Our undoing was to remove him from our control. His imbalance was dangerous, but it could have been controlled – or tempered. In our rush to keep ourselves safe, we lost the opportunity to correct a mistake. – Keeper Annals
“Paros, have you anything to say in your defense before you are sentenced?” The Keeper, his face the avatar of neutrality, sat quietly behind the table, his hands steepled.
Bound hand and foot with chains of steel, he was silent. His eyes burned with fury, and perhaps a small luster of revenge. Nothing he could say would change their minds. He was being exiled from the Keepers for being too curious. They felt that the knowledge he was seeking would upset the balance – and everything must, always, be in balance.
After more than a minute of silence had passed, the two locked in a staring contest, the Keeper behind the table lowered his hands. “So be it. Paros, as punishment for endangering our council, you will be taken to the docks and cast into the ocean to drown.” He started to rise, and Paros lunged forward, surprising his captors and momentarily breaking free.
But the heavy chains ruined his balance and control, and he fell heavily to the floor before he reached the table, or the startled Keeper behind it. “Take him away, and quickly!”
“You can’t stop me,” Paros raved, “there was nothing wrong with my research! Nothing wrong! It is the only way we can thwart the next prophecy!” One of the guards kicked him heavily in the stomach, leaving him gasping for breath, and they took the time to gag him.
Then dragging him along, they left the Keeper compound, emerging on the street a quarter hour later. Loading him carefully into the back of a carriage, they started across the city towards the docks. Shortly past midnight, they reached it, carefully stopping the carriage as close as they could to the docks. Then, the two guards dragged Paros out, slipping past the warehouse guards until they had reached the water.
A ship was docked there, but it didn’t matter to the Keepers. Under the nose of the captain, they dragged him across the deck, kicking and struggling the entire way. At the edge of the ship, one of them pulled a blackjack from beneath his black cloak. Suddenly scared, Paros fought free, trying to get away.
His struggles took him right over the edge of the ship, and the loud splash almost broke the Keeper’s invisibility. They retreated quickly, avoiding the suddenly attracted sailors, until they stood on the shore, in the shadows of the warehouse. “Why did you do that, Garrett?”
He looked angrily at the ship, the glass of his mechanical eye glinting coldly. “I wanted to make sure he would drown.”
“Thirty pounds of steel chains isn’t enough to satisfy you?” With a raised eyebrow, the Keeper started to lead the way back towards the carriage.
“He was messing with necromancy.” The blackjack had disappeared under Garrett’s cloak again. “I loathe the undead.”
His companion merely sighed.
We had underestimated the depths of his fanaticism. His thirst for the knowledge we had declined was greater than a desert. That knowledge, and his growing desire to learn more of it, was what had taken him away from balance.
Once he was assured of his freedom from our control, there was nothing to temper his mad quest. – Keeper Annals
The cold, salty water closed over Paros’ head quickly. He was an excellent swimmer, but bound in chains, his abilities were worthless. But he had prepared, somewhat anyway, for this possibility.
He forced the gag from his mouth, fighting the impulse to inhale. He had been underwater for ten seconds or so. He could only hold his breath for two minutes, so he had to move fast. Flexing his left hand, he yanked on the sleeve of his tunic. It caught for a moment, then the fold caught in the manacles sprung loose. He shook his hand free, pulling it up to his mouth.
When his feet struck the sea bottom, he almost had his lockpicks released from between his teeth. One of them went spinning off into the water, and the other stabbed through his cheek. He coughed out a bubble of air, and squeezing his eyes tight against the pain and the water, he carefully pulled the other out of his cheek. Miraculously, the manacles on his hands and feet seemed to spring open with barely a twist of the lockpick.
Leaping from the bottom, he fought to shed the chains. Rising like an arrow, he opened his eyes not a moment too soon. He just barely managed to spin around underwater, catching himself against the underside of the hull. His eyes and lungs were burning, and he felt along the hull for a moment, fighting to see anything in the murky, night-blackened water.
Then the hull fell away under his hands, and he shoved up. Gasping in grateful breaths of air, he looked around. Apparently, he was in a secret compartment of the ship – a smuggler’s hold. It was empty now, except for a small shelf with some dried bread and meat, and a very moldy piece of fruit. He carefully pulled himself up, and crawled over to the food. His feet and arms hurt from the chains, and his cheek was still bleeding profusely.
Stopping to tear off a piece of his tunic, he pressed the rough fabric against the side of his cheek. The blood slowly stopped flowing, and he was able to carefully chew on the strip of burrick jerky. Even though his mouth and stomach rebelled at the acrid taste, he forced himself to eat it.
When he awoke, the ship above was bustling with noise. In the main hold, barely three feet above his head, crates and barrels were being loaded. From the color of the water, it was probably mid-afternoon. Paros fought to remember, but his tired mind couldn’t recall when the tides were. He stayed awake, listening to the hustle and bustle above. Night fell, and the loading apparently finished.
Once silence had a quiet hold over the ship, he lowered himself back into the water, swimming up the side of the ship carefully. He emerged underneath the dock, and carefully moved towards shore. Crawling out of the water, he stumbled to a large stack of crates nearby and collapsed, panting and shivering.
Before he rose again, the smugglers appeared, carrying several small boxes with them to the end of the pier. The watch on board was asleep, and the two quietly ferried their cargo down to the hidden chamber. Paros watched them, too tired, sore, and hungry to do anything else.
Finally, sometime around midnight, he rose again. The smugglers had long since vanished, and he should do likewise. He stumbled to the streets, and sticking to the shadows, discarding plans in his head. If nothing else, he had to stay hidden until he could get out of the City. The Keepers had very little influence of events outside the City, and if they discovered he hadn’t drowned, then he would most definitely be a dead man.
Suddenly, he looked up, taking careful note of his surroundings. Just a block or two away was a courthouse, and it would give him easy access to the Thieves Highway. It was a calculated risk – the Keepers used it often as well – but it would provide him an easy path, and possibly a meal and fresh clothes along the way.
On the rooftops, he traveled quickly. Once or twice, he spotted another person, but everyone went to great lengths to avoid everyone else. Suddenly, from nearby, he heard shouts. He went dashing to the edge of the roof and looked down.
He was looking down at the necromancer’s tower, he realized. A trio of Hammers had forced the door open, or found it ajar, and entered. Now they were being forced back by a group of zombies. One warrior raised his hammer, bringing it down with a crunch, flattening the zombie’s head. But it merely continued to flail blindly at the empty air as he danced back.
With a grin, Paros lowered himself down to a ledge, and looked through an open window. The necromancer hadn’t been heard from in a month or two – since before the death of Karras and the Mechanists’ disfavor. The room inside looked like a meditation room. Taking a careful breath, Paros launched himself over the street, landing inside heavily. One foot had caught the edge of the windowsill, bringing him crashing down. When he regained his senses, he looked around. The room was covered in dust. A brazier had once held a roaring fire, and now had nothing but a thick pile of ash.
Rising to his feet, he looked around more carefully. A magical lift was in the center of the room, and a thinner track of dust led from it to a table. He walked over himself, squinting at the contents in the dim starlight. A book, covered thickly in dust, was prominently displayed, and two spots of thinner dust had probably once held something valuable.
With the edge of his sleeve, he brushed at the dust. It happily clung to the damp cloth, and his smearing cleared away the title of the book. “The Book of Ash,” he breathed. Greedily, he snatched it up, turning around to fly out the window with his prize. Back on the rooftops, he fled away, running for all he was worth.
Now he knew a safe place to hide where the Keepers would never think to look for him.
I awoke with a start, falling out of my bed. The floor, just as dusty as it had been when I moved in, made my clutch for my nose. If someone was out there, sneezing was the last thing I wanted to do.
I heard it again, a loud banging noise, coming from somewhere outside. So, naturally a bit curious, I rose and stepped out into the hall. Angelwatch was silent and dark around me. With Karras dead, and nothing left in Soulforge except the rusted hulks of his machines and the painfully obvious Servant masks, the Mechanists had been hunted through the streets for the first few days.
Because of that, of course, the Mechanists had been forced to lock up most of their buildings. Angelwatch made a great place for a daring, homeless thief to make his base. Especially me, seeing as how the only entrance was over a hundred feet from the streets. But then, climbing had always been second nature to me, and even the Mechanists welding the lower, reachable entrances shut hadn’t stopped me.
Leaning out the window, I looked down. Some madman was banging at the welded pipe entrance down below. Fearing that thieves would invade the place, they had taken steel bars, welded them across the hatch, figuring that would prevent entrance. Silly Mechanists.
My curiosity was piqued, so I hopped out onto the narrow catwalk. I hadn’t done much the last few days but lay low after robbing the First Dayport Jewelers. My dark clothes blended in against the dark steel sides of the building, and pretty soon I was looking straight down.
He was dressed in a rather ugly cloak, but from fifty feet up, I couldn’t see much about his face. So I swung out and started climbing down the wall. The Mechanists did a good job constructing the place, but even the small, steel bolts, barely the size of the nail on my smallest finger, were enough for me to get a proper grip. It was just a gift.
When I was about ten feet from the lower roof, I stopped and turned around. Unlike most thieves, I go barefoot, because it helps me get better grips on the walls. “Hey, taffer! By the Trickster’s ugly eye, what do you think you’re doing out here?”
He whirled around, holding a package in one arm, and a hilt with broken blade in his other hand. “It’s mine!” he said, clearly mad. He waved the hilt in my direction, pulling his package closer under his cloak. “You can’t have it!”
I snorted in disbelief. “I don’t want it. Just quit banging around down there before you attract some Mechanists – or the city watch!” Turning back to face the wall, I started to climb again.
Unfortunately, that was my big mistake. The madman threw the hilt, and it struck the metal just above my head, bouncing back and striking me in the temple. I fell the fifteen feet, landing on my back, stunned. In a heartbeat, or maybe less, he was crouched above me, one hand wrapped around my neck.
In vain, I tried to fight him off, but the world went gray around me. When I awoke, it was, to my great surprise, back in my previous bedroom inside Angelwatch. Only this time, there was a small fire crackling in the fireplace.
A well-dressed man sat in a chair nearby, and he turned when I sat up. “Ah, good, you’re awake. Something to eat?” He held out a loaf of bread, fresher than I was used to, and flavored – strongly – with garlic. “Care to tell me what you were doing, hiding out up here?”
I almost protested, but some of my gear – lockpicks, a boiled leather cap for snuffing torches, black silk face mask – were laid across the table behind him. Stuffing the bread in my mouth, I cursed. I had found a nice, hidden compartment on the next floor up – but, naturally, if this man was with the Mechanists, he would likely have known about it. At least my money was safe.
“Look, thief, I’ll make you a deal. You were attacked down there by a man carrying a book. Track him down, and destroy the book, and I’ll let you go.” He leaned back, pulling out a carved ebony pipe, and carefully pushing a pinch of dried herbs inside.
Trapped in a net, I was. Turn him down, and I’d either end up under Shoalsgate or Cragscleft. In either place, I was in for a long torture session followed by a short time starving to my death in a cell. “You leave me with little choice,” I muttered unhappily. “But how do I know you won’t turn me in?”
He rose to the door, and called into the hall. “Brother Stone? Could you come in here for a moment, please?” After a moment, a Hammerite priest strode in. To my surprise, he wasn’t decked out in gold and fancy silks, like most priests I’d stolen from. I’m hardly a proud thief, seeing as how I’ve filched right out of the offering box at the temple.
The priest pulled out a rolled scroll, and handed it to me. Not being a great reader, I puzzled it out slowly. “Blank space, due to his repentance and service to the builder, has been granted a full pardon by the Hammerite church.” I looked up. “You don’t even know if I’ve commited any crimes.
