Deadhouse Landing

Dancer limped to half fall against the stone lip of a river channel. He shook drops of sweat from his vision, or perhaps they were tears of pain. He managed to straighten, held out his weapons, ready.

The lad was nodding now as he came. He pointed one blood-smeared knife. ‘You were good,’ he panted. ‘But now it ends as it always does.’

He edged up closer and closer, knives weaving in a dance of diversion and deceit, reversing, twisting, low and high, never stopping.

Dancer waited until just the right distance, then rushed him.

They grappled, arms twisting and sliding, neither releasing his blades. Their hot wet breath mixed as they turned round and round each other, grunting and hissing, legs kicking, searching for a hold.

Dancer realized his strength was leaving him in a steady stream out of the thrust through his leg. He had no more time.

He dipped his shoulder, which allowed Cowl to bring his knife up towards his chest. Immediately, the assassin abandoned his other weapon to clamp both hands to the slick grip to push. Dancer dropped his blades to wrap both hands round Cowl’s and they stood rigid, straining, their breaths rasping from taut chests.

‘It’s all right,’ Cowl whispered bare inches from his face, his eyes so eerie and wild. ‘You did your best.’ And he crooned as if to a child: ‘No more worries now … hush now … It’ll all be over soon…’

Dancer knew it had to be now. That this was in fact his last chance. He allowed a fraction of the true exhaustion that hung upon him to show, and the keen tip of Cowl’s blade edged closer to his chest. The assassin leaned even more of his weight on the knife, straining.

Dancer threw both of them backwards over the stone lip.

In that instant of surprise he twisted the blade up towards Cowl’s neck.

They hit the swampy mud and reeds and immediately sank. He lost track of the man as he flailed, coughing on a lungful of fetid slimy water. He drew two more blades, spinning, turning, searching, but no fiend came lunging from the weeds.

He lay still, worked on slowing his breath, and listened to the night.

The punishing winds lashed the tall weeds and rushes. Another brilliant burst flashed across the city and the report of the explosion rumbled and echoed over the rooftops. Slowly, so very weary, he pushed his way through the muck for the sloped stone wall of the channel.

Chapter 18

Tayschrenn sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped round them. He rocked, eyes closed, thinking, Get up! Move! But he could not. He was so tired. Just resting on land was privilege enough. The barrage was a constant background now; blasting attacks potent enough to have sprayed the consciousness of any other practitioner across the hillsides. Still they pursued; still they sought him.

Just go away!

But they would not, of course. They smelled blood now, so to speak. A day ago he simply ignored all their combined efforts as a nuisance to his flight. But not now. Now it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his defences. Eventually, they would crack beneath the relentless punishment.

He’d been so certain he could escape them! Yet, somehow, they had pursued him into the deepest lineaments of D’riss and found him there; somehow they had even tracked his essence into far hinterlands of the Warren of Thyr. He had even thrown what little bits and pieces of Mockra he’d picked up as false trails and delusions; yet they had seen through these and pushed on upon his trail. Only through the sheer might of his command did he now stave them off.

The priests of D’rek were utterly remorseless.

If he could just hold on – outlast them. Then, perhaps, he had a chance.

He blinked then, where he crouched in an alley of shingle-stone buildings in some cold city, and suddenly found himself somewhere else.

It was light now, a sort of dusk, and the ground was soft beneath him. He eased the clench of his arms and raised his head, cracking open his eyes. His essence, his kha, had been transported somewhere new.

A plain of ashen dust surrounded him; rounded hills rose in the distance. The sky was clear – oddly so. Stars ought to be visible in this seeming evening dusk.

A man stood in front of him, short, in fine dark clothes that appeared to have seen better days. He rocked back and forth on the heels of new shoes, a short walking stick planted before him. He was Dal Hon, and projected the appearance of a wizened oldster, but Tayschrenn could see through this affectation to the features of a young skinny lad.

He frowned, sensing around himself. ‘Meanas?’ he offered.

The Dal Hon lad waggled his head in an ‘almost’ gesture. ‘Close.’

‘My body remains. This buys me no time.’

The lad tilted his head again, as if weighing the matter. ‘Eventually. In the meantime … let’s have a chat.’