agathokakological (adj.) composed of both good and evil.
Monsters on the wall. Red coats dropping around them. Czarnecki's face pale. Schovajsa's shoulders set. Pushing through the crowds, moving past pushing hands, wading against moving throngs of people. Yes, hands – everywhere, hands. Wedding rings – copper and tin, shiny flints of nothing. Not worth the trouble, not now. Overhead: bang bang bang. Ground shaking underfoot, the roil of a great earthquake. As though the kingdom itself was alive and bucking; like the whole city was trying to shake intruders from its back. Hard to walk when the entire street quaked like this. Hard to keep your balance, even when you had spent your whole life doing nothing but.
Was that the cannons (bang bang bang) or was that the druj (bang bang bang)?
Might have been either. Might have been both.
It was easier to move now. Here, in the shadow of the western walls. The druj were coming from the west. And from the east. And from the north. People were fleeing south. Towards the centre. As if the Schreaves would ever let them into the inner rings; as if there was any relief to be found south. People up high never bothered themselves with the people down low. The more people in the district, the bigger the panic and the crowds, the slower the druj would move towards the palace. Magic was one kind of draw; meat was another kind altogether. More visceral. More real.
But still, here, at the walls themselves – some crowds. Enough. Enough to provide cover. People pressed up against iron gates. Hands scrabbling through the grates. Begging for help, begging to be let through. Redcoats on the other side stood still. Ignored their pleas. Faces impassive. Overhead, louder than thunder, the cannons. It was almost familiar by now. It was almost soothing; it was almost rhythmic. Bang, bang, bang. Death with every thunderclap. It was indiscriminate. The Aizsaule clocktower had already fallen. Torn bits of metal littered the streets. What had once been numbers and hands and cogs. There was a child screaming in the crowd; his mother was trying to pass him through a gap in the stile. Back towards Tiamat, druj-infested Tiamat? Fear made people so incredibly stupid sometimes.
"The tunnels?" Schovajsa's face was hard. His status as guard would do nothing to help them here. He wasn't even meant to be this far outside the castle. His tone allowed for no discussion. No argument. The tunnels.
The tunnels – south again, putting the druj at their backs instead of approaching them head-on. The cannons overhead were a near-immaculate umbrella of ammunition. Though it threatened to deafen, it rendered most druj to a ribbon-like state the second they came too close. For those that escaped the ballistic onslaught, Czarnecki and Schovajsa had a sword each. Straight-tipped and flat, lightweight and rigid. The type preferred by the tagma; the type most effective when it came to disembowelling druj. Szymanska had gifted them, the bitch.
With every harrowing scream from the east, with every enormous crash, with every roar of the druj in a part of the city they could not see – Czarnecki's face paled a little more. Schovajsa's face hardened a little more. The world seemed to shake a little more. They would be worrying about the others, the Warriors left behind. Nirari, and Gehörtnicht, and Angelo. It was practically cloying. How quickly they had learned to fear separation from one another. Would they have kept Estlebourgh with them? Maybe they would leave her for the sake of an escape. Maybe she would become one body of many on the streets of Aizsaule. Or maybe the druj would just deal with her as druj usually did.
Every one of these thoughts had crossed Czarnecki's mind. That much could be seen. On his face. On the way he fixed his gaze on the cobbles in front of them. On the way he kept moving forward, almost mindless. As clear as a carving. Even as druj shrieked and writhed behind them. Beside him, Schovajsa scanned the skies. What was he looking for? Searching for the hiss and green-silver flash of the tagma in arrival? Searching for Mannazzu among their number? Searching for the winged druj?
Before them: the cobbles buckled. Bent outwards, like a hatching egg. An anvil head emerged from within. From the foundation of the church next to them. An anvil head, blind and mouthless, grey and impassive, more like an enormous slab of cartilage than a head as a human would know it. Leading a long, sinuous, worm-like body behind it. Overlaid with dull brown armour that flexed and contracted with each movement. Armour, leathery strong and inch thick. The swords looked much duller by comparison now. That didn't stop Schovajsa. He spun the blade in his hand; it whirled in a silver crescent. Tracing out a strange, sharp moon.
The druj did not bite. It thrashed. Swinging its enormous head like a hammer. Curved barbs embedded deeply in its neck promised a painful fate for any unlucky enough to be struck; Schovajsa dived beneath them. His sword bounced off the scaly skin. Harmless.