Stone smirked at me. “You carry lockpicks, a blackjack, and other tools of the common burglar. Are you really going to profess your innocence?” I grimaced, and the other man laughed.
“You’ll also have my word with the city guard. Sheriff Mosley owed my uncle a few favors, and I can cash them in.” He took a long pull on his pipe. “When you’ve destroyed the book, leave a note at my estate.”
“Sure. Who are you?” I watched him carefully. He looked vaguely familiar, but then, most of the nobility look faintly alike. They’ve been all but marrying their own siblings for the last two centuries.
He slapped a hand against his forehead. “Ah, so careless of me! I’m Duke Creygan.” He stood up, and waved a hand at my equipment. “I suggest you start soon. After we narrowly missed him with a few arrows, he went over the side of the wall, down into the slums.”
Nodding, I rose from the bed. To my surprise, all of my equipment was intact, even my emergency healing potion. Carefully, I strapped everything into place, and went back into the hallway. Two Hammers were waiting, and started to escort me back to the street level. “So long fellows,” I said, jumping out the window. They gaped, leaning out to watch me scale down the almost-sheer metal surface. “Hope we never see each other again!”
On the edge, I looked down at the slums. Angelwatch had been built almost on the edge of a cliff, the better to look down at the poor souls below – and I use that word literally. It was the worst section of town. But it also was easy to track where my quarry had started – one of the rough tenements had been collapsed, starting at the roof. The cliff was even easier to descend than the metal walls of Angelwatch.
The hunt was on.
When the Builder taught us to use metal and wood, and tame the world, our world was dark and threatening. Now that we have learned much, forging our world in the image of the Builder, many have forgotten what lurks in the darkness. The Trickster is not the only power that would see all of the Builder’s works torn down, left to rust in the rain. Once, we had forgotten as well. – Collected letters of the Smith in Exile
Paros stopped at the edge of the sewer canal. His leg hurt like the dickens. Luckily, he hadn’t actually broken anything in his fall. The shanty had been obliterated, but the whore and her client had done a much better job of breaking his fall than the pathetic building.
With a furtive glance around, he shed his cloak, dropping it into the shit-scented water. Within moments, the cloak would be pulled through one of the waterwheels that moved the waste out to sea. If his luck held, then the Keepers, or maybe the City watch, would find the bloodstained garment and assume he had drowned. Now that his first hiding place had been taken over, he had to find somewhere else, and quickly.
He strode through the streets, quickly and invisibly, like every true Keeper should. He passed by Shoalsgate, then the Cathedral of the Old Quarter, being slowly rebuilt by the Hammerites. Guards were fortunately few and far between, but he moved carefully regardless. By the time dawn came, he was outside the city, striding along the road towards the mountains.
In another hour, he would reach the Bonehoard. There were at least a dozen entrances to the main area, but he was the only Keeper who knew about how to open the sealed Alarus extension. The wealthy patrons buried there had once paid fortunes to layer their crypts with magical wards against the undead. Apparently, some of them took rather dim views of having their walking corpses shuffling around in the darkness.
Zombies lurched around, and the interior was fitfully lit by torches. The craft of making eternal flames, like these, was lost in the distant past, before the cataclysm in the Old Quarter. Paros, like many other young men, thought of anything from before his birth as the distant past.
With his Keeper skills, the zombies left him alone. Soon, he reached the wall. Grimacing, he stuffed the book into his trousers, and began climbing the ornamental decorations. By the time he reached the top, his arms were so tired he could barely move. But he had to disarm the trap before he could enter. He stared at the mosaic, the painted tiles mocking him with the apocalyptic battle between the Trickster and the Builder.
With great care, he dug his fingernail under the left eye of the Trickster, pulling the tile out of the wall. It clicked as it slid out, and on the third click he stopped. With his other hand, he reached down, pressing on the tile at the base of the Builder’s hammer. It too clicked three times as he pressed it inward, and the wall to his right slid open.
But still Paros stood there, for a handful of minutes, until the door swung shut again. Then he released the tiles, flexing his fingers. He reached above the Builder, pressing on one of the tiles that made up the sun. His other hand pressed on a tile of the moon, and gritting his teeth, he used his nose to push on a tile of a mountain in the background. This time, a different section of wall slid away.
He dashed through the secret door before it could close. The long hallway stretched for a hundred yards, small crypts with family coffins off to each side. A stash of food, magically enchanted to stay fresh, was in the first tomb on the right, and he could drink from the font of holy water.
Reaching his lair, he dumped the book on a coffin. “Time to sleep. Then, tomorrow, I can continue my research as best I can.” Most of his texts had been moved here, stolen from the Keeper library before they had grown overly suspicious of his motives. “It’s their fault anyway! The prophecy of the Metal Age was transcribed wrong, but they refuse to listen to me!” He tried to shake away his anger, but eventually just flopped down on the stone floor, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the pent-up rage inside of him.
Fortunately, I managed to find my quarry fairly quickly. There weren’t a lot of people out on the streets between midnight and dawn. Not even a lot of thieves, not with the weather looking like it did tonight. I chuckled as he tossed his cloak into the sewers, enjoying my vantage point of three stories up.
There was one thing I didn’t get about him – he could walk right past the guards, even in the bright light of a lantern, and they didn’t even see him. It was like the bastard wasn’t even there. Obviously, I had no idea why I could see him, but the guards couldn’t. Sadly, I had other things on my mind at the moment.
When dawn came, he was outside the city, and soon enough he had found the Bonehoard. The place had been decrepit and falling apart before my father’s father was born, and I’d heard enough about it that I never wanted to go near the place. There was only one thief who’d ever walked with the dead, and I was nowhere close to Garrett’s league.
In silent fury, I watched him waltz straight into the Bonehoard, climbing down a rope I could just barely see from the outside. After a few minutes of silence, I skulked a bit closer. If he could enter, maybe it was safe to go inside. I have rarely been more wrong.
I stepped on something squishy in the tall grass. A moment later, it returned the favor by sweeping me off my feet. I had once heard that zombies didn’t roam in the light of day, but this one sure didn’t have a problem with it. Screaming like a little girl, I rolled away through the grass, leaping to my feet and clambering to the top of a stone crypt. Slowly, the zombie stumbled to its feet, staring at me with a pair of empty eye sockets.
We stayed in this stalemate for over two hours. The zombie couldn’t reach me up here, but I couldn’t get back to the road without going past him or getting lost. My blackjack and tiny dagger would be worthless against the undead. Around noon, I started cursing at it, feeling hopeless.
Suddenly, a small, flaming hammer came spinning out of the forest, striking the zombie in the head. It fell heavily to the ground, and the wet grass fortunately did not catch fire. Of course, who should step out of the woods but that Hammerite priest, Stone? He looked at me with a sour expression. “I can see you’re hard at work tracking our book.”
I gestured at the crypt below me, where the madman had entered. “He’s in there. Feel free to go after him.” I jumped down from the crypt, ready to run, just in case he decided I wasn’t worth the pardon after all. “Unlike you, I can’t burn a zombie with a wave of my hands.”
Stone chuckled darkly. “Follow me. I don’t think he’ll be coming out of there anytime soon.” He was so confidant I would do as he bid, he didn’t even look back as he strode towards the road. He was right, though, as I didn’t seem to have much choice but accepting his help.
Waiting on the main road was a carriage, pulled by a pair of Mechanist robots. “What is this, are you a Hammer or a Mechanist? Or are you going to start your own cult, like Karras did?”
He frowned, and the driver glared at me as well. “The Hammerite order is … reconsidering some of what Karras accomplished. We have no wish for anyone else to be deceived by another like him.” The rest of the ride was silent, as Stone ignored the few questions I had.
Then we pulled up in front of the main gates to Cragscleft. “What the devil is going on here?” I cried angrily. If I didn’t get a good answer in a few seconds, I was going to jump out of this damned carriage, and take my chances running through the woods. The priest’s words surprised the heck out of me.
“You said you needed something to battle the zombies with.” The gates slowly opened, and we rode in silence. I was probably one of the very few people to see the inside as neither a prisoner nor a Hammer.
A jovial man with a rather large belly gave me a crossbow – Mechanist manufacture, I noted. Then he trained me in the use of several types of arrows. Water and fire crystals were used for a variety of tasks in the City, but being a low-scale thief, I’d never needed them before. Some arrows, with tiny hammers in place of arrowheads, were supposed to be enchanted against zombies as well.
Then I was loaded up with at least a dozen vials of holy water. I could throw them like grenades, and the splash should take down a whole group. Lastly, I was given a pair of flashbombs. I was frankly astounded at the small fortune in equipment they simply handed over to me, without a question or a doubt! If I had taken the equipment and run, I could have lived comfortably for a year just by selling it all. My standards weren’t very high.
Outside the gates of Cragscleft again, I almost did just that. But one nagging thought hit me, halfway down the road – how had Stone known where to find me? The entrance to the Bonehoard was pretty far from the road, and with those clanking monstrosities, he never would have heard me shouting anyway. This lingering doubt kept me going, turning through the woods until I found the crypt again.
The sun was just starting to sink, and I briefly regretted not stopping to ask for a room and a bed at the prison. Only briefly, because I had been too afraid of being given a permanent cell. But weariness was beginning to drag at me. Sighing, I stepped inside the crypt, descending the rope anyway.
It took a few moments to adjust my eyes. Before me, the tombs stretched out below me for at least a hundred feet. Old boards, some looking rotten, crossed the top of the tomb. The only benefit to being up this high was the lack of zombies. Their moans echoed up from below. I found a nice, quiet corner and tried to sleep. After a few hours of fitfully tossing, jumping out of my naps as though pursued, I sighed again. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I started descending down the side of the crypt.
I was descending into the Bonehoard. Clearly, I was crazy, I thought to myself. But I kept going.
All living things must come to Death. It is the great kingdom that awaits for every man.
Only the most powerful can tread within and come out once more before their time.
But any fool with power can return half-way, to wander the corridors of un-death.
Are you such a fool? -- letter addressed to Azaran the Cruel, writer unknown
Stone settled gently into the stuffed chair. “He’s on his way into the crypt. We outfitted him with a frankly ridiculous amount of equipment, like you said.”
Creygan nodded. “Good. I think his skills will be of use to him in there.”
The priest raised a doubtful eyebrow. “What skills? He’s a common thief, the type that steals out of the offering plate because they aren’t fast or clever enough to rob in the big leagues.” He snorted contemptuously.
Duke Creygan chuckled. “The Keepers briefly considered taking him as an acolyte once. The fact that he tracked a renegade Keeper out of the city ought to give you a clue.”
“He doesn’t have the usual skills though, does he?” Suddenly worried, Stone fiddled with the small silver hammer he wore about his neck.
“I don’t think so.” He thought for a minute, then shrugged. “If he could vanish into thin air like the others do, he wouldn’t have been a common thief skulking about in Angelwatch.” He stroked his beard, laughing. “Hell, if he lives through it, I’ll hire him as a guard. If he can scale a wall like that, maybe he can warn me of security risks.”
“Hmmph. He’s just another piece of gutter trash that unfortunately litter this city.” Stone rose from his chair. “I’ll be keeping a watch on the known exits from the Bonehoard, in case either of those men come out.”
After he had left, Creygan sat for a few moments. The Keeper appeared in the corner of the room, standing right next to the open window. “That was enlightening.”
Kicking his feet up on the desk, he rolled his eyes. “That’s putting it mildly. Paros got away with the Book of Ash, he’s got almost every necromantic book from your library, and he’s sitting on top of a possible undead army outnumbering every soldier in the City.”
The Keeper chuckled. “You have an interesting view of the subject.” The laugh vanished quickly, almost as though turned off like a switch. “Are you sure that thief will be able to find him? Paros also took the short fragment dealing with the Alarus extension, so he’s probably holed up in there.”
