Deadhouse Landing

He found that it was something he had seen before. He’d encountered brief hints of it a few times, and always indirectly and cloaked. Most powerfully, though, a very long time ago.

It had been in his youth. He’d been newly appointed battle-magus commander attached to the Talian Eleventh Iron Legion then. One of the youngest ever. They’d been charged with pacifying the northern tribes of the forests on the border of Lake Ero and there they had met the gathered enemy. Late in the battle, down out of the Fenn Range came the wild-haired shaman who’d been stirring them all up, the Seti, the Fenn giants, the western Wickan tribals.

All the front line warlocks had fallen to the strange new Warren this fellow had thrown himself into with utter madness and abandon. Nedurian would never forget that terrifying battle. The moon itself seemed to darken at the wild man’s command. The right flank collapsed when monstrous howling beasts came rampaging across the blasted and flattened forest. It was all he could do to deflect one of them at a distance.

That dawn the Eleventh retreated, ravaged and clawed. But not defeated. For along with all their many victims the daemons had consumed the shaman also, and soon enough the tribes fell back to bickering and raiding one another.

During the storms of black flame and attacks of rippling darkness that he and the shaman had exchanged, he’d glimpsed the character of that Warren and realized its name. It was a discipline mentioned in teachings, but which no sane practitioner ever pursued because of its wildly unstable, fractured, and unpredictable nature: the Warren of Shadow. Also called Meanas.

He returned his hands to the table and rested a good deal of his weight on them, thinking.

‘The others went pale,’ Geffen offered. ‘But you just flushed all dark. What is it?’

‘How did you come across this?’

Geffen pushed himself from the table. ‘Ah.’ He waved the two guards from the room. They hesitated, unwilling.

‘You sure?’ one grumbled.

‘Yes I’m fucking sure! Now go!’

Both shot Nedurian murderous glares, but they stepped out and pulled the door shut behind them. Geffen poured himself a drink, then held out the ceramic decanter. ‘Want some?’

‘What is it?’

‘Rice liquor from Itko Kan.’

‘No thanks.’ He scanned the various decanters and found what looked like red wine. He poured a glass and sipped – it was a passable Untan blend.

Geffen was now at his desk, idly poking through the mess of parchment sheets heaped there. He cleared his throat, saying, ‘I woke up a few days ago with that thrust through the headboard of my bed. No one else knows it happened. Not even my guards.’

Nedurian blew out a breath. ‘I see. So, a message.’

Geffen turned on him. ‘Yes, a godsdamned message! But I’m not gonna roll over! I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but if he wants a fight I’ll give it to him. Starting from now you’re on the payroll. I want a secure perimeter and constant monitoring. We’ll catch the bastard next time.’

Nedurian set down the wine. ‘No.’

‘What d’you mean, no?’

‘Not for hire.’

Geffen frowned down at him. ‘You scared of what you found on that blade? Well, don’t be. Be more scared of me right now.’

‘You’re already embroiled in one fight, it seems. Don’t start another.’

The tall wiry fellow eyed him sideways, then leaned back, crossing his arms. ‘I see you still got a few teeth left in that scarred wolf’s head of yours. Good for you.’ He raised his chin, calling, ‘Okay! C’mon back in!’

The door slammed open and the two bodyguards stepped in. Geffen threw a small pouch on to the table. ‘Your fee. I might have work for you ahead.’

Nedurian eyed the pouch, then shrugged his shoulders and took it. ‘You know where to find me.’ He strolled out as casually as his prickling back would let him, and once on the street started deeper into town, circling a few blocks to make certain he wasn’t being followed – not that he thought he would be – before heading for Agayla’s.

She ran a modest spice shop in one of a long lane of anonymous terraced houses. Its sign was a strung sheaf of twigs, plus fresh garlands of various dried plants hung all over the thick oak door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The shop-front was a counter behind which stood rows of shelving choked by glass jars and wooden boxes. Standing rows of tiny wooden drawers covered the walls. Hanging down from the low rafters, and obscuring everything like a bizarre upturned forest, reached dried bunches of various plants, flowers, and woven braids of grasses.

From the room beyond came the rhythmic shush of a hand-worked loom. Nedurian cleared his throat. ‘Agayla?’

The loom quietened. He could hear the woman’s long skirts brushing the wooden floor as she approached. She entered, adjusting the tie of her thick bunched hair and pulling the mane forward over one shoulder as she came. He himself had seen near to two hundred years, but he knew he was the youngest of striplings compared to this sorceress. He inclined his head in greeting. ‘Agayla.’