The Glass Breaks, page 7
“And with me,” agreed Ingrid Raider. “A few weeks ago, something about a man who listens to the sea and could charm a snake. Eyes and words that make people pay attention.”
“That’s it,” agreed Vincent. “Just a name that stuck in the memory. I met a Pure One who knew him. He said that this Gloom Scribe spends hours looking at the sea, as if it talks to him. He’s from the Bay of Bliss.”
Rys took a drink of wine and looked around the seated duellists. His eyes never moved quickly, as if he saw everything in slow-motion. He waited an eternity before speaking. “Addie, take Jaxon and sniff this varn out. Vincent, Arthur, round up some Nissalite – anyone who’s been in trouble recently – and ask some pointed questions. Try not to kill anybody unless you have to.”
Vincent and Arthur looked at each other. “Just a varn,” said my brother. “How dangerous can he be? I’ve never met one that didn’t spend all his time praying at the trunk of some fucking tree, or a damn rock. This one just likes the sea. Is it not a waste of time?”
The Wolf’s Bastard glared at my brother. The senior duellist had no mandate to give orders, and anyone around the table could tell him to fuck off if they wanted. Arthur met the glare for an instant, then averted his eyes, looking at me like I could make the nasty man go away.
“Arthur, you can go with Jaxon and your sister,” said Rys, deathly quiet. “Ingrid will accompany Vincent in your stead.”
“It’s not a waste of time,” I said. “Burning ships are annoying, but if you burn enough, you burn a fleet. We are best served by stopping whatever this is before it starts.”
Arthur scoffed at my words. “Let them summon their nature spirits, let them throw themselves against our walls, let them rant and rave about the Invaders, what true victory will ever come of it? We are Sea Wolves of the Severed Hand, they are lesser men.”
“We could have a purge?” suggested Vincent. “Kill a few thousand Mirralite and re-state our seniority.”
I hated the idea, but tried not to show it. A purge had worked in the past and would solve our immediate problems, assuming our immediate problems were just restless Mirralite and a charismatic varn. Burning ships and raiding parties were nothing new, but Rys Coldfire had a glint in his eyes, as if he suspected more. He smoothed back his silvery-grey hair and shifted position in his seat.
“No purge,” said the Wolf’s Bastard. “We will do as I have said. I’ll know more when I’ve spoken to Tomas and the First Fang. I have an itch at the back of my mind and I need it scratched.” He stood, his heavy falchion striking the stone table. “We are done for now. We meet again tomorrow night.”
We all stood. “Once more for the Severed Hand,” we said in unison.
Each duellist went their separate way, focusing on the exit and saying nothing. The clank of arms and armour echoed around the hall, but no-one said a word. Tense glances and sullen shakes of the head, but no actual speech.
*
“Where did you hear about this place?” asked Arthur.
“Never you mind,” I replied. “A person I trust said this house is of interest to us.”
“And why are we just hiding and watching?” he countered.
The Wisp smiled at him, his face open and friendly in the morning sun. “To see who lives there.”
“Wasn’t asking you, Icicle,” spat Arthur. “If we kick the door in we’ll find out who lives there. Though why anyone would want to is beyond me.”
He was right about that. I’d never seen so raggedy a dwelling. The edges of Swordfish Bay held hundreds of hovels, dug into the mud and plonked like an incomplete puzzle along the coast. Young Green Eyes had directed me to a series of wooden shacks, loosely placed around a building that I took to be a brothel, judging by the contented glaze on the face of each man who exited. Sailors with a few coins, fishermen looking for some illicit pleasure, but mostly Nissalite. Though I now wondered how many were secretly Mirralite.
“We’ve been here for an hour,” whinged my brother. “And I haven’t seen shit. I could sit here for another hour and I still wouldn’t see shit.”
We were hidden in the shadow of a rock, under the furthest line of shacks. The deep roar of the sea masked our conversation, but I had a good view up to the hovels.
“Tide’s coming in,” said Jaxon. “Another hour and we’ll be swimming. So will half those shacks. They must be used to wet feet.”
