Pylos’ sword was buried so deeply in Remiel’s back, the hilt was against his spine. Remiel had fallen to his knees but remarkably was still alive, still conscious. His face was contorted in a horrified grimace. The physical pain was almost unbearable, but it was outweighed by his shock. Of all the members of the company, Pylos Castalia was the last person he thought would turn on him.
A tiny shatterbug landed on the window sill, casting a soft orange light over Remiel’s agonised expression. ‘Pylos… why?’ It was more a pained explosion of sound than speech.
‘I know who you are. I know what you are.’
‘I… am…’ Every syllable was an agony.
‘Your name is Remiel Grayson and you’re not a priest.’
Just as Remiel’s face was contorted by pain, Pylos’ face was disfigured by rage. His eyes burned with hatred. His teeth were clenched and his brow was a knot of poorly-suppressed rage.
‘I know you’re Morgai. The fight in the theatre, your healing of Gunther… these are things no priest could do.’
‘I –’
‘No lies!’ Pylos warned, twisting the blade in Remiel’s back. ‘You may be Morgai but I doubt even Morgai could survive having their spine severed.’
‘You are correct. I am who and what you say I am.’
‘Then this is all your fault!’ Pylos screamed. Spit flew out his mouth and his voice shook as his self-control slipped away. ‘You are responsible for all this death!’
‘It could be argued that I am.’
Pylos slammed his fist into the back of Remiel’s head. ‘How dare you! You gormless marrok!’ He grabbed Remiel’s cowl and ripped it back. He then took hold of his hair and pulled it back so that Remiel looked up at him though he was standing behind him. ‘You will give yourself up to the Ghul. You will end these atrocities tonight.’
Remiel gasped as blood pooled in his mouth. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered that? Do you think I like what I see happening across the Myr?’
Pylos tore at the thick veil Remiel wore across his face. ‘Let me see the man who has condemned the world to misery and death.’ He held his captive fiercely by the jaw, staring at him with a look of disgust. ‘So this is what Caliban looks like. This is the face of evil.’
Blood dribbled out from Remiel’s lips and ran down his chin onto Pylos’ hand. ‘Pylos…’
‘Do not ask for mercy from me!’ Pylos roared. He slammed down with his fist, driving his knuckles into the bridge of Remiel’s nose. The snapping sound of bone did nothing to satisfy the Helyan. ‘Will you heal yourself now?’ he screamed. ‘Will you? Coward!’
Remiel’s head slumped forward and the blood from his nose and lips spilled onto the floor. He was teetering on his knees. The only thing that was keeping him up was the sword Pylos had wedged in his back. ‘I can stop this,’ he groaned through his pain. ‘There are no other Morgai left who can help you in this fight. I am your only chance to –’
‘Why the deception? Why hide what you are?’
‘I cannot trust our company. We are compromised Pylos and you know it.’
‘I don’t care!’ Pylos growled, yanking back Remiel’s head hard. ‘I can take care of Maeldune.’
‘Then you do know?’
‘Of course I know. Do you take me for a fool?’ Pylos leaned close. ‘I will deal with him in due course. But Maeldune isn’t the topic of our discussion. You are! Why haven’t you given yourself to your vile twin?’
Remiel’s head rolled about on his neck. For all his Morgai power, he was fading. He wasn’t sure how much more he could withstand. He could feel his body going into shock. He could smell the blood leaking out the rents Pylos had made in his body. It was taking every ounce of his energy just to stay alive enough to answer Pylos’ questions.
‘Pylos, you cannot really believe that the Ghul will stop their attacks now they have been let loose upon the world. You cannot believe that the Cabal will return to the Endless now they have been freed.’
‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t believe!’ Pylos snarled. Without warning, he ripped the sword from Remiel’s back. The howl that left Remiel’s lips was bestial. He had lost himself in the pain. He fell forward onto the blood-soaked floor and could not move. His thoughts had lost all shape. For a time, he could not even remember his own name. The darkness of the building swirled around him and he couldn’t distinguish it from the darkness of his mind.
When Remiel regained focus, he wasn’t sure whether a few seconds had passed or a few hours. Sitting in front of him was the figure of Pylos silhouetted against the faint moonlight that leaked into the room. The shatterbug had flown away and they were left in darkness.
The pain that had shut down Remiel’s body had faded. His hands ran across his stomach to find that the gaping hole Pylos had cut in his abdomen had closed. His Morgai powers had saved him.
Remiel was surprised that Pylos hadn’t cut off his head whilst he was unconscious. ‘I am not killed?’
‘Not yet,’ said Pylos in a low voice. ‘I need to understand certain things. Only you can explain them to me.’
‘I shall do my best.’ Remiel lifted himself up onto his knees.
‘Why is all this happening?’
‘Why do you think?’ Remiel coughed and a thick globule of blood shot out of his mouth.
‘At a guess, I’d say revenge.’
‘Revenge. Yes, that’s certainly a part of it. That’s where it started.’
‘Go on.’
‘I believe he now derives enjoyment from what he does. In a twisted way, he is basking in the opportunity to justify his barbarities by claiming that they are acts of revenge.’
‘Do you believe you are blameless in all this?’
‘Not at all. My sins were well documented at the Assembly of Nations. I will not deny them now. But there is little that can be done to make amends. But I will do what I can to stop it. I believe I can end this.’
