1 Hunting a Gorgon

Year 924YC, in the Year of the Church

THREADFIN TODDER’S SHOES sank into four fingers of black sludge. With a sucking pop, the undead mage pulled out a foot to inspect the damage. In the predawn, the brick-walled tenements of Tystria loomed on either side.

‘Told you to wear the brown pair.’ Podral Pole positioned the dripping torch for a better look. ‘With the silver thread. You know, the ones you hate?’ The Darken, clad in a grey cloak over borderland oiled leathers, wore an irritating grin as he nudged Threadfin. ‘If you ask me, you don’t look too magerly this morning.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘Ask.’

Pole smirked. ‘Aren’t you supposed to look like one, at least? I mean, for the effect and all.’

‘I don’t feel too magerly,’ Threadfin whispered. He drew on his reserves of magic, feeling the healthy blisters on his body deflate. He felt the dark weave embrace him. ‘There, now. Mage-like enough?’

The otherworldly cloak switched from hardened scales to mist, and to ethereal black feathers, until he was satisfied. Beneath his power, he wore an actual cloak of silver-grey over ornate clothing. He preferred drab and dirty if he was honest. However, good borderlander’s garb was hard to come by this deep in the imperium. Yes, that was the reason.

‘Makes no difference to me,’ said his Darken, scratching his chin. ‘Your sister’s the one you need please.’

‘Thank you, Podral.’

‘Wonder what new outfits she’s got for you. You know, for when we get home. I did suggest a nice bit o’ lace around the—’

Threadfin uttered a growl. ‘What’s with all your grinning anyhow?’ Nothing, which kept Pole smiling, could be good. Wasn’t healthy all that cheeriness, especially considering their task these days.

‘Met a high up sort, he did,’ laughed corporal Nevet, as he approached. A scrawny man from Icarthya’s Prole Quarter, the greencloak was returning with their lead scout. The bronze butt of Nevet’s spear sank into the mud as he halted. He wore bronze greaves, disdaining the regular swal leg wrappings worn by most soldiers, though where he’d gotten the money for them was anyone’s guess. ‘It was while her old husband—’

‘Shut it, Nev.’ Pole stuck a finger under the white-haired soldier’s broken nose, next to the scar under his right eye, which was almost a mirror of Pole’s own. Nevet’s left eye was milk-white and never blinked.

Knowing him, thought Threadfin, eyeing his Darken, he’s been with the governor’s wife or something as bad. Not like his sister didn’t have enough political resistance to deal with.

‘Mr. Mage, um, sir,’ mumbled the scout who hung behind Nevet. He was scratching at his crotch, with a sputtering torch in his other hand. Mud caked him from head to toe, his green legionary cloak turned brown. ‘A washerwoman we met,’ he mumbled, ‘she, ah, claimed something savaged her husband. Impossible to get more, what with all her blubbering. Makes me jittery, all the snotty weeping and stuff. My Ma never used weep about nothing. No, she never did.’

‘It ate her husband, Grudge,’ said Pole with a sigh. ‘What did you expect her to do? Laugh and dance about with a big grin on her face?’

The scout shrugged. ‘Didn’t eat all o’ him.’

Threadfin stared at the soldier. ‘Are you suggesting having half a husband is better than nothing?’

‘I guess it depends on what sort he were, don’t it?’

‘Um,’ said Nevet, ‘I don’t think that’s the point, Grudge.’

‘My dear ol’ Ma,’ the scout continued, ‘did a dance when Da died, she holding the knife and all. How I’ll always remember her. So happy. My Ma had a beautiful smile.’ He pinched one nostril and snorted.

Threadfin grimaced. Breathers had disgusting habits sometimes. He picked at a maggot burrowing behind his left ear, and flicked it away.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said Vilt, arriving with two other corporals. An Ancyran sergeant with white scars on her neck, vivid against darker skin, Vilt shifted an oil-wrapped composite bow and quiver on her back. ‘Grudge was dropped on his head while his Ma was dancin’.’ She gave the scout a playful shove and a wink. ‘It’s why his smile’s always lopsided, but what a smile, right?’ Grudge grinned back at her.