Creygan grimaced. “Yes, I know, you’ve repeated that fragment a thousand times. ‘Pull an eye to find the door, but push your hammer to break it down.’ Sounds like drunken nonsense to me.”
His counterpart shrugged. “Perhaps. It has been quite a while since any of us entered the Bonehoard, so even we are unsure exactly what it refers to.”
“Bah.” The Duke suddenly rose from his desk, striding towards the door. “Whether I like it or not, I have to get back to managing my estate.”
“There is one other thing.” He halted, his hand on the doorknob. “Do you remember the statue your uncle and Lord Edmund brought back from their trip?”
“Yes. You told me the Keepers bought it on the black market after Garrett stole it.”
“Paros also took a book concerning that island and the cult that made the statue.” Looking irritated, the Keeper spread his hands in hopelessness. “And we have no idea if that is important or not. But he also knows its location.”
Cursing, Duke Creygan stormed out of the building.
Swinging his hammer, the Builder smashed the pagan idol to pieces. The dark magic of the Trickster faded away, and the Builder’s loyal followers were safe again. They returned to their homes, rebuilt their temple, and lived happily ever after – Hammerite children’s story about the defeat of the Trickster
Paros awoke. By the dancing torchlight, he looked around the crypt, then stretched and yawned. Remembering what he had done the night before, he leaped to his feet, scrabbling for the Book of Ash. It was still where he had dropped it, and he snatched it up with a gleam in his eyes. “If I’m right, this will help my research incredibly!”
He strode down the hallway to another crypt, where he had placed his books. He had retrieved the idol, found by Lord Edmund, well before the Keepers had decided to murder him. Sitting on a low coffin, he started flipping through the book, muttering to himself as he glanced over each page.
Triumphant, he leaped to his feet again, striding towards the exit back to the rest of the Bonehoard. He had an experiment to conduct.
I slipped into the Bonehoard. I still couldn’t believe I was doing this, but when faced with a short and painful life in Cragscleft, why shouldn’t I descend into a giant crypt filled with the undead? Somehow, it all seemed so much more rational when I was on the surface.
A rope led down into a torch-lit crypt with a wandering zombie. I chuckled, and kept going towards the wall. Climbing down a rope, with little choice but walking in front of a flesh-eating monster, was not my first choice. Fortunately, zombies don’t look up very often. I climbed partway down the wall, looking around from my perch. Not for all the gold in the Baron’s coffers was I about to run around on the ground with a zombie chasing me.
Luckily for me, there was only one exit to the room, so I went sideways along the wall. The place was still well built, despite being abandoned for over a hundred years. I remember some of the other street urchins sharing tales about this place, how the Bonehoard was abandoned, and a great evil pagan magic being brought from here to the Hammer cathedral in the Old Quarter.
I spent hours wandering through that place. There were a few ledges, and raised coffins, where I could sit to stretch out my arms and legs. Finally, at one point, I leaned back against the wall and looked up. Somewhere, high above me on the wall, was a spot of brightness. Cursing myself for a fool, I looked around for a route over there.
Zombies don’t look up, but most of the time, neither do humans. After all, there’s rarely anything above us big enough to attack us. And below that light, the entire wall was studded with statues, gargoyle faces, and coffins. It would have been easy for any taffer to climb up there.
Gritting my teeth, I climbed down towards the floor. I couldn’t hear any zombies, and it was the shortest way across, but I still felt like my stomach was full of buzzing insects. I dashed across, leaping partway up the other wall and climbing for all I was worth. Not until the crossbow clacked against a stone burrick head did I slow down.
I reached the top in about five minutes. There was a giant ledge there, and the far wall was a spectacular mural, made of elegantly painted ceramics and gemstones. I marveled for only a moment. To my right, the stone started grating, and a secret door was opening!
I ran for the edge of the platform, swinging out around the wall into the shadows. The torchlight didn’t reach around the wall, and hopefully my quarry, if it was in fact him, wouldn’t be able to see me through the dazzling light. Sure enough, that crazy man stepped out, holding a book in his hand.
Grumbling and muttering to himself, he tucked the book into his waist and started climbing down. The man moved so slowly, I could have gone to the floor and back again twice before he reached the bottom. Doing my best to stay in the shadows, I followed him, about twenty feet above him on the wall.
He reached the bottom and waited. Before long, a zombie came lurching into view. I watched him, safe above the floor, laid out on the top of a sarcophagi. As the zombie came nearer, he began to chant in some strange language. It hurt my ears, just listening to him.
The corpse, though, turned, staring at him through rotting eyes. As he kept chanting, it moaned over and over. Finally, I thought I could make out what the zombie was trying to utter – “Master.” He stopped chanting, and the zombie shuffled towards him, tame as a puppy.
He started petting the thing, fawning over his new pet for a few minutes. I rolled away, trying to contain myself. The sight nauseated me, but if I made a sound, that bastard would have undead tearing me to pieces in no time. Ok, so zombies can’t climb – I think – but with enough, they could build a nice, rotting, fleshy ladder.
I heard a moan, and the zombie lurched back into the darkness. Seemingly satisfied, my quarry started climbing back up the wall. I stayed where I was, letting him reach the top before I scampered up the side. Peering over the edge, I watched him play with the mural. When the second secret door opened, he ran through it. It closed before I could even climb up onto the ledge again.
Gloomily, I sat there on the stone. I hadn’t ever killed before. I’d come close once – the memory of a guard’s eyeball, popping under my thumb, suddenly burst into my mind – but I’d never actually killed anyone.
Still, the thought came, that if I’d shot him while he was climbing, I wouldn’t be sitting here, surrounded by the dead.
Look upon the Hammer. It is a fine tool indeed. There is no chance of falsehood with a hammer, for it is not but the strength of the Builder, given form in metal. Look upon the Hammer, and forge your soul to be one. – Hammer book of Tenets
After two days in his hole, Paros emerged. His chin was beginning to grow rough with stubble, and in his frenzy he had barely eaten. Clutched in his hand was one book, with a few tattered pieces of parchment sticking forth. He felt prepared now, ready to thwart the prophecy.
It would be the Mechanists’ fault, of that he was certain. The Keepers knew of the Cetus Amicus, their underwater boat. Despite great patrols by the Baron, it had not been found. Translating the book, the necessary items could only be found underwater. And of course, the Cetus Amicus had a diving suit for every person on board.
He grimly started the long climb back down to the floor. Hidden in the shadows above him, Paros was completely unaware of his follower.
“Crank it harder!” Brassnail yelled at his crew. The Cetus Amicus had been underwater for three days now, and it stank. They had been on half-rations of food as well, and one storage space was now taken up by the spare rainwater they had been able to catch last time the boat was on the surface.
He scowled at the gauge, watching the two brothers fighting with the valve. The pressure was rising dangerously fast, mainly because the valve had been slowly becoming corrupted. In the months since Karras died, they had been on the run, unable to get spare parts for anything. Soon, he would have to decide whether to surrender, or scuttle the ship.
The rusted valve grudgingly moved under the strong hands of two Mechanists, and the needle started to drop again. With relief, Brassnail loped back to the ladder, scrambling back up and out of the furnace room. If his small clock was still accurate, then it was closer to midnight than he thought when he climbed back into his bed.
When the ship gave a sudden rumble, he threw the blankets back furiously, dropping back down the ladder and throwing open the door to the bridge. Water threw him back, and he noticed through spray-blinded eyes that the thick glass had been shattered. He screamed for help as he fought to close the door again.
The two men in the room were dead, sadly, but the other four crew members managed to help him close the door. The furnace room was almost a foot deep in water. Brassnail cursed, as he could feel the ship drifting. With the navigation room flooded, there was no way to control the ship. Even if they put on diving suits, the electrical equipment was ruined, and the salt water would ruin everything shortly enough.
“Abandon ship,” he said grimly, watching the other four faces around him. “I have no idea if we’re anywhere close to land. Good luck, and may Karras and the Builder watch over us.” Everyone suited up, and prepared before they opened the diving hatch. One by one, they jumped into the water.
Brassnail was the last man out, giving the ship one last look. It was just his luck to be visiting the ship when the Baron’s men had come storming Markham’s Isle. The panicked crew had launched immediately, not even waiting for the full compliment to return.
Reluctantly, he jumped into the diving hole, letting himself sink for a moment. His feet struck mud, and he jerked in surprise. Then the Cetus Amicus exploded above him. The shockwave threw him into the mud, and the glass fractured as it struck something. Water started to leak into his suit, but he saw the outline of a chest. Grabbing it, he shoved towards the surface, fighting his way up with water leaking into his suit.
He burst out on the surface, fighting to stay afloat in his waterlogged suit, dragging along the remarkably light chest. To his great surprise, an island was not far away – perhaps two hundred yards. Brassnail started swimming, dragging the chest behind him.
I watched him descend to the floor, crawling along, clutching his tattered book. It wasn’t the same one he had entered with, but beyond that, I was out of luck. Like most other street trash children, I never learned how to read. Not all of us are as lucky as Garrett, you know.
Before he reached the ground, zombies had started to gather, moaning in anticipation. They clumped together, watching him with their rotting eyes as though he was their own, personal god. Remembering the earlier scene, for all I knew he just might be. I shivered again, staring at him as he stroked their rotting flesh like favored pets. Then he started speaking to them. I have no idea what language it was, but the few bits and pieces I could hear from forty feet above him made no sense to me.
I wriggled a little bit to gain a better view, and bumped my pack of equipment the Hammers had given me. With surprising speed, the two flash bombs rolled out, falling off the coffin. I almost screamed, covering my face as they hit the mass of undead below me. Corpses exploded in a welter of rotted flesh, splattering my quarry and the zombies too far away to be affected.
Enraged moans came from down below, and I scrambled to my feet, racing sideways along the wall. I was almost out of sight, when that madman somehow gained sight of me. He roared at the zombies in his dark tongue, and the remaining horde started after me.
Several times I was forced down to the floor, racing along blindly, doing nothing but putting space between myself and the throng of monsters on my tail. Hiding did me no good either, as they could now sense me somehow. If their master could control several hundred zombies, I did not want to discover what his magic might do to me!
I started to tire rather quickly. I had barely eaten the two days I was down here in the Bonehoard, too fearful that if I left for more supplies, he would slip out while I was away. And trying to sleep in a crypt, populated by roving zombies, is nigh impossible. Then, I slipped. The carved hammer under my hand broke away, and I scrambled at the wall madly for a second or two until my feet caught a new grip.
Glaring down at the zombies, I threw the decoration at them. I almost started to climb again, when the glitter of gold caught my eye. Hidden behind the stone was a small ring, a single pearl set in silver. I snatched it up, then hurried along again. Fear had given me an edge for the moment, and I was determined not to waste it. I seemed to have gotten lucky twice, because within moments I spotted an exit. Weak sunlight was pouring in, but the exit could be reached by ramp. It might gain me a few minutes while the zombies circled and climbed, but escaping them would not be this easy.
I struggled into the day, crawling out of the collapsed mausoleum exit. A hand grabbed my arm, and I screamed. “What art thou doing here, craven?” he demanded loudly. My eyes were still half-blind from the sudden light, but I recognized the Hammerite garb.
“Zombies!” I pointed into the entrance, and he released me. I started to crawl away, only to bump into the leg of a mechanist fighting machine. Gears clanked as it lowered to look at me, but apparently the device was convinced of my harmlessness. That’s when I heard the Hammer warrior scream.
He had bent low to the tunnel, trying to peer inside. The first zombie, overeager for a bite of my succulent flesh, had tried to tear out his throat and missed. He stumbled backwards, half of his cheek missing. With a enormous bang, the machine above me fired, crushing the zombie’s head with a metal ball. Headless, it continued to swing mindlessly as its companions wriggled up behind it.