‘You could end this all by giving yourself up to the Ghul.’
‘Pylos, you know how wars play out. These hordes from the Endless will not go quietly back to the darkness. You want to hand me over to the Ghul, then do so. It will not save one life up here. Do not let him dictate terms. I have witnessed the future Caliban has designed. Thirty years ago, a Morgai seer explained it to me in horrifying detail. I have seen tomorrow Pylos and it is not something you would accept. We must write our own future.’
Pylos leaned in close to Remiel and responded through gritted teeth. ‘So what Sir Edgar suggested in the Cloud Chamber was true – this was all done in response to some mystic nonsense. Did you ever think, Grayson, that your intervention has brought about the very future you hoped to avoid?’
‘I think about it all the time. I cling to the idea that the future is fixed. Even as we speak, we are shaping what is to come. We don’t walk upon paved roads. We hack out our own routes, make our own paths and we walk at different speeds. As a soldier you must know that.’
It was a lot for a soldier to digest. Pylos stared at Remiel, unable to speak.
‘What will you do Pylos? Will you gamble our hopes on handing me over to the Ghul? You’re an astute man. You know what that entails.’
‘I must think on this further.’
‘We don’t have much time.’
Pylos stood up and stared at all the blood that dripped from his sword. It glistened in the moonlight. He wiped the blade on the side of his tunic. It was already stained – when he had picked up Gunther during Argas’ attack in the theatre, the Tethran had bled so much that Pylos’ clothes stuck to his skin. Another stain would not be noticed.
He walked to the doorway and turned around. Remiel stayed where he was, unsure of what the Helyan intended.
‘Are you coming?’ Pylos asked.
Remiel stood up slowly and picked up the cloth veil Pylos had ripped from his face. He wrapped this over the ridge of his nose which – though still broken – no longer hurt.
‘Why do you maintain the disguise?’ Pylos asked. ‘If Caliban knows where you are, why hide your face in this way.’
‘It’s not a disguise Pylos.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Believe it or not, I am a priest. My order requires me to wear this. You see, I didn’t join the priesthood to hide from Caliban. I joined for atonement. For my sins.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Not yet.’
They stepped out into the fresh air. A cool easterly wind was blowing across the plateau bringing with it the smells of the ocean. Remiel breathed deeply and underneath his veil, he smiled. ‘The Nessan Sea,’ he sighed. ‘It makes me think of home.’
Pylos made to walk away but was held back. Remiel had tentatively placed a hand on the Helyan’s shoulder. ‘Pylos, there is something else.’
‘What is it?’
‘I must ask you not to reveal who I am… to anyone.’
‘I am not easily given to deceit Grayson, but I do not think it is in the best interest of the mission to announce to our company that the catalyst for this great tragedy actually walks among us.’
‘What will you do about Maeldune?’
‘I am in two minds. He is dangerous. He would think nothing of slitting our throats as we sleep. But whilst he is among us, Caliban’s eyes are focused upon us and not on the other two squads. We improve their chances for success every hour we keep Maeldune alive. We know he is not to be trusted and that gives us an advantage whilst he believes we are vulnerable to his deceits. We may garner from him information about his master that may help us in our quest.’
‘Your reasoning is sound.’
‘Maybe, but it sickens me to think that if I don’t kill him, he may well outlive us all.’
‘Pylos, in the future I have seen, Maeldune will not outlive you. I have seen his demise.’
‘Is it painful?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us hope that is a future we have not altered in any way.’
A cloud of red dust seeped into the dry air of the Ganesa Plateau as Maeldune’s company made their way on snorseback to the bustling metropolis of Brigantia. At the head of the pack Pylos Castalia and Gunther Ross turned to one another and smiled. They had reached the eastern edge of the Ganesa Plateau. From where they stood, the escarpment fell away dramatically. At the base of it lay a densely packed city that sprawled out to the north and south. To the east, on the far side of Brigantia, the scintillating splendour of the Nessan Sea stretched out to the horizon, providing a colourful contrast to the dirty browns and blacks of the city that lay wedged between it and the plateau.
‘We’ve done well. I didn’t think we’d reach Murdertown so quickly,’ said Pylos.
‘Yes,’ Gunther replied. ‘We should get down to the city before sunset. Plenty of time for a few ales before bed.’
Pylos gave Gunther an encouraging grin. Gunther was trying hard to sound like himself, but the massacre of the Scarlet Rock Theatre was not so easily dismissed. The Tethran had said very little over the two days that had passed since the shocking events back at the theatre. Pylos was pleased they had reached the city – a few ales was just what Gunther needed.
‘Murdertown?’ said Gerriod as he clumsily pulled his snorse to a halt beside his companions. ‘I thought we were going to Brigantia?’
‘We are,’ Pylos said. He pointed to the cramped city lining the coastline below them. ‘Brigantia is its official name, but most people call it Murdertown.’
‘It’s hardly a welcoming name,’ Gerriod noted.
‘It’s not a welcoming place,’ Pylos said dryly. ‘Unless you’re a criminal. As far as dens of iniquity go, Murdertown is one of the most nefarious. It’s called home by some of the Myr’s most disreputable types. Thieves, assassins, cut-throats and pirates swarm to it like buzzbeetles to a honeyjuice pot. Ironically it is also home to the Hulks.’
