Authors: Tom Lloyd
The breath caught in his throat as Shonrey watched the cord fizzle into life. Once he was sure it had taken he wasted no time and hurled the grenade through the door where it clattered against the stove. He held his position a moment longer, second pistol in his left hand, in case the figure made a break for it, then ducked back out of sight before the blast could shake the room.
It never came. One held breath stretched out and became a second, then a third. Caution kept Shonrey back a moment longer then he turned back around the corner, sinking to one knee to present a different target to anyone within. The view was empty, the grenade a dark and dead shape on the ground. The fuse was still visible – it had gone out somehow, rather than been dislodged. He doubted even a desperate man would have tried to gather and smother it.
‘Come,’ he breathed to the man beside him; Suken, the oldest of their group.
Together they edged forward, Shonrey silently drawing his longsword as they went. The smell worsened as they entered, filling his head with a heavy, sickly sensation. There was no movement ahead, no sign of the low castes they had cornered here. As they reached the middle of the room he found his limbs grow heavier and instinct made him grab Suken’s arm, dragging the man back out with him into the open air.
They stumbled through the doorway, only to find the others similarly enfeebled. Shonrey forced himself to look around the street, to keep moving, but he saw no assailants, just empty shadows.
The city blurred around him, the fog wrapping its tendrils around his arms. It dragged him down like a demon’s embrace and then the darkness took him.
The Firewind stood, burning rags cascading from his body. His second skin shone now, trails of incantation following the line of his body like cracks in a lava flow. Nearby he sensed his war-siblings do the same, the glow around each illuminating the bone-white struts and buildings nearby. From below he felt as much as heard the deep booming call of the Stone Dragons as those armour-clad destroyers rose to join them.
A curl of flame flickered into existence in the air in front of him before winking out again. The Firewind bent and grasped his grey spear, the edge a dull white that began to shine in the waxing light. Bursts of fire began to erupt from his second skin, flaring out as the prayers shone so bright they became unintelligible and the wood around him caught light.
A great whoosh of flame erupted from nearby, swirling streams of yellow surrounding a second Firewind and casting their brightness wide. Up ahead he saw a figure move in the shadows, raise some sort of weapon, and he threw his empty hand out towards it. A gout of flame raced forward, covering the twenty yards in a heartbeat. A ball of fire exploded around the figure and they fell, but the Firewinds did not advance. Instead the pair stood as sentinels, spears upraised, while the heavy tramp of feet appeared behind him.
The call of the Stone Dragons rang out again, the fury of some ancient monster awakened. Four of the armoured warriors advanced between the Firewinds, weapons ready to cast indiscriminate death. From further ahead he heard more calls, saw more burgeoning storms of flame reflecting in the fog.
The trap is complete,
he thought, sending it out to his fellow Astaren of House Dragon.
Take them.
From around the corner Vosain heard the crash of the door, followed by the crack of a pistol that echoed through the small house. He waited a heartbeat for movement within the darkened room then slipped his knife through the shutters to lift the catch. He pulled the shutters back and peered into the room as best he could. Nothing moved within. He could see little but certainly there were no faces looking back at him, no naked steel pointing his way.
His knife worked its way around one cheap pane of glass easily enough and soon he had the blade behind it. A twist of the wrist cracked the glass and levered a piece towards him. He removed it and dropped it on the cloak he’d spread out on the roof below, quickly pulling more pieces away until he could slip his hand in and open the window silently.
It had taken him a matter of seconds. There were no more gunshots below but a shuffle of feet and a clatter of something on bare floorboards. Vosain didn’t wait for the grenade to explode, confident enough in his ability to move quietly, so he eased his way over the sill and into the dark room.
It was a cluttered mess inside; opposite him a dresser of pale china shone in the starlight, four armchairs arranged around some low table covered in garish glass pieces. The chairs were pushed back against the walls, affording him a clear space to move in and no hiding places better than a battered glass-fronted cabinet.
Low castes and their pretensions,
Vosain thought idly as he picked his way past porcelain figurines of Ascendant Gods and drew his pistol.
He took a step towards the door before some sixth sense caught movement behind him. He whirled around, bringing his gun up, but it was smashed from his grip by a numbing blow. The Wyvern warrior was already reaching for a dagger before he focused on his attacker. For a moment he thought they were a Dragon from the dark colour, but then he realised it was a man swathed in black and masked.
Before Vosain could draw his dagger the figure rapped his knuckles with a short baton. He followed that up with a punch to the sternum that drove Vosain back into a chair. There he slumped for a moment, breathless and stunned, while the man grabbed the second pistol from Vosain’s ornate holster across his belly and tossed it aside.
That done, the figure checked behind, glancing out of the window for any assistance he’d failed to notice, but saw nothing. Vosain realised Toher would be out of sight, watching the rear entrance of the tavern. A distant voice told him he was going to die unless he acted, but as he forced himself up the man gave him a slap around the head that set his skull ringing as he fell back.
Confusion filled Vosain’s mind. He was far taller and broader than his attacker, but each blow had struck like a hammer. For a moment he just sat there, stunned and willing Shonrey to burst through the door and shoot this stranger down, but nothing happened.