My hearing quickly became useless from the constant bangs and the screaming of the Hammer. I ran out of sight as quickly as I could, then scaled the largest tree I could find. The entrance was half-hidden through the forest, but I could see enough of the battle.
Soon, that madman emerged. His zombies were gathered around the combat machine, bashing away with undead strength even as it continued to blast away at them. Part of me wondered how far away they could be heard, and how many others would come running. The other part of me was calmly loading my crossbow with a fire arrow. Steadying my arm on a swaying tree branch was harder, but I fired at him.
Fire arrows move fast, maybe faster than a normal arrow, but they still aren’t instant. He saw the arrow and dived out of the way, and it sailed into the mausoleum to detonate. The already decrepit building collapsed in shambles, sealing off this entrance into the Bonehoard. Unfortunately, I had no idea how many there might be.
The zombies were searching for me soon enough, but I had already moved a few trees away. I couldn’t see him, but I heard him talking in that dark tongue as they moved slowly through the trees, heading for the City.
Gets thee from the Woodsie Lord the plumsie and the leaf
Gives thee to the Woodsie Lord the honeymead and the jacksberry
Gets thee from the Stormsie Lord the rains and fish
Gives thee to the Stormsie Lord the dead -- Pagan tablet, estimated 1500 years old
“Do you think that’s him up ahead?”
“Must be. He’s wearing a Mechanist helmet, and that’s the chest.”
“Do we have to say the ritual words? I feel like an idiot whenever I talk like some stage-hand pagan.”
“Just shut up and hold the bowl.”
Two dark figures descended, sliding down the hill of sand. The tide was just beginning to come in now, lapping weakly around the man’s feet. He still wore the air-tight diving suit, but his face was buried in the damp sand. The chest lay above his head, barely within the reach of his still hands.
“What do we do if he’s dead already?”
“Doesn’t matter. We don’t need to kill him, just take his blood.”
“No, I mean, what if he’s been dead for too long?”
“Are always this taffing stupid? If he’d been dead for more than one tide, he and the chest would have been washed away.”
“No need to snap at me, Ro-“
“Shut up! Don’t say my name out here.”
They knelt over the body, and slowly grabbed his shoulders, lifting and trying to get the helmet loose. The smaller figure set down the bundle he was carrying, fumbling with the metal clasps. Finally it came off, opening a gash on the man’s chin that bled sluggishly. The larger figure grabbed him by the hair and the back of his suit, holding him up. The smaller figure gulped, unwrapping his bundle. Steel and gold gleamed in the moonlight as he held up the knife and the bowl.
“Ins the waters we were born, waters bees our lifesie.”
The smaller figure gulped audibly, wiping sweat from his hand before taking a firmer grip on the knife, placing it along the man’s neck. He groaned then, not quite conscious but starting to awaken.
“Waters runsie throughs us, waters bees our lifesie.”
The larger figure gave him a curt nod, and the knife pressed harder against the man’s neck. But it shook heavily from his nervousness, and the man gave a low moan, aware of his sudden predicament.
“Bleedsie the waters from us, waters bees our lifesie.”
The larger figure growled, and the knife slashed across the man’s throat. Blood spilled forth in a dark spout, splashing into the bowl and out again. The smaller figure almost cried out, remembering at the last moment to keep silent. The bowl filled as the blood flow slowed, and the man gave a few twitches as his life flowed away, through the bowl to spill onto the hungry sand.
“Waters takes us to death, waters bees our lifesie.”
Though his voice shook, the smaller figure finished his line. They let the man fall to the ground, the bowl filled with his blood and his purpose completed. One by one, they carefully slashed the palms of their left hands, letting a few drops of their own blood drip into the bowl. With bloody hands holding it carefully, they stepped over to the chest.
“Waters bringsie death from lifesie, waters bees our lifesie.”
Moving slowly, careful not to spill a drop, they started circling around the chest. Somehow, the blood on the outside of the bowl did not drip either, running instead down their bloody arms to stain their clothes, another dark spot in the night.
“Waters givesie lifesie from death, waters bees our lifesie.”
In a sudden movement, they overturned the bowl, turning all of the blood onto the chest. It coated the old, salt-marked wood, soaking into it, slowly vanishing into the dark of night. The figures stood there, staring down at their work, for a few seconds.
“It didn’t work, did it?”
“Quit whining, you taffer. Translating isn’t an exact art, you know.”
“You could have told me that before I had to slit someone’s throat!”
“Are you in this or not?”
The voice was quiet and held the promise of death within it. The smaller figure stepped back in fright, holding up bloody hands in entreaty. The larger figure stepped forward menacingly, but a loud click echoed on the night air, and they both turned back to the chest. The larger figure opened the lid, gazed inside for a moment, then closed it satisfied.
“I told you it would work. Grab the other handle so we can get out of here.”
“What about that Mechanist?”
“He’ll wash out with the tide. The guards won’t find anything out this way, even if they knew where to look. By morning, all the evidence will be gone.
“Hold on, I almost forgot the knife!”
Lugging their various blood-covered burdens, the two figures slowly climbed back up the sandy slope, vanishing into the trees. Brassnail’s corpse lay on the sand, abandoned and forgotten, swaying slowly with the waves. Soon it slid back, first only a hair or two, then slowly more and more with each wave, bobbing back and forth as the ocean dragged him back into her watery embrace. The captain was always buried with his ship.
Night fell before that madman and his zombie escort reached the edge of the city. There were at least three dozen of them, walking around him, moaning softly. I was crouched behind a boulder, watching him stop in the middle of the darkened roadway. I knew that the city watch would be out patrolling, and so would the Hammerites.
He started forth again, and I let him get further ahead of me. Most of the buildings on this side of the city were short and further apart. I didn’t want him realizing I was following him, but until we got closer to the center of the city, it wouldn’t be easy.
It wasn’t long before I heard a pair of guards behind us, shouting. The zombies were brightly lit by the street lamps, and I ducked between a pair of houses. He turned, and the zombies parted between him and the guards. I watched from around the corner of the building. With a wave of his hand, he threw something dark at the guards. One of them staggered, dropping his sword and clawing at his neck.
His partner turned to run, but he had come too close. The zombies swarmed over him, and his screams were very brief on the night air. Part of me was tempted to interfere, throw the vials of holy water I had, but the Hammers would find us before he reached his destination. And unlike the city watch, their hammers could kill zombies.
The madman waved his hand again, and the zombies dropped the guard and started forth again. I slowed for a good look as I went past. His face, neck, and arms were all missing flesh, jagged teeth marks obvious under the blood.
Sure enough, a few blocks later, a trio of Hammerites came running down the street from behind us. I had scaled to the rooftops by now, and I watched the brief fight. Even outnumbered, they managed to destroy two zombies before they were bitten to death. Four more groups of Hammers tried to stop him, all to no avail. By then, we had reached the docks.
The warehouse isn’t the easiest place to climb around, only because it’s so far away from any other buildings. Fortunately, there were hundred of crates, full of unused and unwanted Mechanist gadgets sitting around outside. As long as I didn’t step in any rotten wood, I could keep following him, out of reach and unseen.
The warehouse guards put up a fight, but swords and arrows are little use against walking corpses. Soon, he was standing at the unloading dock. I recognized the ship – it was a smuggler’s ship, no doubt full of hidden compartments that, if I could find them, might be able to hide in. As long as it wasn’t a long trip.
His zombies massed at the end of the dock, staring at the quaking guards on board and moaning threateningly. I could barely hear when he stepped to the front of the group. “I am Paros. I need your ship. If you do not resist, then you will live. Otherwise,” he reached out to pat one of his zombies, “I’ll feed you to my servants.”
The three sailors on board muttered among themselves for a few moments, then threw down their swords. I had climbed halfway down the building, wondering how in the world I was going to follow him, when I heard someone curse below me. A doorway to the warehouse was barely visible in the darkness. “Now I’ll never finish loading this stuff!”
I descended a little further, hanging upside down, and peeked over the top edge of the doorframe. “There’s a smuggler compartment?”
He jumped, pulling out a knife. “Who the hell are you?”
I shook my head. “No time. I’m trying to stop that madman. Is there a hidden compartment? Is it stocked with food?”
He stared at me for a few minutes. “Yeah, there’s food for two weeks or so. Who is he?”
“No idea,” I said. “But the Hammer’s want me to steal a book from him. Where’s this compartment?”
“Under the ship,” the smuggler muttered. “Near the stern. Pretty big.”
I grimaced, but swung down to the ground. My quarry was on board the ship, his zombies keeping watch on the sailors. I crept down into the water, moving slowly so not to splash too much. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to swim, not really.
I inched along through the water, my fingers barely holding the edge of the dock as the rocks fell away under my feet. It was all I could do to keep from panicking and drawing attention, anything to get out of this water. But I kept going, my face only inches above the water, until I was at the side of the ship. Then I had to creep along the side, my fingers perched on the barnacles as I moved to the rear.
In preparation, I took several deep breaths, both to improve my chances and to calm down. Then I sank under the water, fighting my eyes as they closed against the salty brine. Above me, I could see the ship as a darker patch in a sea of night. I tried kicking my legs, paddling furiously with my arms. The equipment and my cloak dragged against me, but my hands bumped up against the underside of the ship.
I moved quickly, flailing along the bottom of the ship, trying to find this compartment before I ran out of air. Just when I was ready to surface again, the wood moved under my hand. I shoved upwards, and the hidden trapdoor flung open. I shot up, gasping desperately. Through the roof above the compartment, I could hear the zombies moaning. Then someone screamed.
My sound must have startled some poor sailor, hiding above me in the legal cargo hold, and the zombies found him. I felt a moment of regret, but then I was too busy dragging myself out of the water and trying to wring out my wet clothes. With my clothes stretched out across the small crates, I lay naked on the wood and slept, waiting until we reached our destination.
It was a very long trip.
Once, everyone was a Pagan. Before the Hammerites, before the Precursors had built their capital, every worshipped the gods of nature. The Trickster, the one called the Woodsie Lord, was not the only god, but he certainly was the most powerful. In those days, he was not a bloodthirsty tyrant, but more benevolent. A teacher, not a killer. If the years could change such a kind god into what we saw, what has it done to the other Pagan gods? Might we one day face their gods of Death, of War?
The Builder could not stop the Woodsie Lord. A thief did that through our manipulations. Remember always, to place faith in anything or anyone is to lose your balance. – Keeper Annals
On a small island, southwest of the City, Roxanne sat in her room and pouted. It wasn’t fair for her to be stuck out here, she thought. She was a Rothschild, blast it! Just because she had the bad fortune to be born a girl, and the second child to boot, she got shipped off to this island. It was supposed to be a ‘vacation from all the troubles of the city,’ her brother had said.
She rose from the padded chair and strode to the balcony doors, pulling them open and stepping out into the sea air. She hated it. Once Karras had died inside the sealed Soulforge, her brother sent her out here. Of course, it might have had more to do with her beating him easily in a fencing match. She’d given him two points and still beat him three out of five. His wife and her friends had made disapproving noises and fluttered their painted fans in front of their faces.
All her life, she had heard complaints from people that she was too boyish, not interested in the feminine aspect of life. “Trickster take it all!” she muttered into the wind. She had been four when she watched one of her father’s servants beat his wife to death in the stables. He had been caught, of course, but the lesson she learned was crystal clear – the strong had power, and in the City, the men were the powerful. The new Sheriff, Mosely, could barely do her job, simply because the nobility did not believe that a woman could do the job.
She sniffed angrily again, and her hand clenched. She almost wanted a round of swordplay, but none of the house guards would face her anymore. At first, they thought she was going to be a pushover. The first man had spent two days in bed recovering from his bruises. Then they stopped taking it easy, and she still won every round.
