by J A Hutson
The woman swallows, struggling for words. “He took him! Right from my arms! Oh, saints, you have to help me!”
Cassus holds up his hands. “Calm, calm. Who was taken?”
“The little master! He’s only three years old! I was holding him and then he just plucked him away!”
Vesivia and I share a quick glance. “Who took him?” asks the swordswoman.
“A man . . . no, I don’t know what he was. Oh, please, you have to go save him. He’s a good boy!” Her words dissolve into wrenching sobs.
Cassus comes around the table and gently takes her by the shoulders. Shalloch lets go of her as she collapses against the old sergeant.
“I’m just his . . . just his nursemaid . . . please, you have to find him, before . . . before . . .”
“What did this man look like? And where did he go?” Cassus asks soothingly.
“We were watching the ships come in, just down by the river. Then these fingers curled around him – saints, they were so long and so white – and he just took him. This . . . this man, this thing, he was so tall and thin and hairless, and white, like a worm that’s never seen the sun . . .”
I can’t see Cassus from where I’m sitting, but Shalloch and Vesivia look like they’ve just seen a ghost. The blood has drained from their faces, and something unspoken is being passed between them.
Cassus gently deposits the hysterical woman into an empty chair. Then he turns to us, his face ashen. “You know what this must be?”
“The Pale Man,” whispers Shalloch.
Cassus gives a shaky nod. “He hasn’t come out during the day for many years. Must be hungry.”
The woman, who quieted her sobbing to listen to the old sergeant, lets out a keening wail at his words.
“What do we do?” I ask. I’ve heard stories of the Pale Man. Most of the muckers treat him as a myth, something to scare the green-ears. A monster that creeps from the undercity to prey on innocents, particularly children.
Cassus rubs his brow with a gnarled hand. “Saints. The exarch has given strict orders that no single squad should try and pursue the Pale Man. Too dangerous. We’ve lost entire squads chasing him.”
“So what do we do?” Bright Eyes repeats my question, her jaw clenched.
Cassus looks around, as if hoping for a better solution. “We return to the Department, gather as many squads as we can. Bring them back here and flood the tunnels, try to catch him before he goes deeper.”
The woman’s chest is heaving with silent, racking sobs. She looks like she’s going to slip into shock soon.
“We hurry,” Shalloch agrees. “I know Chimera and Basilisk and Naga are resting today. That’ll give us sixteen muckers –”
“No.”
We all turn to Bright Eyes. The kvah is standing now, hands balled into fists.
“We must follow him now, or the child is lost.”
The woman reaches out a hand towards Bright Eyes, as if the kvah is a glimpse at salvation. Vesivia and Cassus and Shalloch glance at each other. They’re scared, I realize. Terrified by this legend of the undercity.
“I’m with you,” I say to Bright Eyes, coming to my feet as well.
“It’s not your decision,” Cassus grates, but there’s little anger in his voice.
Vesivia sighs. “No, Cassus, they are right. If we leave, we sacrifice the child. We have to pursue him now.” She looks at Shalloch, and at first the swashbuckler seems immune to what she’s asking of him. Then his shoulders slump.
“By all the shit-stained saints,” he mutters, putting his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. He looks utterly exhausted in this moment. Then he turns to the woman, who is watching all this with wide, hopeful eyes. “Where did the Pale Man take the child?”
The tunnels here seem older, more dilapidated. Instead of neatly cut canals with stone walkways on either side, the sewer is flooded, and we are forced to slosh through freezing-cold, ankle-deep water. The decorations are more elaborate, but the ornamental stone flourishes framing the entranceways between sections are cracked and broken. The mosaics spread across the walls have been nearly obliterated, entire chunks having sloughed away over the centuries.
It seems strange to me; we entered the sewers near the river, close to where the child was abducted, and this isn’t so far from where we cleared out the vrow nest this morning. But it feels like an entirely different world here. More oppressive. Darker. I find myself constantly turning to the shadows, my skin crawling, as if there are things recessed in the darkness, watching us go past.