‘The Hulks?’
‘You don’t get out much do you Gerriod?’ Gunther grunted. ‘The Hulks are massive iron prison barges where criminals are contained. You do have criminals back in Palia don’t you?’
‘Not really.’
‘It sounds like a strange place,’ mused Gunther.
They made their way down the escarpment and before long stood before the black gates of Murdertown. On either side of these broad, iron gates, tall walls cobbled together from sheets of rusted metal, tarnished steel beams and weather-stained ironwood posts stretched out to the north and south. The chaotic structure of the walls was unified by one design feature – a thick strand of rusted, barbed wire that curled along the top of the palisade. Over these walls floated plumes of acrid smoke that spewed out of the Machineworks, Tethra’s main foundry where all sorts of metal were produced for its citizens to embed in their skin.
Above Murdertown’s gates three men hanged from a gibbet. Two of them were still, their lives having expired when their necks were broken from the sharp snap of the rope. The third man was not so lucky. His neck wasn’t broken from the drop and he wriggled spasmodically as he dangled above the entry to the city.
At the base of the gates, on either side of the dirty road that led into the city, lines of beggars groaned insensibly as they stretched out their arms to the company. Many of them bore terrible injuries. When Pylos informed Gerriod that most of these injuries were self-inflicted as a means to evoke pity in passers-by, the mariner was torn between compassion and revulsion.
The city was no less confronting inside its high walls. The gate led to a bustling, noisy public place. Merchants hollered across the space hoping to entice a buyer to their tables where all manner of dubious items were for sale. These ranged from frightening looking weapons to vials of strange swirling potions that bubbled and hissed menacingly.
The pungent smell of burning meat thickened the air. Upon a spit in the middle of the courtyard, three thin, black carcasses turned around and around, watched eagerly by hungry children with grimy faces.
‘What is that?’ Gerriod asked Pylos pointing over to the spit.
‘Marrok,’ Pylos answered. ‘These would have been caught in the deserts of Helyas and brought across by ship.’
‘Marrok? How could anyone possibly eat it?’
‘If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything,’ Pylos replied.
As Gerriod continued to gaze about the courtyard, he could see the significance of Pylos’ comment. Murdertown and poverty were well known to one another. He could see women wearing rags propositioning anyone who looked like they had at least one gold coin in their pockets. He could see gaunt-faced men leaning against walls, staring back at him with little in their eyes besides murderous intent. He could see rattu scampering about the rubbish heaps that lay around the public space like civic statues. Murdertown may have been a crowded metropolis but it was not a community. Few people spoke to one another. Those who did speak communicated via whispers that did little to make the mariner and his companions feel welcome.
On one side of the courtyard, a number of haggard-looking felons were held in stocks. These thick manacles of wood and iron were fixed to large iron rings that had been set in the greasy flagstones lining the courtyard. The captives were bleeding from numerous gashes across their heads. Small rocks and rotten fruit lay around them, the debris of their public humiliation.
Gunther could see the horror on Gerriod’s face and the concern on Trypp’s. The burly Tethran turned to face the pair of them. ‘This area is just for stonings. If you want real entertainment, head over to Punishment Square in the centre of town. That’s where the choppers are.’
‘Choppers?’ Trypp inquired.
‘Decollation,’ Mulupo offered as an explanation.
Trypp and Gerriod stared back blankly.
‘Decapitation,’ Mulupo added seeing elaboration was required. ‘Beheading.’
‘Oh, not just beheading,’ Gunther scoffed. ‘There’s flogging and hangings. Occasionally the Magistrates let you sit in on one of their inquisitions.’
‘So this is home, Captain Ross?’ remarked Mulupo. ‘Quite a salubrious locale.’
‘You give me any more lip Spriggan and you’ll be joining those three unfortunates hanging above the city gates.’
Near the spit in the centre of the courtyard was a bronze statue that was covered with such a thick patina of grime it was difficult to see the metal underneath. It depicted a beast with a wide head full of tiny serrated teeth. It had three eyes, one located above the wide mouth and the others on either side of it. The creature had large claws that were held above its head in an aggressive pose.
‘What is that?’ Gerriod said bewildered as to why a city would place such a grotesque representation at its entrance.
‘It the ephemeron – it only lives for one day. It’s our national emblem. They used to roam the Ganesa Plateau.’
Maeldune sneered. ‘Used to roam – the Tethrans hunted down their national emblem to extinction.’
Gunther scowled at the Acoran. ‘What’s your point, Maeldune?’ He stepped forward, his metal-clad fist clenched tightly.
Maeldune stepped back and said nothing in reply.
Gunther’s burning stare let Maeldune know in no uncertain terms that he would think nothing of pummelling the Minister for Justice into the ground. Satisfied that his threatening gesture had been understood, Gunther turned to his companions and directed their attention to a crooked path that led down into the heart of the city. ‘I’m heading off to the Bowery for a decent meal and beer,’ he said gruffly. ‘Anyone care to join me?’
Without waiting to see whether anyone was interested in accompanying him, he sauntered off across the courtyard and disappeared into the deepening darkness of Murdertown.
Gerriod did not follow. He was transfixed by the individuals in the nearby stocks. ‘These men are kept in place whilst others throw rocks at them?’
‘I take it that you don’t conduct lapidation back in Palia?’ Mulupo asked.