Roxanne turned back towards her room, brown hair trailing behind her. The only feminine thing she kept was her long hair. Mainly because she had loved it when the servants would brush it out as a little girl. Her servant, Aradne, stood timidly at the center of the room.
Roxanne turned away again. She’d spent years trying to get the girl a backbone, after sneaking into a slave auction and buying her. Of course, that was another reason she was stuck out here on the island – turning in everyone she recognized there. She had no prospects for marriage from the nobility, and couldn’t give a damn.
In a humph, she stormed out of the room. She’d already walked every inch of the island that wasn’t behind another noble’s walls, and half that was. She’d read every book in the library here, no matter how obscure, and even pinched a few books from other houses here. Half of them were merely locked up, guarded by one or two caretakers while the rich and scabby owners were in the City playing their silly political games.
Roxanne stopped in the entryway, and gave a nod to the Captain, Adam. He had once served in the King’s army, and there were a half dozen songs she knew of about his prowess against Blackroot. Then one of his own men tried to kill him at night, and he resigned from the army.
Her brother had managed to make a better offer than any other nobleman in the City. She didn’t ask what it was. Adam was the only man on the island she didn’t think she could beat with a blade, and asking him to a duel would probably leave her with a nice collection of scars. She didn’t really want to find out how good he was.
He nodded back to her, one hand always on the hilt of his sword. It was rather plain, as swords went – a meter of cold steel, and a hilt of metal faced with plain black wood. It had a white symbol on the hilt, but she had never been able to see it. Neither had anyone else in this manor, and she’d been very careful how she asked, as well.
Roxanne turned away towards the kitchen, leaving Adam standing in the entryway. He was always there, sometimes more like a statue than a man. She knew he slept sometimes, but she’d never been able to find the entryway without him. No matter what the hour of the morning, Adam was there. It should have made her feel more secure.
In the kitchens, she stepped around the cook, reaching her hand into the fireplace and pulling off a piece of the pork roasting over the fire. She clucked annoyingly, but had learned the first day not to stop Roxanne, no matter what happened in the kitchen. The rest of the servants had wisely not commented about the bruise that covered half the cook’s face, either.
Slurping the juicy flesh, she went out back into the gardens. There was nothing to see that hadn’t already been there, but she merely needed something other than sitting around the house. The island was boring to her. She felt like a trapped bird, and then laughed. Something interesting would happen soon.
If it didn’t, she would cause something interesting.
It was almost two weeks in the bottom of that vessel. Cramped, dismal, with only the faint sounds of the shuffling zombies in the true hold above me for company. The sealed waterskins were tepid and tasteless, the food dried and unsatisfying, and the air stale and stinking of sweat. I had to relieve myself into the small opening into the ocean, and more than once I awoke as the ship tossed, throwing a splash of salty brine into my face.
Then one night, the ship grew still. The sailors could be faintly heard, shouting fearfully to themselves, and the zombies grew fearfully loud. I dipped a hand into the water, and all was still. That was how I knew I had arrived. I again stripped off my clothes, carefully bundled up my few possessions, and dived into the water.
The night sky was dark, but I could faintly see the outline of the dock above me. I surfaced, and peered about as best I could be starlight. It was a tiny harbor, filled mostly with a few pleasure yachts for rich noblemen. I thought briefly about looting a few; the docks were mostly deserted, only the zombies and a few fearful sailors about. I dived back again, returning to that chamber for my clothes and equipment.
It took me almost twenty minutes to swim slowly and quietly to the side of the harbor, three piers away from that ship. Then I climbed the wall, rather easily even with only one hand, and shook myself dry in the shadows of a small warehouse. The zombies were staying on the pier, probably waiting for this madman I was tracking. I cursed softly, trying to stare through the darkness at one large, black shape among many.
Then he exited the cabin, holding a small candle lantern. He strode down onto the pier, and gave a mocking bow to the sailors. Then his zombies cast the ship loose, and it started to drift out of the harbor. His words were just barely audible to me. “Sail back to the City, wretches. Land again on this island, and you’ll be one of my slaves for the rest of your very long unlife.” He appeared to chuckle, petting another of his zombies. Then they turned, heading inwards.
If you count my trip into the Bonehoard, this was the second time I’d ever left the city in my life. This harbor was alone on the island, with a vast stretch of forest between it and what looked like a village. I could see the lights, maybe three miles away, from the top of the warehouse. If there was a harbormaster, he was very wisely staying hidden away.
I let my quarry get quite a lead on me. There wasn’t anything out here, after all, until we got to the village. That was my first big mistake. We were almost there, when I realized he wasn’t on the road in front of me. Nor were any of his zombies. I cursed, looking around quickly in the darkness, then shuffled towards the side of the road and scampered into the treetops. I could see the road easily from my perch, but to anyone below, I was invisible. And if he was tracking me with zombies, even the sea salt smell wouldn’t help over the stench of rotting zombies.
I sat around waiting, looking up and down the road for any sign of movement. Then he emerged, alone, from somewhere almost below my tree. Luckily, the wind masked my jump of surprise. He took a few steps down the road, then turned back towards the forest, saying something in that evil, guttural language. A chorus of low zombie moans came from behind me, and he set off again.
I followed him, from the trees this time. Dawn was fast approaching, and the brightening sky gave me enough light to see him. He had gotten new clothes, most likely stolen from one of the sailors. Then I looked up at the village as the trees began to thin. It wasn’t a village at all, in fact, but a quartet of estates. Rich, well patrolled, nobleman estates. I could recognize the family crests from the many electric lights – the Rothschilds, Bafford, Ramirez, the Bumblesons. All places that an amateur thief like myself would only be caught dead in.
But my quarry strode comfortably down the road, past the staring and openly suspicious guards. I cursed, swinging out of the trees and up over the wall of the Bafford estate. The gardens were surprisingly full of trees, covered in bright green leaves. More than enough hiding and climbing places for me, as long as I didn’t approach the house itself. I raced through the gardens, leaping quietly over bushes, pausing at the cobbled paths to glance about for guards before hurling myself through the open spots.
At the other wall, I paused. The sun was just clearing the ocean, and I would be painfully visible. But I had no choice. I crawled to the top of the wall, glancing over. He was about two steps in front of the wall, so I dropped quickly into the tall grass between the estates. I risked a jump and a quick glance into the Rothschilds, then was over the wall in a flash, and hiding in the bushes. Their garden was even fancier than Bafford’s – layered everywhere in fancy vines, trees as tall as the house granting peaceful shade. But it also meant fewer hiding places in the center – where I would have to cross the center path from the house to the gate.
Cursing silent, I went up in the trees, getting right up to the main path. There was a space of about four feet. Easily enough for me to leap from one tree to another, but if one of the guards was looking, I was one dead thief. I risked a final glance at the mansion and the front gate, then ran down the branch and leapt. I landed on another branch, shielding my face with my arms and vanishing into the leaves.
But behind me, I heard someone shout, “Ho there! What do you think you’re doing?” I froze, my heart jumping out of my mouth. “What are you doing, walking down past the private estate of Lord Julius Rothschild?” That was strange enough to make me pause, as I was already inside the estate.
“I have my own business, guard, and it does not concern you or your lord.” My heart slowed, but I still stayed frozen on hearing my quarry’s voice. Then came a sound that every thief learns quickly and knows to dread. That rasp of steel that means a sword is being drawn. I edged back, peering through the leaves at the main gate. One of the guards had drawn his sword, and the other readied a crossbow. But he just shook his head, almost sadly. “I have no quarrel with you.”
He turned to go, and the guard stepped forward, leveling his sword. “I say you do. No one comes down here, especially not from the private noble’s harbor. State your business right now, before I run you through like a rabid dog.” The guard was arrogant, cocksure, and almost sure to be dead, I thought.
Surprisingly, I could just barely see the guards at the Bumblesons. The feud between the family was comical and talked about everywhere, but even they knew something was wrong here. And the nobles will always band together against anyone else, no matter how important their feuds are. Why else do you think we went to war with Blackbrook?
He sighed, raising his hands together, palms pressed against each other. Pulling them apart, the guards gasped. A sword, formed of black flames, appeared as though he drew it out of his very flesh. “I repeat, I have no quarrel, and no business, with you or your Lord. Continue this foolishness and I will kill you.” He sounded bored with the entire matter. Then the bowman fired, and the missile incinerated in a burst of black flames.
The swordsman leaped forward, shouting angrily, and swung. His attack was parried with those black flames, and his sword split, the metal sliding away to clatter on the cobbled street. Paling, he backed away slowly, and my quarry grinned evilly, raising his blade. The other guard was frantically loading his crossbow, but there was no way he would get a shot off in time. “Stop!”
The scream echoed from behind me, and I turned. Coming up the main path was a woman. It actually took me a moment to realize that it was, in fact, a woman, because she was dressed in men’s trousers and wore a sword belted to her side. But she passed beneath me, and her hair, even pulled back in a tail reached past her waist. She was at once the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and the most deadly person. I would have faced down a score of Hammer warriors rather than face her.
She stepped up to the gate, glaring at the other guard until he lowered his crossbow, and looked at the man. “Who are you?” She asked simply, with all the inborn haughtiness that every member of the nobility knows before they’re out of diapers.
He examined her slowly, then lowered his magical flame sword. “I am knows as Paros,” he said simply. They stood there in silence, locked in a staring match that neither one seemed inclined to lose.
She nodded, still staring at him. “I am Lady Roxanne Rothschild.” So that’s the deadly raven that’s been making a mockery of the etiquette of the nobility, I thought. “What do you mean, attacking my guards like this?”
He scowled at her. The guards both stepped back, but she didn’t move. “Your guards offered violence first,” he said, in a remarkably cultured voice. “You should keep a tighter leash on your pups,” he muttered.
She seemed surprised, but nodded. “Go about your business, but if you ever step foot on these estates, I’ll see your head mounted on my wall.” She turned away, her brown hair furling in the wind.
”What makes you think I’d give you a chance?” he asked quietly. The black flames had vanished at some point, my view obscured by Roxanne and the guards.
She turned back, and a dagger whizzed by his head, clipping off hair to smack into the stones of the Bumbleson estate. “You’d never get a chance,” she said, then continued back into the mansion, leaving her dagger where it fell on the road. For a few moments, he stayed there in the street, staring through the open gate after her, then turned away. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and continued across the grounds. At the wall, I was forced to descend from the trees to leave the compound.
Right when I reached for the top of the wall, the sword point stopped against the back of my neck. “You’re good,” she said quietly. “Who are you, why are you following him, and as you value your life why did you come onto my estate?”
I gulped, and very slowly turned around. The sword drew back only marginally, and I stared down it into her brown eyes. “He’s a necromancer,” I said, just as quietly. “He’s got at least thirty zombies out in the forest behind Bafford’s estate. The Hammerites are paying me to follow him and destroy a book he stole.”
I waited in silence. That brief exchange was enough for anyone to see she hated Paros, and maybe even feared him a little. I mean, it’s not every day you see steel swords cut in half like warm bread. “Why my estate?” she asked, still frowning at me.
I shrugged a little bit. “I was on this side of the road,” I whimpered. She scrunched up her face, and for a moment I thought that was the end. Then she put her other hand to her mouth, lowering the sword as she fought not to laugh. I took the opportunity to swing up to the top of the wall.
“You still didn’t tell me your name,” she called quietly.
Glancing down with a very nervous smile, I shrugged again. “I don’t have one,” I said, and vanished into the grass. My quarry, Paros, was disappearing up the road towards the actual village.
