by Ian Whates
He glanced up to see two of his officers climbing into the air to take station above the group. They established a slow elliptical circuit, complying with his instructions to the letter by ensuring they were at opposite ends, one in front, one behind, one passing to the group's left as the other approached on the right.
Tylus felt an unexpected chill. He'd always thought there was something inspirational about watching Kite Guards in flight, that they were magnificent and regal, but this time the sight struck him as unaccountably sinister. As he watched the two officers dutifully continuing their circuits, he was reminded of carrion birds circling above their prey. Not an image he cared to dwell on and not, he trusted, an omen of what lay ahead.
The rat moved another tentative step forward, its nose twitching, eyes darting this way and that. The rodent was cautious, perhaps sensing something wasn't quite right, though not yet disturbed enough to actually flee. Scorke held his breath and stayed completely motionless, willing the little bundle of flesh and fur to come just a little bit closer.
That's it, you little brecker, only another couple of steps…
At last the cautious critter seemed to decide that the quicker it was through here the better; it suddenly scampered forward to where the hunter waited. Scorke unleashed his attack, striking with a speed that defied the eye, whipping his segmented prehensile tail down and skewering the rat with its barbed tip. The unfortunate rodent gave an alarmed squeak and struggled for an instant, the body apparently not realising it was already dead. Then the venom went to work and all movement ceased.
Scorke brought the still-warm corpse to his mouth, human lips and teeth manoeuvring and then lifting it from the metal spike of his tail until he could throw his head back and swallow, feeding the organic components of his body. No more than a morsel, perhaps, but rats were plentiful in the Stain and this was merely the first of the day.
The rodents were most common closer to the river, but Scorke didn't go near the water. That was where the Bumpy Beetle lived – his name for a creature much like himself, part organic and part machine, but bigger and far more powerful. Scorke was afraid of the Beetle and gave the river a wide berth. There were rats enough elsewhere.
Scorke knew he wasn't bright, that much of his human brain had been beyond salvaging, but it all worked well enough. He was still alive, wasn't he? And he was wise enough to know that people were his biggest threat. His type had been hidden away from the first day they were made because people wouldn't understand, they'd consider the marriage of human parts with those of animals and machine to be an abomination, fit only to be condemned and destroyed on sight. The Maker had drilled that knowledge into them again and again, but the Maker wasn't there to look after him anymore. The man's death had left Scorke facing some stark choices. He wanted to live, but knew he wouldn't be permitted to do so in the streets. So he had fled to the Stain, neither knowing nor caring what became of his fellows.
The Stain was different. The Stain felt like home. The very ground welcomed him. Layer upon layer of compacted rotting detritus covered the hard rock floor, allowing his long sinuous body to slip through and between. He could move unseen, burrowing beneath the surface, and had become an accomplished rat catcher, lying in ambush by their runs and their trails. But rats brought only limited sustenance and now his keen senses detected something far more rewarding: people. People had come into the Stain. Not the streets, not their world, but his, where he could be the hunter and they the prey.
He moved closer to investigate. The primary instincts of hunger and caution warred within him, but still he slid forward. A large group, strung out. They had with them creatures like him but not like him. Towering blocks of darkness, powerful and fearsome. Almost, he fled, but greed whispered to him, tempted him, overriding caution. Greed's seductive voice argued that it wouldn't hurt to stay near, to watch and await his moment, just as he did with the rats.
Opportunity presented itself when the puff bladders struck. A seed dart punctured one of the soft-skinned people, focussing the attention of everyone there. Scorke seized his chance, singling out a large specimen at the rear of the group and moving in for the kill, hoping to make off with his prize before anyone even knew he was there.
"Get down!" Kat flung herself at Tylus, catching him off-guard and hitting with enough force to knock him from his feet despite her smaller frame. She landed painfully, her midriff and thigh slamming into his hip and knee, though she wasn't paying much attention to either at the time. Her gaze focused on the patch of bramble where she'd spotted movement, just in time to see what looked to be a bloated and diseased fruit tear open. Grey-brown mottled flesh parted in tattered fronds and a single long, thin object spat out with explosive force, targeted close to where she'd been standing.
One of the Kite Guards cried out as the missile slammed into him. He collapsed, clutching at his stomach. Blood covered his hands as he tried to pull out the sickly yellow dart protruding from the wound. It was an elongated ovoid, slender throughout but tapering and evidently pointed at either end.
Kat rolled off, bringing her feet beneath her and half rising into a crouch, twin blades already in her hands.
Tylus struggled to his knees. "Thaiss!" she heard him mutter. "Is that thing a seed?"
The Blade reacted quicker than anyone, two of them advancing on the unholy bloom. The one nearest to Kat raised his right arm and pointed. An ebony spear which must have been part of his forearm shot forward, punching into the fruit or whatever it was and shattering it into a score of flying fragments. The impact elicited a high-pitched shriek, though whether the result of agony or merely escaping air she couldn't be sure.