I took a moment to think. I didn’t want to rush in and potentially have to kill sources of information, but neither did I want to wait and give our enemies more time to conspire.
“Who goes to a brothel before breakfast?” mused Arthur.
“Men,” I replied. “Come on, let’s break the glass and go have a look.”
“About time,” said my brother.
Jaxon was first, like always, then Arthur and I stretched out with our wyrd and pulled our bodies into the void. It was always easier in the hold, as if the glass was thinner. Tomas Red Fang counselled against breaking the glass in the Severed Hand, but Lord Ulric had decided otherwise. As duellists, it wasn’t our place to have an opinion. But I agreed with the old spirit-master.
“You showing off, Icicle?” asked Arthur, as the three of us stood on the shimmering rocks. “You’re just a freak.”
Jaxon had weathered a thousand such taunts and handled it – as he always did – with silence. He glided away, across the glassy water, his feet causing barely a ripple in the surface. It was a trick few mastered, and I could no more walk on water in the void than I could in the real world. Arthur had tried many times, but always ended up swimming. On this occasion he wisely followed me along the rocks.
In the void, few of the hovels were visible, their temporary nature having little impact beyond the glass. A few buildings, like the brothel, or a nearby tavern, had a vague spiritual reflection, as if enough fucking and alcohol was noticed even by the spirits. The building we’d been looking at was also visible, with a strange texture dancing across its surface. It was spiritually active and somehow important to these Pure Ones. Behind me, those buildings important to the Eastron stood as bastions of shimmering blue light, towering over the voidscape. The Wolf House appeared twice as large beyond the glass, as its true importance could never be conveyed in bricks and mortar.
“Addie, this might be a problem,” said Jaxon, standing on the surface of the water and looking up at the building.
We took the long way around, stepping between rocks to avoid patches of sludgy mud. When we stood near the Wisp his cause for concern became obvious. The building was covered in twisted brambles. Sharp, red-tipped thorns jutted outwards, and the building itself was barely visible beneath little spirits, dancing on the surface.
“Pain spirits,” said the Wisp. “They’ve been summoned to protect the house.”
“The varn risk much,” I replied, “summoning so many spirits within the hold.”
“It’s far enough from the Wolf House that no-one looks … or even cares,” said Arthur. “Only idiots like us come down here.”
What were they protecting? Pure Ones cared nothing for riches, nor did they guard their leaders in such a fashion. I’d never seen so many spirits bound to a single purpose. I imagined their lands to be full of such things, but I hated seeing it in the Severed Hand.
“We can’t pass through in the void,” said the Wisp. “Those pain spirits are nasty little bastards. And those inside get a warning … maybe enough to get away.”
“So we use the door,” I replied.
We found a secluded rock, with crystals of void water lapping against it, and returned to the real world. Travelling through the glass in the other direction was always jarring, as your senses were suddenly filled with light and sound, eclipsing the exaggerated calm of the void. I felt more at home beyond the glass, removed from the trials of the world, and allowed to just be. But it never lasted, and I always had to come back.
Jaxon was already a step ahead as we made our way past the brothel. Our cloaks provided a modicum of anonymity, but any eyes that looked closely would know exactly who we were. Taller, wider, more upright, and likely emanating an aura of imminent violence. Luckily, the muddy streets were mostly empty, though discretion was not helped by Arthur’s constant sneer. My brother looked at any Pure One like they should be kneeling before him or throwing offerings at his feet.
“Arthur, try to relax,” I whispered. “We are not here as the vanguard of an army. We are making enquiries.”
“We are always at the vanguard of an army,” he replied, not softening his glare. “Don’t infect me with your sympathies.” He lengthened his stride to get past me.
We reached the building, seeing nothing of the twisted brambles. In the real world it was just a hovel, dark with no windows and a slanted roof. Jaxon leant against it, casually surveying the surroundings. It was early morning and those men awake were yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes. They were either up early or up very late. Either way, most were too addled to give us a second glance.
Jaxon positioned his ear against the wooden walls and listened. “Voices,” he whispered. “Maybe five men.”