We knew that our exile was not the cause of the disaster. But he was the catalyst. Had we been more careful, the situation would have passed harmlessly, without his interfering. It was his presence, and his knowledge, that brought about the disaster on us all. – Keeper Annals
Paros sat quietly in a dark booth in the tavern. He was here on the island, and he knew that something very bad would be happening soon, but even all the prophecies he had brought told him very little of what it was. Then a nearby conversation gained his attention.
”Are you serious? One of those Mechanists, floating out in the middle of nowhere?”
“Serious as daylight! Come on, you know I’m not drunk yet, not after only one bottle. The poor bastard was just floating in the water, dressed up in some kinda suit. Looked like he died from something bad, ‘cause that glass helmet of his was all cracked up. But not even the sharks wanted to touch him!”
“What’d you do with the body?”
“You kidding? We hauled him aboard, checked him for valuables, and dumped it back over the side. I kept that helmet though. It’ll make a good souvenir to hang up on the wall.”
Paros suddenly rose from his seat, walking over to the two sailors. “Tell me, this helmet, did it have a symbol on it?”
The sailors looked him over disparagingly. “Maybe,” the first one said. “So what if it did?”
“I need to see that helmet. Now.” The sailor started to protest, and he dropped a handful of gold coins on the table. The clear ring attracted stares from all over the tavern.
Slowly, the sailor picked up one of the coins and bit into it, checking the gold. Grunting in surprise, he stood up. “Sure, why not. Come on then, you crazy taffer.” Paros followed him from the building, following the dark street down to the public docks. They boarded one of the ships, the watches, giving odd glances. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
After a few minutes, he emerged from belowdecks with the helmet. The brass was starting to corrode, and the glass had almost all broken away. Etched into the forehead of the helmet was the Mechanist gear, and very faintly on the back, was another symbol. “The Cetus,” Paros whispered to himself. “Where did you find the body?” he asked suddenly.
The sailor looked at one of his companions and shrugged. “Somewhere south of the island, not too far from shore.” He spat over the side of the ship. “Why does it matter?”
But Paros was already walking away, ignoring the sailors and the broken helmet. The watch chuckled, pulling out a rough pipe and a crumbled pouch of tobacco. “Stupid taffer,” he muttered.
As the moon lay high in the sky, not quite full, Paros was on a beach, staring intently in the faint light. If anything had washed ashore from the Cetus, it would probably be here, on the southern end of the island. He knew that those idiot Mechanists, with their disregard for anything but new technology, were bound to cause problems in every aspect of life.
Then something moved under his foot, and he slipped. He landed sharply on the rusted gear and cursed, rubbing his sore leg, and peering at it in the moonlight. “Hah! I knew it.” He gazed around the beach from his seat on the sand, trying to sort through the seaweed and shells from anything constructed by man.
But by faint moonlight, his task was virtually impossible, and dawn found him still combing the beaches. The tide was almost at full when the dagger struck his shoulder, hilt first, and he fell into the surf. Roxanne stood at the top of a hill above him, hanging onto a tree and glaring at him as she readied another dagger. “I told you to stay off my property.”
Paros smiled grimly as he regained his feet, trying to squeeze water out of his sopping clothes. “This is not part of the Rothschild estates,” he said rather simply.
She glared at him, her eyes narrowed. “What makes you so sure of that?”
He laughed. “I studied this island very carefully before coming to visit. Your grandfather put up a wall around the entire Rothschild estate, and sold anything outside those walls.” He gestured at the waves and tiny stretch of sand still uncovered. “Unless you’re now claiming the entire ocean as part of your estate,” he added sardonically.
She slid down the hill with remarkable speed, reaching the bottom with a dagger still held at the ready. “So what are you doing down here, necromancer?” she spat.
He smirked, at returned to his search of the flotsam and jetsam that lined the tidewater mark. “I’m only here to try and stop some madman from bringing back one of the pagan gods,” he said over his shoulder. “Though I’m curious how you knew about my zombies.”
Roxanne smirked, not relaxing. “A little burrick told me,” she mocked back. “Aren’t zombies a little useless against the Trickster?”
Paros whirled back, his face cold and serious. “The Trickster wasn’t the only god the old Pagans worshipped. This island once held a great temple to another god, their god of the sea, and the god of death. Here, that god could be reborn into the mortal world.” He kicked aside a clump of dead seaweed. “It would not be pretty.”
“So you brought zombies to face down a god of death? Just how taffing stupid are you?” She spit at him, but it landed harmlessly in the waves. Backing away, she carefully moved up the hill, keeping her weapons close to hand until she was well out of sight. Paros ignored it all, kicking another clump of seaweed and bending over to pick up a discarded glove.
It was bluish, and would match one of those diving suits that the Mechanists had used, he thought. He tucked it into his belt, then wearily climbed the hill into the shelter of the trees. It would do him little good to search during the high tide, and he needed a little sleep.
Hidden in the bushes, two pairs of eyes had witnessed the exchange, and watched Paros slumber.
I did my best to catch a short nap in the bushes. I’d watched the exchange between Paros and Roxanne, though I unfortunately hadn’t heard all of it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a brave enough soul to sneak down there to try and nip the book, nor was I callous enough to shoot my last fire arrow at him. Besides, even if it burned the book, I’d be rather out of luck if he killed me because of it.
But to my luck, he slept the day away, and part of the night. I heard him rustling in the bushes as he rose, and that woke me up from a fragmented dream of zombies and pagans dancing around a fire, where all the wood chanted like those Mechanist metal robots. I heard him cursing himself as he climbed back down the hill. The tide was going out now, and he did his best to search the beach again by moonlight.
He had only been down there a few minutes at most when I heard someone else behind me. They were some distance back in the trees, and at the first sound of the branch snapping, I irrationally thought, at least it’s not Roxanne. I turned as quietly as I could, trying to see who it might be.
I couldn’t find her until they were almost below me, and in fact would have missed her if she hadn’t stepped on another twig. She was wearing a black cloak, pulled up to hide her completely from view, and then I realized that there were two of them. The second only revealed herself by quietly chastising the other for her lack of stealth. Then they were at the top of the rise, watching Paros in his seemingly futile search of the beach.
I at first believed that they were there to kill him, and that probably was their intent. With a sudden crackle of bushes, the first one stepped forth, sliding down the sandy hill towards the beach. The second woman reached out for her, her hand a momentary brightness, then she pulled back, cursing quietly. At the time, I hadn’t recognized the voice, and it would come back to haunt me later.
Paros had of course heard the noise, and he had turned to confront the woman. But she seemed heedless of him, walking towards a bare spot on the sand, the waves trickling up to her toes and wetting the hem of her concealing cloak. Paros shouted a question or two at her, but she merely pulled a statue from beneath her cloak, and shouted some Pagan phrase.
At the time, I had no idea what it meant, but Paros turned and started running, scrambling desperately up the side of the hill, shouting for his zombies. The woman laughed, then shed her cloak, letting her blond hair shift in the wind. The waves started crashing up, insistently, reversing the tide in this spot, until they were almost burying her. Desperately, she cried out another pagan phrase, then submerged the statue and herself.
Still the waves came, until the entire hill was in danger of sliding down into the oceans. The second cloaked figure had moved another few steps backwards, taking shelter behind a larger tree – mine. She didn’t seem aware of me, but I wasn’t about to do anything that might gain her attention. Then the figure reappeared from the water, and she screamed.
The woman had been transformed completely, and it was fully evident as the waters receded. She had grown incredibly in statue, so that had she still been fully human, she would likely have been twenty feet tall. Her legs had been replaced by a mass of seething tentacles, like those of a squid I once saw for sale at the fish-market. All of her skin had vanished, glittering like tiny fish scales where the tentacles ended. Her hair now shone green with its own light, and while her breasts remained the nipples had vanished.
Then, as though regretting her scream, the figure below me threw herself forward to the edge of the hill and prostrated herself. “You surprise me, my daughter,” the strange being spoke. Her voice was oddly melodic, like her voice was actually a series of shells carefully crafted and then struck, one by one, by a master musician. “Your desire was far better than that of this pitiful woman who surrendered herself. Why did you not sacrifice yourself?”
Her voice shook, and she kept her face firmly pressed to the dirt, the cowl pulled up so that I could not see her face from behind her. “It has been many ages since your language was spoken in the land of men,” and she spat the last word angrily. “I must have mistranslated your words. Forgive me, great goddess!”
She laughed, crawling forward on those tentacles in a queasy sensation. “Rise, daughter,” she said, placing a giant hand on the woman’s back. “I have no anger for you. But tell me, what has happened to my other daughters and their people?”
“They have vanished, great Inigra,” and there I learned the name of this pagan goddess. In fact, I had heard it several times during the chanting, but of course, knew not its meaning. “The children of the Builder came here many ages ago and killed all of your daughters, driving them from this island temple of yours.”
“Then we must get our revenge on their children for their mistreatment, mustn’t we?” Inigra said placidly. The woman shivered as though in ecstasy, and rose. “But first, have you any others, willing to forsake their false Builder and worship me again?”
“I know of some, great goddess, but they live in the Builder’s city across the ocean from here.” She fell silent as Inigra closed her eyes, then continued at a peremptory wave. “But I have found your temple here, still surviving the destruction that was brought. On the night of the full moon, it will be reconsecrated to you!”
The pagan goddess nodded, holding out a hand, and the woman took it and kissed it, though the hand was the size of her head and more. “Then go, my daughter. I can sense, even from here, that those men and their iron toys have grown complacent in their power.” She seemed about to say more, then turned towards the forest, and her eyes grew wide. “Run, daughter, for the servants of the underworld approach!”
Inigra turned and sped into the water with amazing speed, vanishing without even a splash. The cloaked woman below me stared at the ocean forlornly but for a moment, then turned and dashed away. Her cowl flew back, but she was already past me, and I could not see her face, only the tail of dark hair that flew behind her.
I heard the first zombie moan behind me, and I fled through the trees as well. They might have been after the woman and her reborn pagan goddess, but I was sure they would settle for me.
If a man needs something done, he should not go to another man, but to that man’s wife. – Popular joke
Paros slipped back into the inn, making silently for the stairs and up to his room. He was cursing himself quietly, muttering under his breath about his failure to prevent the ritual to bring back the ancient Pagan sea goddess. The people in the common room avoided him, casting sidelong glances at the madman as he vanished from view.
He carefully unlocked the door to his room, disarming the simple but subtle traps he had set on the door, and resetting them behind him. Then he sat down on the rough pallet, drawing forth the book from under his cloak. Feverishly, he began to flip through the book, barely glancing at the pages, hoping desperately for inspiration to strike him and give him some idea of how to stop Inigra.
Halfway across the tiny island, Roxanne stood on the balcony of her room. It was starting to rain, but she stood in the open uncaringly, the thin silk of her shift plastered to her body. She stared out at the storm, watching as lightning struck occasionally and smiled. Something important was happening out on the island. That necromancer, Paros, was involved, but she didn’t care much about him. Even a zombie wasn’t much of a threat if you knew where to hit them.
But that thief, he was interesting. Being one of the richest and highest-ranking women in the City, she of course had had numerous dalliances and been courted a few times, only to turn the men’s tricks back upon them. It was simple for a woman like herself to get a man infatuated with her, then give subtle signals until he was on the point of despair from thinking he had done her harm. The servants, the poor, none of them had ever held even a moment’s charm for her, but something about the little thief intrigued her.
She snorted, leaning against the railing, ducking her head to keep the heavier rain from her eyes, and looked out over her garden. It was the first time Roxanne had ever found a man interesting, and part of her truly disliked it. She had to make sure she was always in control, or how could she truly consider herself a Rothschild?
Of course, part of his attraction was that he was already halfway across her estate before she had even noticed him. Admittedly, she had fortunately never had the opportunity to spend time among the city’s underground, but she’d caught a few pickpockets on the streets of the City, and they usually left her a few fingers lighter.