Harmless, except, perhaps, to make it angry. Maybe it would be satiated with these two, then – it would be an opportunity to run. The more of a nuisance the Warriors made themselves, the more of a pre-occupation they became for the beast, the slower the druj would move in search of other prey. Magic was one kind of draw; meat was another kind altogether. More visceral. More real.
On the other side, Czarnecki, more circumspect: aiming for the gap between the armoured plates. The druj was faster, twisting over itself in knots, removing the weakness even as Czarnecki spotted it. It spun itself. Faster than something of its size had any right to be. Constricting the two Warriors, who moved almost as fast as it did. And still the druj writhed, swinging that enormous block-broad head back and forth like a wrecking ball.
Monsters on the wall. Red coats dropping around them. Czarnecki's face pale. Schovajsa's shoulders set. A dagger glinting in a tight grip, a coin flashing in the noon light, a blade shining as it hurtled through the air. It was an impossible throw – it was a million-in-one chance of striking true. But the tithes had been paid, the scales had been balanced, the odds had been stacked.
Two options: it would hit, or it would not.
The scales had been balanced.
It hit. Of course it hit. There had been no doubt that it would hit.
It was almost as the dagger evaded the armoured body of the druj. It wavered in the air and then stabbed deep in the gap between scales. It would not kill it – little would – but it gave Schovajsa an opportunity to gouge a deep wound into its belly. It gave Czarneki an opportunity to hurdle its tail and find a clear path past. It gave them an opportunity to run.
Pride mattered little at a time like this. It was like the dagger. Two options: survive, or survive not.
They ran.
All this, and they were willingly venturing out. Back out into that wretched forest. Back out into the hive of druj and dead-men-walking. Not venturing. Running. Like the world was ending at their heels. Overhead: boom boom boom. Ground coming apart underfoot, the great shuddering sigh of a district about to cave in on top of itself. As though the kingdom itself was alive and in its death throes; like the whole city was shuddering with the cold. Hard to walk when druj exploded from the earth on every side. Hard to keep your balance, even when you had spent your whole life doing nothing but.
The apothecary in which Seo had worked for a sparse few weeks was missing a chunk from its roof. Like an enormous bite had been taken out of the tiles. The interior was slightly brighter, with the ceiling caved in so. The air was slightly less stale-tasting. A grimy atmosphere. Only a half-wall of shelves behind the counter. Beyond, the wokshop and the enormous furnace and bellows, like the open forge of a blacksmith. The alchemist himself was nowhere to be found. Dead already, most likely, dead or fled. Perhaps he had gone down the labryinth ahead of them – certainly, the rug had been thrown back over the trapdoor which led down into them. The hatch itself was sealed. Czarnecki and Schovajsa levered it up with some difficulty.
Here were the tunnels.
Schovajsa found a lantern amongst the wreckage of the shop. Lit it. Flame dancing. Handed it to Czarnecki. Frowned. "If you die out there, I'll kill you myself."
"Understood."
Czarnecki dropped down. Orange light painted black shadows on the walls of the tunnels. Peering one way, then the other. Interrupted before he could ask.
"Left. West."
"Thank you."
Schovajsa's face did not soften. "Look after him."
That was an act of desperation, if anything was.
"I'm hurt you thought you had to ask."
He must have recognised a lie when he heard it. He said nothing more, only closed the trapdoor over the hatch and extinguished all natural yellow light. Locked it loudly. No way out now. Only forward. The tunnel walls were smooth-hewn stone. Carved, clearly, by man or by machine or by magic. A hundred miles unfolded, beneath the walls. No druj had been seen, over all that distance.
Czarnecki's face, painted in flickering golden tones, was an inscrutable mask of determination and concern. The lantern light only lit the next dozen yards or so. "Left?"
"Left." No point in antagonising him unduly right now. Matters were still precarious. Druj were still stalking the land above. He still had a sword.
Walking now, briskly. Listening to the screaming overhead. Audible even through several feet of earth. Sometimes the walls of the tunnel shook. The air would waver. The lantern would dance madly. Czarnecki would pause, stare up at the ceiling, cover his eyes with one hand to keep away the dust. But no collapse. No druj. No trouble.
