Next on the Goon roster is Reeker, a half-seed. Half-seeding is a variant of blood magic, suppressed by the church but never wiped out. Women who wish to get pregnant visit blood-houses to acquire specially prepared animal semen to, shall we say, supplement contributions from their husbands. In theory, the mix of animal and human sperm produces children with desirable qualities. A half-seed bull child will be strong and willful. A half-seed panther, agile and silent. No one knows if Reeker’s mother meant to purchase skunk juice, or if she got burned by an unscrupulous blood-house. The product was a man who can emit odors at will from every bodily orifice. The stench can bring even the toughest fighter to his knees. When Reeker’s not actively shooting out stink clouds, he’s still got a wet-dog whiff to him that makes you envy No-Face’s lack of nose.
Unlike No-Face, Reeker doesn’t have a scar on him. No one ever gets close enough to land a punch. He’s learned to spit a gob of the worst smelling phlegm you can imagine up to twenty feet, and he’s more than happy to cut a gagging man’s throat to put him out of his misery. Reeker matches his dastardly combat style with a personality that’s all leers and crude jokes. Yet, for reasons I’ve never understood, he’s popular with women, even women who aren’t whores. He’s got a dumpy physique, and, at five-foot-nine, looks tiny next to the other Goons. Maybe it’s his hair. Above a pasty, round face, he’s got a thick, wavy, black mane that any woman would envy, sporting two snow-white streaks running back from his temples.
The final Goon is Menagerie. He’s about six four and skinny as a rail. He’s normally dressed in a loincloth and sandals, showing off the animal tattoos covering him from the crown of his shaved head to the little gaps between his toes. Most of the animals are predators. He’s got lions, tigers, bears, ohmis (a jungle viper), sharks, and eagles. Being tattooed in Commonground rarely earns you a second glance, though Menagerie has taken his skin art further than the average sailor. What makes Menagerie stand out is that his tattoos are alive, inked in the blood of the various beasts, and infused with their spirits. Stare at them long enough and you’ll swear they’re breathing. No one has ever actually seen one move, but one day the shark will be on his right shoulder, the next day on his left thigh, like it’s swimming around. That’s a neat trick, but it’s not what makes him dangerous. Menagerie’s a shape-shifter. He can surrender his body to any of these spirits, taking on their forms in the blink of an eye. The people he fights face off with a tall, skinny, unarmed man, and two seconds later they’ve had their hand bitten off by an alligator, their guts raked by a tiger, and have a rattlesnake clamped down on their jugular.
Remember I told you that No-Face wasn’t the Goon people were really afraid of? Menagerie is the Goon people are really afraid of.
Back to the confrontation: Aurora clenched her fists. “Stand aside. What you’re saying makes no sense.”
Menagerie shook his head. “We both know that everything the Black Swan does makes sense, even if we mere mortals are blind to the logic.”
Reeker spit out his toothpick. “Heh. Maybe the bar ain’t profitable now that Stagger’s pushing daisies.”
If it was possible to die from a mean look, Reeker would have joined me in the afterlife from the glare Infidel gave him. No-Face found the crack funny, judging from the muffled, farting, “hur hur hur,” that filtered from beneath his face flap.
Menagerie raised his hand. Reeker looked instantly chagrined. No-Face’s spooky chuckle went silent.
“I apologize for the insensitivity of my colleagues,” the tattooed man said to Infidel. “Stagger was a beloved brother in the larger family of Commonground. I, for one, shall miss him.”
“Yeah,” said Reeker. “I kind of liked the guy. There going to be a funeral? I’ll send flowers.”
“The funeral was private,” said Infidel. “And I don’t want to talk about Stagger any more. I want to talk about the dragon hunt you boys are going on. I want in.”
“As do I,” said Relic, hobbling up beside the women.
Menagerie looked down at the hunchback. “Who the hell are you?”
“Infidel calls me Relic. This will serve.”
“Uh-huh,” said Menagerie. “I can’t help but notice that you look, um... less than formidable. While I can’t confirm the existence of any upcoming dragon hunts, may I ask what, exactly, would you bring to the table?”