Roxanne’s smile turned predatory, and she nodded decisively. What was so different about this nameless thief, after all? He was just another man, and she had lots of experience twisting men around her finger. She had no doubt she could find him again, and once she’d had her way with him, no doubt he would have no more place in her thoughts.
“Lady Roxanne,” came a chilling voice from behind her, and Roxanne spun around, raising her arms protectively. Adam stood in the middle of her room, his cloak dripping silently on her floor. “You should come in out of the rain,” he said, his voice cold and flat, “before you catch a chill.”
She came in off the balcony, a little nervously under his gaze, and swung the doors closed. “Has there been any sign of Aradne?” she asked, hating her voice as it shook. Adam didn’t entrance her in the slightest, he scared her. Looking at him was like watching a statue and knowing, when you turned away, it would come to life.
He shook his head slowly. “No, m’lady, not a soul has seen her since she left the kitchen after supper. None of the guards saw her leave the estate, but I have personally searched everywhere. Aradne is not here.” He turned to look out the glass balcony doors, then turned back to her. “I will send up one of the other servant girls. You should change clothes and sleep. It is almost dawn.”
Before she could protest, he had left her chambers. Furiously, Roxanne tore off the silk shift, dropping the sopping fabric on the floor and striding to her wardrobe. Shrugging into a thick felt robe, she avoided the puddles on the floor to sit on her bed and wait for the servants to arrive and clean up the mess.
Leaning back against the pillows, her last thought was that surely her days of boredom were ending.
I fear that something dangerous is afoot on this island. Last night, Roxanne’s servant vanished. None of the guards noticed her leave the estate, not even myself. If someone wishes to harm the Rothschild family, they would be smart to interrogate the servant closest to her first. But I can’t tell whether it is linked with that sorcerer who strode past earlier. That is what worries me. -- Private diary of Captain Adam
By noon, the storm had vanished off to the east, blowing towards the city and bringing them rain. It wasn’t all that unusual for the season, but the talk around the city was how lightning had struck the island’s church. The Hammers had only just replaced their symbol two weeks ago, after tearing down the bronzed gear of the Mechanists. Now, the building lay in ruins, the lightning having set the building on fire. If the Hammers had cleared out the machinery oil, instead of replacing their holy symbol, then the fire would have done almost no damage at all.
Paros smiled, sitting in the darkest corner of the inn room, listening to the gossip. Then his ears perked up, as one of the Rothschild servants came in. He was just taking a short break while the others finished loading up their cart with foodstuffs. The man could barely contain his relief that both Lady Rothschild and her sinister guard captain would be sailing back to the City tomorrow on her private yacht. Most of the servants would be gone as well, leaving him in peace and quiet until they returned, perhaps in another two or three months.
The former Keeper smiled behind his bowl of stew as he slurped noisily. He would give them a day or two as a head start – that would give him adequate time to use his zombies to break into her mansion, and search her library for anything more about this Pagan goddess. By all reports, Roxanne had read every book on the island out of sheer boredom. So, if he couldn’t find anything, he’d just have to steal a ship and see about kidnapping her. Even the famous captain Adam couldn’t hold off zombies forever.
He finished the last of his meal, then quietly strode out of the inn, walking out of the village towards the estates and then vanishing into the forest. His undead servants came quickly to his call, following him as he circled the Rothschild estate from a distance. The wagon, with a trio of servants and loaded with preserved food for the voyage, clomped past his sight and into the estate. Finally, as night approached, he moved closer, walking right on the edge of the trees, staring at the wall from ten feet away, examining it for the best place. If possible, he didn’t want to alert any of the other households.
With a curse, he tripped over a rock, bushes scratching his face as he thudded into the ground. He kicked at it irritably, scraping away moss, then quieted down and crept closer. The words were worn away with time, but he recognized the tombstone for what it was. Laughing quietly, he bade his zombies to stay hidden in the forest, and returned to the inn. When tomorrow came, he would have a few more servants, just in case any of the other estates decided to investigate his presence.
They next day dawned gray and gloomy, and it seemed to match Roxanne’s mood. She stormed through the house, berating the servants any time one of them stopped to rest, and interrogating the guards still for the whereabouts of her ladyservant. Finally, as Captain Adam glared at her, she sat on a chair in the parlor with exaggerated daintiness. “That stupid girl,” she muttered. “If she comes back, she’ll just have to stay here until my brother or I return. Then we can discharge her from our household.”
The warrior seemed not to hear her. Since Aradne had disappeared, he hadn’t slept, though no one could tell from simply looking at him. “Lady, it is best if you stayed out of the servants’ way. They work better when they are not worrying about whether you’re going to beat them with the flat of your sword.”
Roxanne gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. “But Captain, you’re the one who insisted I wear it around the house.” She managed to hold the smile for a whole five seconds under his cold gaze, before finally looking away.
“Because an assassin would quite likely get information out of your closest servant, Lady,” he said dispassionately. He started to say more, when the head servant pushed open the door, bowing to Roxanne. “Is everything prepared?”
“It will take a little bit to load the last of the supplies on the boat, milady, but you were most insistent to reach the docks.” He held the bow as she rose from her chair hurriedly, striding out of the house with the sword slapping against her hip. “We will be underway before another hour has passed.”
Paros watched from the trees as the carriage and two wagons loaded with food and clothing trunks left the Rothschild estate and thundered for the docks. Once they were out of sight, he knelt before the first grave, and started the incantation to raise the zombie as his servant. Once these dozen graves were emptied, and night had fallen, the house would be his.
I sat in the trees, braced on a trio of conveniently grown branches, and watched the Rothschild estate. I had seen the carriage and wagons leaving, of course, but it really didn’t matter to me. Paros was skulking around too, moving around the wall. His zombies were with him, but they hadn’t spotted me yet. Which was good. If I was lucky, then I might be able to get into the house and back out before he did.
I moved around through the trees, following the wall until I was at the corner near the Bafford estate. The inside of the wall was thick with some kind of vine, but it looked harmless. Paros was somewhere far away, and none of his zombies were within sight, so I dropped to the ground and scrambled over the wall.
No one was in sight, unless you count the two poor bastards standing outside the front gate. I suppose that the nobility must play these little games of show, always having just the right paintings and houses and guards, but being raised a peasant didn’t make me think much of them. I crawled slowly out from under the vines, then started moving quietly through the garden towards the house.
Without warning, the back door from the kitchen slammed open. I hadn’t even realized the door was there, so skillfully had the architect blended it into the outside of the house, and I had to dive behind a rose bush to stay hidden. It seemed to be a servant and a guard talking, and I did my best to both listen and pray that they hadn’t seen me. “Thank goodness that taffing woman is out of the house,” the servant muttered. “Her brother, Julius, is never so outrageously demanding!”
“Easy for you to say. With everyone else gone, we’ve got to stand twelve hour shifts, just so the gate is manned.” The guard took a deep drink of something, before settling back onto a white bench. “As long as someone’s here, it makes my life a whole lot easier.”
I suddenly clenched my fists, bringing my hands away from my face. My skin was itching and burning like crazy, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could control myself. Was I wrong, and Paros noticed me entering the estate? Or had I tripped some sorcerous defense of the grounds? Fighting down a whimper, I forced my hands to my sides. The servant and guard returned to the house, leaving the door open behind them.
Carefully, I crept towards the small fountain in the middle of the garden, watching the wide windows on the rear of the mansion. Almost everyone was gone, but that didn’t tell me how many were still here. Then I was past it, coming up on the side of the steps down. From the kitchen, I could hear the servant singing some Hammer hymn, cheerfully and completely off-key. I almost groaned, both from the assault on my ears and the continued itching.
Then I scaled up the side of the house, trying to find my way to Roxanne’s room. I wasn’t sure what interest Paros had in the house, but I wanted to find it first. Most of the windows had been cleaned and polished until they were invisible, which made my job both easier and harder. Anyone looking outside would see me right away.
But some luck seemed to be with me, as the first balcony around the side was to her room. At least, I thought it was – I didn’t think that many of the nobility would have both swords on the wall, and the ruined remains of a silk dress laying on the floor. To my surprise, the doors were unlocked, and I crept inside.
The room smelled faintly of perfume, something powerful and alluring, and for a moment I forgot the itching pain of my face and hands. Then I noticed a small pot, filled with much smaller vines, and a tiny spider spinning a web between some leaves. I’d heard of it, of course – some thieves used the plant sap as a poison for their daggers, leaving their target in excruciating pain before he died – identified by the burning you got when you touched it.
Frantically, I searched the room, then noticed the small door next to the wardrobe. Hopefully that led to a bathing room with a fresh jug of water? My guess was right, and in moments I was using a wet strip of the torn dress to wash the poison from my skin. It wasn’t perfect, but I could at least ignore the feeling now.
With a relieved sigh, I lowered the strip of silk to rest against the marble table with a clink. It didn’t catch my attention at first, until I shifted my hand. Something metal had been caught on the fabric, and it pressed into my finger. I simply shredded the ruined silk further, though part of me lamented the loss of something so valuable, until I had revealed it. A small silver pendant, a simple teardrop, though faint etchings on one side almost appeared to be Pagan runes. I slipped it into my purse for later consideration, but it seemed out of place. What would a noblewoman like Roxanne be doing with a pagan symbol?
Then I started a systematic search of her bedroom. I didn’t really expect to find anything, not with her belongings all packed away to return with her. Sure enough, my search came up empty. I was about to depart, back through the balcony to try another room, when a key slid into the lock. Panicking, I dropped to the floor, slithering under the great feather bed, holding my nose when I ran face-first into a giant dust rabbit.
In a rush, two people came through the door and closed it behind them. One of them giggled quietly, hiding it behind her hand, and I groaned mentally. Of all the times! The two servants did not disappoint me, shedding their clothes with reckless abandon (if I interpreted the sounds correctly – it was a bit dark under there) and proceeded to make love on their mistress’ bed.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I heard was the door splintering. The woman screamed, the man yelled in surprise and anger, and the zombie moaned as it broke down that feeble wooden barrier. I heard one of them run out the balcony, the door shattering as it was flung open. She screamed again in terror from outside, probably looking down into a garden with more undead.
I groaned, trying to slide out from under the bed, only to crack my head into the man’s ankle. He fell, I shot backwards, and kicked the zombie as my feet exited the other side of the bed. Equally panicked as the other two humans now, I tried a third time, and managed to extricate myself to stand next to the naked servant. “Who are you?” he screamed at me, grabbing the small stand for the poison vine and hefting it. “What do you want?”
The zombie was bright enough to circle around the bed, which put it closer to the woman. She fainted, out on the balcony, and it turned towards her. From somewhere outside, I could hear Paros giving his pets orders, but at this point, I wasn’t very interested. I leaped over the bed and towards the open doorway as the servant tried vainly to defend his lover.
I slammed shoulder first into another zombie, sending it skidding back down the hallway. Wasting no time, I promptly fled in the other direction. Unfortunately, it was a very short hallway, with only two more doors to choose from. The first one opened to reveal a guard, his sword in hand, so I shoved open the other one. Luckily, the zombie gained his attention, and their battle gave me time to at least survey the room.
Somehow, I had stumbled onto the very tiny Hammerite chapel that the Rothschild kept. Probably, when Lord Rothschild came to visit, he brought his own family priest with him. I looked around. Unlike the larger churches I was used to visiting, there was no basin of holy water. Just a tiny, beaten silver bowl. On another day, I would have grabbed it for the cash, but today I just lifted it carefully and waited for the door to come crashing down.
