The Archon's Assassin (18 page)

With a grunt of effort, Nameless inched the great helm round till the eye-slit glared at the vraajo. He shook with the effort, barrel chest expanding as he filled his lungs. He arched his body toward the mawg, straining, straining.

“Eat… my…axe, you…shogging… hairball.”

Something invisible snapped, and Nameless catapulted forward. He swung the axe in a murderous arc. The mawg’s hand came up sparking, and Nameless was slung back across the clearing. There was a thud and a clang, the whuff of air leaving his lungs.

Shadrak couldn’t turn his head to see if the dwarf was all right—or the others, for that matter.

The mawg leveled the rifle at him and fumbled with the trigger.

Move, move, move!

Sweat poured into Shadrak’s eyes with the effort, but he was stuck. Dead in the water.

“Hey… crotch-face!” It was Nameless again, every word gasped with pain or effort. “Pick on someone… your own size. No, on second thoughts… just pick on someone… bigger than him.”

The mawg swung the rifle to a point over Shadrak’s shoulder. A clumsy finger settled on the trigger, but the gun was suddenly wrenched from its grip.

The mawg gawped, looked up. The rifle was amid the branches of a tree, suspended from a creeper wound around its barrel.

The crack of a twig had the mawg turning, but there was nothing there. It let out a whimper, then made a fist. Sparks danced across the knuckles, started to grow into dark flames. Flies swarmed from the trees and smothered them. The mawg squealed and stumbled back, shaking its hand until the flies streamed away to a single point in the air and vanished.

Shadrak’s eyes were rooted to that spot. So were the mawg’s. She even flicked a look at him, as if they now faced a common foe.

Bark, leaves, sky all melded together, bowed and folded, formed into a man no taller than Shadrak. The eyes took on more clarity: black holes that seemed to suck in all they saw. The leaves shook and became a cloak of feathers, beneath which vegetation wove itself into garments.

Bird walked from the forest, holding something in one hand, stroking it with the other.

The mawg roared, lips curling back to reveal row upon row of spiny teeth.

Bird cocked his head and gave it a disapproving look. He was stroking a mole with the tips of his fingers.

The mawg raised a hand, greenish light swirling upon the palm.

Bird made a peculiar clicking noise, and a tree lashed out, vines snaring the offending arm. More strands snaked out, wrapping wrists and ankles, and lifting the mawg spread-eagled into the air.

Ignoring his captive, Bird moved among the companions, clicking and growling deep in his throat.

Shadrak’s muscles twitched, and a thousand needles pricked at his veins. With a sigh, he sagged to the ground.

Groans, coughs, and murmurs came from the others as whatever spell held them was broken.

Shadrak tried to stand, but his limp arm overbalanced him. He shifted his weight and tried again, this time reaching his knees.

“You no say there mawgs.” Ekyls glared up at the vraajo and spat. “No smell, this one. Magic.”

Ludo knelt beside Shadrak and examined his arm. “That was quite a fall, Brother. May I?”

Shadrak winced as the adeptus gingerly took hold of his arm.

“Can you grip my hand?”

Shadrak could, but weakly.

“What about raising it?”

Dead as shog. All he got for his efforts was cold, stabbing agony.

“Galen, some assistance please,” Ludo said. He adjusted his spectacles on his nose, gave a nervous cough. “Just support him, will you?”

Strong hands gripped Shadrak from behind.

“Don’t worry, old chap. The adeptus used to be a field chaplain. He’s done this a thousand times.”

“Done what?”

Crunch!

Shadrak screamed. The ground lurched, but Galen held him firm. Nausea smothered him like a blanket, and he swallowed down bile.

“It will be sore for a while, and you may have some weakness,” Ludo said, “but, Ain willing, it will heal.”

Bird was staring at the roasting rabbit, lips moving silently. He made an elaborate gesture with his fingers before turning away.

Albert dabbed at the blood on his hands with a handkerchief. When he’d finished, he waved it around with a look of distaste. He looked like he was going to drop it in the fire, but instead he muttered something under his breath and pocketed it. He picked a bit of flesh from the spit and tasted it, sniffed dismissively, and then ambled over to the mule to forage through his packs.

Nameless watched Bird through the eye-slit of his great helm. He belched loudly, rubbed his guts, and strode from the clearing, axe over one shoulder.

Ekyls nodded his head after the dwarf. “He strong, that one.”

Bird looked up from stroking the mole, pebbly eyes moist and mournful. “Even for a dwarf.”

