Gods & Mortals Page 13

  The blow smashes a smoke stack in half, causing it to splutter and cough. I duck under the swinging mace and elbow the construct under the heavily scaffolded armpit joint. It does no damage, but raises a hollow clang from inside the machine, which, judging from the tooth-grinding, claw-scratching and body-writhing sounds coming from inside, discomforts its pilot greatly.

  The sniper fire trails off.

  A few stray shots continue. Either the sharpshooters possess supreme confidence or they do not care either way if their master’s champion should be hit instead.

  I keep close to the war machine, regardless.

  The skaven lunges for me, meaning to crush me against the wall with its weight, but I am easier on my feet and slip out of its way. I strike the flat of my halberd into its back as we part ways. A harrowing squeal issues from the machine as brakes are applied and gears shift, only the drag of its tail keeping it from ploughing straight into the wall without me.

  I grin.

  My halberd hums as it gains speed. The construct swings its useless gun-arm, but I avoid it, stepping behind the mechanical beast. ‘Sigmar, lend me strength!’ I turn my halberd’s path downwards, letting my lantern clatter to the ground as, at the last instant, I take the haft two-handed for maximum power.

  God-forged sigmarite shears through steel like a lightning bolt, severing the war machine’s tail from its body at the first and thickest link in the chain.

  The skaven squeals in outrage once more as it comes about. It raises its mace and brings it crashing down. I jump back and the skaven’s mace smashes into the ground. Aftershocks run through the stone and shake me off balance as soon as my feet are on the ground. A jab from the construct’s gun-arm is enough to knock me down.

  I hear a gasp from the walls as the war machine lifts its mace for the death blow.

  It is a ridiculously overconfident move, baring one’s body to an opponent in that way, however finished he may appear. I understand confidence though, and nothing breeds it in a skaven like a winning position. Or an armoured war machine nine feet tall.

  I swing around my halberd so the ferrule that reinforces the wooden haft’s base wedges against the construct’s eye grate. With a heave, I punt its intended blow over me and into the fortress wall. Its gun-arm whirls as it finds itself over-committed and tail-less and, slowly, it begins to pitch forwards. Using my halberd again, I give it one final nudge, driving its torso into the wall as I tuck my knees into my chest and roll back from underneath it.

  The pilot squeals as the construct tips onto its side and grinds agonisingly down the fortress wall. I plant my boot on its mace arm, pinning it down, and hoist my halberd like a standard for my watching men.

  ‘Ham-il-car! Ham-il-car!’

  I turn to look across the gulf to the far peak, surprised that the snipers’ efforts have not picked up again now there is no danger of accidentally hitting their own. I strain my eyes, waiting for the distinctive cloud that will warn me of the shot before I hear it, but see nothing.

  ‘Gallant of you, Master Ikrit,’ I mutter under my breath.

  The crunch of boots on loose ground turns me round.

  The sight of Vikaeus’ Veritant mask is instantly chilling, more so than all the hard looks and icy disdain her flesh could ever convey. Her judgement blade is drawn, both its serrated edge and her pearl-white armour sprayed with blood. I can hear screams from the city behind her, but they are some way off and appear to be contained. The smell of burning is faint on the winds too. Crow squeezes through the open gate beside her. He is carrying something wet in his mouth. Rather than greet me, he sinks onto his belly beside the downed war machine and curls up to gnaw on his bounty. It is a skaven arm.

  I lower my weapon.

  ‘You managed to foil the skaven’s intended plan?’ I ask.

  Vikaeus’ mask simply stares, as if incapable of speech.

  ‘So,’ I answer for her, ‘Hamilcar is no fool after all. With his sweat and valour did he distract the verminous hosts long enough for you and Akturus to find their point of attack. Come, now, you can say it.’

  There is a splitting, crunching noise as Crow breaks into the marrow.

  Vikaeus drives her still wet blade into its scabbard. ‘Your recklessness will return to haunt you one day, Bear-Eater.’ Her voice resonates from behind her mask. ‘My vision is far from played out.’

  Without another word, she turns and walks away.

