by Luke Scull
‘Untie my wrists and we’ll see about that.’ He strained against the rope that secured his hands to the back of the chair and unleashed a torrent of curses. She watched him, waiting calmly until he ceased struggling. Eventually he went limp and sagged forward until his head rested on his chest. The wound Ambryl had given him had almost split his skull in half. It was a miracle he was still alive.
‘We made it through the chaos at the gates,’ she said softly. ‘We were the lucky ones. Creator knows you didn’t deserve it, but you had the opportunity to make something of your life. Better men than you died that day. Better women too.’ She remembered the wizard Brianna, torn apart by Salazar’s magic. ‘You deserve this,’ she said. He does deserve it, she told herself. He does.
‘Do it then. Get it over with and run back to that preening cock you’re so hot for. Does the kid even know I’m here?’
It took Sasha a moment to understand what Three-Finger meant. Then the blackness surged up, threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Cole hasn’t been seen since the night the city was taken,’ she said numbly.
The prisoner gave an ugly little chuckle. ‘So he’s dead, that it? Kid wanted to be famous and instead he’s lying in an unmarked grave somewhere. Life rewards the good guys, don’t it just.’
‘He was a better man than you’ll ever be, Three-Finger.’ She placed the edge of the knife against his scabrous neck.
‘Moryk,’ the prisoner replied. ‘My name’s Moryk. If you’re gonna slit me open like a hog at least call me by the name my ma gave me.’
Sasha stared down into the man’s beady little eyes. He didn’t look dangerous or predatory or even particularly sinister. He just looked pathetic. Her hand wavered, anger replaced by sudden despair.
‘To hell with you,’ she spat. She jerked the knife away from Three-Finger’s throat and stumbled over to the desk in the corner of the room. She fumbled around for the drawer pull, struggling to see through eyes blurring with tears. She found the handle, pulled open the drawer and removed the tiny pouch within, then slammed it down on the desk. Ignoring the cord, she jabbed the end of the knife into the pouch and slit it wide open, watching anxiously as the contents spilled out.
Sasha bent over the desk and let the silvery powder carry her away to sweet oblivion.
She couldn’t say what the hour was when Ambryl returned. She thought she heard the door open, but it hardly seemed important enough to demand her attention. Not until she was dragged up from the floor by her hair and slammed back against the side of the warehouse.
Her older sister stared at her, hazel eyes betraying nothing. Sasha grinned stupidly in response.
Ambryl slapped her across the face.
‘… That hurt…’ she mumbled, raising a hand to rub at her stinging mouth. She stared at her palm in confusion. It looked whiter than she remembered. ‘Am I a ghost?’ she wondered aloud. The absurdity of the question made her giggle.
Her sister slapped her again, harder. ‘You are a fool. Gather your senses.’
It dawned on Sasha that her hand was covered in hashka. So was her face. She could taste it in her mouth, along with the bitter metallic tang of blood. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She didn’t know why she was sorry. Only that it seemed the right thing to say.
‘The rapist is still alive.’ Her sister gestured at the figure slouched on the chair. ‘You promised me you would kill him.’
Sasha rubbed her nose. It was beginning to burn. Ambryl had lit candles near the door, but the illumination failed to reach Three-Finger, who was a dark silhouette in the middle of the room. Sasha was glad she couldn’t see his face. ‘Murdering him won’t change anything,’ she said slowly. ‘It won’t bring back Cole. Or Garrett. Or the rest of my family.’
She had discovered the remains of her foster father inside the temple of the Mother. She had fallen to her knees and sobbed until her eyes were a red ruin. Then she had hurried to Cole’s apartment, and from there to Garrett’s home, and then to the address of anyone connected with her old rebel group whose name she still recalled. Most wanted nothing to do with her. None knew what had become of Cole.
‘I’m your family now,’ said Ambryl. Her older sister took her chin gently in one hand. ‘Your true family.’
Tears dampened Sasha’s eyes. ‘How could I not know you were alive all these years?’
‘Forget that now. It is in the past.’