“I feel sorry for them,” said Arthur, moving to the door.
“Easy,” I warned. “Let us not blunder into anything.”
He banged a fist against the door, looking at me like I was being stupid. The Wisp shook his head, indicating that the voices had stopped, and I rushed to stand next to my impulsive brother.
“You open the door or I do,” bellowed Arthur.
With no further need to be stealthy, I shook my head and drove my boot into the flimsy wooden door. It shattered inwards, coming off its rusted hinges and bathing the dark interior with sudden light. Figures scattered from our intrusion. Four men, robed in black, ran for adjoining rooms. They said nothing, not even gasps of alarm, and no face was still long enough for me to see it clearly.
I pursued the nearest man. Arthur ran past my left shoulder and went after two more. I lost sight of my brother as I wove through dilapidated rooms and low, musty chambers, in close pursuit of the robed man. There was no space to draw my blade, and I had to duck under most doorways. The man ahead of me paused and I tackled him, smashing through the side of the building and emerging back in the morning sunlight of Swordfish Bay. I pinned him to the muddy ground, locking his arms behind his head. He was a Pure One, an older man with greying hair and weathered skin.
I looked up and saw a dozen curious faces pointed at us. Rolling drunkards, early risers and fishermen. I’d made a hole in the side of the building and planks now fell from the poorly maintained roof, to fall loudly next to me. I pulled the Pure One to his feet and dragged him back into the hovel.
“Addie, got the others,” shouted Arthur from within.
I roughly grabbed my captive by the back of the neck and marched him towards the central chamber, swearing to myself. I’d been seen by too many people. Rumours and speculation would travel quickly into the Nissalite slums. A duellist had been seen. My name might even feature in a rumour or two.
The Wisp was repositioning the front door, while Arthur roughed up the other three captives. “Bit of talk out there now,” said the Wisp. “We shouldn’t hang around.”
“Fuck ’em,” said Arthur, punching a Pure One in the stomach. “What are they going to do? Attack us? I don’t think so.”
I threw my captive to the floor, to cower next to the other three. All were pale-skinned Pure Ones in late middle age, fully covered by thin black robes, with ankles and wrists exposed. They exchanged glances and whispered words, but became silent when Arthur kicked the new addition in the head and rendered him unconscious. “No talking,” he growled.
I shoved my brother out of the way and righted a small wooden chair, taking a seat in front of the captives.
“We have heard a story,” I said, casually, “of a varn called Gloom Scribe. A man who likes the sea. Now, you are in the advantageous position of being able to add to this story. You can open your mouths and let truths spew forth, and your part in the story will be short. It may not even record your names, just that you went home alive.” I had their attention, but was surprised that there was little fear on their faces. I drew my cutlass and rested the point against the wooden floor. “And, of course, if you keep quiet, the story will record your deaths … in a dark hovel, your bodies burned for all to see.”
The middle captive coughed up some blood and cleared his throat. “We will help you any way we can, noble duellist.” His voice was soft and he bowed his head.
“A good start,” I replied. “Gloom Scribe, where do I find him?”
“Be careful,” said the Wisp, “this one has power.” He stepped before the Pure One and looked him up and down. “What’s your name?”
The kneeling man did not flinch from us. His cheek and bottom lip were red from Arthur’s fist, but he did not blink as Jaxon peered at him. I had no sensory gifts, and could not see things visible to the Wisp, but even I could tell that this particular captive was not just an insignificant Pure One.
“Answer him!” snapped Arthur, punching the man again. “Your name!”
He coughed out more blood and his hands went to his wounded jaw. My brother was strong and he’d rendered more than one man unconscious with a single punch. To see a Pure One be struck twice and not even fall was strange.
“Apologies, most revered Sea Wolves, I forget my place. Gloom Scribe you say? I’m afraid that name chimes no bells. Though I too like the sea.”
Arthur went to punch him again, but Jaxon stopped him. The Wisp grabbed the Pure One by the throat and pulled him upright. “Who are you?”