“Knowledge,” said Relic. “I’ve survived Greatshadow’s lair before. My experience may provide the difference between success and failure.”
“Is that so?” said Menagerie.
The hunchback nodded.
“Be that as it may, I am not in charge of hiring for any missions that may or may not be occurring soon,” said Menagerie. “The Black Swan may have been conducting transactions of this nature, but to reiterate, she’s now closed to all business.”
Aurora clenched her fists. “Menagerie, who do you think you’re fooling? You know I know all about the mission. Get the hell out of my way. I’m talking to the Black Swan.” She stepped forward, looking ready to push the mercenaries aside.
Reeker spit a gob of pale green phlegm toward her eyes. The wad crackled as it froze inches from her skin, bouncing harmlessly off her cheek, its foul payload neutralized. She punched out with an ice-gauntleted fist, sending the skunk-man flying toward the edge of the dock. He landed on his feet with inches to spare, but momentum was against him. He stumbled backward, and vanished over the edge with a splash.
No-Face swung his chain-draped fist and caught Aurora beneath the chin, hard enough that the frost coating her face flew off in a spray. She went down, landing flat on her back, as snow danced in the air where she’d just stood. She started to rise, but before she could sit up, Menagerie leapt toward her, taking the form of a huge, black-horned ram. His head smashed into Aurora’s tusks with a loud, sharp
crack
. Aurora’s arms flopped to her side as she stared up into the pale morning sky, cross-eyed and dazed.
Infidel grinned. This was her oh-good-there’s-a-fight-and-I-was-wanting-to-hit-someone grin. She punched No-Face right where his mouth should have been. He staggered backward, stopping when his back slammed into the locked door of the
Black Swan
. Infidel kicked him in the gut, shattering the wood behind him, knocking him inside.
Infidel spun to face Menagerie, who’d leapt into the air as a ram. In the span of a heartbeat, his body flowed into a fifteen-foot-long shark, his mouth stretched wide enough to clamp onto Infidel’s face. She raised both hands, shielding herself with her forearms as the toothy jaws snapped shut. There was a loud
crunch
. Bright fragments of white teeth showered onto the docks. For half a second, the shark hung there, clamped onto Infidel’s unbreakable arms. Infidel head-butted the shark in the snout. The big fish flew off, and Menagerie was once again human as he landed ass-first on the dock, blood streaming from his nose.
“Ouch,” he said, spitting out broken teeth.
Infidel loomed over him, fists clenched. “Had enough?”
From inside the jagged hole that No-Face had left in the door, there was a confused grunt.
Menagerie looked toward the hole, and his face went slack. Infidel turned toward the noise as well. Her brow furrowed as her eyes adjusted to the shadows before her. Aurora rose up on her knees, shaking her head. When she finally followed the others’ gazes, she whispered, “This is unexpected.”
The main room of the bar was completely transformed. All the gaming tables were gone, as were the paintings on the wall. No-Face was sitting up, rubbing his skin-flap, dust swirling around him. “Whuduhfuh?” he mumbled as he looked around.
Cobwebs clung to every corner of the room. The grime was so thick on the floor that No-Face had left a little dust-angel where he’d fallen. Behind the bar, the shelves were empty, save for dirt. There was no evidence that the place had been a thriving business full of people only moments before.
Menagerie stepped into the room. Aurora and Infidel followed.
Menagerie muttered something to himself I couldn’t quite catch, save for the word ‘time.’
“Oh no,” said Aurora, who’d apparently caught what he was saying. “She was too old to go back more than a day or two. She’d never survive a longer trip. She—”
“You aren’t blind, Aurora,” said Menagerie.
“Is this a private conversation, or would you care to fill me in on what’s happened?” asked Infidel.
Relic hobbled into the room. “They won’t betray the Black Swan’s secret. I, however, am not bound by their oaths of loyalty. The Black Swan owes her power and influence to a rather tragic curse. She—”
“Guys!” shouted Reeker as he rushed into the room, water streaming from his clothes. “You gotta come look at this.”