The viral mage shook his head. Breathers were odd at the best of times. He turned away, trying to get a sense of where to go next. The stink of sewage and sodden earth filled his nostrils. At least the city smelled good. Beyond the alley were more tenements, warehouses, and alleys. The mage lowered into a crouch, skeletal fingers hovering over the print they’d discovered. His talent didn’t involve tracking, but he wanted to get a sense of their quarry.

‘It must’ve gone that way,’ said Grudge, pointing to the right.

Nevet was watching their mage, as he asked Pole, ‘Ah, he’s not doin’, you know ... any weird stuff, right?’ When the Darken glared at him, he threw up his hands and added, ‘Hey, just askin’.’

Stooping beside the mage, the Darken examined the print before addressing the scout’s assertion. ‘Well, Grudge, you said the same after it ate the baker’s aunt in Frayle. Same after it made a right mess of ten cows, two grolg, and a merchant’s wagon. Still no sign of it though. A paw print. So how can you tell it went that way? It’s one print. How does that happen, anyway?’

‘Well, the last bit’s simple enough,’ said Vilt. ‘It’s a gorgon. It’s not from this world, is it? Don’t need a better explanation.’

Pole rose and motioned Threadfin to follow him. Together, they moved off to the opposite side of the alley.

‘Look,’ said the Darken in a low voice, ‘we’ve traipsed through city after city, gutter to gutter. Five miserable months, lad. We should be getting back home. Your sister’s gonna need you to help consolidate her position. She’s beset on all sides. There’s rumour of a rebellion brewin’ against her.’

‘Four,’ said Threadfin.

‘What?’

‘Months. You said five. It was four.’

‘Listen,’ Pole continued, sticking a finger under the viral’s nose, ‘you need to do what needs doin’ or let this one go. We bagged fourteen wargs, and don’t forget eight traitorous thraels. I’d call it job done.’

He wished he could let it go. I’m not meant for this magery business, he thought. Should’ve opened a nice shop or something. Selling fancy shoes with gold and silver stitching. His Darken was right. Aiyana was depending on him to clean things up, and they had done a fair job of it. He couldn’t help her on the political side of things, though. Everyone knew they were both undead, but he looked the part. He’d be more a hindrance than a help.

‘If you won’t take a life sometimes,’ Pole muttered, ‘you’ll never achieve your full potential. I heard what Scatter told you.’

‘We’ve got work to do,’ said the viral turning to leave. He didn’t like where the conversation was leading. Taking the lives of enemies was one thing. Of innocents too? Once, he hadn’t cared about the living. Times changed.

Pole grabbed his arm. ‘Aside from your sister, you’re the first Grim-accursed undead mage, in what, two hundred years?’

‘My own name’s good enough, Pod. No need to go throwing fancy titles about.’

‘Thought you’d dropped the “Todralan” bit?’

‘I meant my first name.’

‘The imperial marshal’s gonna promote this lot when we get back, you know.’ He gestured in an off-handed manner at the others. ‘She can’t find enough officers, never mind soldiers. Leastways, none good. Loyalty’s hard-earned, but if they’re loyal to you, they’ll be loyal to your sister. But if any others die because you hesitate ...’

Threadfin winced. Images replayed in his mind, of bodies blackened and shrivelled. How many had died because of his magic when he’d fought Gog during the invasion? Then, it had been because he’d acted. Others had since died because he hadn’t. Magic was a dirty old business.

‘You’ll want the full o’ your power to kill this creature. If you’re committed to bagging it, you’ve no choice. You can draw on us, but you told me it won’t be enough.’

Threadfin eyed his Darken. ‘We’re not discussing this any further. If you—’

A deep-throated growl erupted, followed by a tremendous crack. They all froze. Distant cries and screams, then silence. It had come from the direction Grudge had indicated.

‘I guess we found it,’ said Nevet, as Threadfin and Pole returned to the others.