At first Gerriod thought he was being sarcastic, but there was nothing in the Spriggan’s eyes to suggest that he was being anything but sincere. ‘If you mean do we throw stones at criminals until they bleed... no we don’t do that, Mulupo.’
‘Until they bleed?’ Mulupo echoed. He shook his head and stepped forward. His small hooves clattered on the courtyard flagstones. ‘Gerriod, these men will stay here until the exhalation of their last breath.’
‘They are stoned to death?’ Trypp gasped. ‘By whom?’
Maeldune decided to step in. ‘By their peers. Any free person may pick up a stone and throw it.’
Trypp’s gentle eyes squinted in the light of this comment. ‘And you call this justice?’
He turned back to look upon the men in the stocks. Two of them had their torn faces raised and he could see their eyes darting fearfully across the courtyard, apprehensive about anyone who wandered close enough to throw a stone. The third man, a much older person as evidenced by his blood-spattered, wrinkled skin and clotted masses of grey hair, hung in his stocks as if he had already died. Only the faint rise and fall of his shoulders suggested that he was still breathing.
Maeldune held out a hand and gestured towards a pair of swarthy Tethrans who were gorging themselves on pieces of marrok meat freshly cut from the spit. ‘Their crime was against society. Who better to exact the punishment upon these wretches than this man and this man?’
They watched the pair stagger past them. Though the sun had not yet set, the men were drunk and looking for either trouble, entertainment, or both. They eventually stumbled over to a pile of stones that lay not far from the men in the stocks. Malice revealed itself on the faces of the two men in the form of leering grins. They picked up some stones and gazed purposefully at the trio in the stocks. Before they had a chance to throw the missiles, they were distracted by a blue-skinned figure unlike anyone they had ever seen before.
‘Excuse me sir, where are you from?’ asked Trypp politely.
The metal-clad man he was addressing stared back quite stunned by the question. ‘What?’ he growled.
Trypp repeated his question, showing no sign that the man’s bulk or drunken state intimidated him.
‘From Corra,’ the man said reluctantly. ‘Why?’
Trypp ignored the question. ‘And why are you in Murdertown?’
Underneath the strip of iron that ran across the man’s forehead bloodshot eyes tried to focus on the strange individual who stood between him and his pleasure. ‘I don’t who or what you are, but you best get out of my way.’
Trypp was unfazed by the man’s belligerence. The other Tethran who was significantly more intoxicated than his friend just watched quietly, amused by the Sapphyrran’s effrontery. ‘Tell me why you’re here,’ Trypp said again.
‘To dispense society’s punishment,’ the man replied uncertainly.
Trypp knew he was merely repeating something he had heard before. The man probably didn’t even understand what he had just said.
‘So these men have committed a wrongful act against you, sir? You have a grievance that explains your presence here?’
The man scowled and stepped forward aggressively and pushed Trypp in the chest. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to an animal. I have more right to be in Murdertown than you.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said a confident voice behind the man. He spun around to find the scar-marked face of Pylos Castalia standing behind him. Pylos was smaller than the man but his stance was much more powerful. The Helyan had one hand resting on the pommel of his shatterstone sword. ‘You do have to explain yourself.’
There was no way the Tethran was going to push Pylos in the chest. Whilst he did not recognise Pylos, he knew he was being spoken to by a Helyan and even a Tethran knew to choose his words carefully in such a position.
‘How long have you been here, in Brigantia?’ Pylos asked calmly.
‘A little over a month,’ the man replied quickly.
‘And how many stonings have you participated in?’
‘Ah, that would be five –’
‘Five stonings in a month?’
‘No. Five stonings today. I couldn’t count how many I’ve been to since coming here. Maybe a hundred.’
‘So you have come here every day to throw rocks?’
‘That’s right,’ the man answered defensively. ‘It’s my… ah… civic duty.’
‘Leave now,’ Pylos said in a cold, steely voice. He took the rock from the man’s hand of the Tethran and tossed it away.
‘Come on Brunner,’ said the other Tethran who knew, despite his drunken state, it was not in their best interest to stay. ‘They’re running the gantlope in Punishment Square tonight. We don’t want to be late.’
The first Tethran turned to his friend excitedly. ‘Who’s running tonight?’
‘A couple of mortsafers they caught the other night.’
Without giving Pylos a second look, the two men lurched off across the courtyard and headed down the same dark path that Gunther had taken a few minutes earlier.
Trypp turned to Pylos. ‘Mortsafers? Gantlope?’
‘Mortsafers are a very specific type of criminal, exclusive to Tethra. You see, Tethrans bury a person’s belongings along with the body. This was once a problem. Coffins were constantly being torn open by grave-robbers. But then someone invented the mortsafe – a metal coffin. It stops most thieves but there are still some who will dig up a mortsafe and try to pry its riches from the dead. A Magistrate once called these criminals mortsafers and the name stuck.’
‘Yes, but what did that man mean by running the gantlope? I’ve never heard that expression before.’
‘Whenever a mortsafe is broken into, the family of the deceased gather in two lines in the city square. They are encouraged to bring their own cudgels and whips, but if they don’t have such weapons, the Magistrates here in Murdertown will often supply them. What happens is the mortsafers must walk the line, receiving the punishment the family hands out.’
‘They walk?’