Finally, after a period of time that might have been a full watch or only a few hundred breaths, Shalloch slows to a stop. We’ve come to a confluence of the ancient tunnels, and he turns slowly, examining each with an expression of helplessness.
“I don’t know which way to go,” he says uncertainly. “There’s no trail that I can see. I can’t hear anything, either.”
Vesivia adjusts her grip on her swords. She’s kept them unsheathed since we entered the sewers. She looks more unnerved than I’ve ever seen her. “Then we should go back,” she says. “There’s no use wandering around down here. We could be lost for days if we take a wrong turn. Cassus should have arrived at the compound by now – he’ll be returning to the entrance with a dozen muckers and maps of this part of the system. We should meet them and join up.”
“Bright Eyes, what are you doing?” I ask when I catch sight of her.
The kvah is crouched in the muck, her face only a few span above the stagnant black water. Her nostrils flare as she breathes in deeply.
“That’s disgusting,” Shalloch says, looking like he might be sick.
Bright Eyes takes a few steps forward, still sniffing.
“What is it?”
She straightens, turning to me. “There’s something here; I can smell it.”
“Yes, a shitload of shit,” Shalloch says, and Bright Eyes shoots him a look.
“No. Well, there’s that, yes. Rich and rotting and almost overpowering. But something is layered over it. It smells like . . . like the depths of the mountain. The deepest, darkest caves, down by the roots that touch the soul of the world. It’s old, whatever it is, but the spore is fresh. If that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Shalloch replies quickly, but I can see that what she said has frightened him.
“Do you think it’s him?” I ask, half dreading the answer. The idea of returning to the sewer entrance and waiting for help is very comforting right now.
The kvah meets my gaze levelly. “Yes,” she says simply, and I believe her.
“We’ve gone so far already,” Shalloch exclaims, speaking quickly. “We’re going to get lost. And what if our lanterns go dark? We’ll be alone in these tunnels, in the black . . .” His voice is close to panicking.
Bright Eyes points down one of the tunnels. “That way. Whatever it is I smell, it went that way.”
We all look at each other. I can see the conflict in Shalloch and Vesivia’s faces. The abyss yawns in front of us, and somewhere within it waits a monster from legend. The impulse to flee this place is strong for me, as well. These people enslaved me, forced me to hunt dangerous creatures with the ever-present threat of having my foot sliced away prodding me along. I owe them nothing. Certainly not risking my life when our commander himself told us we did not have to go.
“I am going after this thing.” Bright Eyes speaks calmly, almost without emotion.
Shame stabs at me. In my mind’s eye I see again the frantic woman desperately clawing at Shalloch. If the child still lives, it is terrified beyond all reason. And if we turn back now, the boy will certainly perish, alone in this horrible place. The shadows clotting the depths of this place seem to roil. Faint – so faint I could dismiss it as my imagination, if I choose – I hear a whispering. What I’m seeing and hearing – this fear I’m feeling – I’ve never experienced anything like it. Is it natural?
“I’m coming as well,” I say, stepping forward.
&n
bsp; Vesivia says nothing but she moves to follow me, her mouth set in a grim line.
Shalloch raises his face to the lichen-encrusted ceiling. “Tainted saints, why are my companions suicidal?” But after shaking his head and giving a long-suffering sigh he joins us as we begin to move down the tunnel, following the kvah.
The sewers here are a tangle of narrow passages, diverging seemingly at random and pocked with small holes that suggest we’ve entered an extensive, rarely traversed warren. Bright Eyes moves with confidence, barely hesitating before choosing her way. The faint whispers that have tickled the edges of my hearing swell louder . . . until I actually stop and listen intently, and then there’s just the drip of water and the sound of splashing boots.
Something I am certain of is that it has gotten colder. Other parts of the undercity are almost humid, but these tunnels are so cold I half-expect to see a film of ice covering the walls. My skin tingles from the creeping chill, and wisps of my breath are visible in the lantern’s harsh light.
A sharp hiss from Bright Eyes returns me to the moment. She’s standing up ahead, framed in one of the many archways that litter these tunnels. There’s something dangling from the curve of stone above her, and when I see what they are, my breath catches.
