The Queen's assassin

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sardec lay on his back and looked up at the bright moonbeams slipping in through the chinks in the curtain. Sleep would not come. Rena stirred beside him. He lay still, not wanting to wake her. Soft footsteps sounded on the stair and he sat upright. Someone knocked on the door. Sardec rose, slipped the lock and looked out. Sergeant Hef stood there.

“What is it?” Sardec asked.

“Weasel and the Barbarian just came in, sir. Lady Asea is below. Looks like they found a lead on the necromancers everybody is looking for. Her Ladyship would like you to lead the lads out and investigate.”

"Can't it wait till morning, Sergeant?" Sardec knew that it could not, but he felt he needed to vent his exasperation.

"I don't think so, sir," said the Sergeant. "They say it’s important."

"All right then, lead on," said Sardec.

“What is it?” Rena asked from the bed.

“Duty calls,” said Sardec

Sardec trudged through the snow, wondering what was going on. The raggedly dressed men with Asea had led his unit to the remains of a collapsed building. There were some signs of burning but it looked like it had fallen when hit by something big. This whole street had suffered during the siege; a large section of the city was abandoned now by all but scavengers and beggars and worse things. There was a strange smell in the air, a hint of something he had encountered before, something disturbing and strange that reminded him of the graveyard encounter with the ghouls. The moment his nostrils twitched he reached for his pistol. Sardec dreaded the presence of ghouls.

“This is the place,” said the more villainous of the two men. He was a Kharadrean human of the lowest type. This war had certainly given them some strange allies. He checked his pistol and made sure all the men had truesilver bullets loaded. He had been told to expect sorcery. The stump of his missing hand itched where the gutta-percha padding met flesh, a constant reminder of how dangerous evil magic could be. He looked at Asea who stood there with her half-breed lover. She was garbed for war, in her strange living leather armour and silver facemask. Sardec lifted a lantern.

“Wait here,” Sardec said, just to let everyone know he was in charge, and then gestured for the Foragers to enter the ruins. There was still a ceiling overhead although tumbled at a crazy angle. The bright moon shone through the gaps, illuminating an interior partially covered by snow. Shafts of silver light speared the ground in a dozen places. Wreckage lay everywhere — broken furniture, torn clothes. At the back of the room was an open trapdoor of the kind that would normally have run down into a coal cellar. As he approached it, the smell got worse; there was a hint of rot, and chemical bleach, as if someone had set up a tannery inside an old abattoir.

He looked at the men. They were pale and nervous and looked to him for leadership. He picked up the lantern with his hook and made for the stairwell. The Sergeant and the Barbarian and Weasel fell into step behind him.

Blood, he thought, as he descended into the gloom. Blood and chemicals. The stairs took him down into a large cellar. Something squelched beneath his foot as he reached the bottom. The stink of rot followed a bellow's wheeze. His footing was soft and slippery and he realised why soon enough. He was standing on a dead body. More dead bodies lay round about. They were oddly pale. He got off the corpse, looked around and saw that the flesh was white, the eyeballs grey. There were faded bruise marks in the arms and neck.

"No blood," said Weasel. His voice was sombre. "Something drained them of blood."

"What's that?" Sardec asked pointing to the large metal tub, bigger than a wine-vat, that dominated the centre of the cellar. It seemed like they had encountered nothing but dark sorcery this whole year, ever since they had ventured into the valley of Deep Achenar and fought with the followers of the Spider God and the thing they had worshipped. Sardec shivered. He had lost his hand during that encounter, and almost his life. It had made him wary. He wished he still had his truesilver blade, but that had been turned to slag during the final battle in the abandoned city.

He looked around the walls. More corpses hung from hooks, some split like pigs at a butcher's shop, others still intact but pale, so pale. His skin crawled. He fought the urge to run from the place. If he had been alone, he might have, but it would not do to let the men see he was afraid, so he strode forwards towards the vat, conscious even as he did so of the fear that gnawed at his stomach, as if a massive rat were in there trying to bite its way through to his heart.

