Deadhouse Landing, page 33
They found the outlaw commander lying on his back, still alive and conscious, a bloodied hand on the haft standing straight above him. The man’s dark eyes tracked Dassem as he closed to crouch next to him. Shear kept watch.
Luel licked his bloodied lips and whispered, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Dassem Ultor.’
An explosion of laughter sprayed blood all over the man’s beard and chest. He bared his reddened teeth in a grin. ‘Should’ve guessed. I was at Heng. I heard Hood’s Sword was there.’
Dassem nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
The commander gave a weak shrug. ‘No matter. You now bring death to the south.’
‘That is not my intent.’
The man’s hand fell from the haft. ‘Yet … it follows … you…’
Dassem closed the man’s staring eyes, rose, and faced Shear. Blood spattered her trousers, shirt and mask from the battle.
‘I am thinking you are no longer welcome among the caravan,’ she said.
‘And neither are you, no doubt. I am sorry.’
She waved that aside. ‘No matter. I was planning to return to my people anyway.’
He nodded. ‘I will collect our horses and go.’
‘I will keep them all from bothering you in the meantime.’
‘My thanks.’ He reached out. ‘Shear…’
She remained erect, hands at her sides. ‘Yes?’
He let go a long breath, let the hand fall. ‘Fare you well.’
She inclined her masked head slightly. ‘You too, Sword of Hood.’ She turned and jogged off.
He allowed her time to speak to Horst, then went to find his horses.
* * *
It was far from winter proper, yet a chill wind from the south sent shivers up Cartheron’s back where he sat on a heap of rope inspecting the tackle of the running rigging taken from the mizzen mast. Most was far older and more worn than he would’ve liked; however, given the shortage of equipment, they had to make do.
They hadn’t the time to haul the Twisted up so Choss was in charge of repairs and caulking below decks while he handled everything aloft. It was painful to him to have to pass sub-par blocks and frayed line, yet on Mock’s orders no vendor on the island would sell them one nail or a single yard of canvas, even under the table. Still, they had managed to appropriate a few supplies.
It was dark, but they were working in shifts through the night by torch and lantern light, and had even taken to sleeping in the hammocks in the crew’s quarters before the mast. They had to make do with what they could scrounge, or steal, and that was Grinner’s area. Already he’d come through with some new line, lumber of questionable provenance, and fresh pitch.
Though they had been working like this for days, Cartheron still found it difficult to sleep given the occasional sightings of the ship’s unofficial mascot, the strange nacht creature. That thing made him uneasy still, while Shift flatly refused to bed down on the vessel at all.
Surly, for her part, remained ensconced in Smiley’s with her bodyguard, rarely showing herself. Running everything, collecting money, and no doubt impatiently awaiting the day of their departure.
He sat back and set his hands on his thighs, stretching his back and neck; but that was unfair. Her security was paramount to him as well, even though Geffen’s organization, now under a lieutenant of his, was lying low, focused on regaining its strength. And as for Mock with his council of captains, the man had had no reported sober day in weeks. And the local merchants, wisely perhaps, took their lead from the council.
He stilled, then, noticing that the chill wind was no longer blowing in off the bay, but luffing his shirt from the front. He peered up, puzzled, and was surprised to see thick dark clouds massing over the island. A blaze of sheet lightning made him flinch and blink and he rose, peering to the south. The deep purple night sky was clear there, which was odd, given that most storms rolled over them out of the south.
A thick mist was now even rising off the icy waters and climbing the wharves. He backed away to the cargo hatch and called down, ‘Hawl. Better get up here.’
Their mage was already on her way up the steep stairs. She went straight to the side and peered up the shore into town.
‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.
She turned to him, frowning her worry. ‘Shadow…’
‘Truly?’ He eyed the mist-shrouded streets. ‘You think, maybe … it’s our boy?’
A curse of alarm sounded from below and a short hairy shape burst from the companionway, swung over the side, and went loping up the pier to disappear into the swirling fog.
Hawl merely raised a brow in comment and Cartheron nodded. ‘We have to warn Surly. I’ll go.’