‘At first they walk but usually by the end of the line, they crawl. That is, the ones that get to the end of the line.’
‘That man said they run the gantlope, not walk.’
‘Ah, that’s just wishful thinking,’ Gunther said dismissively. ‘No-one runs.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because anyone who runs is hanged.’
A light rain began to fall with the night. All over Murdertown lanterns were lit but they did little to dispel the dark atmosphere that lay across the town like a fog.
Pylos looked around the courtyard. Sefar was haggling with a nearby merchant over the cost of some item whilst Gerriod looked on. Trypp was rummaging around in his bag in pursuit of a few gold coins to give to the children who were hanging around the cooking marrok in the centre of the space. It dawned on Pylos that Maeldune was no longer with them. ‘Now where’s that slippery Acoran got to?’ he said to himself.
Hearing the comment, Remiel gave the Helyan an answer. ‘He skulked off whilst you were talking to the Tethrans,’ he whispered. ‘No doubt he is making some plans on our behalf.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. We should leave now.’
‘Not just yet,’ Remiel said in a distracted voice. He was looking over at the stocks. One of the felons was smiling at him. It was the old man. His body was no longer slumped lifelessly upon the flagstones. He had lifted his head and Remiel could see the wretch’s battered face. With a realization that was as unsettling as it was surprising, Remiel recognised the individual. It was Jolon Bligh, the gentle old man who had been accused of the murder of a ship captain months earlier in Garlot. Remiel remembered the day he was taken away – it was the day after Maeldune had visited him at the abbey – and remembered the disbelief he felt when he had been told of the gentle old man’s crime. It was a great relief to find he was still alive.
He walked over to Bligh, followed closely by Pylos. He knelt down beside the old man. ‘I know you don’t I? You’re Jolon Bligh aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Father Gideon. I attended mass every Sunday.’
‘Until you were brought here,’ Remiel said softly.
Suddenly the old man’s face reddened as a sense of shame scorched his withered face. ‘Father, I didn’t kill Cap’n Gramercy, I swear.’
Remiel nodded. ‘I believe you Jolon. I do.’ In the shadows of the cowl Remiel wore over his head, his eyes hinted at the pity he felt for the poor man.
‘I’ve got nothing to gain by telling you this,’ Jolon creaked, ‘but I must speak the truth that has been hidden – the Minister for Justice is to blame.’
Pylos knelt down beside Remiel. ‘Maeldune Canna is to blame for sending you here?’
Restricted by the thick stocks around his neck, Jolon shook his head slightly. ‘No. He’s to blame for killing Cap’n Gramercy! I’m sure he done it.’
Pylos placed a hand on Remiel’s shoulder and whispered, ‘This man is no criminal.’
‘I agree. He is innocent.’
‘We must free him.’
‘Yes. Leave it to me.’
‘What will you do?’
Bligh and Pylos stared intently at the priest who closed his eyes and became as still as the corroded statue of the ephemeron only yards away. Then his thick veil shook as he uttered three simple words: ‘Unseen and unheard.’
Bligh and Pylos felt a fleeting sensation ripple across their skin as if a faint breeze had sprung up out of nowhere.
Remiel opened his eyes and turned to Pylos. ‘We don’t have much time Pylos. Release him.’
‘Here?’ Pylos gasped. He thought of the Chamberlain’s expectation that the squads remained as inconspicuous as possible. Rescuing a criminal from a public place was hardly consistent with this expectation. ‘We’ll be seen.’
‘Have you forgotten already that I am Morgai?’ Remiel hissed. ‘For a brief time we will not be seen or heard by anyone in the courtyard. Break his bonds before the magick fades.’
Pylos made his way behind Bligh. The stocks were held in place by an old padlock coated in rust. Pylos jammed his knife into the keyhole in the centre of the lock and turned it hard. The padlock burst open and moments later Jolon Bligh was standing before them, a free man. No-one in the courtyard showed any sign that they had witnessed the old man’s emancipation.
‘Bligh, I have released you, but you must do something for me,’ Pylos said quickly. He whispered even though he did not have to. ‘I have a task for you. Something more important than anything you have ever done in your life. Do you understand?’
Bligh’s face presented a momentary show of confusion, but then a broad smile spread across his face, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. He was staring at the long scar that ran down the left-hand side of Pylos’ face. ‘You’re Pylos Castalia aren’t you?’ the old man said in awe. ‘Of course you are.’ He suddenly dropped to his knees and bowed his head. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me General.’
Pylos took the old man by the shoulders and said, ‘Please don’t do that. You’ve spent enough time on your knees.’
Remiel and Pylos lifted Bligh back onto his feet. Feeling his unsteadiness, Pylos continued to hold onto the old man’s arm. Bligh patted the Helyan’s hand appreciatively. ‘What would you like me to do, General Castalia?’
‘I need you to make your way to Cessair. You must get word to the Chamberlain himself about the Ghul.’
‘The who?’
‘You will find out soon enough. Tell the Chamberlain that shatterstone will kill the Ghul. He will know what to do.’
‘Sir, there’s no way the Chamberlain will hold an audience with me.’
Pylos tugged at one of his fingers and pulled off a golden ring with the emblem of a kestra in flight wrapped around the gemstone at its centre. ‘Show him this. He will recognise it. He gave it to me two years ago. He will know you speak for me when he sees it.’
