Deadhouse Landing

Many things happened all at once, then. A monstrous shape pounced from the fog, teeth tore and ripped, the men screamed – or tried to; it was more like a bursting of fluids and gore from their mouths – and she screamed, her Warren burst to life in a colossal eruption of power and light, and she was flung backwards, smashing her head against stone in an even brighter flare of brilliance. She knew nothing more.

*   *   *

Eyes on the wet cobbles, Cartheron heard, and did his best to follow, reassuringly human footsteps. A couple, walking calmly and with purpose through this nightmare; who they were he had no idea, but at least they weren’t afraid.

That, he realized, should either reassure him or terrify him.

Presently, the footsteps stopped. He went forward a few more paces then halted as well, and slowly raised his gaze to find two figures eyeing him from up a narrow alleyway. A pair as unalike as any two people could be: one scrawny, short, and greying; the other huge, almost impossibly massive, rather like a walking dolmen, and carrying a long-hafted halberd over one shoulder with a blade large enough to behead a horse.

The scrawny older one pointed a warning finger. ‘You should not be out this night.’

Cartheron smiled mirthlessly. ‘I cottoned on to that. So what’re you two doing out?’

He had recognized them now. The oldster and his buddy were regulars at Coop’s Hanged Man inn, though never had he seen them so … sober. Even now he could make out the sickeningly sweet fumes of absinthe wafting from one or both of them.

‘We have an errand,’ the scrawny one said.

‘Yes? And you are?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Faro,’ said the oldster, and he nodded to his towering companion, ‘Trenech.’

Trenech, it seemed, was a man of few words. He remained silent, twisting his head, constantly searching the night.

‘I’m—’

‘We know who you are,’ Faro cut in.

Cartheron blinked. ‘Oh?’

‘You work for the interloper.’

‘The … interloper?’

‘Your employer. This mage of Shadow.’

‘Ah … yes.’

‘He has meddled with the House already. I warn you – we will brook no more interference.’

Cartheron was frowning in such confusion he could feel his brows hurting. He cleared his throat, ‘Ah … as you say…’

Faro grunted, somehow satisfied.

From the mid-distance a hound’s great baying howl broke upon them. Cartheron flinched and spun to scan the obscuring murk and rippling shadows.

‘Perhaps you’d best come with us,’ Faro said. ‘You should be safe. Perhaps you can talk some sense into your patron.’

Cartheron turned back, his brows now raised very high indeed. ‘My patron? Talk to him?’

Faro and his companion set off once more and Cartheron followed. ‘Yes,’ Faro said. ‘Because he is approaching. And we believe that his goal is the House.’

House? Cartheron asked himself as he followed along. What in the name of Mael are they talking about? He squinted into the murk. And Urko – don’t you get yourself killed, damn you!

*   *   *

Nedurian slammed shut the door to Smiley’s and leaned against it, panting his relief. Next to the entrance, Grinner relaxed down into his seat, easing his knives back into their leather sheaths.

He wiped the cold clammy mist from his face, and let out a long breath, his hands still shaking. Too long since I’ve walked an open battlefield of magery – a damned free-for-all of colliding Warrens, Realms, and rampaging monsters.

Surly came out from behind the bar. ‘Well? What’s going on?’

He motioned for a moment to catch his breath, then said, ‘Looks like your employer is making a show.’

She sent a scowling glance to a darkened window. ‘All this?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded curtly. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

He gaped at her, let out a near-nervous laugh. ‘You don’t quite understand…’

She pulled on a jacket; Grinner stood, as did Tocaras and Shrift at their table. Nearer the back, the two local hires, Dujek and Jack, stood up as well.

Surly waved them down. ‘You lot guard the place. Grinner, you’re with me.’ She motioned Nedurian onward. ‘Let’s go.’

He pulled a hand down his face, let out another long breath. Well, in for a penny, in for a crown.

*   *   *

Crossing a stone bridge over one of the channels of a thin sluggish river that ran through the city, Sister of Cold Nights was rather surprised to see a great hulking fellow dragging himself up the dressed stonework side of the channel. He was sodden, and chuffing and puffing to himself as he climbed. On such a night as this? Curious, she went down to see who it was.

He was quite astonished when she reached down and pulled him up with one hand. He straightened, wiped at his mud-smeared jerkin and trousers. He was obviously of Napan descent, with the blue tinge to his skin. ‘Thankee, ma’am. Name’s Urko.’