More of the bulbous fruit were visible now, a whole nest of the things camouflaged among the low growth.
The second member of the Blade now lifted his arm, squirting a stream of liquid at the patch. Wherever the liquid struck it burned, raising a cloud of fumes as the puffed-up uglies popped and wheezed and withered. One managed a parting shot, and a second pus-coloured dart shot out, heading directly towards the Blade. It struck his unyielding hide and dropped to the ground. Instead of lying passive, the thing writhed around like some unwholesome maggot, the twin pointed ends wriggling back and forth as if searching for prey. The Blade pointed a finger and a stream of acid descended to consume the persistent seed.
Kat turned away, covering her mouth and nose as acrid fumes rose from the shrivelling husk.
She turned just in time to witness a new menace erupt from the ground and strike Half-hand, one of her lieutenants. Silvered metal gleamed in the globelight as something resembling a segmented snake leapt up to hit the Tattooed Man in the back. She watched in horror as blood flew from Halfhand's pierced torso and a crimson-smeared metal barb thrust out through his chest.
Kat was running as soon as she saw the thing strike and was upon it in an instant, arriving even as Half-hand sunk to his knees. Dropping one sword, she grasped the other in both hands and swung it against the metal tentacle with all her strength. The blade bit, finding purchase between two of the plated segments. At first Kat thought it wasn't going to cut clean through, though she struck with enough force to pull the barb fully out of Half-hand, who slid off the tip to collapse face down. She tugged anew and the blade came clear, while the severed barb dropped to the ground and the truncated limb waved in the air, spilling what looked to be blood.
A wailing sound split the air and the creature's head poked up above ground, loose earth and clumps of grass tumbling off it like water. Kat froze for a second, shocked at how human the face looked. That fractional pause almost proved her undoing. Two rapier-like blades flashed towards her, one from either side. She leapt, twisting and spinning, seeing steel flash past her face a hair's breadth from her nose and feeling the other blade cut the air close to her leg.
Kat landed, rolled, snatched up her discarded sword and went on the attack, blocking a clumsy strike from one blade and moving inside its reach to clash with the second. These were
different from the barb she'd hacked off, broader and with longer – edged weapons or tools whereas the barb had been all about stabbing – more scythe than sword. The limbs that supported them differed as well. These were less flexible and more muscular, with clearly defined joints identifying them as arms or legs. More vulnerable, too; flesh and bone above the ankle or wrist.
Kat jumped to avoid a further pass by one of the blades, tucking her knees up to her chest so that it passed harmlessly beneath her feet. As she came down she thrust – her own swords designed to be versatile, capable of both cutting and stabbing – and felt the point bite home. Again that disturbingly almost-human wail sounded as Kat pulled her sword free, ripping through the creature's flesh. Other Tattooed Men were there now, fighting beside her, grasping and hacking at limbs. They'd pulled the thing almost entirely free of the ground, revealing a long multi-ribbed body which writhed and bucked as the creature tried to escape back into the muck beneath them.
She saw a pair of the Blade move forward, but she didn't want that. This was Tattooed Men business. "No!" She held out a restraining hand, sword still clasped.
"Finish it!" she said to her men, and caught a glare from M'gruth as he grappled with a limb while struggling to avoid getting stabbed, which seemed to say "What the hell do you think we're trying to do?"
Then someone found the creature's head with a heavy blade, landing a blow that took half its skull away. The fight was over, as suddenly as that. One spasm, which sent scythe-tipped legs thrashing dangerously, and then it lay still. The Tattooed Men stood in a ragged circle around its elongated, improbable corpse, panting and staring at each other. The creature looked to be an unholy blend of man, machine, scorpion and snake.
"The Maker's work, do you think?" M'gruth asked as he came up to stand beside her.
"Maybe." She could well imagine that madman conjuring up something like this during a particularly dark period. Her gaze turned to the prone form of Half-hand. One arm seemed to be reaching out towards her with the hand that boasted the two absent fingers – the source of his nickname.
"I was standing beside him in the arena the day he lost those fingers," M'gruth murmured, evidently following the direction of her gaze. "He took on a snow devil with nothing but a knife and his naked fist."
Kat grunted agreement, remembering the awe and excitement that bout had generated even though she hadn't witnessed it or been a part of it. "He saved more than just his own life that day."
Half-hand's lifeless body acted as an uncomfortable reminder of her own mortality, one which only strengthened her resolve. It had taken the deaths of Chavver and the others who fell at Iron Grove Square to bring home to Kat a harsh fact. There was no one to replace them. No matter how formidable the Tattooed Men might be in terms of the City Below, their numbers were finite and dwindling. They had to change, had to settle down, or the Tattooed Men were doomed to disappear. Her thoughts turned to Shayna, whom she'd charged with starting that process in her absence. She hoped the healer was having an easier time of it than they were here. One thing she was certain of: not even Shayna could have helped this time. Half-hand's injuries were too severe.