He heard something and paused, shocked. One of the corpses had shifted on its hook. For a moment, he feared that it had come alive, and was about to attack him. Memories of the Nerghul, the strange sorcerous assassin Lord Jaderac had sent to kill the Lady Asea back in Morven, gibbered at the back of his mind. That thing had almost killed him despite the presence of a squad of troops and the most powerful sorceress in the western world.

Sardec moved closer, set the lantern down nearby and looked into the vat. It was filled with a reddish black congealed fluid. Blood, he thought, with chemicals added to it to keep it liquid. There seemed to be something deep below, a vaguely humanoid outline that moved disturbingly, as if currents in the fluid were shifting its limbs. Heat rose from the vat and it bubbled obscenely, sending odd little farts of chemical exhalation into the air.

Sardec bent down and looked below the vat. It stood on metal legs. There was a mechanism that looked like a boiler; pipes connected it to the bottom of the tub. The chemical smell was more intense.

Something touched his forehead, wetting the brim of his tricorne hat before dribbling down onto his head and hands. A chill ran down his spine. He looked up and saw that the fluid had slopped over the edge of the vat. Something large and spidery crawled into view. It took him a moment to realise it was a hand.

Sardec sprang upright and brought his hook down in a vicious arc so that it pierced the back of the hand. Reddish fluid oozed forth from it to flow back into the vat. A head emerged from the liquid, to be followed by a broad pair of naked shoulders and a massive burly torso. He slashed at it with his hook and drew more blood. The thing made no noise and reached for him. He sprang backwards and away.

"What the hell?" the Barbarian shouted. Sardec looked around. The intact corpses on the hooks had started to move, flailing their limbs as they attempted to dislodge themselves from their hanging places and get to grip with the intruders in their domain. One by one, like obscene fruits dropping from an overloaded tree, they hit the cellar floor and began to advance towards the startled soldiers.

Sardec snatched the lantern up in his hook. "Back!" he shouted, "Out of the cellar." He knew it was imperative that they not be trapped down here. Once they were on the surface they could call on the rest of the Foragers for help. If they failed to get away, these night-stalking things would emerge and take the troops by surprise. He was not going to allow that.

He raised his pistol and fired it at the head of the thing in the vat. The bullet caught it squarely between the eyes. The whole back of its head exploded. Brain jelly splattered one of the animated corpses hanging behind it. The undead creature vanished beneath the surface of the vat like a drowning swimmer. A long-barrelled rifle spoke thunderously as Weasel shot down another walking dead man. The Barbarian raced into the room, blade held in each hand, filled with desperate fury and desire to get to grips with his undead foes.

"Back!" Sardec roared. "Get back I tell you! We don't want to get trapped down here!"

The Barbarian had already reached one of the foes. He slashed it with his left blade and buried the right in its throat. The creature kept on coming, despite the terrible wounds.

"Get back, you great northern idiot!" shouted Sergeant Hef, raising his own rifle, and taking a shot. He was not as accurate as Weasel in the poor light and it thunked into one of the hanging sides of human beef, sending it swinging on its hook. Weasel was already at the top of the stairs, reloading, and getting ready to cover his companions as they retreated. Whatever else Sardec thought of him, he gave the former poacher credit for presence of mind.

He strode over to the Barbarian, yelling at him to retreat. He prepared to slash at any walking dead man with his hook. He was here until the Barbarian got out. Under these circumstances he was not going to leave any of his men behind. "You can't kill them, northlander. They are already dead."

The sense of this seemed to cut through the Barbarian's fear-induced fury. He gave a wide scared grin and began to back away towards the stairs. His eyes seemed too wide, his skin too pale, as if something of the evil magic in this place had already started to affect him. Sardec prayed this was not the case.

He let the Barbarian slip past him, not quite sure why, save that he felt it was his duty. The big northerner was undoubtedly much more capable of taking on one of these things than he was. Weasel's rifle roared again and another one of the dead men went staggering back to fall back into the bubbling vat. Sardec watched its blood-caked feet jerk spastically for a moment before it vanished below the surface. An image of some sort of horrid mating taking place down there filled his mind. Disgusted he pushed it aside as he backed towards the stairs.