Dolls, crudely made of cloth and straw, desiccated tufts emerging from where their roughly-sewn-up shapes have burst, spilling forth like viscera. They are held in place by strings wrapped around their waists or necks, motionless. I can’t help but think of a hangman’s gibbet, bodies dangling.
“What is this?” Shalloch whispers, twisting to avoid touching the dolls as he steps between them.
No one says anything. Close up, I can see the haphazard stitching of the mouths and eyes. There’s something odd, though.
“The clothes,” I say, and from Vesivia’s grim nod she notices it as well.
The clothes are far too fine. The dolls look to have been roughly fashioned, twisted together with little care taken. But the clothes they’re wearing, though faded or ripped, were made with care. Some are simply shirts and trousers and dresses of fabric, like for commoners; others are frilled or sewn with little pearls. Some wear tiny wooden sandals, while other feet are encased in delicate, finely crafted shoes and boots.
“Where did these come from?” Shalloch asks, his voice hoarse.
But I think we all know.
“Faster,” Bright Eyes grates, and to my surprise, I hear no fear – only anger.
My first thought when I hear the child crying is that it must be my imagination. But then Bright Eyes slows, and I know she’s heard it as well.
“Can you all –”
Shalloch doesn’t finish his sentence. A wet twang, like a sodden bowstring being snapped, and he’s screaming. I whirl around to see the mucker pinned to the wall by what looks to be some kind of glistening web. One of his arms is free, but the other is lashed to the stone, blood welling around the gleaming filaments pressing into his flesh.
“Shall!” Vesivia cries, rushing towards him.
“Wait!” I cry, but she doesn’t listen, immediately slipping the point of one of her swords under a strand and trying to saw through it.
Luckily, she doesn’t trigger any other traps, and I approach warily where Shalloch is thrashing wildly, trying to free himself. Blood is now streaming down from his arm and shoulder, which are webbed to the wall.
“It won’t cut!” Vesivia screams, and I grit my teeth in frustration, glancing down the tunnel we’ve been following. So much for taking the Pale Man by surprise.
“Here, let me try,” I say, taking the hilt from her shaking fingers. Shalloch is moaning, his head turned away from us; he has broken out in a sweat, and his long hair is plastered to his face. Straining as hard as I can, I push the edge of Vesivia’s blade against the deceptively thin strand, but it does not break. I’m actually afraid I’ll snap the sword, given the amount of pressure I’m putting on it, so I step back, slipping the blade free.
Vesivia turns to me, her face contorted with fear. “What are you doing? We have to get him out!”
Shalloch has lost consciousness, and only the webbing is keeping him from sliding to the floor. He’s still breathing, though. What’s wrong with him? Is it blood loss? Shock? Some kind of poison coating the filaments?
Vesivia clutches at her lover, pressing against him. I’m about to warn her to be careful, but she’s aware of the danger as she’s staying clear of the web that has ensnared his left arm and shoulder. He stirs, lifting his head.
“How long?” he slurs.
“Moments,” I tell him as Vesivia peppers his cheek with kisses.
“It feels like I’ve been asleep for days,” he says. He is rambling like the injured after ingesting some numbing drug.
“Talin.” Bright Eyes is hovering farther up the tunnel, brandishing her ax like she expects to use it very soon. “The crying, it’s louder. And there’s a light up ahead. We’re almost there.”
I look to Shalloch again, and then back to her.
“We can’t leave him,” Vesivia says, desperation edging her voice. “Please. Please.”
I make my decision.
“Stay here with Shalloch,” I tell her. “Stop the bleeding. Bright Eyes and I will go kill this thing, and then we’ll return.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. Talin, the Pale Man can’t be killed. He’s some kind of demon. He’ll murder you, and then he’ll come for us, and I won’t . . . I won’t . . .” I lay my hand on her arm, trying to calm her rising panic.