‘Not alone.’ Hawl leaned over the cargo hatch. ‘Urko! You still down there?’
‘Yeah?’ came an answering bellow.
She pointed a warning finger at Cartheron. ‘You take your brother.’
* * *
Grinner, Nedurian found, played a mean game of troughs. They sat before one of the two ground floor windows of Smiley’s. Nedurian had played a lifetime, campaigning all across Quon east to west, and now in the unlikely figure of this burly, scarred knife-fighter he’d found a fellow adherent as steeped in the game’s strategy as he.
He rolled again and considered his moves while Grinner chewed a thumbnail and eyed the board. When he hadn’t moved for some time the Napan peered up at him, frowning. ‘What is it?’
But Nedurian wasn’t listening. For some time a vague worry had been tugging at him despite his submersion in the game, and only now had it finally surfaced in a prickling all up and down his arms and the stirring of the small hairs of his neck.
He rose from the table, jostling it and upsetting the stones. Grinner pulled away, his hands going to the yellowed horn knife grips standing from his vest. ‘What is it?’
Mist shrouded the street outside beneath dark bunched clouds. Even as Nedurian watched, touching his Warren, shadows cast across the shrouds of fog seemed to shift and twist all of their own accord. He went for the door.
‘What is it?’ Grinner repeated.
Nedurian paused. ‘Some sort of magery.’ Pointing at Grinner, he warned him, ‘Stay indoors!’ and rushed out. He made for Agayla’s; if anyone would be familiar with such a manifestation it would be she.
Oddly enough, though the woman’s shop was only a few streets away, he almost became lost amid cobbled ways he didn’t recognize. He stopped to strengthen his touch upon Rashan. Immediately, the town seemed to snap back into place all about him. He raced on.
Eventually, after a number of turns that proved inexplicably wrong, he stumbled upon her shop only to find her out in the street already, a silk shawl about her shoulders, glowering at the overcast night sky.
‘Is it one of the island’s Shadow Moons?’ he asked, a touch out of breath.
‘No. It resembles a Shadow Moon, but none has been presaged for years yet. This is worse. Some fool is opening a gateway between Shadow and here. And I think I know who.’
‘Ah. Our peculiar visitor.’
‘Yes. And he is a greater fool than I suspected. Doesn’t he understand that anything can come through?’
This gave Nedurian pause. ‘Anything?’ he repeated, almost in disbelief.
She nodded, furious. ‘Anything. We must be ready to defend the city.’
Nedurian ran a hand over his unshaven cheeks. Ye gods, this was not what he’d signed up for.
Civilians were crowding the street now, peering about in wonderment. Agayla waved them away. ‘Hide indoors. It is a … a Shadow Storm. Lock your doors!’ She imperiously waved him away as well. ‘Send everyone indoors.’
He inclined his head in acquiescence – as one could only do when Agayla used that tone – and jogged off, shouting as he went, ‘Lock your doors! A Shadow Storm!’
* * *
High above Malaz City, Tattersail sat at table with Mock and a few of his favourite captains. Untan distilled grain liquor had flowed freely and the captains were trading banter and jokes with the admiral while Tattersail played with her knife and napkin.
Mock laughed roguishly at the jokes, sending winks to her across the table, but she was not amused by what she saw as these followers’ transparent efforts at ingratiation and toadying. Mock, of course, was enjoying all the attention.
‘Still no word from your sources on Nap?’ Captain Hess asked, hooking an arm over the back of his tall chair.
‘None,’ Mock answered. ‘Do not worry. They were savaged just as badly.’ He eyed Tattersail directly across the full length of the table. ‘Some warn of a follow-up invasion or attack, but I discount it utterly.’
Tattersail looked away, her grip on the silver knife tightening.
‘Who will be the new flank admiral, then, Mock?’ another asked, rather drunkenly.
The admiral raised his brows in exaggeration. ‘This is true. We’ve lost Casson, haven’t we?’
‘Who, then?’ the captain, Renish, pressed on, and Tattersail saw in his narrowed gaze that perhaps the man was not so drunk as he pretended.