"Get out," he yelled at Weasel. "Go rouse the others. We need every man we can get."

Another thought struck him. It might be best to try and blow these evil things apart. "Get grenades ready as well."

He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Weasel understood and was already departing. Sergeant Hef was right behind. The Barbarian had already begun to scamper up the stairs. Sardec hoped he did not trip. Now would not be a good time to be caught in a tangle on the steps. He gave his attention back to the oncoming undead. Their eyes glowed with a reddish light and their bodies seemed to exhale putrid air with every step. It was as if simple motion forced rotten gases from their corrupted lungs out of their mouths and the gaping holes in their pale naked bodies. Some of them had very long nails, almost claws. He had absolutely no doubts that those talons could tear his flesh or gouge out his eyes. He had no intention of remaining down here to test this empirically if he could help it.

The corpses moved noticeably faster now, like sleepers reaching full wakefulness after a doze. One or two of them lumbered forward. Their balance was not good, and they weaved like drunken men, crashing into one another, finding only unstable footing on the corpses strewing the floor. Sardec put one foot back on the stairs and began to move up them. He slipped his pistol into his sash and transferred the lantern to his good hand. He began to swing it backwards and forwards in front of him, hoping that it would keep the creatures at bay. The light fluttered but remained bright.

What had they found here, he wondered? Had this been the residence of a necromancer, performing his unholy arts hidden from his neighbours? Or was it the temple of some murderous cult who re-animated their victims for their own unholy purposes? Sardec knew there were many secret Brotherhoods throughout the land, and some of them dabbled in very dark arts indeed. He thought of the Prophet Zarahel and his followers who had almost succeeded in unleashing the Spider God Uran Ultar. Had they stumbled over a cult like that here?

He remembered the Lady Asea's theory that Zarahel’s work might have been sponsored by Talorea's enemies. He recalled also the Nerghul that had been unleashed against them in Morven. Perhaps this was yet another site where the agents of the Dark Empire had been at work. Perhaps those things trying to break free below had been created with a military purpose. Perhaps there were more places like this. If that were really the case, this whole huge city might prove to be nothing but a vast trap. For a moment the image of whole regiments of undead troops emerging into the night filled Sardec's mind. Perhaps they could not be killed. Perhaps they would sweep all before them. Or perhaps they were only the shock-troops of some new sorcerous threat. He pictured the Nerghul or a host of creatures like it emerging to lead the horde of darkly resurrected warriors.

Get a grip, he told himself. So far this nest is the only one you know of. It's the only threat you can see. Deal with it.

The dead came ever closer. Sardec wondered if he could make it to the head of the stairs.

"You are going in there, with all those walking corpses?" Rik knew Asea was going to. He was just trying to delay the inevitable. The soldiers who had emerged from the cellar looked terrified. Sardec was still in there playing the hero.

"There can’t be more than a few of them, and I am not going in alone — you and Karim are going with me."

"I was afraid you were going to say that." In the back of his mind, the voices whispered warnings. They did not like the walking dead. There was no nourishment left in them.

Asea produced a sphere from her collection of sorcerous adjuncts and screwed it into the end of a brass wand. With a word, she lit it. A soft glow emerged from the depths of the crystal. She let out a long breath and gestured for them to proceed into the tumbled building.

"Let's go," said Asea.

Karim virtually sprang to the head of the stair. Rik moved more slowly to follow him. The Barbarian pressed along behind. He might be keen to impress Lady Asea, but he was not that keen. He moved to the head of the stairs and looked down. With the Barbarian blocking most of Asea's light behind him, corners of the room were shadowy, but even so he did not like what he saw.

Sardec crouched on the stairs. Walking corpses shambled towards him. Asea raised her wand and spoke a word of power. Chained lightning danced within the chamber, flickering from animated body to animated body. A smell of frying meat and ozone filled the air. The walking dead slumped to the floor. Whatever spark of infernal fire had animated them was gone. Rik surveyed the scene with cold eyes while the voices whispered panicked phrases in his head. He did not know what had frightened them more, Asea’s lightning or the sight that greeted his eyes.