I stood next to them, cutlass in hand, and watched in amazement as the man’s wounds began to disappear. He didn’t smile, and showed no outward defiance, but his eyes betrayed something I did not expect to see in a Pure One. He was using wyrd. It was subtle, far softer that my own – a needle compared to the sledgehammer of a Sea Wolf duellist – but the man was skilled.
“Who are you?” repeated the Wisp, wrapping an arm around the man’s throat and holding him in a choke.
The man lowered his chin and twisted forwards, hefting Jaxon off the ground. He carried his weight easily and threw him across the room, to clatter against the flimsy walls. Arthur stood stunned, and I paused, looking at the Pure One’s pale face. The Wisp quickly righted himself and crouched. The three of us circled the man, our eyes low and wary.
“You’re strong,” I said. “Too strong for a Pure One … maybe even too strong for a Sea Wolf. Perhaps a better question is what are you?”
He wasn’t armed and kept his limbs loose, poised like a cat, not sure in which direction to pounce. He didn’t appear afraid, just wary and ready to fight. His eyes pointed downwards, not meeting my gaze or Arthur’s snarl. The other captives skulked to the far wall, dragging their unconscious brethren with them, but they showed no sign of action. “The sea calls to us,” murmured the oldest captive, his eyes suddenly bloodshot.
“What manner of craft is this?” asked my brother.
“The sea calls to us all,” replied the man. “Though few listen.” He stopped moving and his eyes dimmed. A subtle mantle of wyrd fell from his face, like a lizard shedding an old skin, and different eyes looked up at the three duellists surrounding him. He was no Pure One. He appeared to be a man, though his face and limbs were hideously deformed. His eyes bulged from his head like a frog’s, and thick, flabby lips puckered at us. A layer of sickly-green slime coated his flesh, and his stomach swelled to an enormous girth. I had no earthly idea what he was.
Arthur attacked first, the shock driving him to anger. The strange man parried the cutlass with the flat of his slimy hand and elbowed my brother in the face. He moved quickly, able to outmanoeuvre his opponent in a way I’d never seen. He nullified Arthur’s strength with tiny movements and bursts of speed.
Jaxon, still crouched, looked across at me and conveyed his concern. Arthur was outmatched and we both knew it. He was dazed from the elbow and flailing with his blade, trying to overpower the creature, but each swing sapped his strength and struck nothing but wood or thin air.
“Brother!” I shouted. “Disengage!”
A moment later he put all his strength into a single downward swipe. The frog-man side-stepped and grasped Arthur’s arms, using his momentum to overbalance him. I saw that he was directed at me a moment too late, and was barrelled to the floor by the flying form of my brother.
“Fuck!” I exclaimed, trying to roll to my feet. “Jaxon, subdue it.”
The Wisp had already advanced, dropped his blade and grappled the bulbous creature. Arthur and I untangled ourselves and stood, in time to watch Jaxon pinned to the floor with a flabby arm wrapped around his neck. He was gasping for breath as the half-man’s bulging eyes flickered around the hovel, looking for a way out.
“Whatever you are, you’ve got nowhere to go,” I snapped. “Release him!”
The creature shifted weight, hefting Jaxon upwards. Its robe now covered only a fraction of its grotesque body. It may have been a man, but a man who resembled a frog, with small suckers on its hands and feet, and mottled patterning of red and green running up its back.
I kept my eyes on it and retrieved my cutlass. I nodded for Arthur to cover the flank and we approached it from both sides. Neither of us knew what it was, but we were duellists of the Severed Hand and would never back down, even to a flabby-limbed creature with abnormal strength. We had both fought void beasts and were not squeamish at the vile or the grotesque. Though this was no summoned spirit, and to see such a thing within the hold was alarming.
“Were you why they guarded the house?” I asked.
Its moist lips smacked together, but formed no words. When its gangly arms momentarily loosened their hold around Jaxon’s neck, the Wisp sprang upwards and turned, mounting the creature, tying up its arms and allowing us to move in and overwhelm it. It flailed with considerable strength and points of wyrd darted from its extremities, but three duellists could not be shrugged off so easily.