Walking now, more quickly again. The screaming overhead had stopped. Perhaps there was no-one left to scream. Then the walls of the tunnel reflected distorted echoes back to them. Their own footsteps. Their own breathing. Czarnecki would pause, stare back into the darkness, raising the lantern with one hand to keep away the shadows. But no tagma. No druj. No trouble.
Walking now, a little slower. A hissing up ahead, faint but clearly audible. Ensconced in the darkness. Now the walls of the tunnel seemed to grow tighter around them, tight enough to strangle. Two red eyes flickered into life in the dark. A third, a fourth, and a fifth. Czarnecki had paused, staring straight forward, putting one hand on his sword to draw in an instant. There. Druj. Trouble.
It grew closer, slowly. As though it knew its prey was caught, trapped. Trapped as surely down here, stone walls growing tight, as it would have been up there, stone walls rising high. Thick brown skin too large for its frame, so that folds of fresh dragged along the ground behind it like misshapen wings. An oddly human mouth, stretching wide, like its edges had been cut into an enormous smile, bearing yellow teeth like pointed tombstones. Oddly elegant paws, thin and flexing with three joints, tipped with the razor talons of a bird of prey. An eye everywhere an eye would fit, not human at all, blood red and crazed, wincing slightly at the brightness of the lantern. Curled forward onto all-fours, though its shoulders rose higher than the rest of it, like it would have stood to its full height given the space. Every part of it brushed the walls. Blocking the path in front of them completely.
Czarnecki still had his sword. Fingers curled tightly around a hilt designed for Szymanska. Not able to raise it, not in this cramped space; it was a sword for slashing. Going back wasn't an option. Not now. They were a few miles deep, a few miles in. It would surely reach for them, grasp them –
It was reaching for them now. Czarnecki scrambled back. Boots loud, incongruously loud. Blue eyes assessing the beast. Trying to spot a weakness. Hand grazing the stone walls of the tunnel. Eyes narrowing.
He swung the lantern in a large arc in front of them. The druj screeched and shrank back. Rising large again only once the lamp had retreated again.
"How good is your aim?"
"Perfect."
He ripped a strip of bandage from his pocket – the monster inched forward, they inched back – and dropped an apple into its centre as a weight, so that he could spin it like a bolas. Reaching into the lantern – the monster lunged forward, testing them, they staggered back – and lit the whole contraption on fear, so that it became a spinning arc of fire when he twisted it.
"A distraction."
He did not sound like Czarnecki.
"Look at it. It doesn't like fire. The light hurts its eyes. Drive it back – and throw this at the last second."
"Yes. And you?"
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He was going to try and take it while it was distracted – drive the sword deep and hope that killed it. Hope there weren't more druj later in the tunnels. Hope they lived to suffer another day. Hope, hope, hope. It was pathetic.
Well, it was his skin. And if the druj was distracted devouring him – there might be a chance to slip past. Magic was one kind of draw; meat was another kind altogether. More visceral. More real.
Czarnecki's face pale, his shoulders set. Fire spinning in an enormous arc in front of her, a coin flashing in the flickering amber light, flames reflected a thousand times over in the thousand eyes of the druj before them. It was an impossible throw – it was a million-in-one chance of striking true. But the tithes had been paid, the scales had been balanced, the odds had been stacked.
Two options: it would hit, or it would not.
The scales had been balanced.
It would hit. Of course it would hit. There had been no doubt that it would hit.
Shit.
The coin came down on tails.
It came down on tails. The clatter reflected through the tunnel. Reflected back over and over again. A low ringing. A low hum of a curse activating, of a drawback kicking in, of a tithe being paid.
No.
The makeshift bolas bounced harmlessly off the armoured shoulder of the druj, extinguishing itself with a soft hiss that seemed to echo around them a thousand times over.
No.
The druj opened its awful, smiling mouth wide, and roared. Hot, stinking breath rushed over them. Yellow teeth shone.
No.
She wasn't going to die. She wasn't going to die. She wasn't going to die.
She would not allow herself to die.
Her curse had failed.
Another curse, then.
It had already leapt. She was only vaguely aware of it. Like glimpsing a silhouette through muddy waters. Moving slowly. Like cutting through treacle. It would not miss. She had guaranteed that. Her curse had failed.
Beside her: Czarnecki, his eyes pale and unseeing.
She whispered. She didn't need to shout. He heard. He came.
Just like that: gh-ju-van.
Just like that: Ghjuvan.
Just like that: claws through flesh, fangs through skin, blood on the walls.