The whole building shuddered as he spoke. The air took on the stench of rotten eggs, but Reeker didn’t seem to be the source of the odor.
Menagerie furrowed his brow. “Did the barge just hit bottom?”
“All the water’s draining out of the bay!” said Reeker, waving his arms for emphasis.
“Luhguptaruh,” said No-Face.
“Good idea,” said Menagerie. “To the roof!”
Before he finished speaking, where the man had stood there was an owl gliding forward. He flapped his wings once and shot toward the cobwebbed spiral staircase in the far corner of the room, vanishing as he tilted his wings and flew up to the second floor.
No-Face and Reeker followed without hesitation.
Aurora grabbed Infidel by the arm. “You took my side,” she said. “Thank you.”
“What?” asked Infidel.
“In the fight with the Goons. You defended me when I was down.”
Infidel shrugged. “It was three against one. I always side with the underdog. It’s nothing.”
Aurora nodded. “Still, I owe you one.”
Relic sighed as he hobbled across the room toward the staircase.
“You women can bond another time,” he grumbled. “Right now, we should follow the owl.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ALL MUST BURN!
T
HE ROOF OF
the
Black Swan
was a broad, flat deck with four large stained-glass dome skylights and a sixty-foot mast that jutted up from the middle, with smaller masts fore and aft. It had been many years since the bar had actually been moved with sails; the masts now served mainly as flag poles to fly the barge’s banner, a field of pure white with a black swan in the center. Menagerie stood in the crows nest atop the tallest mast, peering out at the bay, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the morning sun. Infidel leapt, grabbing the rigging, and in seconds reached his side.
Ignoring the main reason we’d come out here, her gaze was instead drawn to Menagerie’s face. It took me half a second to understand why it was so interesting at this particular moment.
“You have your teeth back,” she said.
“Owls don’t have teeth, so when I changed back, I grew new ones,” said Menagerie. “Can we focus on the problem at hand?”
The water was flowing out from the bay so swiftly that fish were left flopping in the mud. The
Black Swan
was anchored in water ordinarily twenty feet deep at its lowest, but it now sat flat on the bottom, the whole structure shuddering as it slowly sunk into the muck. As far as the eye could see boats were stranded across the bay, except, I noted, the ships of Wanderers. These had been the ships that had gone missing during the night. They were now far out at the mouth of the bay, dozens of them, riding on a ridge of water that bunched up near the gap leading to open water.
“You ever see anything like this?” Infidel asked.
Menagerie shook his head; he was the oldest of the Goons, a resident of Commonground for over forty years. He pointed toward the bright blue forms of river-pygmies running out on the mud flats, snatching up the stranded fish. “Maybe they know what’s going on.”
But before Infidel could leap down to speak to a pygmy, a mountain of bright blue-green water rose from the sea just beyond the Wanderer’s ships. It kept rising, as other bulges formed around it. It vaguely resembled, from a distance, an enormous sea-turtle, assuming one could grow to be several miles wide.
Suddenly, the impossibility that this was a giant turtle changed into reality as the beast’s eyes snapped open. Its vast maw yawned wide, a mouth several hundred yards across. The Wanderer ships were pulled toward it by a fierce suction. Yet, these expert seafarers proved the match of the turbulent white water, guiding their schooners across the ship-studded waves as agilely as a river-pygmy steering a canoe through the pilings of Commonground. In moments, all the vessels had ridden the flow of water into the mouth of the great beast.
“It’s Abyss,” said Menagerie, his voice hushed in awe.
Abyss is the primal dragon of the sea. His consciousness spreads through every wave and ripple in the world’s vast ocean. Due to his pact with the Wanderers, he’s one of the few dragons who still intervenes in human affairs. Most of primal dragons don’t even notice mankind, any more than an earthquake notices the cities it topples, or a tornado notices the villages it smashes to splinters. To witness a primal dragon personify itself, taking on at least an echo of its original form, was something few men would ever see in their lives.