‘No offence General, but wouldn’t you be better off sending a Magistrate, or a soldier?’
‘I need to send someone I can trust and such a person will not be easy to find in Murdertown. Do this Jolon and you will be richly rewarded.’
‘Dear sir, there is no greater reward than my freedom.’
‘Then make sure you do not lose it. Stay out of sight until the opportunity to leave Murdertown presents itself. Find a merchant caravan and join it.’ Pylos wrapped Bligh’s gnarled fingers around his ring. ‘You must not fail us.’
The old man stood up straight and proud. ‘I won’t, General. I failed at most things in my life but I won’t fail this.’
‘A simple life is not a failed one, Jolon,’ Remiel mused. ‘Take care.’ He turned to Pylos and told him that the charm that had hidden them from view would soon fade. ‘We must get the others and catch up with Gunther. He said he was going to the Bowery.’
‘It’s a seedy district not far from the wharfs. He’ll be at The Magistrate’s Arms. It’s a popular tavern on the eastern side of the city.’
‘What about Maeldune?’
‘I imagine he is up to his elbows in treachery. He will find us.’
The tavern was full and so was Ross by the time they found him – he had wasted no time in getting drunk, much to Remiel’s annoyance. ‘I just don’t think it’s not a good idea to stay much longer, Gunther. We were supposed to remain inconspicuous.’
Gunther laughed at Remiel’s comment. ‘Trust me, not going to the pub in Murdertown’s being conspicuous.’
‘None-the-less, I think Gerriod, Trypp and Mulupo had the right idea when they said they’d hide down by the wharf. It’s not wise to be sitting here drinking when half the company is elsewhere.’
‘I’m surprised the Spriggan didn’t come,’ noted Sefar. ‘He’s partial to a drink or five.’
‘He’s also smart,’ urged Remiel. ‘He can smell trouble. Being here in the tavern is trouble.’
‘Listen, Father,’ Gunther growled, his voice slurred and loud. ‘I got two things to say to you and I’m only going to say them once. Firstly, you’re not the leader of this little expedition, Maeldune is, so don’t start throwing orders around. Why, you’re not even a consul, so I’m not even sure why you’re here.’ He pointed a figure savagely as he spoke, punctuating every syllable with a demonstrative poke. ‘Secondly, we’re going to be on the road an awful long time, and I plan to get myself a little bit of company tonight before we head off.’
‘That’s awfully… consular of you, Gunther,’ Sefar said pointedly.
‘The priest needs to loosen up, that’s all,’ the Tethran replied as he slurped at his tankard and leaned back on his chair.
Pylos ignored Gunther’s boorish behaviour and looked around the smoky room. Though it was past midnight, the tavern was still full. It was predominantly filled with men, but here and there a woman wearing a low-cut blouse and badly painted face would wander through the room, occasionally followed by a man opening his wallet to make an offer for her services.
One courtesan sat by the bar gazing over at the table where Pylos, Sefar, Remiel and Gunther sat in awkward silence. She was unmistakably Tethran but was prettier than most women of her race. She had hair so red it seemed woven from fire and searing green eyes that blazed with intelligence. The woman held herself with a haughtiness that would seem at odds with her occupation. She ignored the drunken fawning of men who could not match her price. She slid down off her stool and made her way across the room.
‘It’s a fine evening that brings in the likes of you fine gentlemen,’ the courtesan said. She winked at Gunther and quipped, ‘Yourself excluded of course, Captain.’
Gunther chuckled to himself then leant forward in his chair. ‘My friends, may I introduce you to the finest whore in Murdertown – Delia Jones.’
Sefar’s face broke out in an eager smile whilst Remiel stared coolly from under his cowl. Pylos did not look up, preferring the white head on his beer to the flaming red-head standing at his shoulders.’
‘Is there something I can do for you, sir?’
No-one else on the table answered the woman. Pylos lifted his head to find a pair of suggestive green eyes staring back at him. She was so close he could smell a sweet perfume floating up from her skin. Like many Tethrans, she had armour plating, but certain parts of her flesh remained exposed, and these were not easily ignored.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ Pylos stuttered. ‘Were you speaking to me?’
‘I wasn’t talking to the priest,’ she laughed. ‘No offence Father,’ she added.
‘None taken,’ Remiel said with a note of mild amusement in his voice.
She placed a soft hand on Pylos’ shoulder. ‘I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you could think of a better way to spend your night than sitting about with these men.’
Pylos’ bronze skin flushed red. He was clearly out of his depth. ‘I’m sorry Miss Jones. I… I am sure you would make for excellent company, but… I do not consort with prostitutes.’
He said it with such trepidation Delia Jones could not see reason to take offence. The man before her was inexperienced with women. She could see that. He was the type who would keep his heart for one person and not spoil it by seeking pleasure in the arms of another. She leant close to him and whispered in his ear, ‘A man like you shouldn’t let all those muscles go to waste. I hope she’s worth it.’
He was startled. ‘You hope who is worth it?’
She grinned. ‘Whoever it is you are saving yourself for.’ She tossed her bright hair back and smiled at Sefar, Gunther and Remiel. ‘Such a waste!’ she said as she ran her fingers through Pylos’ cropped hair. ‘I’m almost tempted to give him one for free.’