Shadrak felt the urge to question him.
There is something about this dwarf; something that not even I expected
,
Aristodeus had said. He’d almost let that something slip, but the homunculus with the dreadlocks had stopped him.

Bird seemed to read Shadrak’s thoughts, and offered him a smile that was both reassuring and regretful. Before he could say anything, Ekyls raised his hatchet at the vraajo.

Bird’s voice cracked out. “No, Ekyls of the Mamba. This is not the law.”

Ekyls gnashed his teeth. “What you know of Mamba law, homunculus?”

Bird continued to stroke the mole, his black eyes inscrutable. “I know much of the Mamba. More, perhaps, than you.”

Ludo raised his palms to Ekyls and cautiously advanced.

“One more step, priest, and me chop you,” Ekyls said.

Galen pulled Ludo back by the shoulder and drew his saber.

“Mawg attack us,” Ekyls snarled. “Use magic. Now me smash skull.”

“You will do no such thing, bondsman. At least, not until we have questioned it.” Albert was back at the spit, slicing off strips of meat and sprinkling them with spices.

Ekyls sucked in a deep breath and then skulked over to the fire to sit cross-legged beside him.

The mawg let out a guttural growl that might have been laughter. Its bloodshot eyes rolled slowly around the scene, taking in everyone and everything.

Galen thrust his chin toward it. “Don’t suppose it’s with the ruddy giant, is it?”

“Stake my gonads on it,” Shadrak said.

Galen frowned.

They’d expected goblins, but if they’d known about the vraajo, the plan would have been different. Less haphazard. More certain. At least, Shadrak’s would have been.

“With the death of Sektis Gandaw, the mawgs run wild,” Bird said.

Shadrak nodded. “But a vraajo without its pack? That ain’t usual.”

Albert left the fire and hunted about on the ground until he found a metal caltrop. He cleaned it with a rag and dropped it into a pouch of boiled leather.

“Best to keep your distance until I’ve found them all.” He beamed as he scooped up another. “Enough poison on them to fell a horse.”

Galen glared at Ekyls, sheathed his saber, and hurried over to Beatrice so he could check her hooves.

Albert lifted the thorny branch that had struck the goblin out of the way with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that was rather nifty.” He looked around with a self-congratulatory smile.

Nameless emerged from the trees, fastening his britches. He took a long look at the mawg. “No sign of any others. Think we got the lot of them.”

“Moths to the flame, my dear,” Albert said. “Just like when I was a boy with my first love of lepidoptery. Hunt the hunters, eh? Best way to weed out goblins.”

Albert was right. Goblins were easily overcome in a straight fight, but that was not their way. They would harry their quarry, picking them off one by one. They were almost impossible to hunt: sly and stealthy, barely visible in the dark.

“So,” Shadrak said to no one in particular, “what are we gonna do with the dirtbag?” He flicked a look at the vraajo hanging from its wrists.

“The Mamba tribe knows the mawgs well,” Bird said. “They speak the language.”

“Surprised you don’t,” Shadrak said, eyeing the mole.

“Not natural,” Bird said. “Creatures of Sektis Gandaw, remember?”

“Bondsman,” Albert said.

Ekyls was sullenly drawing shapes in the mud with a finger.

“Do be a darling and ask the wretched thing where the entrance is.”

“And if there are any others,” Shadrak added.

“Entrance, goblins, mawgs,” Albert said, as if reiterating a shopping list to a child.

Ekyls stood without complaining, shouldered his hatchet, and strode over to the mawg. He made some low growling noises deep in his throat, and was answered by a snarl. Ekyls’ hatchet came down. There was a scream, a spray of black blood, and the vraajo spat teeth to the ground. New ones immediately slotted into the gaps from the rows behind.

“This is preposterous,” Galen said, covering Beatrice’s eyes and looking to Ludo for support. “Downright barbaric.”

Ludo shrugged, as if he were helpless to intervene.

Shadrak knew the sort. Always preaching nonviolence, but then turning a blind eye when it came to making a stand. He’d have a justification for staying out of it, and probably a bunch more for what Ekyls was doing. Some shit about the greater good, most likely.

He scoffed and turned his attention back to the torture. Compared to him, Ekyls was an amateur, but it’d be amusing, and they might even glean a snippet or two of useful information.

Ekyls bashed the mawg with fist and axe, over and over and over. Gore stained his arms to the elbows, spattered his face. The mawg’s howls of pain turned to whimpers. Its breath rattled and sputtered in gasps. In between beatings, it barked desperate responses to Ekyls’ questions. Shog lot of good it seemed to be doing the poor bitch, but you had to admit, it was a spectacle.