Mock just smiled in his carefree manner, and, leaning forward conspiratorially, answered, ‘Oh, someone at this table, no doubt.’
The seven captains eyed one another then, leaning away from their neighbours and glowering into their cups. Tattersail looked to the soot-blackened rafters far above. Gods! So predictable. Mock playing them against each other. As he had for years.
Her gaze chanced upon Agayla’s dark tapestry and she dropped her knife with a loud clang. So dark!
The captains all stopped talking, eyeing her. Mock lifted his brows. ‘Are you all right, dearest? Too much to drink, perhaps?’ He elbowed Hess on his right, and all seven captains chuckled on cue.
She passed a shaky hand across her face, swallowing to calm herself. ‘I’m fine. Something … something has disagreed with me. I think I will take some air.’
Mock half rose from his seat, bowing. ‘Of course, dearest. Do take care, though. It looks like rain.’
She stood from the table and all the captains rose as well, bowing. She returned the civility and made for the main terrace, where she slammed the heavy iron-bound door behind her and stared out over the city, a hand going to her throat. Ancient Ones! No wonder I’ve been so jittery.
There, low over the city, a massive cyclone of energy gyred amid churning midnight clouds and flitting shadows. Meanas! But who? How?
She ran for Rampart Way – the nearest route down to the city below. Soon, however, she had to hike up the long dress Mock had asked her to put on for dinner. She cursed it, finally tearing off its lowest section and continuing on.
The dry, dusty words of one of the texts on Warren magics regarding such manifestations marched through her mind as she went:
Clouds, mists, or storms are a common by-product of the massive differentials in pressures, humidities, and temperatures when sufficiently large portals or gates between Realms are generated. Should such a differential prove large enough, the energies generated may induce a storm as destructive as any legendary Maelstrom.
Agayla would know what to do.
* * *
She had spent her time on the south coast facing the cold grey waters of the Strait of Storms. These entities known as the Stormriders were an interesting phenomenon. One she’d never had the inclination or opportunity to investigate before. Clearly, they represented a lingering ancient intrusion into the region. But just from where, she couldn’t say. It would take generations of observation to know for certain, of course, but it appeared to her that their presence was slowly fading upon the world, grafting of an alien order as it was.
The flash of sheet lightning from behind threw her shadow far out before her, and Sister of Cold Nights straightened, lifting her head. Was that …
She turned to regard a dense mass of clouds slowly building over the island north of her, and nodded. At last. Perhaps my time here has not been wasted after all.
She started for the city.
* * *
Cartheron set a hand on his brother’s arm, holding him back from a side street. ‘I’m not so sure.’
Urko shook off his hand. ‘We just head up this way to the square. The one with the broken statue.’
Cartheron squinted into the dense banners of hanging mist. ‘Like that last turn?’
Urko huffed, crossing his thick arms. ‘Hunh! One mistake! I’m telling you – this town is not this big!’
‘I agree.’
It was strange; the moment they’d left the waterfront behind and walked up between the warehouses it was as if they’d entered another city. The narrow meandering streets were familiar, but not quite right. Same with the shop-fronts.
His brother spun then, crouching. ‘Did you hear that?’
Cartheron squinted into the miasma. ‘What?’
‘Sounded like … claws scratching over stone.’
‘A lost dog?’
‘Damned big one,’ Urko muttered.
Indeed, a looming dark shadow was now moving behind the shifting curtains of mist. One impossibly large. A trick of this strange light, Cartheron told himself. No beast could be that large. Probably just as high as his knees – not damned near the size of a bull. Just a distorted shadow.
A low growling rumble reached them then, as of rocks being ground together. The very cobbles beneath their feet vibrated with it. The brothers shared a glance: run or freeze?
Cartheron slowly reached down and drew his boot knife. The tiny weapon looked comical compared to the monster that was edging in upon them. That was, if the shadows, and their fears, were not playing tricks upon them.