His assailant cocked his head, lowering the baton in his hand as he looked Vosain up and down. The Wyvern warrior wore only functional clothes, no sign of military rank or honours sewn to his shoulder. He was there to execute, not fight honourably. Still, the other man nodded before he spoke.
‘Guess you’re the cousin, then.’
Vosain blinked once before anger forced his wits to return. This damn low caste thought to speak to him so, let alone be so casual when attacking a twice-titled warrior of the plain?
‘I am the cousin,’ Vosain growled, fighting to think and plan while the low caste enjoyed his moment of advantage. Something was not right here, but Vosain had dealt with stronger men than himself before. ‘The whore told you about me, then?’
It seemed an idle flick of the wrist, but the man seemed to know which exact point on Vosain’s knee to strike and a bolt of pain shot through his leg. The veteran soldier hissed with pain, coming close to crying out.
‘That ain’t nice, especially when she’s your kin.’
‘She is no family of mine. She has shamed us and must die.’
‘No family o’ yours?’ the man echoed. ‘Aye well, fortunately for her she’s got a new family. We might be bit of a mix, but that’s life for ya. Point is, family should stick up for each other, not hunt each other down.’
The man leaned forward and his tone turned menacing. ‘And once you’re messing with my family,’ he snarled, ‘the Gods themselves ain’t going to be able to help ya.’
Vosain sneered at him. ‘The Gods have cursed your family then.’ He could see in the dark eyes glaring back that it scored a hit. The flash of anger distracted the man for long enough for Vosain to whip a stiletto from his sleeve and stab it into the man’s neck—
Except the man was no longer there. Vosain’s blade cut only air and he felt a jolt of shock. He’d not even seen the man move. One moment he was in the path of that lethal point and the next he was well clear. Before he could recover Vosain felt his wrist grasped and twisted back on itself.
The stiletto fell from his fingers and was scooped up by his attacker. He tried to move, lurch up from his seat and throw himself sideways, but another punch to his chest rocked him backwards.
Vosain fell back, mouth open and gasping at the sight of the narrow stiletto hilt protruding from his chest. Then the pain came; a fierce embrace of unbearable heat that flowed around his chest and up through his throat. He tried to breathe but could only manage an agonised wheeze as his chest filled with fire.
‘Yup,’ the man said distractedly, ‘that’ll hurt, but you’re a big strong lad. You won’t die for a while yet, so how about we talk some more?’
Vosain did his best to spit at the low caste. It fell short, but his defiance was clear.
‘That’s a shame,’ the man said. ‘I was hoping to spare some o’ your kin. If you want me to kill ’em all as I find ’em, fine.’
The Wyvern tried to speak but the pain made every movement a stabbing jolt. With an effort of will he found the strength to lick his lips and draw in a shallow breath. ‘We are warriors,’ Vosain huffed. ‘We die for our honour.’
‘Can’t persuade you? What about the young lad in the alley? Don’t he deserve a few more years of life before some bastard cousin of his drags him to a fool’s death?’
‘He is a warrior.’
‘How many of you are there?’ the man persisted. ‘How many like you? Kine says you and her brother, Shonrey, will be the ones in charge. Without you two, will the rest slope off back home?’
Vosain felt a moment of doubt before anger eclipsed it, but even as he replied he thought the man had caught the hesitation.
‘They will die for the honour of family.’
The man sighed and shook his head. ‘Where would our armies be if it weren’t for boys too stupid to realise what they’re getting into?’
He reached around the back of Vosain’s head and clamped steel-clad fingers around the base of his skull. The pain increased as the man half-lifted him out of the chair, fingers digging into his flesh so hard it broke the skin.
‘How many? Five? Six? Seven? Eight? Okay, seven it is. Would you trust them to see this through if Shonrey and your lovely self were dead? Excellent.’
Vosain didn’t speak at all in reply, but the man – mage or shaman, he now realised – seemed uninterested in hearing anything.
‘Doesn’t look like I need you any more now, does it?’ the man said idly, peering forward at him and releasing his grip.
A cold sensation slithered down Vosain’s spine. He twitched his fingers, trying to be sure if his right hand was still strong enough to move.
‘You hide your face,’ he croaked slowly in response. ‘You hide your name. I am a warrior of House Wyvern. It is my right to know who will kill me.’
‘Right?’ The man shook his head. ‘You got no rights here.’
Vosain moved as fast as he could, grabbing the hilt of the stiletto embedded in his chest and yanking it clear with a cut-off howl. He slashed forward at the man and saw its edge slice the cloth around the man’s head as a hot gush of blood spilled from his own chest. The masked man jerked back and Vosain threw himself forward, using what remained of his strength to propel himself on to his opponent.
His greater weight slammed down on the man as he stabbed at his face, but somehow the commoner twisted away. Half pinned by Vosain’s massive frame, the man wedged a hand under Vosain’s wrist to keep the stiletto from driving down into his chest. Vosain punched him in the side of the head with his free hand, but it was a feeble blow and the man shrugged it off, so he put both hands around the stiletto grip and all his weight behind the slim point.