Albert jingled his pouch of caltrops and held up a glass vial to Shadrak. “Out of the two, this was the more effective. Scorpion venom blended with the poison from five different species of jellyfish from Portis. The other was a bit slow. Still, might be good ingested.”

Shadrak suppressed a growl. Couldn’t the fat shog see he was trying to concentrate. He knew better than to upset Albert, though, so he accepted the vial and squinted at the contents.

“Better than the mamba stuff?” He swirled the liquid inside.

“Oh, no. Good grief, no.” Albert pulled another vial from his pocket—a long thin tube this time. “Still holds its place as the philosopher’s stone of toxins.” He kissed the glass and tucked it back away. “As far as I know, it’s the only distillate of mamba venom on Aethir. All thanks to our dear friend Ekyls. Even in its natural form, it did for the other scouts the chief loaned me. Should have killed him, too. Would have done without my expertise.” He gave a slight bow. “I bet even Sektis Gandaw never found an antidote. And, do you know, it was surprisingly simple. Once you understand the basics of old Earth chemistry, of course.”

Shadrak handed back the vial. He’d heard it all before: Albert’s quest for the venom of a Malkuthian black mamba; his stay with the tribe; his display of “great medicine” in return for the scouts. The serpents were sacred to the Mamba tribe, the offspring of their snake-headed god.

Nameless approached and pulled Shadrak aside. “Did you see what the little fellow did? The other little fellow, I mean.”

That should have earned the dwarf a knife in the nuts. That, and the fact everyone and their mother seemed intent on ruining his entertainment. The rate Ekyls was going, there’d be nothing left of the mawg to chop off in next to no time.

“Bird?”

“Yes,” Nameless said. “Magic. That business with the trees; and I can’t say I’m fond of it. Had my fill of homunculi in Gehenna. It’s bad enough having to put up with them at the Perfect Peak. It’s why I go so long without feeding. Can’t stand the shifty shoggers, present company excepted.”

Shadrak snorted at the slight. Well, it would have struck him as a slight from anyone but Nameless. Made the whole thing more troubling, though. If Nameless thought it, chances were he believed it. That just added weight to the niggling idea virtually everyone Shadrak met put about: that he was one of the spawn of the Demiurgos. He shrugged off speculation in that department the same way he shut out the loss of Kadee, or the desire to know who his real parents were. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, so it didn’t need to take up valuable space in his mind, the way he saw it.

“Don’t look now,” Nameless whispered, “but the creep’s watching. Do you think he hears everything we say?”

Shadrak couldn’t help himself and looked anyway. Bird was studying him with furrowed brows, the hint of a smile curling his lip. A gentle smile, maybe even tinged with sadness.

There was a long drawn-out gurgling and a sickening slosh. Shadrak spun back to face the mawg, just in time to see its head hit the ground and roll across the clearing.

Albert stopped it with his foot, then kicked it off into the trees. “No more questions, I assume.”

“No more need.” Ekyls was painted with dark ichor from head to toe. He gave a wide, jagged grin. “Mamba tribe know how to talk with mawgs. Goblins, all gone. Back to the clay. They just hunters for Sartis.”

Shadrak rubbed his shoulder. Already, the pain was no more than a dull ache. Nothing he wasn’t used to. “And the mawg? What was it doing here? Working for the fire giant, too?”

“Only mawg to serve. Outcast from pack. No more mawgs here.”

“Thank shog for that,” Nameless said. “Although, give me a dozen without the magic, and I’ll show you how to skin them with an axe.”

“And the tunnel?” Albert asked Ekyls.

Ekyls’ grin grew even wider. “Follow me, like old days. Before me undead.”

He scampered into the trees, not waiting to see if the others followed.

“What’s he mean undead?” Nameless leaned on his axe. “Sounds like a character from one of old Rugbeard’s tales.”

“Primitives,” Albert said, by way of explanation. “Ekyls and the other scouts uncovered a nest of mambas. Vicious little buggers, mambas. Kill a man in seconds. Ekyls was closest to me, so I tested my antidote on him. Should have brought a cart, as I jolly well had to carry him back to the tribe. Their witch doctor told me no one had ever survived a mamba bite. They believed it was impossible. So did Ekyls. Do you know the thanks I got for saving his life? The old coot put a curse on me, and the chief banished us both. I think they thought I was a necromancer. Still, every cloud… Ekyls thinks he’s a dead man walking, with me holding the strings. If I understand him rightly, he needs to do my bidding, be my bondsman, to earn the right of release into whatever dismal afterlife these savages believe in.”