The chamber was a butcher's shop full of human corpses. In the centre of the room was a tub full of fluid that roiled agitatedly.

Karim sprang lightly down the stairs and Rik followed more cautiously, treading as silently as ever he had done as a thief in Sorrow and paying just as much attention to his search for hidden traps. Karim moved around the room looking for any enemies.

Rik moved cautiously towards the bubbling vat. He held his sword ready. Fear churned in his stomach. The voices gibbered as if they sensed his fear and responded to it.

His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom now. He wished his nose would get used to the stink, but he doubted it ever would. He paused a moment and glanced around. It was like being in a butcher's shop, except that instead of sides of beef from cattle, the hanging bodies were those of men and women. He shook his head, as for the first time he really considered what had gone on here.

Someone had worked with all this stuff. It had not just happened to be here. It was the product of a lot of work and a lot of preparation. Someone had spent a good deal of time and money creating all this. What sort of diseased mind would do that? There would have been a time, not so long ago when Rik might have had trouble answering that question, but not now. He had encountered too many wicked sorcerers and their creations to have any trouble with that. He knew there were people who would do anything for power. There were those who would work dark miracles to satisfy their own curiosity and bolster their own egos.

He peered down into the vat. The fluid churned and he thought he made out two dark shapes down there. An almost overpowering urge to bend closer and look in filled his mind. He fought it back. He knew the price such inquisitiveness could exact from bitter experience. He was somehow not surprised when a head broke surface. He found himself face to face with a pale animated corpse, blood dripping from its hair and open mouth and eye-sockets. It reached for him, and instinctively he brought the blade up into the guard position as Karim has taught him. The point of his blade almost touched the hellish thing's chest.

It did not stop the creature. It pushed forward, trying to clamber out of the blood-filled tub despite the point piercing its breast. Rik leaned forward, putting all his weight on his front leg as he drove the blade home. Dark fluid flowed. There was an odd sizzling sound and the smell of burning flesh as the magical blade bit deep. Wisps of smoke flowed from the wound, more reddish black fluid dribbled from the corners of the corpse's mouth. It slid forward along the blade reaching for him. Its yellow-toothed, grey-gummed smile was ghastly, for there was no expression in its filmed, dead eyes.

Rik sprang back, ripping his blade free. From out of the gloom something streaked by. It buried itself in one eye of the creature and came out the other side. A moment later Rik realised it was a black fletched arrow. Barely a heartbeat later, another one took out the other eye. The corpse tumbled forward and lay still on the ground.

Everyone stood frozen like statues for a long minute while they waited to see what would happen next. Eventually Asea broke the tableau and advanced to inspect the corpse and the bubbling vat of hell-broth it had emerged from. She sniffed the air.

She swept over to the nearest of the corpses. The stink was awful. There was a suggestion of rot and chemicals and something else, curdled milk perhaps. Asea bent over the corpse, took out a small steel pin from her purse and collected a sample of the nauseating fluid. She studied it quite closely, sniffing it. Rik wondered how she could do that without showing any signs of illness. He supposed that after two millennia of practicing sorcery you could get used to anything.

"What is it, Milady?"

"Necroplasma," she said.

"What?"

"Necroplasma. It is a substance used by alchemists and necromancers when re-animating corpses. It is based on blood and used instead of it. You drain the blood from a corpse, fill it full of chemicals, perform certain unholy rituals over it and then re-inject it into the dead body to animate it."

"It's obviously been used here then."

"Nothing much escapes your keen eye, does it, Rik?" He looked at her sharply. Asea was not often given to the use of sarcasm. Perhaps she was feeling more strain than she showed.

"What is going on here, Milady? Why would anybody want to make these things?"

"A good question, Rik, and one to which there are several answers. The most obvious one is that they were making soldiers from the corpses."

"One cellar full would hardly be enough to hamper our whole army."

"Indeed, therefore it would be perhaps be wise to assume that there is more than one hiding hole for these things."

"Perhaps it was only one Necromancer going about his business."

"It would be nice to think that, but these days I find myself overly suspicious."

"If it's any consolation I share that trait. What are we going to do now?"