Sasha sniffed and wiped at her tingling nose. ‘Ambryl—’
‘Hush.’ Her sister’s grip tightened slightly. ‘I asked you not to call me that. Ambryl was a different woman.’
‘It’s who you are. My sister. Not… not Cyreena, or whatever you call yourself now.’
‘That which is weak must be purged! Purged so that men like this one cannot hurt us as they did all those years ago.’ Her hand closed around the knife resting on the desk. ‘Ambryl was weak. Cyreena is not.’
Sasha stared numbly at her sister. ‘What are you doing?’
Ambryl walked across to their prisoner. ‘Fixing what is broken,’ she said.
Three-Finger must have seen the look in her eyes, as he renewed his struggles with greater effort than before. There was real fear in his voice now. ‘Get away from me, you crazy—’
His words became an agonized scream as Ambryl thrust the knife into his thigh, right up to the hilt. She pulled it free and stabbed him again in the shoulder. This time she gave the blade a cruel twist.
Sasha winced. The hashka’s effects were wearing off. She watched with dull horror as her sister slowly butchered their captive, one thrust at a time.
Suddenly there was an almighty roar from outside. The warehouse shook, raining down dust. ‘What was that?’ Ambryl demanded, blinking grit from her eyes. A woman screamed somewhere out in the night. The smell of sulphur was heavy in the air.
Sasha felt as if she were going to faint. She knew that evil stench. Dark memories of the massacre at the Wailing Rift wormed their way into her mind. ‘Someone’s using alchemy,’ she whispered. ‘Explosive powder. We should go.’
Ambryl stared down at the wretched figure of Three-Finger. Spreading pools of blood glittered in the lurid glow of the flames from outside. ‘First I will dispose of this animal,’ she said coldly. She raised the knife.
Something small and round smashed through the window. Sasha watched with growing dread as it rolled a few times before coming to a halt near the door. ‘Get down!’ she screamed. Ambryl only gave her a puzzled look, so Sasha charged across the room and shouldered her to the floor.
An instant later the firebomb shattered.
The heat was extreme, enough to singe the hair on Sasha’s head. She struggled to her knees, dragging her dazed sister up beside her. Half the room had become a raging inferno. Flames licked at the rafters high above, threatening to bring the whole building crashing down on them.
‘Come on,’ Sasha gasped, pulling Ambryl towards the door. They staggered out of the warehouse and into the night. Sasha coughed wildly, gagging so hard she puked up her lunch.
‘Are you hurt, sister?’ Ambryl still clutched the bloody knife in her hand. Sasha wiped her mouth and shook her head.
‘What about me?’ rasped Three-Finger’s despairing voice. Sasha squinted through the haze of grey smoke now billowing from the doorway and spat the last of the bile from her mouth. ‘To hell with you,’ she whispered.
They hurried away from the burning building. The storehouse opposite was ablaze – fire was spreading down the entire row of warehouses east of the Hook. The world seemed to spin around Sasha as they ran, the glow of hungry flames blurring with the random flares of imaginary light that still sizzled through her drug-addled brain.
The sisters lurched into the plaza, almost barging into an elderly man who had his hands pressed over his face. Blood dribbled between his fingers. Other city folk gathered nearby, some terribly burned, a few sobbing or wailing uncontrollably. A woman cradled a small body in her arms. Sasha saw the blackened thing that was all that rema
ined of the woman’s son or daughter – it was hard to say which – and almost vomited again.
Ambryl grabbed one man by the shoulder and spun him around. He noted the knife she held and flinched back. ‘What’s going on?’ Ambryl demanded.
‘Rebels,’ he spluttered. ‘Melissan’s fanatics.’
Sasha was about to ask how the fanatics had got hold of alchemical powder when a commotion broke out. Two men and a woman sprinted into the plaza. The nearest man hurled something at the Watchmen chasing them. There was a flash, and then one of the guards was rolling over and over on the ground, smoke rising from his smouldering tabard. The remaining Watchmen quickly backed away.
‘Tell your Magelord this,’ shouted the female rebel. ‘The sons and daughters of Melissan will not rest until the White Lady withdraws her claim to the city!’ She reached under her cloak, grasping for something—
And then suddenly froze, eyes wide in confusion. Her comrades were similarly paralysed, bodies held in contorted postures.