‘Yep,’ said Vilt with a grin. ‘Our amazing scout was right after all.’ She ruffled Grudge’s hair.

Five minutes later, following more screams, and after a hard run through several alleys, they reached a dead-end. An expanse of pale brick with no entrance in sight. The soldiers spread out in formation, guarding their rear, while Pole and Threadfin examined the wall.

Grudge had a white-knuckled grip on his spear. ‘Must’ve come from inside,’ he suggested over his shoulder. He seemed to need Threadfin’s approval. The mage couldn’t understand why since no one else did.

‘Don’t suppose we could blow a hole in it?’ asked Nevet. Vilt gave him an elbow, along with a stare full of meaning.

‘What ... oh, yeah,’ said the corporal, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry, ah, never mind what I said.’

‘I can go one better,’ muttered Threadfin. They didn’t trust his talent, except maybe for the scout and he wasn’t in his right mind.

‘Alright,’ said Pole, realising magic was about to erupt, ‘the rest of us will take the long way around. Has to be a door somewhere.’ Before they left, he leaned in close, and whispered, ‘I’ve faith in you, lad. Don’t mess it up this time.’

Threadfin tried not to dwell on those parting words as he placed a scaly hand to the brick. He focused on the life forces of the living in the vicinity. Over the past several months, he’d learned to increase his range, and his senses fed him information too. He knew everything about the people he drew upon and saw glimpses of their lives. It had made him hesitant.

Presently, he sensed an old woman, tumours ravaging her as she lay in a cot of soiled sheets and bugs. Days from death and in terrible pain. He drained her life, and felt a pang of guilt, but what matter a few days? This way was merciful, wasn’t it? He felt the pustules on his scaly chest and back bulge, filling with her stolen life. They would appear as healthy growths on an otherwise withered body. He’d once tried describing it to his Darken over lunch. It hadn’t gone well.

Another one, a blacksmith who was hale and muscled. Him too, but a lighter touch. The breather would need a few weeks abed, but he’d live.

A man beating his wife bloody in their home, shattering her nose, breaking her jaw. Him too, but much more. He might survive, but if he did, he wouldn’t be the same man. No guilt there. The viral threw in some rats, a few pigeons, two starving kecci, and a cat, though human life was the most potent. None of it would be enough to take the gorgon down.

I’m still a thief, he reasoned, remembering his time in Lame, if a different sort these days. Now, I steal the most valuable thing of all.

Drawing on the acquired life, his magic burgeoned. His fingers pressed into the brick, making a depression. Further in, and they vanished. For phasing, he didn’t need a reflection to work with. Instead, he became the reflection. Another twist of the rules, which like everything else, he’d discovered by accident. Unfortunately, those accidents had all resulted in embarrassing incidents.

He followed through with the rest of his body ... and got stuck. Now this, he thought in irritation, has never happened. Fortunately, being undead meant he didn’t need to breathe. Moving was nice though.

He calmed his mind and searched for a solution. When he realised his body hadn’t fully solidified, he forced himself forward. The wall resisted, but with a sucking pop, which convinced him he’d left something behind, he came out the other side.

Within an unlit corridor he patted himself down, including between his legs, but nothing important was missing. Despite the darkness, his viralic sight spotted wooden steps going up. He heard the constant drip of water, and saw the walls were saturated, smothered in moss and mould, while his ruined shoes produced ripples in the puddles. He also had the feeling someone was watching.

With a wary backwards glance, he climbed the stairs. The upper wooden floors of the building were rotten and split with gaping holes. Touching a little of his magic, he let dark vapours curl about his legs and glided across the chasms. The rooms to either side lay empty but for gnawed bones and rags.

It’s here, he thought, when an animal whiff reached his nostrils. The bastard hunts. The gorgon, though not of this world, had taken on a semblance of realness, of solidity, which made it lethal to anyone.