Gunther and Sefar exchanged a shocked glanced. The Kheperan then looked up hopefully at Delia but she just shook her head and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, young pup, but that horn sticking out your head does nothing for me.’
Gunther slung a thick arm around her waist. ‘What about me Delia? Or am I too much man for you?’
She pirouetted herself out of Gunther’s embrace with a childlike giggle. ‘That’s one way of putting it Gunther. Let’s make a deal. You lose fifty pounds, have a bath and rob a bank to pay my fee, and I might consider it.’
She strutted off through the throng to her seat by the bar where she engaged in light-hearted banter with some uniformed men who had just entered the tavern despite the late hour.
‘Damnation!’ Gunther grumbled as he watched Delia flirt with the tall, broad-shouldered men dressed in black and red. ‘Magistrates.’
They all bore shatterstone swords despite being off-duty; this was not surprising – to see an unarmed Magistrate was unheard of. Long flowing black robes trimmed with red velvet fell from the Magistrates’ shoulders upon which sat the distinctive golden epaulets that most Magistrates chose to wear – they were shaped like talons gripping the wearers’ shoulder and they were believed to symbolise the swift justice that could be brought about by the men and women who took up the great office. Hanging over each man’s red breastplate in a large looping X, golden bandoliers were studded with the infamous spiked iron balls the Magistrates used when apprehending felons. These poison-tipped projectiles were fired by the launchers strapped to each Magistrates’ forearms. They were simple weapons that the Magistrates used to dramatic effect.
In Murdertown, it was not uncommon for such a large group of Magistrates to be gathered in one place. Murdertown was the unofficial headquarters of the Magistrates largely due to the fact that their work often brought them down here. Those deemed guilty of crimes not punishable by death were taken to the prison ships that lay moored off the coast. Those felons who had received the death sentence were brought to the city where they would meet the end in one of a multitude of ways. This had made Murdertown a tourist destination for Myrrans who enjoyed such gruesome entertainment.
One Magistrate stood a full two feet above his colleagues. He was a Kheperan but where his horn should have been, there was only a stump. The serrated marking at the top of this stump suggested the horn had been sheared off.
‘It’s the Stretcher,’ Gunther whispered fearfully. Remiel was intrigued. In the short time he had known Gunther, Remiel thought him incapable of fear, but the individual at the bar clearly made the Tethran nervous.
‘What!’ said Sefar. ‘Here?’
‘Forgive my ignorance,’ said Remiel ‘but who is he?’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him Father,’ Sefar said with surprise. ‘The Stretcher is the most infamous Magistrate to have lived. He’s a Kheperan and a nasty one at that. He’s currently posted in Tindalo. I hear there’s plenty of work up there for him. It’s got a bad reputation, that town.’
'Why is he called the Stretcher?’
Gunther leaned forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. ‘Wherever the Stretcher is posted, he has local carpenters build him a six-foot oaken table. Upon this table, the Myr’s worst felons are placed.’
‘That’s not a particularly terrifying punishment,’ Remiel said sounding a little disappointed in light of the atmosphere of dread that had accompanied the conversation. ‘Lying down on a table – that doesn’t sound so bad.’
‘If you’re not six foot it is. The criminal is bound to chains attached to pulleys at either end of the table. If you are under six foot you are stretched until you are the length of the table.’
‘That’s barbaric,’ Remiel exclaimed. ‘There is no justice in this punishment!’
Pylos nodded. ‘There are few crimes that merit such treatment.’
Sefar thought of Mulupo. ‘I think he’d have some trouble stretching the Spriggan to six feet.’
‘Oh that wouldn’t stop him from trying. I have heard rumours of malefactors being ripped in two.’
‘What does he do to felons who are taller than six feet?’ Remiel asked, casting a quick glance at Sefar who exceeded the length of the Stretcher’s table by two feet.
‘He lops off parts of you until you fit,’ Gunther said, relishing in the gruesomeness of his reply.
‘But if I’m a six foot criminal,’ Remiel noted, ‘my punishment is basically to lie down on a table?’
‘The Stretcher has never shown must interest in six foot criminals.’
A thunderous bout of laughter broke across the bar and it was clear that the Magistrates were committed to a long night of drinking. The bartender had placed a line of frothy tankards along the bar which the Magistrates quickly drank in unison and slammed back down to indicate they were ready for more.
Pylos gazed at them for a while. One of them was a Helyan but Pylos did not know him. Although most Magistrates had come through the ranks of the military, some of them were plucked from the private militias many merchants employed to protect their goods in transit. Pylos assumed the Helyan was such a man. The other Magistrates were dark-skinned Tuirrenians whose bodies resembled lumps of knotted muscles.
When Pylos turned back to face his companions he noticed that Gunther was staring at him with a strange expression. He was drunk and he had the look of a man who was about to say something stupid, something that would get him into trouble.
The Tethran put his hands behind his head and said, ‘She’s married.’
Pylos’ face darkened. It had been a long journey to Murdertown; he was in no mood for Gunther who was clearly out to bait the Helyan. ‘Who is married?’ he asked Gunther suspiciously.
‘Oh come on Pylos!’ Gunther said with more familiarity than their relationship justified. ‘Everyone knows it. I can’t say I blame you neither. Apart from old Delia over there, you’d have to look a long way to find a more attractive ornament.’