Sasha recognized the heavy tingle of magic in the air. Her eyes swept the plaza. There he was – the Halfmage. He was focused on the rebels, his thin lips working silently. Without thinking she turned to Ambryl. ‘Give me that knife.’
He didn’t notice her until she was right beside him. Sweat beaded on his olive skin to run down a surprisingly youthful face. He was barely into his thirties and yet the wizard’s green eyes held more cynicism than the death gaze of the bitterest spinster.
‘I want answers,’ she said, looming over him, the point of the knife angled threateningly towards his head.
‘Not now,’ he hissed. His eyes flickered to her, widened when they saw Ambryl beside her. ‘You!’ he exclaimed.
Whatever spell he was working faltered in his surprise, and the female rebel lurched back into motion. Before she could toss her firebomb, one of the White Lady’s handmaidens crossed the plaza in a blur and casually snapped her neck.
Suddenly free of the magic that held them in place, the two men made a break for it. There was another streak of movement and then one was flying backwards through the air, his killer clutching his beating heart in one porcelain hand. The lone survivor stared around wildly and changed direction, heading straight towards Sasha.
Lightning crackled from the Halfmage’s extended digit, striking the rebel dead in the chest. He jerked for a few seconds and flopped to the ground just in front of them.
‘Are you trying to get us killed?’ the Halfmage spat, voice thick with anger.
Sasha looked down at the rebel’s sizzling body and swallowed when she saw the ceramic ball he clutched in his death grip. It’s the moon dust, she realized. I’m not thinking clearly.
Ambryl was staring at the Halfmage with a queer expression. ‘I’m not surprised to find you here. You seem to show up whenever some disaster befalls the city. Like a maggot drawn to death.’
The wizard sneered. ‘I could say the same for you. This night could hardly get any worse. I need only return home to find Isaac pleasuring himself in my bed and my evening would be complete.’
‘Isaac?’ Despite the anger she felt, Sasha was intrigued at the mention of the strange manservant.
‘Better you don’t ask.’ The Halfmage frowned at the body of the rebel. ‘What’s that?’ He leaned forward on his chair and pointed at the corpse. The man’s shirt had burned away, leaving his ruined chest exposed.
Sasha knelt down and examined the corpse, grateful that her drug-abused nose was deadened to the stench of charred flesh. ‘There’s a tattoo on his neck. Some kind of script.’
‘What does it say?’
‘I don’t know the language,’ she snapped. ‘And you’re mistaken if you think I’m doing you any favours. I came to you asking for help. You slammed your door in my face.’
The Halfmage glanced around. Sasha followed his gaze. More Watchmen were arriving, clutching buckets of water drawn from cisterns beneath the city. Small groups were banding together to put out the fires that still raged to the east. A physician tended to the wounded, implements neatly arranged beside him.
‘Fine,’ the Halfmage said wearily. ‘Come with me to the depository and I’ll answer your questions. I have some of my own.’ He frowned down at the smoking body. ‘First I must ask you to do something for me.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’
‘I need that tattoo.’ His eyes went to the knife and lingered there.
Sasha looked down at the corpse, and then at the blade in her hand. ‘You don’t mean…’
‘Yes. Try not to make a mess.’
With a heavy sigh, she bent to her task.
Dreams of the Dead
He drifted on a river of stars; stared at a vast blackness stretching for infinity.
Who was he? He thought he might remember if he concentrated hard enough, yet something about that idea struck him as dangerous. Better to forget. To embrace dissolution.
He closed his eyes – or at least stopped seeing. It didn’t matter who he was or might have been. He was at peace now, a weightless vessel pulled along by the cosmic torrent below, surrounded by an endless sea of perfect tranquillity.
And yet…
There was something. Discordance – a ripple in the absolute calm. He tried to ignore it. To let awareness slip away, become one with the emptiness.
But it was persistent.
‘Bastard’s alive.’
‘What?’
‘He’s alive. I just saw him twitch.’
‘You sure? I’ve never seen a man that pale still drawing breath.’