The dark ether of his magic billowed outward like creeping shadows. It seeped beneath doors and into cracks. Instinctively, he also sought out life. Drawing on the gorgon wasn’t possible. It wasn’t alive, and despite its solid form, didn’t have anything for him to draw upon. He’d tried the one time they’d cornered it, and Pole had lost four greencloaks.

He stood outside a room, while his sight pierced the murk within. The largest chamber, with scattered pieces of furniture and a bundle of rags in the far corner. He caught a stench of old urine and faeces, but animal not human.

Mists of magic curled about his feet ensuring silence as he entered. Crunching fingers into a fist, a blade appeared in his right hand, formed of a dark miasma. The blade held no reflective surface, and was tougher than any metal.

He stepped amidst the debris of old furniture, while his power wandered like a dark fog. A warped bronze bed lay tossed amid shattered wood, peppered with pigeon-leavings. On what remained of it, huddled into a ball, was a girl in a woollen brown dress. Filth covered her head to toe, and there was a musty stench.

Threadfin lowered himself into a crouch before her. The child had buried her head in her knees, arms about her legs. He let the weapon vanish, feeling uncertain. The bones of the old building groaned in warning, which told him time was running out.

The girl raised her head, dirty blonde hair spilling across a pale face. She had unnaturally large pupils, eyes like a cloudy sky, and appeared unafraid. The living often surprised him. After all, he felt terrified.

In one hand, she clutched something wrapped in coarse cloth, tied with twine. A silver pendant on a chain hung about her neck, out of place with the rest. He touched his own silver crucifix out of habit.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she whispered, and reached out a hand, fingering his scaled desiccated face, his recently acquired horns. No one, but his sister, ever wanted to touch him. ‘I know you.’

Threadfin flinched at an echo of crunching masonry, punctuated by growls. ‘What is your name, little one?’

‘Astra.’

The viral felt his chest tighten. Oh, don’t be such a white-livered cringeling. There must’ve been dozens of women with the name, although he’d never met any. ‘Well, Astra, I need you to come with me. There’s a big, well, a big sort of beasty with teeth. It’s headed this way. Come with me.’ He needed to get her out and fast.

‘You’re too late,’ said the girl, as he moved with the intention of lifting her up. ‘It knows I’m here. It hunts both of us. It likes to eat the dead and you’re close to death, like a half-cooked meal. It doesn’t enjoy living meat so much, except when it’s very hungry.’

Threadfin paused halfway, mouth open and no words coming out. He shut it with a click of his teeth.

‘They know you’re looking for her,’ the cheeky brat went on, ‘but you’re in the wrong place. She isn’t in this world.’

Threadfin attempted to hide his shock, certain he failed. Somehow, this girl knew. His first lead in months. He wondered if he had heard right. ‘Can you tell me how to find her?’ The words came in a whisper.

The child offered him a cold smile, which made her look older. ‘Through a man you once knew who once knew you, who is not the same man or any man, anymore.’

Threadfin winced. Spectrum above, but I hate riddles. Did he dare trust the words of a child? How could she know about Lorn anyway? Maybe he was hearing what he wanted to. ‘Listen, we need to go, now.’

She shook her head. ‘No, you must go in the direction of Tiral,’ she said. ‘You must leave soon. He will try to stop you.’

‘Who? The man I once knew, or whatever you said?’

She shook her head. ‘No, this one is you and you are he, but not all of him is you as you are now. You must destroy the Fetch, undead one.’

The what? He felt nauseous, which took some doing considering he was undead. Maybe she’d taken a knock. Breathers often turned grolg-brained after a wallop to the skull. Still, he couldn’t let what might be his only clue slip away. ‘The Shathra Stone. Does it mean anything to you? What else do you know?’

Astra returned a blank stare.

‘Huh, never mind.’ He probably wouldn’t have understood her answer. The room shuddered from an impact. He stood and whirled to face the far wall. Mouldy plaster split and fell.

‘Stay behind me,’ he cried, as the sounds of crunching stone and timber, the guttural growls, all ceased.

Silence filled the room, thick and foreboding.

The gorgon had found them.