God of Broken Things

Chapter 17

Vincent and Nareene were sequestered inside a tent filled with all the special alchemic supplies I had requisitioned for her, supposedly deep in discussion about how they could be used to improve tonight’s festivities. Blatantly ignoring the odd and animalistic grunting they were currently making, I put the rest of my coterie to work clearing a circle of snow on the hilltop. I didn’t trust anybody else, and tonight’s work best suited murderers and sneak thieves used to quick and silent and unscrupulous work, not wardens who might hesitate to kill unarmed people. They began piling snow up in mounds around the circumference, large enough to hide themselves when the time came. The lanky young magus, Bryden, stayed with them to keep any flying eyes from ruining our little surprise. He seemed most disturbed by my two silent thralls, and I think it served as an unwelcome reminder of just whose orders he was following.

The Skallgrim were on the move, a long line worming through the snowy mountain valley towards us. It would be slow going, the footing treacherous and the route winding, narrow, and entirely unsuitable for an army. It would take perhaps two days for them to reach our position, or three in any great force. Assuming we survived past tonight, it offered us enough time to locate suitable sites for setting ambushes and rockslides to further delay their march south.

As the sun dipped lower and dusk deepened, we seven magi assembled in the circle at the peak of the hill. The enormous grin Vincent wore had wrought a remarkable change to his entire demeanour and his sneering long face became something approaching pleasant. At our backs stood seven Gifted druí, supposedly there to guard us from the Scarrabus’ daemons. Lying bastards. Still, at their backs were ten high heaps of snow containing villainous bastards ready to slit their lying throats: Diodorus and Adalwolf bore bows and had arrows dipped in one of the hired killer’s most lethal poisons, made from a little brown mushroom of all things. Baldo, Andreas and my two thralls had spears buried in the snow beside them, Vaughn clutched his new big axe and the others had knife, sword and shield. I looked forward to seeing yet another Scarrabus dead. Those things had been directly responsible for Lynas’ death and each and every one of the things I could kill was another little piece of vindictive joy.

We formed a circle and linked hands around a hodgepodge of elaborately decorated magical items gleaned from Granville’s personal belongings – as an artificer he created such items and was rarely without some. The druí, not being trained magi, would not have the faintest idea they were not the great and powerful weapon I had claimed they were. Our ‘mystic circle’ made for a decent show but the handholding also allowed my magic easier access into the other magi’s minds through their flesh, making it all but undetectable to the druí. I will let you know when they are about to strike, I thought to the others. I wasn’t inside their heads but I could still feel uneasiness welling up, mental walls raised higher and subjected to constant scrutiny. Only Eva seemed to trust me, but the others didn’t even really know me and their distrust was entirely understandable. I was stained by a foul reputation that even a bout of uncharacteristic heroism could not wash away.

While we stood in silence I gradually reached out to probe the ‘trustworthy’ locals standing guard, careful not to push too deep lest they feel it. The thoughts of only two stank of Scarrabus, the other five simply leaking a burning hatred of everything Setharii, from our corrupt morals and Setharii-centric selfishness to our pretentions of empire. They were more than happy to stick the knife in. I wondered if the uninfested humans had been promised that Kil Noth and the Clanholds would be spared if they went against the orders of Angharad and the other druí. I didn’t much care what their reasons were; only the actions they were about to take mattered. Anything that sided with the Scarrabus was just another bug I would stamp on.

We waited, murmuring meaningless arcane-sounding gibberish under our breaths. Granville and Cormac caused the ground to tremble underfoot, keeping up the fictitious story of unleashing a geomantic apocalypse upon the enemy. A short while before true night I felt Eva’s spike of alarm, her eyesight greatly enhanced by a knight’s body magic allowing her to spot a swarm of black dots diving from above: a huge flock of bone vultures and one of the flying lizards, a fearsome thing all fang and claw.

Not yet. Wait until we can hear them. I readied my power to give the druí a push.

It was difficult not to look at oncoming danger, not to fight against our human nature, but we were magi and fighting against our desires was what we had been trained for; we managed. When the daemons were perhaps thirty seconds from attacking us, and their squawking became audible, we looked up and gasped at the same time I gently suggested the druí’s attention should also be focussed upwards.

They took their gaze off us only for a moment, but that was all Secca needed. She worked her illusionary art, magic enveloping us as we carefully stepped away from the circle, rendering us invisible and leaving simulacrums behind in our stead. The druí made ready to stab us in the back the very moment we attacked the daemons, when we would be distracted and vulnerable.

Secca made our illusions look upwards, break the circle and glow with power. False fire erupted from Vincent’s hands, billowing up towards screeching two-headed daemons with snapping beaks and razor-claws. Before we could cause too much damage the druí struck. Fire and lightning leapt from their hands to turn our circle of magi into a maelstrom of death, annihilating the illusions with waves of heat and visual distortion. Daemons plunged into it to finish us off and only found themselves ripping red furrows into each other.

Vincent didn’t even have to set off our little surprise buried below the cleared circle – the betrayers did that all themselves. Nareene’s gift to the war effort was a barrel filled with her special blend of incendiary alchemy. The ground erupted, killing two druí outright and shredding the others with sharp stone and dirt. A fireball roared into the darkling sky to consume the diving flock of daemons.