  I frown down at Crow, who is gorging on skaven flesh. An increasingly desperate scratching emanates from the war machine beneath my boot. I close my eyes, hoping that the battering of the seven winds on my face will distract me from how Vikaeus’ words trouble me.

  ‘Very well,’ I mutter, once I am confident she is gone. ‘You don’t have to say it. I hear it is the hardest word.’

  AUCTION OF BLOOD

  Josh Reynolds

  At the stroke of seven on the arranged evening, Palem Bok found himself wandering the miasma-choked back alleys of Greywater Fastness. A bookseller and a spy, Bok was the epitome of neither. Tall and nondescript, he was all sharp angles and conservative colours. A grey man in a grey world. Despite the dull hues of his garments, however, they were of an expensive cut, tailored to his lean form. Bok was a man with standards, if nothing else.

  As the evening wore on, he traversed the tangled rookery with no sign of fear, despite the hostile eyes he felt watching him from darkened doorways and the cracks in boarded-over windows. Greywater Fastness was a hard city, and its people unforgiving of weakness. Bok was not weak. There was death in his heart, and there was nothing stronger than death.

  Even so, his pale gaze flickered warily from side to side, watching the shadows for some sign of the person he’d come to meet. His hand rested close to the edges of his frock coat and the slim, multi-chambered flintlock pistol holstered beneath his arm. The pistol was of duardin manufacture, and thus guaranteed to perform its function without incident. Much like Bok, it was a most dependable weapon. He smiled as the thought occurred to him. There were worse things to be than a weapon. And worse masters by far than the one who wielded him. Or, rather, mistresses.

  It had its annoyances. For instance, his intent for the evening had been to meet with a certain contact. He wished to arrange the purchase of a rare duardin bead-book, purloined at no small expense from the libraries of the Runemaster of the Hermdar lodge. There were any number of his usual clients who would dearly love to own such a rare volume on the art of fyresteel blending. Instead, he was now wandering this crooked labyrinth of back alleys, waiting for his mistress’ servant to reveal themselves.

  Laughter echoed from a side street, where a crowd tossed rotting food into a massive cage. Inside it, a serpentine cockatrice shrieked and slammed against the bars. Its avian skull was hooded in order to protect gawkers from its deadly gaze. The hulking beast’s owner kept up a steady patter, trying to attract punters to come and see it up close. Bok felt a thrill of revulsion at the sight. He felt no sympathy for the creature. It was a foul thing, corrupt and twisted by sour magics into an abomination. He just hoped the cage was sturdy.

  Loose metal rattled, somewhere out of sight. Bok paused, a fingerbreadth from drawing his pistol. Head cocked, he listened to the sounds of the city. Greywater Fastness was never silent. Its ironclad walls reverberated with the sounds of industry. The great furnaces roared day and night, and the sound of hammers ringing on metal filled the streets. A thick pall of soot and grime covered everything, blackening the walls of the buildings and obscuring the street. It was at its worst after a rain, and it was almost constantly raining.

  Overhead, glowing spores drifted as they always did after a downpour, making strange patterns in the sooty air. Where they touched something solid, they took root and sprouted into shimmering fronds of iridescent greenery. Bok hurried into a covered alleyway, brushing some from his coat before they had a chance to
blossom.

  He heard muffled voices, echoing strangely through the cramped street. In the dim light of a sputtering oil lantern hanging above a nearby doorway, he caught a glimpse of shambling figures – beggars, seeking shelter, as he was. Night soil wagons creaked somewhere close to hand. The bells on Cathedral Hill tolled the hour, and a flock of crows hurtled skywards from the slum rooftops, croaking raucously, their feathers gleaming with spores.

  Out of the smog lurched a beggar woman. She was small and hunched, wizened by hard living. She gazed at him through a veil of ratty hair, and her eyes lit up. She shuffled towards him across the filthy cobbles. ‘Sir, good sir, alms, sir,’ she wheezed. He could see bone gleaming through the pallid fuzz. Patches of leper-moss crawled across her skinny arms and marred her cheeks.

  Bok’s nose wrinkled at the stench of her. ‘I have no alms, woman. No comets, no motes, no flinders for such as you.’ He made a show of fumbling at his pockets. Despite his obvious disgust, she did not turn aside.

