a path back into the guild house. From outside in the street, Nix could hear the commotion of a gathering crowd, the whistles of the Watch.
“Straight to the clock if we can,” he said.
They strode out of the guild house and stopped. A dozen or more bodies littered the streets, all of them leaking blood or innards or brains, bones poking through flesh. People had gathered in small groups, checking on the corpses, hands before their mouths or pointing or turning away, disbelief and shock in their eyes. Members of the Watch, noticeable among the gathering crowd in their orange tabards, moved among the gawkers, issuing orders, but looking upon the carnage with their own expressions of disbelief. One or two of the Orangies blew their whistle, as if summoning more members of the Watch would somehow spread thinner the horror of the slaughter. Nix spotted a couple of surviving guild men among the throng. When they saw Nix, they pointed and shouted.
“That’s them that brought it!”
“Shite,” Nix whispered under his breath.
“Just go,” Jyme said, pushing at him to move.
But Nix knew he couldn’t. They had to get the street cleared. The door to the Vault would not hold that creature and he�
�d seen what it had done to the guild house. It would kill everyone within reach in its madness.
“Everyone needs to get out of here now!” Nix shouted.
“What are you doing?” Jyme said.
More faces turned in their direction and Nix imagined how the three of them must look in the predawn light—he and Jyme covered in filth and blood, Egil shirtless and likewise stained. Murmurs ran through the crowd, mumbled accusations, knowing nods. An Orangie turned from looking at one of the corpses in the street, and Nix recognized the short gray hair of the Watch sergeant they’d seen earlier at the Slum Gate.
“You!” Nix called, and raised a hand in a hail. “Sergeant!”
He needn’t have called. The sergeant seemed to register Nix at the same time that Nix registered him. He said something to the other Orangie standing near him and the man moved off, issuing orders to the other watchmen nearby. Meanwhile, the sergeant strode briskly toward Nix. As he approached, he took in their appearance.
“Another scrum, I’m guessing,” the sergeant said.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Egil said.
“You need to clear the street, Sergeant, and—”
The sergeant was shaking his head. “Just slow down. Let’s take it slow for a moment.”
“Listen to me,” Nix said. “The thing that slaughtered those people in the street? That thing is still in the guild house and it’s only a matter of time before it gets out again—”
“What thing?” the sergeant said, looking past them at the guild house.
Nix went on: “And if it gets out again, it will kill everything in its way. It’s after us and if you just clear a path—”
“Why is it after you? I’ve got ten men out here. We can stop—”
“You can’t,” Egil said. “It can’t be hurt with weapons. I know how that sounds, but that’s truth. All those men dead in the street thought they could hurt it, too. But nothing you can do will stop it. You just need to get everyone out of the way.”
Other Orangies must have caught sight of the body language and sharp gestures punctuating the exchange. One of them called over.