"We'd best be moving on," M'gruth said.
Kat nodded. They couldn't spare the time to tend to the dead. All being well the bodies would be here later when they came back this way – assuming they did, assuming that the Stain didn't claim them all, but she wasn't about to dwell on that cheery prospect. Tylus had other ideas, wanting to use slings suspended between two of his airborne officers to ferry the dead out of the Stain, but Kat persuade him to reconsider.
"You're here to pursue a mission," she reminded him, "not split your forces to act as body boys for the rest."
He agreed, though he didn't much like it. Nor did she for that matter. Half-hand deserved better, but then again, so did they all.
The Prime Master listened impassively to the latest reports. Jeanette, Thaiburley's senior physician, sat beside him. She had been as intimately involved in the efforts to stem the spread of bone flu as anyone and the Prime Master saw no reason to exclude her; besides, he valued both her company and her opinion. Verrill, the man making the reports, had been captain of the Council Guard for the best part of five years. The Prime Master had watched him develop from enthusiastic over-achiever to consummate professional with a certain degree of satisfaction and pride – the man had been his preferred choice for the position. He both liked and respected Verrill and knew him well enough to realise that the reports were proving as difficult to deliver as they were to listen to. The captain's demeanour and expression remained neutral and wholly professional, but the slightly raised pitch of his voice gave him away.
The reports made grim listening indeed. Much of Artists Row had been sealed off – all those unaffected having been evacuated long ago. As many as could be, at any rate. No one knew how many Rust Warriors were bottled up down there. The Blade held them at bay. There were similar if smaller "quarantined" areas in the Residences and throughout most of the Heights. If he could assemble the Blade in strength, he could take the initiative and purge the Rust Warriors from any given area, but he daren't. That would leave too many other sectors of the city exposed. The Council Guard and even the Kite Guard had been mobilised, equipped with weapons treated by the arkademics to be effective against Rust Warriors; but despite their undoubted qualities they weren't the Blade.
For some reason, there had been no reported cases of bone flu in any Row below the Artists, which lent credence to the theory that the blight was in some way a targeted attack, that a malignant intelligence directed events. But who?
He suddenly realised that the officer had finished speaking and was standing a little awkwardly waiting for the Prime Master to respond.
He nodded to the man and smiled – that warm, reassuring expression that had served him so well over the years; a creasing of the face that told the recipient he was appreciated, that his words were valued.
"Thank you, captain," the Prime Master said. He'd reached a decision as the man spoke and now acted upon it. "Authorise the reassignment of officers from lower Rows. We need more men up here." More targets, more victims, but what else could he do?
"Yes, sir!" With a slight nod, the captain pivoted on his heel and marched smartly from the room, leaving the Prime Master alone with Jeanette. She wouldn't have missed his momentary distraction and now regarded him, concern etched in every line of her face.
"Will the extra men help?"
"Oh yes, they'll help… a little."
Jeanette was one of the many Heights citizens forced to abandon their homes, the Row of Medics being among the worst hit. As soon as they realised that the calcified off-white shells that enveloped bone flu victims represented the pupal stage of a transformation from human to Rust Warrior rather than a clean death, they had destroyed all those stored for research. No easy task in itself; pneumatic sledge hammers, fire, and arkademic talent had all been deployed. Hundreds of pupae were destroyed that way, but many hundreds more had already hatched and new victims were appearing all the time.
"Still no breakthrough, no sign of a cure?" he said, knowing the answer even as he asked.
She shook her head. "I'm increasingly convinced that there is no cure, that this isn't a medical problem at all but is talent-related."
He nodded, her words anything but a surprise.
"I feel so useless," she continued. "All those years of training and dedication, all my skills, and I can't do anything to help people when the biggest challenge of my life appears. I'm reduced to watching folk die and making them more comfortable in their final hours."
"I'm sure that neither those people you and your staff help nor their relatives consider your efforts to be useless, not by a long shot."
Small comfort, he knew. Jeanette had been pushing herself hard throughout the crisis with little concern for her own health. "You look exhausted," he told her. "You should go and get some rest."
She guffawed. "That's fi
ne advice coming from you. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
"I try not to." The Prime Master knew he'd been driving himself just as ruthlessly, but he had his reasons. There wasn't much time left to him. He'd already lost sensation and most of the mobility in his left hand and the right was only a little better. Before long, he'd be just one more victim of the bone flu; though he intended to take matters into his own hands before that actually came to pass.
"I'd better be getting back to my patients."
She rose and headed towards the door, but stopped part way. "Oh, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Why are you wearing gloves?"
He hesitated. Almost, he told her, but shied away. She had enough burdens without him adding to them. "A skin infection, nothing serious."
She stared into his eyes, not fooled for a second, he felt certain. "Of course it is. If you want me to have a look at it, or just to talk… you know where I am."