Now! I screamed. Magic flooded through my body, sharpening senses and strengthening muscles.

My coterie erupted from their heaps of snow to thrust spears into the backs of the Clansfolk druí. Vaughn swung his big axe around his head and down, splitting Murdoc’s head and torso in two with a single blow, bisecting the squealing Scarrabus inside. Nareene squealed with joy as she rammed a knife into the side of another’s throat and ripped it forward in a spray of blood offered to the raging fire. Swords and knives rose and fell in bloody butchery, burning bright in the firelight. The dazed Clansfolk fell in moments without knowing who had killed them, leaving us facing only burning panicked daemons.

Bone vultures fell screaming around us and the huge flying lizard roared and plunged into the snow, scales sizzling. Its tail lashed round and caved in one of my thrall’s ribs, killing him instantly. I felt his death like a distant pinprick, and just as upsetting.

Diodorus and Adalwolf loosed their poisoned arrows, having no difficulty in hitting such a large beast. The shafts plunged deep into its hide. They backed away and loosed again as it surged towards them, fanged maw snapping. Then its slit eyes clouded over with red and it coughed, spraying black blood and bile across the snow. It looked confused as Diodorus’ fungal concoction spread through its body, still feebly trying to reach and eat them even as it coughed up a glistening heap of its own guts. I’d always hated mushrooms and now I felt vindicated in my belief that those foul rubbery things only masqueraded as food.

As devastating as our ambush was, it still left a large flock of screaming, scorched and confused daemons milling above us. With Secca’s illusion broken they quickly noticed us off to the side and came for us, claws outstretched.

“Burn,” Vincent cried, thrusting his hands up. Roiling flames again roared into the flock.

The air whirled around Bryden and lashed out, clipping wings and sending a handful of daemons plunging into the heart of Vincent’s inferno.

Cormac and Granville caused a dome of stone spikes to rise around us, warding off most of the bone vultures that made it through the fire. Those that did were met by Eva, blade singing as it lopped off heads. I plunged my knife in and out of any impaled daemons, finishing them off before an errant claw could rip a hole in one of us. The flock were being driven off in frantic disarray, with Vincent and Bryden picking them off.

My plan had worked perfectly. Which, given my typically shitty luck, is when everything went wrong.

Not all daemons flew, but then not all daemons needed to walk between there and here in this realm. Some could leap through the shadows and travel through their own strange realm to emerge elsewhere…

My enhanced senses gave me a split second warning before stone spikes shattered and obsidian claws the size of knives ripped through fur and cloth on my back and the skin beneath. Without that warning it would have torn out my spine. I spun and fell, landing badly, bones shrieking with pain as my blood splattered the snow all around.

The shadow cat was the size of a horse. Impenetrable blackness boiled from its fur as those burning green eyes focused on me, lusting to kill with a very personal malevolence. I had thought the entire pack dead, but apparently this one had not been present to be slaughtered at the hands of the traitor god.

I lashed out with my mind as I had with the bone vulture.

The shadow cat hissed and shook its head. The mental structure of every creature was different and my magic scrabbled to find a way in.

I’d bought only enough time to lift my right hand up to ward it off before vicious fangs crunched down. I wasn’t sure who was more surprised when its fang pierced the leather glove and then broke. Inky blood gushed over the exposed black iron plates covering my hand.

A thrill of bloodlust and power as my hand drank in the daemon’s magic-rich lifeblood. Hungry! the familiar voice of Dissever howled in the back of my head. That dark daemonic spirit had been slumbering ever since it escaped its imprisonment in my spirit-bound blade. The taint left in me was awake and it wanted blood.

My fingers clenched of their own volition, piercing the shadow cat’s jaw with inhuman strength and sharpness. It roared and tossed its head, shaking me like a ragdoll, ripping my sleeve to pieces. My hand refused to let go. Had I been a mundane human I would have died.

Eva saved me from having my entire arm ripped off. She was much smaller than the daemon but twice as fierce. She shoulder-charged it to the snow, her magic-wrought strength beyond even that of the great daemonic cat. Her sword plunged deep into its flank and then ripped out in a glistening arc of darkness.

My hand plunged deeper into its flesh, feeding as the thing died and dissipated to black mist. With the surviving bone vultures in full retreat back to their Skallgrim masters, that left Eva staring at my exposed arm. The taint was visibly spreading and black iron plates rose to cover all the skin halfway up my forearm. I couldn’t move it at all, though it could still feel.

“Hide that,” she whispered as she flipped me onto my front and applied pressure to the wounds running down my back.

I hissed, and then used my mental skills to deaden my own sense of pain. “How bad is it?”

Her mask made it difficult to tell what she was feeling, but her eye glared accusingly. “A lot of stitching needed but your back will be fine in a couple of days. Lucky you heal fast even for a magus.” I kept my hand hidden as she waited for a medically-trained warden to bring her bag and patch me up like an old coat so I didn’t bleed out.

“That plan went far better than I thought it would,” Vincent said, still grinning from his earlier misadventures. He dusted ash and charred bits of daemon from his robes. “Dozens of daemons dead at our hands and Scarrabus destroyed. Not even a scratch on me.”

I glared up at him until his stupid grin vanished.

I’ve said it before, and will hopefully never have to say it again, but I fucking hate shadow cats. Almost as much as I hate people.