  ‘Alms, sir. Alms for the poor.’

  ‘Leave me in peace, wretch. I said I have no money.’ Bok took a step back, as her stink enveloped him. His skin crawled at the thought of her touch. She caught the edge of his coat. Annoyed, he lowered a hand, and a thin blade slid from a concealed sheath into his waiting palm. One more body on the night soil carts would not be noticed.

  ‘But you have red hands, brother, and they have performed black deeds,’ the woman mumbled through rotting teeth. Arthritic fingers contorted themselves in a sign known only to a few. Bok relaxed somewhat, ­sliding the blade back into its sheath before making a similar gesture. This, then, was the person he’d come to this squalid alley to meet.

  ‘The valley low, and the shadows long,’ he said, completing the code-phrase. ‘Hail and well met, sister. You bring some message from our lady of air and darkness?’ He tried to keep the suspicion he felt out of his tone.

  It wasn’t unknown for agents of the Queen of Mysteries to practise their arts upon one another, in an attempt to rise in their mistress’ esteem. Silent, swift wars occasionally broke out, between rival agents and their followers. Bok had taken part in his share of these altercations, though never without good cause. For her part, his mistress seemed unconcerned, even amused, by such internecine conflict.

  ‘I do, I do, brother. Our queen is much impressed by your handling of that matter with the playwright, some months ago. You rise swiftly in her regard, bookseller. Continue to do so, and there is no limit to what a man of your calibre might achieve.’

  ‘You may thank the great lady for me, but I am content with my lot. The life of a humble dealer in rare volumes suits me, I find. But I will serve her to the best of my meagre abilities, even so.’ It was a practised speech. At once self-effacing and boastful. The beggarwoman grinned, as if in shared jest.

  ‘Just so, bookseller. What profits it a man to forget his station, eh?’ She coughed phlegmily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘We all have our parts to play in the black game.’

  Growing impatient, Bok leaned forwards. ‘Get to it. What does she want of me?’

  ‘What she always wants, bookseller… You are to procure her something. Tonight.’

  ‘I have other business tonight.’

  The beggar woman hissed, rheumy eyes narrowed in almost queenly disdain. She pulled herself erect. ‘You have no business save that which our lady allows you, bookseller. And you would do well to remember that. The charnel grounds are full of those who forgot that her desires superseded their own petty yearnings.’

  Bok smiled mirthlessly. ‘I remember. What is it then? Another rare grimoire? A treatise on the architectural styling of Lantean Empire? A book of poetry, perhaps, or the journal of some forgotten explorer?’

  ‘It is not a book at all, brother. It is something greater by far.’ The beggarwoman clutched at his coat. She leaned close, and he gagged at the smell of her. ‘There is a certain house, near the Old Fen Gate, its shutters marked with the sign of the magpie…’

  ‘I know it.’ Everyone knew it. Everyone who was anyone, at least. The Magpie’s Nest had played host to illicit dealings of all sorts, since the city’s founding.

  ‘An auction is to be held there, this very evening, for a select few. You will go and procure for our lady that which she desires.’

  ‘Am I to guess, then, what that might be?’

  The beggarwoman licked her chapped and blistered lips. ‘You will know it when you see it, bookseller. It is quite unlike anything else.’ She fingered the buttons of his coat. ‘Do not fail her, brother. Now give me an alm, sir. Give me an alm, lest someone mistake us for acquaintances.’ She glanced around furtively. ‘Hurry, brother.’

  Grudgingly, he fumbled a coin from his coat and pressed it into her filthy hand. ‘Here. Now be off with you, wretch.’ He shoved her, for good measure. She scrambled away into the murk with a shriek he thought not a little overdone. He’d often heard it said that there was a frustrated thespian in every spy.

  Bok sighed. An auction. He hated auctions, though he attended them often. At least this one was in the city, and close to hand. But he’d had no time to prepare. Then, that was likely the point. Neferata, Lady of Sorrow, was as cunning as she was powerful. The Queen of Mysteries gave her servants little warning of tasks they might resent, so as to ensure they did not waste time attempting to avoid them. Few tried to do so twice, in any event.

