The Hammer and the Blade (37 page)

  Following the invisible road delimited by the terror of Rusilla and Merelda's mental emanations, they angled northwest. The city soon came into clearer focus, west and east, rich and poor, divided by the thick line of the river. Ool's clock dominated the skyline on the near side of the city, its sharp, smooth surfaces a dark blue in Nix's vision, and the waters of the clock's perpetual cascade – the water's motion which powered the clock's workings – a lighter azure. The arc and towers of the Archbridge soared into the sky.

  Seeing the bridge, remembering the huge, smooth blocks they'd seen in the ruins of the Wastes, Nix felt certain the same hands had been at work on both. The bridge had to be left over from the civilization that had died in the Wastes, the sole intact monument to a people who'd been destroyed, or who'd destroyed themselves. Considered that way, the bridge seemed not so much awe-inspiring as melancholy.

  They wheeled over the city, high above its cracked and crumbling walls. Street lamps lit the maze of streets here and there, populated by the red blobs of pedestrians and animals. He looked to the Warrens and would have smiled had he been able. The absence of street lamps did nothing to dampen the sea of red that thronged the streets and alleys. People, animals, life. The Heap's decaying organic matter glowed red, yellow, and orange, a mountain of brilliant color. For the first time, he thought the Warrens possessed its own kind of beauty, a warm, stubborn glow of red, orange, and yellow, a beauty that birthed people like Mamabird.

  He would.

  He was, or so he hoped.

  They winged over the Archbridge, with its dozens of shrines and hundreds of faithful, and to the western bank of the Meander. The bridge was the terminus for the ordered spokes of the roads that divided Western Dur Follin into the Temple, City, and Noble Districts. Large manses, expansive plazas, and parks dotted the streetscape. Far fewer people filled the streets.

  From up high, Western Dur Follin struck Nix as a lovely museum, a kind of tomb, enjoyable to look at, but devoid of life, absence the beautiful reds and yellows of the east.

  As a boy, he'd craved a life across the Meander, amongst the clean streets and manses. Hell, as a man he'd wanted it, which is why he'd suggested to Egil that they buy the
Slick Tunnel
.

  But he didn't want it anymore. He wasn't
that
kind of man. He was the kind of man who lived in the filth, heat, and beautiful decay of Eastern Dur Follin. He swooped over and past the wealth.

  He realized that Rusilla and Merelda's mental screams had gone quiet. They must have lost consciousness or given up.

  Or worse.

  The city disappeared behind them, giving way to a patchwork of tilled land and farmsteads, the terrain sloping ever upward as they moved away from the Meander.

  Ahead, he saw the steep escarpment traders called the Shelf. More than a long bowshot tall at its highest point, the Shelf served Dur Follin's wealthy as a location for their country homes, away from the hubbub of Dur Follin, a high perch from which they could look down on the city. It stretched a full league, running roughly north to south, and only two passes cut their way through it – the Neck and Zelchir's Fall. Otherwise, it presented only a sheer face of cracked, water-stained limestone.

  A tingling ran the length of Nix's body. He recognized it immediately and mentally cursed. The magic of the wand was expiring. He shrieked at Egil, who must have been experiencing the same feeling, and the two of them sped through the night air as fast as their leathery wings would bear them. They needed to at least reach the top of the Shelf. If not, they'd have to leg it to the Neck or Zelchir's Fall to get up the escarpment, and that would add hours. Nix angled upward to get a better view. He'd know the Norristru manse if he saw it: its image was graven in his brain by memories not his own.

  And there it was. Below and ahead Nix saw the cold stone walls and four squat towers of the Norristru manse, perched on the edge of the escarpment, as if the entire building were hanging on to the stone to prevent a fall over the edge.

  Nix shrieked and started to descend. The tingling he felt sharpened to needle pricks. He had only moments.

  The manse was part of a large walled compound that covered acres of gardens, orchards, and outbuildings. Even from a distance Nix could see that the whole of it was ill tended: gardens overgrown, walls crumbling, statuary toppled. Even a portion of the manse's roof had been removed or fallen into ruin. One corner of the upper floor stood exposed to the elements, the roof beams like ribs, the whole overlooking the cliff, the distant lights of Dur Follin.

