“These men aren’t the only Wanderers.” Kell had often seen the nomadic merchants with their pushcarts and wagons, in the streets near the docks and the byways where traffic was heaviest with shoppers. He remembered the old woman he had met in the alley and the strange sigils chalked on dirty walls. He’d never seen many of the Wanderers together, but he felt certain that there must be more than a dozen.
“No. But the others will hear, and flee if they can. And the Mayor will have what he wants.”
Kell’s heart sank. “They won’t try to rescue you?”
Zahm barked a laugh, and repeated Kell’s question for the others, who gave the same gallows chuckle. “No, little brother. We fight only if cornered, or when the odds favor us. There are already too few of our people, and so many who would kill us. They will mourn us, and perhaps avenge us, but they will not save us.”
Kell struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists. “Then we have to save ourselves. If I roll closer, can you loosen these knots?”
“All the while you slept, I have tried to untie myself and others,” Zahm said. “My fingers are bloody, and we are still bound.” Inch by painful inch, Kell shifted closer, until he felt the man’s hands against his wrists. Zahm struggled with the ropes, but after a long while, he sat back with a curse.
“There has to be a way out.” Corran and Rigan will be searching for me. I’ve just got to stay alive long enough to be found.
“There is a way out,” Zahm said. “But I fear it leads only to the Golden Shores.”
For a while, the barn was quiet. Then one of the men began to sing. The others gradually joined in. The tune was mournful and the words were strange, but Kell did not need a translator. It’s a death song. A prayer. They don’t think we’re going to make it out.
“You have family, little brother? Someone to remember you?”
Kell forced back a sudden tightness in his throat. “Yes. My brothers.” And Polly.
“We believe that so long as one person remembers you, you are not fully dead.” The singing continued, sad and haunting in the darkness. “I will sing your name and ask the gods to grant your soul mercy. Make your peace, little brother. I fear we don’t have much longer.”
Kell strained against the rough rope until it cut bloody gashes in his wrists and ankles. He ignored the pain of his damaged ribs, trying to roll across the floor, searching for a nail or a bit of metal, anything that might help him cut his bonds. His energy was quickly spent, his head spun from the effort and he found nothing.
If I die here, what if Corran and Rigan don’t find me? What if there’s no one to say the chant and prepare my body to meet the gods? No one will paint my face or mark my shroud. Cold fear gripped him.
Not all the dead are sung for or marked, or even buried. What of sailors lost at sea and soldiers in battle? Or the ones who have no one to pay for their burial? Those questions had never bothered him before. Now, they seemed urgent.
It hurt to move his mouth, and his swollen lip muddled his words, but Kell closed his eyes, and began to recite the chant he had heard Corran sing over so many of Ravenwood’s dead. In his mind, he heard his brothers’ voices—and the voice of his father—rise and fall. His chest burned and his throat was raw, but Kell finished the chant. Only then did he realize that the Wanderers had fallen silent as he sang. When he finished, they murmured a single word in unison.
“Senton.”
“It means, ‘let it be so,’” Zahm said. “You sang well. And now, we are ready. We face what comes.”
Outside, the bell tolled ten times.
A lantern flamed, and Kell squinted at the light. His eyes adjusted, and he saw that their prison was a rundown warehouse. Eight of the Mayor’s guards filed in, armed and grim-faced.
“Been a busy night.” It was the guard who had captured Kell: a man early in his third decade, with a muscular build and a squarejawed face. “I don’t imagine you mind too much that we were busy. Gave you a few more candlemarks to say your prayers.” The other guards chuckled.
A bitter thought occurred to Kell. I guess the lucky amulets were a fraud. Figures Widgem would get the last laugh at my expense.
“The wharf riots got out of hand,” the guard said, as he and the others walked among the prisoners. “People got killed. Couple of buildings went up in flames. Monsters got loose. Good thing we all know who to blame.”
Kell remembered Tek’s warning about the guards, and Sosten’s casual acceptance of the idea that the Wanderers must be at fault. The guards set the whole thing up. The Mayor wants a crackdown, and the guards managed to find a way to pin all the trouble on the Wanderers. And with us dead, no one will know the truth.