  He turned his feet towards the Old Fen Gate. It seemed he would have to procure the bead-book another time. Such was the price one paid to serve the Mortarch of Blood. It was said by some that to serve Neferata was to serve death, and there was no master greater than death.

  Bok had lived in death’s shadow since his childhood. He had hunted rats in the alleys of Hammerhal, one more feral orphan among the teeming multitudes. His parents had been soldiers of the Freeguild, he thought, though he did not remember them with any true clarity. It had been another life, and in another realm besides.

  From rats, he had graduated to men. Even in the most orderly of cities, there were criminals. And criminals, or at least those of a certain station, often required the assistance of a man of Bok’s skills. He could balance a ledger and slit a throat with equal ease. Since he was a boy, he’d had a gift for sums and words, as well as blades. He had taught himself to read and write in his leaky lean-to, among the rubbish and vermin.

  Now, he lived in a modest room above his little shop at the end of a cul-de-sac. Even in a city like Greywater Fastness, there were those who appreciated books. Especially old books, with cracked bindings and yellowing pages, which enterprising booksellers could charge handsomely for.

  He still wasn’t certain how he had come to Neferata’s attentions, or why she had chosen to take him into her service. He suspected that it had something to do with his previous life. He had sent many souls shrieking to the lands of the dead. It was not inconceivable that Neferata had heard of him from one of his victims, and saw in him some potential. She had many pawns, some human, some not. Ageless and deathless, Neferata regarded the Mortal Realms as a game board – and men like Bok were her pawns.

  All he knew for sure was that he owed much of who he now was to her patronage. She paid well – better than his old criminal masters – and often. And all she asked in return were regular missives, reporting on the activities of certain individuals native to the city, or the acquisition of rare texts and items of minor interest. Sometimes those acquisitions turned bloody, it was true. But such was a bookseller’s lot, and Palem Bok was a very good bookseller. Though there were days when he considered hiring an assistant. Someone to run errands, or commit the odd murder.

  Upon leaving the tangled alleys of the rookery, he caught a rattletrap. The steel-rimmed carriage was an uncomfortable-looking vehicle, pulled by a steam-powered automaton wrought crudely in the shape of a horse. As he clambered into the battered conveyance, he he
ld up a coin to the driver. ‘There’s an extra comet in it for you if you get me to the Old Fen Gate before the next tolling of the bells.’ The driver, a retired Freeguild soldier by his look, saluted lazily with the hook that replaced his left hand and gave a gap-toothed grin. He wrenched on the levers that rose up around his bench, and an excess of steam flooded the artificial innards of the mechanical horse. It gave a creaking whinny and clattered forwards, the rattletrap swaying in its wake.

  The streets of Greywater Fastness were narrow rivulets of stone and metal, lit by oil lanterns or lightning jars. The latter dangled from iron chains, their flickering radiance washing over buildings, and making the shadows dance. The rattletrap passed through these striations of crackling light, carrying Bok to the city’s southern edge. Stone gave way to baked mud and thatch. The streets became wider, broken up by brick canals and wooden bridges. Turgid waters flowed slowly through these slimy corridors, diverted from the freshwater marshes beyond the walls.

  Occasionally, marsh troggoths would haul themselves out of the canals, their flabby, scaly flesh encrusted with barnacles of ossified filth. The lumbering beasts would rampage through the slums, attacking anyone foolish enough not to seek shelter. They were almost always driven back by the soldiers of the Freeguild, and their bodies added to the great furnaces as fuel.

  The marshes were smaller now than they had been when Bok first came to the city, and the walls farther out. Every season, the city grew and the wilderness shrank. Industry was ever the shield of civilisation, as an engineer of Bok’s acquaintance put it. He gave little thought to such things himself, and rarely left the inner city if he could help it. Bok was a man of soot and solid streets. The wilds of Ghyran held little to interest him.

  ‘Here we are then, sir,’ the driver grunted. There was a harsh burr to his voice, marking him as an Azyrite. Bok had no issue with Azyrites, though he knew those who did. What realm a man was born in mattered less to Bok than whether he had coin to spend. Bok paid him, and climbed awkwardly to the street.