Asea examined the alchemical furnace under the vat. It was a complex device and she studied the workmanship almost admiringly. "We shall empty this vat and bring this equipment up into the light. I want to study it and see what clues I can find about its builder."

Rik wondered if that was the only reason she wanted to study it. In his association with the Lady Asea, he had discovered she was possessed of a certain fascination with the darkest of lore. There were times when he found that quite worrying about his patron.

He moved round the corner of the room. Looking behind the hanging corpses, he saw that there was another door that had been concealed by their bulk.

“I think I’ve found something,” he said. He picked the lock and opened the door. It swung ominously open.

The area Rik had found was much bigger than the cellar, and it was full of machinery. Asea pushed through with her wand and illuminated the area. Rik made out a vast complex of brass pipes and alembics. There were more corpses on tables. Someone had been dissecting one. Others had pipes stuck into their arms and had a strange shrunken look.

“What now?” Rik asked. He did not like the look of this in the slightest. There was something very strange about the bodies on the tables. He moved over to the one on the dissection table. It had a weird elongated look and its skin had a scaly quality. Vestigial fangs filled its mouth.

“Bloody hell,” said the Barbarian, pushing up behind Rik. “It’s a ghoul. Somebody’s made a fair mess of it too.”

He was not wrong. The flesh of the stomach had been flayed away, and various organs had been removed. Judging by the expression on its face, it had been alive at the time. Or as alive as such creatures ever got. Blackened, diseased-looking kidneys and other entrails half-filled the abdomen still. There was something odd about it. It took him a while to realise what.

“No blood,” he said.

“No bodily fluids of any kind, I would guess,” said Asea. She pointed at the pipes that ran into the bodies. Rik followed her gesture and noticed that the metalwork all flowed towards a complex of vats and alchemical engines.

“Why?” Rik asked. “Is somebody draining their bodies to make potions?”

“I don’t know. What could anybody hope to gain from the bodily fluids of ghouls? I know of no spells or alchemical serums that require them. I don’t like this at all. Everything here is in working order. It looks as if the owner just left.”

“Perhaps we should put a guard on the place?”

Asea nodded, preoccupied. She began to search the place. She found some leather bound books on the shelves at the back of the laboratory.

“Anything useful?” Rik asked.

“I don’t know. This seems to be gibberish. It’s most likely written in some personal cipher. It may take some time to break.”

“Malkior claimed that there were many Thanatomancers at work in the Dark Empire. Is this the sort of thing they would do?”

Asea nodded. “It has the feel of their peculiar madness. I just can’t work out what exactly this was intended for.”

“But you are going to find out.”

“Our lives may depend on that.”

The voices whispered in Rik’s head. They liked this place. They really liked it. He shuddered and made his way out, even as Asea called for Sardec and gave him instructions to see that this place was sealed off.

Jaderac watched Asea and her minions emerge from the building and cursed. The warning from his brothers had come just in time. A few minutes later and he would have been found in situ, not hiding in the shadows of this ruin. Fortunately most of what they needed was away now, shifted by dead of night to abandoned mausoleums in the Grand Cemetery, the contents already being put to good use in preparation for tomorrow night’s ritual. At least there was nothing in the lab that would lead back to him.

He pulled his cloak tight against the cold and seethed with fury, wondering who had betrayed him. Was it that dolt Sardontine? Or that treacherous little bitch Tamara? She had been playing her cards very close to her chest recently. Rumour had it that her father was in Halim, but Jaderac was inclined to discount that. What would he be doing here? He should be heading back to Askander to contest control of the Brotherhood with Lord Xephan, his replacement as Chancellor and as head of their secret order.

He looked at Asea and her lover and that arrogant cripple Sardec and wished that his new Nerghul was with him. He would have set it on them, and had it slay the lot of them. Even though it seemed flawed and slow compared to the first one, it would be more than capable of killing all of them. But his creature was up in the cemetery, guarding the stores for the ritual against any interlopers. In any case, he told himself, he would not risk it now, not when he was so close to ultimate success.

Tomorrow, after the completion of his great plan, there would be time to settle all scores.