‘Me neither, mate. But his chest is moving. See?’
‘Well, bugger me.’
‘Come again?’
‘Bugger me, I said.’
A heavy pause.
‘Did you mean that literally or… what’s the word… figuratively? It’s just… we’ve been stuck on this ship for days now. A man has needs.’
‘The fuck you talking about?’
‘Forget it. We gonna take his boots or what?’
‘Yeah. You grab the left foot. I’ll take the right.’
‘Hang on. There’s something leaking from his stomach.’
Another pause.
‘Kid’s bleeding pretty bad.’
‘Yeah. Someone shanked him good. Nothing worse than a gut wound.’
‘Let’s grab his boots and get the hell away. Before those ghost women discover we’re down here…’
And then only silence.
‘You came,’ Tyrannus rumbled in a voice seething with spite. The Black Lord had been staring down at the world below, his divine gaze piercing the vast divide between the celestial plane and the mortal realm with an ease that only the gods could ever comprehend.
The newcomer was unmoved by the hatred in that divine voice. The Black Lord Tyrannus was one of the oldest Primes, birthed when the earliest of men first walked the earth.
But he was the Reaver, and he was older still.
‘I came,’ he agreed, his own voice as cold as the grave, deeper than the hidden abysses at the bottom of the greatest oceans.
They stood together in silence and watched the circle of the world far below. Armies clashed; magic flared; men died.
‘We are winning,’ the Black Lord growled eventually. Such was the bitterness in his voice that his words might well have elicited confused laughter from another god.
The Reaver did not laugh. There was little in all the cosmos in which he found amusement. ‘The wizards of the Alliance retreat before the Congregation’s armies, that much is true. The gholam has left a trail of devastation in its wake. But the Mother’s treacherous high priestess may yet swing the balance again.’
Tyrannus snarled. The black leathery skin of his hideous face wept venom that dribbled from his chin and plummeted from the heavens. Moments later a dark storm gathered on the battlefield far below. The skies opened, unleashed a torrent of acidic rain so caustic it stripped flesh from bone, killing hundreds on both sides.
The Reaver shook his head, yet his skull-visage remained impassive. ‘You let your emotions rule you. Your fury will not aid our cause. No god may sway events in the world below through direct intervention. It is the one rule that binds us all.’
Tyrannus turned away, clenching ebony claws into boulder-sized fists capable of prodigious acts of violence. ‘I know well the rules that bind us, Bone Lord. It is why I summoned you here.’
The Reaver raised one rotting arm and rubbed absently at his fleshless cheek. ‘I am intrigued. I would never have acquiesced to your outrageous request otherwise.’
The Black Lord met his gaze, eyes of furious black fire meeting those worm-eaten and rheumy with age. ‘I am considering freeing the Nameless.’
He had thought emotion something long lost to him, but at the other god’s words the Reaver felt a flicker of something close to the memory of fear. ‘You speak of madness. The Nameless is a thing without purpose in the Pattern of Creation.’
Tyrannus smashed a huge fist down into his palm, creating an explosion of sound that would have shattered the eardrums of any mortal within a hundred miles. ‘Humanity has grown arrogant!’ he hissed. ‘They abandon us as their forebears once did. Even in the brief passage of their short lives, they believe themselves elevated above the need for worship.’
‘And so, in response, you would unleash the Nameless upon them?’
‘I would restore humanity to its rightful place! Trembling in the shadows! Praying to us for their salvation! The mightiest among the gifted are a threat even to the Pantheon. That was never a part of the Creator’s design.’
The Reaver stared down at the battle raging below. Every death was an affirmation of his efficacy, in its own way a silent prayer. True, freeing the Nameless and its kin would serve him well – they would bring death to the world in catastrophic numbers. Yet the Reaver was ancient, the oldest of the Primes save for the Mother. Millions had already passed through his gates. Patience was ever his greatest virtue.
‘I will not help in this,’ the Reaver declared, with the finality of a heart beating its last. ‘The Nameless would wreak devastation on an unknown scale. We might not be able to imprison it again once its purpose was fulfilled.’