  Motion drew his eye: blobs of red distinct against the cold blue-backs of the cliff face – Rakon, his sisters, the hulking form of the devil. They flew in a swirl of blue winds provided by the sylph.

  Nix squawked softly to ensure Egil had also seen. The priest's gaze was locked on them. They beat their wings and closed, moving much faster than the sylph. Perhaps bearing the devil put a strain on even the air spirit.

  The hulking form of the devil reminded Nix of his brother, Vik-Thyss, whom Egil and Nix had slain in the tomb of Abn Thahl, thereby triggering everything that came after.

  Abrak-Thyss was wider than his sibling, taller, the huge mouth where his neck should be filled with misshapen teeth as long as knives. Like Vik-Thyss, Abrak-Thyss had thick, lamprey-like arms that ended in toothy sphincters, but unlike Vik-Thyss, AbrakThyss had four arms: two at the shoulder, and two sprouting out of his chest under his mouth.

  In his serpentine stalks the devil clutched the limp, delicate forms of Rusilla and Merelda. They dangled in his grasp, heads and arms thrown back, Rusilla's hair floating free in the sylph's winds like a pool of blood.

  Seeing them in the devil's arms recalled to Nix his dreams, the memories he'd inherited from the eater, and kindled his anger to rage. He darted downward as the needle pricks of pain in his body gave way to a burning sensation. Aches flashed in his body here and there. He felt his form loosen as the magic began to dissipate. He shrieked urgency at Egil, both of them tucking in their wings and diving like shot quarrels toward their quarry. Nix had no idea what he would do when he reached them.

  The magic of the wand expired during their dive. Nix transformed in mid-air, shedding his scaled form, the magic carving him back into his normal form. Wings gained size, rolled up into arms; Legs lengthened, thickened. Then everything transmogrified at once and he groaned with the pain of being reborn into his own body.

  His descent was instantly fouled. He was hurtling toward Rakon and the devil, his heart in his throat, his stomach churning. He flapped his arms as if they were still wings, but that only served to make him cartwheel and tumble helplessly through the air. His field of vision spun wildly, a swirling mix of the night sky, the green moon, the devil, the Norristru manse below. His stomach rushed up into his throat and he could not hold back a shout.

  Rakon heard it, for he spun around, looked up and back, eyes wide, and saw Nix plummeting toward him. Nix thought the sorcerer shouted something at the sylph or the devil. The sylph tried to veer right but too late.

  Egil and Nix plummeted into the sylph's form and the winds of the creature, like an undulating pillow, absorbed some of their speed, but not enough. They slammed into the devil and Rakon in a tangle of limbs and shouts and chaos.

  Nix crashed hard into the devil's back, the impact knocking the air from his lungs, slamming his jaw forcefully on the creature's scaled back, and sending them both tumbling. The devil roared, his arms flailing.

  Nix saw sparks, his vision blurred, faded to black, but he deliberately bit down hard on his tongue before he lost consciousness. Warm blood filled his mouth, but the sharpness of the pain brought back his senses.

  The sylph keened, the alarmed sound in the wind all around them, and the air bearing them all swirled chaotically, as if the sylph had lost control of its own body. Nix separated from the devil, and the pillow of air below seemed to give way. He was falling, buffeted by ordinary winds, tumbling, shouting, the rapid spins of his descent ruining his perception.

  Shouts sounded all around him, mixed with the alarmed high-pitched keening of the sylph. Emptiness all around him. A disorienting, heart-pounding fall. He thought he caught sight of Rusilla and Merelda floating free of the devil's grasp. Perhaps the devil had released them when Nix had crashed into the creature, but he couldn't be sure. At the moment, he couldn't sort up from down, could not fix on any one thing for longer than a heartbeat. Sky, devil, moon, the manse below. Sky, devil, moon, the ground rushing up to meet him.

  He tensed in anticipation of impact but it did little to prepare him for it. His legs clipped the edge of the roof of the manse, flipping him head over heels as he fell the remaining distance to the hard floor of the unroofed, exposed room below. He landed on his back and the impact sent spikes of pain through his spine, chest, arms, and legs. Other loud thumps sounded near him, groans, the sound of wood cracking, the devil's snarl. Winds buffeted him, the agitated swirl of the sylph.

  "You are safely arrived at the manse, master," the sylph said, its voice like the breeze. "My duty is performed and I go. Pray do not call me again for another decade."