The man punched him in the shoulder, a savage blow that felt like a knife wound, but amid the last moments of his life Vosain was oblivious to everything bar inching the stiletto point down to his assailant’s chest. The man punched again, a second agonising blow, before he realised it wasn’t enough. The stiletto crept a little further down, but then the man got his hand up under Vosain’s own.
Instead of gripping the weapon, the man moved his hand up towards Vosain’s throat and there came a small wet sound like a blade sliding through flesh.
‘Her name is Dov,’ the man whispered. ‘A beautiful baby girl – and you’ll never hurt her.’
Vosain barely heard him. His body was growing cold and all he could see was the stiletto in his hands. His whole being was devoted to driving it down into the man’s flesh and ensuring he would trail him like the servant he was all the way into the afterlife.
‘I don’t think so,’ the man commented as the stiletto edged a little further, pricking the material of his clothing.
With a snarl he pushed his free hand up and away, a razor edge tearing into Vosain’s throat and chopping through his flesh to scrape on bone before it was ripped away. There was a moment of white-hot pain that seemed to fill the world and a gush of warmth from Vosain’s throat – then nothing. No pain, no anger, no honour or regrets. The world vanished and he was no more.
Irato stalked through the still bodies in the street, the faint bitter smell of gas in his nose despite a silk scarf wrapped across his face. The Wyverns all lay like crumpled toys at his feet, while Narin held back. The Lawbringer – Investigator now – remained halfway up the stairs, waiting for Irato’s signal that the breeze had dissipated Enchei’s little concoction.
The gas proved stubborn, though, and it was only Irato’s goshe Blessings that kept him upright. It felt as though the night’s fog had slipped into his mind, a disconcerting glassy sensation as he picked his way through the unconscious fallen. As a Detenii, Irato knew he would have used gas when he broke into houses to dose newborns with Moon’s Artifice, but the memories were lost to him, like everything else.
That time before remained a hole, a sucking emptiness at the heart of him. They had assembled fragments and guessed more, but
who
he had once been remained a mystery. To walk in that man’s footsteps, however, sent a frisson down Irato’s spine – a familiar echo in his bones but nothing more.
He looked left and right. A grey spectral figure stood at either end of the street, motionless and watching him. The city was an inverted woodcut to Irato’s eyes, also changed by the goshe doctors. Shades of black and grey were all edged in white, picked out with breathtaking precision that the fog hid nothing of. Instead it only added a strange softness to the sharp white cuts of the city.
The daughters,
Irato said to himself.
They’re not worried about breathing this gas either, strange that.
‘You going to help?’ he said quietly, the sound travelling easily in the still of night.
The one he was looking at nodded at the other, a twitch of the head that sent her sister off into the shadows. That done, she slipped the hood of her cloak back and stepped forward.
‘I’ll help, she’ll watch our backs.’
‘So which one are you?’
‘You know which is which?’
‘Not really,’ Irato said, trying to make light of it.
‘Then stop asking.’
He snorted. ‘Kesh said one of you was a bad-tempered bitch.’
She didn’t rise to the bait, instead gathering the pistols from the nearest fallen man. Irato watched her a moment then went to do the same, roughly turning one over to reach his guns. A young man compared to Irato, cheeks dimpled and scarred by some old illness, chest hardly rising as he breathed. He pulled the man’s weapons – two pistols, sword and dagger – and moved on to the next, taking the same from that one.
‘It will shame them to be sent home without weapons,’ his companion commented. ‘Father’s sure this won’t make them seek redress?’
‘Dunno,’ Irato said. ‘He didn’t say.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘No. He said to take their money too.’
‘All of it?’
‘Aye – leave ’em their jewellery. Some of it might be family pieces they really won’t want to leave without. The rest they can sell for their passage home, but there’s no easy way for us to tell the difference.’
Irato rolled another on to his back, a big man with fleshy cheeks and a grazed temple where he’d fallen against the wall. He checked the Wyvern’s pulse to ensure he was still alive then gathered his weapons. Arms full he went inside, stepping over the two who’d made it that far. The weapons he dropped in one corner of the back room, stepping aside for the daughter to do the same. From the stairs Narin watched them, looking anxious.
‘Have you found the brother? Enchei’s got the cousin.’
Irato shook his head and Narin pointed to the pair behind him. ‘He’s probably one of those two. Warriors like to lead from the front.’
Irato went to look, hauling up the limp body of the younger for Narin to see. ‘This the one?’
‘I, I’m not sure,’ Narin said. ‘He looks similar to Kine, but they’re all family of some sort. Check his pockets.’
Irato did as instructed, but he found little of use there.
‘The collar pocket,’ Narin urged, ‘Warriors in battle wear name-banners so they might be known to those they fight. Duellists too, I think. They might not have them on show when trying to kill low-caste scum like us, but they’ve probably got something to declare their family honour.’
‘The fucking idiots,’ Enchei added, appearing behind Narin. ‘I’d write my name-banner really small so I could kill the buggers while they were still reading it.’