A long, broad muzzle parted the vapours. It was fully as tall as their own heads. Lips drew back snarling from wet gums, and slit eyes glared an eerie near-black before them. A heady waft of desert scent, like spice, nearly made Cartheron dizzy.
Before he could act, his brother leapt upon the beast, wrapping an arm about its neck, bellowing, ‘Run!’
But Cartheron did not run: he stared, frozen, while his brother tightened the crook of his elbow upon the beast’s throat and its eyes widened in something almost like surprise – if such a creature could be capable of such an emotion.
It reared, snarling, and threw itself against the wall next to them. Both it and his brother gave animal grunts as bricks crunched and wood splintered. It staggered off, attempting to shake this impudent fool from its back, but Cartheron knew that nothing short of decapitation would ease his brother’s arms once he’d clamped them round anything.
They disappeared into the mist, the hound rearing and snarling, Urko half hopping, half dragging his feet. Cartheron moved to follow, but stopped – there was no way he would ever find them. He swore then he would honour his brother’s damned fool move by beating this confounding miasma. He would escape it. Standing there, his back pressed against chill damp stone, he decided that perhaps the way to beat it was to remain still; it may be that some logic or pattern would emerge amid the confusing chiaroscuro.
Just as at sea when caught amid thick fog. You didn’t look, you listened. And so he closed his eyes, listening to the night.
* * *
Nedurian soon found that he no longer had to warn the citizens of Malaz against entering the streets. It appeared they were quite familiar with these uncanny happenings: doors were slammed and barred and heavy shutters banged shut over windows. In no time he was alone in a tiny mist-laden square, and only then did it occur to him that he had no idea exactly where he was.
A low rumbling reached him then, as of a beast the size of a bull exhaling, and he thought, Well, perhaps not so alone …
He raised his Rashan Warren to its sizzling heights about him and waited, motionless, in a pool of absolute dark. Whatever this was, it ought to pass him by.
Instead, however, twin pinpoints of a sullen bluish glow emerged from the dark, closing, growing in brilliance, and he realized with a renewed prickling of his skin that he was being stalked through the paths of his own Warren of Night.
He shifted, then, blindly – a very dangerous move as one cannot predict just where one might emerge – and found himself in a new, equally unfamiliar cobbled way. Quickly, he crossed the street to put his back to a stone wall and tried to still his hammering heart. He had never seen that before. Some creature able to follow spoors through Warrens? Gods! No one would ever be able to escape such a—
He stared with mounting panic at the spot where he had emerged, for there, from the shifting shadows, a monstrous paw and forelimb was emerging, followed by a long greying muzzle and twin blazing sky-blue eyes that peered right and left, scanning the street.
Nedurian slowly reached over to a door next to him, offered up a silent prayer to Apsalar, Lady of Thieves, and tried to lift the latch – it rose, and he ducked into a shop-front stuffed with household goods manufactured of tin: a tinsmith’s. From a rear workroom he heard someone weeping in terror.
It occurred to him then to wonder why the creature had singled him out, and he realized that it must be one, or both, of two factors: he had been outside, and he possessed a raised Warren. Reluctantly, he understood what he must do, though it scraped against the grain of decades of habit. He let his Warren fall away, then froze, almost not breathing, listening to the night.
Outside, claws grated against the stone cobbles of the narrow street. He swallowed and fought the mad urge to flee. No running – they are hunters.
A great bull-bellows of an exhalation rattled the door and sent up a massive cloud of dust from the gap beneath. The air became redolent with a sweet spicy scent, as of mace, or anise seed. The frantic need to run made his legs quiver, but he fought it, though he expected at any instant the beast to crash through the flimsy barrier.
A last reverberating snort and the claws grated once more, swiftly, as the monster ran off – called perhaps by some other scent or spoor.
He let out a long hard breath, sagging in exhaustion and relief. He reached clumsily for the door. Ancient gods! I am definitely too old for this.
* * *
Tattersail passed through the streets of the high manor district then descended into the thick fogs that cloaked Malaz City proper. The haze was so dense she had to raise her Thyr Warren to its highest extent just to penetrate the coils and hanging curtains.