  The winds ebbed and all was silent. Nix tried to move his hands, his legs. They protested with pain but they moved. He hadn't heard anything break. The sylph must have slowed the fall enough to let him survive it, at least for the moment. He turned his head to the side and spit the blood he'd earned from biting his tongue.

  If Nix had survived, then so had Rakon, and so had the devil.

 

 

 
 

Nix had no time to evaluate himself more thoroughly. He lifted himself to all fours, to his knees, blinking, his vision swirling for a moment. He'd landed in the center of a summoning circle, the lead of its lines inlaid into the wood. The nonsense thought struck him that he'd been summoned out of the sky. He would've laughed aloud but his body hurt too much. There were other symbols carved or scribed or inlaid into the wood in other areas of the floor – an elemental circle, a thaumaturgic triangle, a binding diamond. They'd landed in a summoning chamber. Rakon's summoning chamber, which was open to the sky, to the vault of night, to Minnear, which shone full in the velvet of night.

  A metal staircase stood in the center of the open room, supported by cracked scaffolds. The stairway – thirteen steps, Nix noted – ended in an elevated platform. There Abrak-Thyss lay, his huge body and serpentine arms flowing over the sides. Ichor dripped from the sphincters that ended his thick arms. The small eyes at the end of the arms were closed.

  Nix shook his head to clear it, looked around. Rakon lay across the room, lifting himself off the floor with his hands, his face dazed, bloody, his skullcap askew, hair for the first time mussed. Egil was already on his feet, kneeling over Rusilla and Merelda, who lay near one another on the floor. The priest turned them over, put his ear to their mouth.

  "Egil?" Nix called.

  "They're alive," Egil answered, relief in his tone. "And untouched by the fiend, near as I can tell."

  Rusilla groaned; her forefinger curled.

  "And stirring!" Egil said. "Their eyes are open, Nix!"

  "Get away from them!" Rakon said, his voice a hiss.

  Egil rose slowly, turned to look at the sorcerer. His heavy brows darkened, vowing violence.

  Nix, too, rose. He wobbled, swayed, but stayed upright.

  "Kill them both, Abrak-Thyss," Rakon said. He coughed, spit blood. "Then honor the Pact."

  "Your devil is dead, sorcerer," Nix said, and drew his falchion. "There'll be no rapes in this house tonight. Just an execution."

  Rakon chuckled, the sound broken and wet.

  Wood creaked and cracked above Nix. He looked up, saw the eyes at the end of the devil's arms open, staring at him with menace.

  "Shite," he whispered.

  Rakon laughed louder.

  "Egil…" Nix said.

  "I see it," the priest answered. He put hafts in his hands, fixed his eyes on the devil. "Just something else I need to kill, then."

  Behind the priest, the lone door that led back into the house flew open and a bent crone in the faded garb of a noblewoman tumbled through. Her gray hair stuck out from her head in wild tufts. Her crazed eyes, one of them marred to a half-open droop by a scar, took in the devil, Rakon, Rusilla and Merelda, Egil and Nix.

  "Rakon!" she shrieked.

  "Back inside, Mother," the sorcerer snapped.

  But she didn't go back inside. She charged Egil, her thin hands bent like claws, a snarl revealing rotted teeth. Egil caught her up in his grasp while she clawed bloody furrows into his face. He lifted her from her feet and set her down firmly on the ground near the door.

  "Sit, grandma!" Egil said, and stuck the head of his hammer in her face. "Do
not
move."

  She snarled at him, hissed like a serpent, but stayed put as if planted there.

  Above Nix, the wood platform at the top of the infernally numbered stairs cracked as the devil shifted his bulk, twisted and stood. His arms flailed, muscles rippled under the scaled form, and the mouth in his chest opened in a roar of triumph.

  Nix backed off, treading on arcana, and the devil coiled himself and leaped from the top of the platform. His huge misshapen form landed with a thud that shook the floor.

  Dry, reptilian stink filled Nix's nostrils. One of the devil's larger arms snaked sidewise to eye Egil, who stood over Rusilla and Merelda. The other jutted forward and eyed Nix, the mouth open and dripping ichor. The two smaller arms flexed and bent near the devil's mouth, a reflexive motion like those of an insect's mandibles.