“Seems your people deserted you. I considered hanging the lot of you,” the guard taunted. He glanced up at the high beams overhead. “But it seemed like too much work. A couple of the men wanted to torch the building, but that might attract attention.”
He drew his sword. The sound of steel against leather sent a shiver through Kell. “So we’ll just deal with you the way we handle all the other vermin. Hold still, and we might make it quick.” Something in the guard’s eyes told Kell not to expect even that much mercy.
“A curse on you,” Zahm said, his voice quiet and steady. In the lantern light, Kell got his first good look at the Wanderer. He had brown hair and fair skin, with high cheekbones, and Kell guessed him to be in his thirties. “May your bones break and your blood boil. May your children hunger and your women lament. And may you exist in misery without end, now and beyond the grave.”
“Senton.” Kell joined in as the others spoke their agreement.
The guard rushed forward and grabbed Zahm by the throat, dragging him up from where he lay. “You’ve got a big mouth for a dead man.”
“I go to my gods,” Zahm replied, his voice choked by the pressure of the guard’s grip. “They welcome us. They will avenge us.”
“You sound certain of that,” the guard spat. “Maybe they will. But they’re sure not here to help you now, are they?”
Eight guards. At least twelve of us. We’re bound, but there’s got to be something we can do. Kell glanced around, looking for any sign of resistance in the Wanderers. Most looked spent. Some had been roughed up even more than Kell, and appeared to be barely conscious. But he caught a glimmer of defiance in their eyes that gave him courage.
If we’re going to die, let’s go out fighting.
The guards moved toward the prisoners, swords in hand. Zahm brought his knees up fast and kicked out with his bound feet, connecting hard with the lead guard’s groin.
“Son of a bitch,” the guard groaned as his knees buckled. He dropped Zahm, and the Wanderer landed another kick to the guard’s knee, which gave with a crunch. The guard howled and fell to the floor.
Kell had been waiting for his chance. As the other guards surged forward, he brought his feet up, bending his knees, coiled to strike. His kick sent the soldier closest to him sprawling on his ass.
All around him, the prisoners fought for their lives, marshaling their strength for one final struggle. One of Zahm’s people bucked to his feet with an acrobat’s grace, startling a guard, and headbutted the soldier with enough force to drop the man like a stone. The rest swept their legs or kicked to keep the guards at a distance, sending a few unwary soldiers into the dirt.
“Hanging’s too good for you,” one of the guards growled. He lunged forward, running a Wanderer through. Blood burst from the prisoner’s lips and sprayed from the wound in his chest. The guard withdrew his blade, then thrust again and again until the man fell back and lay still.
A young Wanderer, who looked to be Rigan’s age, twisted his feet through his bound arms, bringing his hands to the front of his body. He brought both fists up in a powerful punch that sent a guard reeling, blood streaming down his face from a broken nose.
“You’ll pay for that!” the soldier bellowed, charging the Wanderer. His blade gleamed in the lantern light, and the young nomad
’s head toppled from his shoulders, rolling to one side as his corpse fell to the other.
It was a futile, doomed rebellion, but Kell gave it his all. They had made peace with their gods, and resigned themselves to death, but that did not mean they would go willingly to the After. He cheered silently at the surprise in the guards’ faces as their prisoners refused to die without a fight. Zahm downed the first guard permanently, but the next guard came at him from the side, staying out of range of the Wanderer’s powerful kick.
“You bastard,” the guard snarled, plunging his sword into Zahm’s belly.
Kell pushed off with his feet and managed to angle himself to kick the guard in the ass with all his might, sending him sprawling over Zahm’s blood-soaked body. The guard hauled himself to his feet and wheeled on Kell. His blade moved in a blur, slashing across Kell’s chest.
Kell tried to roll out of the way, though his ribs protested every movement. The sword came down again, slicing across his back. A boot caught Kell in the side with enough force to pick him up and turn him over. Kell bit back a cry as he landed. Blood soaked his shirt. If his ribs were not broken before, the savage kick had surely snapped them. Breathing hurt.