It took the zombie a few minutes. Once the door swung open, since I hadn’t latched it behind me, I flung the bowl. The zombie screeched as the holy water drenched it, then slowly collapsed to the floor. I took a brief moment to breathe a sigh of relief, then returned to the corridor, struggling against the impulse to vomit on the guard’s corpse. I went into the guard’s room, smiling at the sight of the window. It was small, but I could fit through it. More importantly, a zombie couldn’t.
This time, I latched the door – then dragged over a couple of chairs, a table, and an empty foot locker to barricade the door. As I thought, the window was shut with a few years of accumulated grime, but I got it open before the other zombies broke through. Outside, it was a bit harder to dodge the few still in the garden, but I still made it up into the trees and out of reach. Then I just waited.
But I had that crossbow loaded with my last fire arrow, ready and waiting. I wasn’t going to hold back from killing him if I had to. The estate was swarming with zombies. The two guards on the front gate had been dragged inside, giving the other estates enough warning to try and barricade themselves behind stone and steel. I didn’t think much of their chances.
Paros emerged from the front door, scowling and unhappy. Apparently, there hadn’t been anything to find after all. Except for that silver pendant, but I didn’t remember about it until later. To my dismay, I couldn’t get a clear shot at the man, and his zombies had formed up around him. They went through the gate, marching down the street as the other guards cowered behind their fences.
I followed them from the trees, watching. He didn’t get much past the Bafford estate before a carriage came up from the docks. The coachman reined in as soon as he spotted the zombies, but by then it was too late. They tore him and the horses to pieces. Paros stopped them before they started in on the coach, letting him open the door. “Lord Bafford, what a surprise seeing you here. Do you have a ship waiting at that harbor?”
He sat there in the coach, probably terrified. I wasn’t sure, as I couldn’t see his face, but Paros nodded, still wearing that malevolent smile. “Thank you. I’ll be borrowing it for a while. Enjoy the walk to your estate.” With a raise of his hand, the zombies formed up around him again, and we headed down the road. I didn’t pay any more attention to Bafford.
We passed three wagons of his goods on the way. Each time, Paros and his zombies would fade into the trees, then keep going. The docks were mostly deserted, but for a few sailors loading new barrels onto Bafford’s ship. When the first zombie stumbled into the torchlight, most of them threw themselves overboard, preferring to take their chances swimming and coming ashore somewhere else. But Paros still captured three of them.
I had scaled what I thought was the harbormaster’s home. I sat on the roof, the glow of the fire arrow hidden by my cloak, waiting. The barrels on deck were red, you see, and I wanted to let the ship get far enough away from shore that he wouldn’t likely get back again. A hundred yards is a difficult shot even when your arrow isn’t affected by wind or falling back to earth.
I hit the railing instead of a barrel, but it still set the ship on fire. It sputtered and flamed for a few minutes, barely visible from the shore. Then some piece must have found the barrels, because a large boom and giant fireball shook the piers. Even so, I waited around for about two hours, but no sign ever came of Paros returning to shore.
Wearily, I turned to return to the village. Hopefully, my letter from Brother Stone would gain me some Hammerite aid to return to the city.
Do you remember the night when the Old Quarter fell? When zombies shambled through the streets, striking down anyone they could reach, to join the undead ranks. I fought with the fury of the Builder that day, doing what I could to keep them from escaping into the rest of the city, to tear down the foundations of the Builder’s civilization. That last night, it started to rain, a brutal storm sweeping in from the sea to pound on the city. Ever since then, seeing a storm has always seemed like the harbinger of doom. – Collected Letters of the Smith in Exile
Roxanne’s ship pulled up to the dock in the middle of a miserable, gray drizzle. All through the City, everyone who could stayed indoors. Those who couldn’t, like the patrolling guards of the City Watch, traveled the streets hunched under their cloaks. Tempers rose everywhere as the week-long storm continued to saturate the City. In the poorer parts of the City, the sewers had started to overflow into the streets and houses, sending the peasants fleeing, fighting and crowding into higher grounds.
Captain Stalker stood behind her on the deck. He seemed silent and unmoving, like a statue, unconcerned as the torrents leaked through the chinks in his armor and filled his boots. “Lady,” he said over the distant rumble of thunder, “we can wait in the harbormaster’s office until a carriage can come for you.”
She glanced over her shoulder, staying mostly dry under the heavy parasol a servant held for her. “If you insist, Captain,” she said. Her mood had lightened considerably during the voyage, until she seemed almost gleeful. “It will be nice to return to someplace familiar again.” Roxanne watched the sailors tying off the ropes, starting forward before they had even lowered the plank into position.
It took almost twenty minutes, sitting in the harbormaster’s office, before a carriage arrived. The driver looked mostly like a drowned rat, huddling on the thin bench, while Roxanne and Captain Adam climbed inside. The soldier wondered what she was thinking about. She had stayed uncharacteristically quiet the entire time, not deigning to say a single word to berate the obviously nervous harbormaster.
The coach traveled slowly due to the rain, and they finally reached her apartment. The building was actually a group of spacious homes for the single nobility, all those without blood feuds huddling together for better protection, and a chance to decide which marriages would be the best politically for them. It was more a home for Roxanne than anywhere else she had lived, and it surprised her when they reached her door, Captain Adam still behind her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
He calmly arched an eyebrow at her, then finally shook her head as she started to scowl. “You brother instructed me to insure your protection until you were properly returned to the Rothschild estate outside the City,” he said.
She growled, clenching a fist, then finally pulling out a gold key from a pocket within the bosom of her dress. “One of these days, I’m going to teach Julius a lesson he’ll never forget,” she muttered.
He blinked, perhaps the only sign of surprise he showed. “Indeed,” he whispered, following her into the apartment as the servants started carrying her luggage up the dozen flights of stairs. To his surprise, other than a room or two obviously designed for entertaining guests, the apartment was strictly utilitarian. He hesitated for a moment after Roxanne dismissed him, but finally turned for the hallways to check on the guards and find himself quarters.
In her room, Roxanne sat at the writing desk and pulled out several sheets of paper and a quill pen. Ignoring the servants behind her, she wrote several copies of a letter, sealing each one with wax and her family crest. She had spent too long out of the City, and no doubt some of her equally noble associates would be wondering about how much she had enjoyed her enforced vacation on that damnable little island.
As she climbed into bed, Roxanne smiled broadly. Some of them would protest about her confronting that thief, or the necromancer Paros, but she knew that all of them would be envious of her. And that, she thought, made it almost worth the trip.
It took me about five minutes to find the head priest in the Hammerite church. It took him two days to decide that my letter from Brother Stone was, in fact, legitimate (the fact I could barely read it helped), and another day waiting for my ship to leave. He was quite unhappy to pay the costs of my voyage back to the City, but it was the fastest merchant ship on the island. If I was lucky, I should return not too far behind Roxanne’s ship. I wasn’t sure if it was important, but you never knew.
We pulled up to the pier in late afternoon. I’d managed to also swipe the priest’s purse before I left, so I had a few gold coins, enough to buy a few meals. I kept my eyes open as I walked the streets toward the Old Quarter. I wasn’t sure if Brother Stone would be at the restored cathedral there, but it was as good a place as any to start trying to find him. And it was a few miles closer that the Creygan estate.
I was almost there when I finally realized why the hairs on the back of my neck had been prickling. A Keeper had been following me. At least, that’s who I thought it was – everyone in the city told stories of that mysterious order, and until then, I’d never believed any of them. But a few glances over my shoulders, as I turned corners or stopped to admire store displays, confirmed my suspicions that no one else in the crowd noticed him.
The sun was just setting when I reached the Cathedral gates, and the two guards grudgingly let me in. Sure enough, Brother Stone was in the central hall, somewhere in the crowd of priests, warriors, and other simple worshippers. I slipped into a pew at the back, trying not to disturb the ceremony in progress. It was like all of the other daily prayer sessions I’ve ever been to – long, boring, solemn, with nothing to do but sit quietly and try not to fidget. Of course I took a few coins out of the offering plate when it went past.
An hour later, I breathed a sigh of relief as the last notes of the hymn faded away, and quickly worked my way up the side aisle towards the front, fighting the press of people determined to rush home in the darkness. An acolyte blocked my way briefly, then gave me directions into the cloister.
I had to stop twice more to ask directions from other Hammerites, most of whom sneered at my worn and shabby appearance. But I reached Brother Stone’s door, to find him talking animatedly in the hallway with another priest. “By the Builder!” he said in surprise, catching sight of me. “Come with me, and we’ll talk.” He took my arm, dragging me back out of the restored Saint Yora’s, and into a dark corner around another building. “Tell me everything,” he said.
So I did. I told him about the rising of Inigra, the destruction of Paros’ ship, and showed him the small silver amulet I had found in Roxanne’s clothing. Through most of this, he glared at me with a puzzled expression, interrupting often for questions. “Well, this sounds like a disaster,” he moaned. “The holy Church was much weakened with the battle against the Trickster. If what you say is right, then how are we to fight the false Pagan god of death?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s not what you hired me for. Can you please sign my pardon now?” He glared at me even more harshly. “I made sure that book was destroyed, just like you wanted. How am I supposed to know how to stop a god?”
In an ill temper, he led me back inside, hunting down a quill and ink, signing the paper crossly and thrusting it back at me. “Leave this place, miscreant, and pray to the Builder to grant you enough wisdom to change your path.” He turned away, I spat on the floor after him, and left the Cathedral grounds in a hurry.
The first thing I wanted to do was find a decent inn, and use the offering money to buy myself a room. But before I’d gotten more than a few steps down the street past the gates, a strong hand grabbed my arm. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said quietly. I started to struggle, then something smacked my head and the world faded away.
Under the cold drizzle, a full dozen figures slowly emerged from the darkness, gathering together under the awning of a street restaurant. Somewhere not too far off, a clock chimed two bells, and the tallest figure rapped quietly on a table. “Is everyone here?”
Another figure sniffed disdainfully. “Yes, though I still don’t see why you had us sneak out here in the middle of this Builder-forsaken night. Some of the streets are too deep to walk through!”
Their leader laughed shortly, a hand emerging from under the cloak with a knife. “I know. It’s going to make our job just that much easier.” After a pause to look around, the leader stopped to try and wipe some water out of the cloak. “Is everyone ready? We have everything?”
The others drew forth other instruments of violence from their cloaks. As a group, they departed back onto the street, moving towards the riverside docks. One by one, as their leader pointed out positions, they faded away into the dark and wet shadows. Then they waited, and before long, one of the City Watch came stumbling by. It was obvious he’d been using his hip flask of brandy to keep away the chill, huddled down in his cloak.
As he passed, one of them emerged from hiding, swinging the heavy cudgel at his head. Other than the sound of his flask clattering on the cobbled street, all was silent. They gathered around him, lifting the unconscious body and carrying him quickly to the docks.
There were almost no electric lights on the docks, and with the rain keeping torches extinguished their passage was invisible. They stopped at the end of an abandoned quay, their leader tossing the guard’s helmet into the ocean and holding his head up. “Great Inigra,” the shout echoed out across the river, “Accept this sacrifice from your faithful followers to regain your place in the world!”
As the guard started to struggle, the dagger flashed down across his neck, the blood fountaining forth into the river as he kicked and struggled, held down by the cloaked figures. As he finally stopped his struggles, the surface of the water started to foam, bubbling up rapidly even against the pouring rain. Even as some of the sailors and dockworkers started to raise the alarm, Inigra burst forth from the river’s surface.
“Good job, my daughters,” the goddess smirked. “Now flee, while I teach these wretched men the power of the sea.” As the cloaked figures scattered, the goddess raised a massive arm, bringing it down on one of the ships anchored, shattering it into matchsticks. Some of the dark figures glanced back, shuddering at the screams, but their leader continued to run, vanishing into the darkness of the storm, smiling gleefully.
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