“If Bright Eyes and I went back to find help, we’d still have to leave you here.” I can see in her eyes that she’s following what I’m saying. “We are going to finish the hunt. I’ve killed demons before. And when it’s over we will find Cassus, and he’ll know someone who can free Shalloch. Do you agree?” Vesivia offers a jerky nod, and my fingers give a squeeze before slipping from her arm. “Good. Wish us luck.”
“Good luck,” she whispers, tears in her eyes.
I offer her a final nod and then jog towards where Bright Eyes is still waiting. Metal hisses as I rip my sword free of its sheath, and the kvah’s lips curl at the sound.
“Let’s go,” she says, and before I can respond she is already loping away, making for where fingers of spectral light are creeping around a bend in the tunnel ahead.
I hurry after her. “Bright Eyes, hold on!” I cry, but she doesn’t turn back.
She does hesitate, though, just before she turns the corner, and then her jaw clenches and she plunges into whatever awaits. Cursing, I run faster, but I’m quickly brought to a sudden halt as I reach the point where’s she’s vanished.
I’m standing at the threshold of a huge chamber, far larger than any I’ve seen before in the undercity. It’s dominated by a grotesque stone head emerging from the far wall, its visage twisted into a demonic leer. Pitch-black water is pouring from the face’s eyes and mouth, merging to form a river that cuts through the center of the chamber until it tumbles over the lip of a stone circle cut into the floor. The sickly corpse-pale light comes from a luminescent fungus crawling down the walls; beneath this strange growth I can see the remnants of elaborate carvings. Overlaying the sound of running water is the muffled sobbing of a small child, and in moments I’ve found the boy, curled beside one of several statues arrayed around the hole in the floor. Bright Eyes is already rushing across the chamber towards the child, apparently oblivious to the overwhelming dread saturating the room.
“Wait!” I call out, afraid of what else could be lurking here, but nothing happens as she crouches down beside the boy. The child’s tear-streaked face turns to her, his arms outstretched, but when he sees the kvah looming over him he jerks back, his sobs sharpening into terrified shrieks. Bright Eyes is murmuring something to him that sounds soothing, though what exactly she’s saying is lost beneath the hiss of the black water slipping from the eyes and mouth and striking the small pool at the base of the stone face. I cross the room careful
ly, my sword at the ready, peering into the shadows for whatever brought the child to this place. I’m also worrying about traps, like that which snared Shalloch, but I reach Bright Eyes and the boy safely. She’s still crooning something comforting to the child, who has apparently been swayed by her tone. He’s now clutching at her, tiny fingers tangled in her black hair.
My gaze sweeps the chamber. Nothing – it’s like whatever creature brought the child here has fled, though I still feel an unsettling presence filling the space. The stone face watches us with burning malice.
My own eyes are drawn to the statue nearest us, the one the child was cowering beside. It’s a man in a regal pose, his commanding visage surveying the chamber like this is his personal demesne. His mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes squinting into the distance. What’s odd about the statue is that someone has draped an ancient, tattered cloth over its shoulders, and a crown of tarnished silver encircles its brow. The fabric is faded almost beyond recognition, but it looks like it might once have been a deep vermillion, or perhaps purple.
welcome, welcome, the spider says
creeping along the dew-damp threads
I whirl around as these words slither through the chamber, echoing strangely. The child moans and buries his head into Bright Eyes’s shoulder. The kvah stands, holding the child pressed to her with one hand, brandishing her ax in the other as she looks around wildly.
on this morning oh so bright and fair
you’ve come and I have sweets to share
The sibilant utterings are louder this time, as if the thing is drawing closer. My sword hilt is slick in my palm. The water pouring from the empty eye sockets seems to have strengthened; it’s almost gushing now, frothing as it hits the pool to be swept towards the drain in the floor.
The drain.
a maiden’s kiss, a raven’s wing
the last breath stolen from a king
Long, white fingers slowly curl around the lip of the hole. A head appears, hairless and smooth as an egg. Bulging, pupilless orbs above a strange circular mouth filled with row upon row of tiny teeth. A long tongue flickers out, tasting the air. Was it what was speaking? How can it make words?