“I’m not done with you,” the guard growled.
Kell’s strength was fading, but he mustered enough for one last kick, striking the guard hard enough in the shins to earn a howl of pain. Anger beyond reason blazed in the guard’s eyes as he lifted his blade.
“Go to the Dark Ones.”
The blade glinted in the light; it slashed across Kell’s belly, biting deep. Kell struggled for breath, choking on his own blood.
“It wouldn’t do for people to find your bodies with sword wounds,” the guard said. “People might talk. So we’ve got a surprise for you. That’s why we left you alive. He likes the hunt.”
A door slammed open, and the lantern went out. Kell could see nothing in the darkness. He heard the rattle of a metal cage, the crack of a whip. Something growled.
“Should we light the lantern and let them see what’s coming for them, or leave them in the dark?” a man’s voice said from near the door.
“Leave it dark.”
The door closed. Kell heard a low growl and the scratch of claws against dirt. The thing the guards released smelled of musk and blood. It sniffed the air, and growled again.
Oh, gods. The guards sent in a monster to finish us.
Kell held absolutely still, barely breathing. For a few minutes the barn was silent, except for the snuffling of the creature. A low cry sounded from the far side of the room, and the thing shifted, orienting on the sound. Kell heard the sound of digging and the patter of dirt falling like rain as the monster clawed into the earthen floor. It roared as it closed on its prey. The terrified Wanderer screamed, kept on screaming as the thing bit down with the snick of teeth and the crunch of bone. Bile rose in Kell’s throat as he heard a thrashing sound, like a dog worrying a rabbit, shaking it back and forth to snap the spine. The screams suddenly stopped.
Kell’s heart hammered. His mouth was dry, and he doubted he could draw a full breath even if he dared. He heard the creature moving in the dark, claws clicking against the hard-packed dirt. The monster snuffled and padded closer. A stiff-bristled muzzle nudged Kell’s shoulder. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but he could not stop his body from trembling.
The creature nudged him again, sniffing the blood on his clothing. Then it turned, and Kell swallowed, hoping against hope it had moved on.
The creature roared. Four sharp claws slashed across Kell’s throat. Darkness took him and the pain ended.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“We want protection!”
“What is the Guild doing for all the money we pay you?”
“If the Lord Mayor can’t keep us safe, maybe we stop burying the dead!”
Angry voices rose from the floor of the Guild Hall as Guild Master Orlo gestured for calm. “I know you’re upset—”
“Upset?” Tolen Erstine, an undertaker from Skinton, rose to his feet. He was a big man, strong from years of digging graves, and this lifetime of hard work showed in every craggy line of his weathered face. “We’re angry. Why don’t you and the rest of your fancy Guild Masters come down from your villas and live with us for a while? See what it’s like to be hunted by monsters? Maybe then you’d use some of the hard-earned money we pay you to do something about the problem!”
The mood of the crowd was ugly. Even by the sober standards of undertakers, Erstine was known as a serious, reasonable man, but tonight even he looked like he had been pushed past his limits.
“It’s not about the money. You don’t see what those... things... do to the bodies.” Georg Russe, an undertaker from the harbor area, added, standing to join Erstine. “It’s not like a knife fight, or a beating. These creatures, these monsters, they eat people. Rip them apart. Gnaw on their bones.”
“It ain’t right.” Widow Sulla, who buried the dead from the tenements and hovels north of the harbor, spoke up. She was spare and tall, with broad hands and ropy muscles, and the flinty look in her eyes made it clear she was not easily spooked.
“It just ain’t right,” she went on. “Decent people can’t go abroad without fear for their lives. I keep burying this many children, there ain’t gonna be people in Ravenwood in a few years. Women dead, too. Just tryin’ to go about their business, and they get chewed up and left by these monsters.” She stamped her foot. “High time the Guild did something to stop it!”
The crowd rumbled assent.
“We just need a little more time.” Orlo raised his hands to urge for calm.
“Time? How many more people gotta die while you get time to think about this?” Russe shot back.
Corran and Rigan, standing in the back of the room, exchanged a glance. “I’ve never seen Old Man Erstine give a shit about much of anything,” Rigan said under his breath.
“Never thought I’d hear Georg Russe say it wasn’t about the money,” Corran murmured. “We’ve buried enough folks from his territory when he held out for more than the family could pay.”
In theory, the Guild was supposed to unite tradespeople for mutual support. In reality, it worked like most families Corran knew—messy, flawed, and weighed down with old hurts and resentments.
“We can’t let panic make us lose our heads,” Guild Master Orlo protested. “We must stay calm.”
“You can stay plenty calm up in your villas. That’s where all the guards are, keeping the monsters off your streets. We don’t ever bury one of the Guild Masters’ children, or anyone from the Merchant Princes’ families or the nobles,” Sulla countered. “I’m as happy as any of you to bury someone whose time has come, but not like this. Not ripped apart by monsters and sent too soon to the After. It ain’t right. What are you doing about it?”
“Damn hard to do business when they keep making curfew earlier and earlier,” Russe added, his face reddening.
“And if it weren’t the curfew, we’d be fearin’ the monsters,” Sulla agreed. “Can’t do our work out at the cemetery without worrying we’ll be next if those things show up.”
“The guards only care about running down curfew-breakers,” Russe said. “Not hunting the godsdamned monsters.”
“We are fortunate to have the Lord Mayor’s guards to help us,” Orlo said. “They’re doing all they can.”
“If the guards won’t hunt the monsters, then make them stop hunting the hunters!”
The hall erupted in agreement and Orlo began to pound on the podium with his gavel. “Order! Silence!”
“Or what?” Sulla yelled. “You gonna set the guards on us?”
“Do something about the monsters, or get out of our people’s way for doing it themselves—and stop taking our fees for nothing!” Erstine added.
Corran and Rigan kept to the shadows along the back wall, unwilling to be drawn into the conversation. We don’t dare join in, Corran thought. Not with what Rigan and I are doing. We’ve pushe
d our luck to get away with it this far. But if we stand out and say something, someone might start to wonder.
“That’s enough!” Orlo roared.
A handful of men and women started to their feet in support of the Guild Master. Erstine, Sulla, and Russe remained standing, defiant. Their supporters also rose, and the groups faced off against each other.
“You’re all crazy,” a man yelled from Orlo’s side of the room. “You’re going to bring the Mayor’s guards down on all of us.”
“We can handle the guards,” one of Russe’s supporters shot back. “Shit, the guards can’t even fight monsters.”
“The Lord Mayor won’t let the hunters keep getting away with breaking the law,” another man shouted. “And the guards can make our lives miserable if they come searching for lawbreakers. No one will be safe!”
Orlo had reached his breaking point. “Quiet!” he bellowed. At his shout, guards burst from the rear doors, and formed a cordon across the back of the room.
Corran grabbed Rigan and pulled him further into the shadows, stepping into an alcove off the main hall. At the sight of the guards, the crowd quieted, but the mood grew darker.
“Is this what we get for our money, Guild Master Orlo?” Erstine’s voice was thick with contempt. Sulla fixed Orlo with a murderous glare, and Russe looked angry enough to take a swing at someone.
“Everyone, sit down,” Orlo ordered.
“You didn’t answer us,” Erstine pressed. “What are you going to do about the problem?”
“I’m not going to stand by and watch agitators ruin what it has taken this Guild generations to build,” Orlo shot back. “I’m not going to go to war against our own Lord Mayor, who has sent all the troops we can afford to protect us. I’m not going to support lawbreakers taking the law into their own hands. That’s what I’m not going to do.” He had clearly had enough.
“These hunters—how do we know what they’re really up to? Oh, they’ll kill a few monsters to get you on their side. Who watches them to see what they do after that? Once they’ve killed off the creatures, why should they go away? They’ll get rid of the monsters, and the next thing you know, they’ll be the ones killing your women and children, and threatening your businesses unless you pay them to go away.”
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