Pylos leaned forward and said sternly, ‘Tell me what you mean.’ He thrust a finger into Gunther’s breastbone to emphasise his annoyance. ‘Well?’
The Tethran looked down at Pylos’ finger and grinned. It was a strange sensation, to be prodded in such a way. Gunther was accustomed to the dull feeling of metal across his chest but now that skin of steel was gone, ripped away by Argas’ claws. He could feel Pylos’ anger but he was unimpressed and unintimidated. The alcohol he had consumed had stolen from him his judgement.
‘You leave that there and you’ll lose it Pylos.’
Gunther grunted as Pylos drove his finger even harder into the Tethran’s sternum. He made an attempt to grab at it but Pylos was too quick and pulled his hand away.
‘You’re fast Pylos, ‘Gunther smirked, ‘but your reputation is a joke.’ His slurred words were punctuated with dramatic gestures and long pauses. ‘You’re as soft as cream inside.’
‘Stop it Gunther,’ Sefar cautioned. He could see where the conversation was headed.
Gunther waved away his comment like an annoying insect. He leaned forward on his seat so that his face was only inches away from the Helyan. ‘Have you told Maeldune yet?’ he said in a low taunting voice.
‘Told him what?’ Pylos snarled.
‘That you desire his wife.’
The punch sent Gunther flying out of his seat. He slammed into two Magistrates who were making their way to a nearby table, their hands full with tankards of ale. Gunther’s heavy body sent these drinks high where the amber liquid hung for a dreadful second before raining down upon the Magistrates.
‘You stupid oaf!’ one of the men bellowed.
‘Bloody fool!’ yelled the other.
Ordinarily, Gunther would have responded apologetically to the Magistrates. But he had changed and on this night, he would not bow down before them. He would not be humble nor would he be servile. He was drunk. Emotionally drained. He simply didn’t care any more. The massacre at the Scarlet Rock Theatre had altered him irrevocably.
He eyeballed the closest Magistrate. The man was a mountain but Gunther unimpressed. ‘What did you call me?’
‘Have you got iron for ears too?’ the massive Tuirrenian sneered. ‘I called you stupid.’
‘I’m not so stupid that I’ve ever been stabbed by my own weapon.’
The Magistrate’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
Gunther whipped up his hands and snatched at the man but did not strike him. Not at first. His hands snapped at the bandoliers slung across the Magistrate’s chest and ripped out two of the iron balls that lined the harness. Before the Magistrate could do anything, Gunther rammed the spiked balls into the man’s thick neck.
He dropped instantly, the powerful poison coating the spikes stripping all control from his muscles.
Moments later Gunther disappeared under a thickening clump of Magistrates intent on taking down the man who had the temerity to strike one of their own.
Pylos jumped up to intercede but was held back by Remiel. ‘You can’t Pylos! There’s something much bigger at stake here!’
The Helyan turned to the priest, his eyes wide with fear – not for himself, but for what the Magistrates would do to Gunther. ‘They’ll kill him,’ he grunted as he tried to release himself from Remiel’s surprisingly strong grip. ‘Attacking a Magistrate is punishable by hanging.’
‘Then he’ll have to hang,’ Remiel said forcefully. ‘Remember the mission.’
Sefar gazed nervously around. The Magistrates were focussed upon Gunther but it would not be long before they turned their attention upon others who may have been involved in the remarkable incident. ‘We should go. So much for being inconspicuous.’
Jolon Bligh made his way through the alleys down to some stables north of the main gate into the city. He moved slowly, carefully. He could see no sign of anyone following but he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. He was tired but he kept on moving, his body fighting to keep up with his racing mind. It had not stopped racing since Pylos had released him from the stocks earlier that night.
Upon his release Bligh had found his way to the merchants quarter of the city and to his dismay discovered that the next caravan to Cessair would not be leaving for a month. News of the massacre at the Scarlet Rock Theatre had reached Murdertown and there was not a merchant in the city money-hungry enough to risk an expedition across the Ganesa Plateau. Bligh then decided to seek out a ship. If he could find a ship making the short journey to Corra to the south or Tindalo to the north, he could avoid the Ganesa Plateau altogether, but again, there were no traders willing to make the trip in the current climate of fear.
‘I’ll have to do it myself,’ he said to himself. He decided to take a snorse from the stables and ride out that night before the Magistrates were informed of his escape.
He emerged out of the darkness of the alley into the soft light spilling from a lantern hanging above the stables of the Magistrate’s snorses. It was a bold move – to steal the mount of men and women who could summarily execute him – but he was condemned to die anyway so the risk was no different to that attached to stealing anyone else’s snorse. The Magistrates’ steeds were the strongest and fastest around and he would be less likely to be caught if pursued on his flight to Cessair.
Bligh quickly darted into the stables. It was dark inside. He could see the silhouettes of snorses against the open window at the far end of the stable. Light from the stable-master’s hut bled across the straw at that end of the building, but it was not enough to cast light on Bligh’s activities.
He found a snorse tethered a post to his left where the darkness was deepest. It whinnied as he approached but it did not seem bothered by his presence. He quietly untied it, his gnarled hands fumbling with the rope. Bligh was sweating and shaking and yet in spite of his nervousness, he found he was smiling. It felt good to be alive.
‘I don’t believe that belongs to you.’
The old man wheeled around to see a tall figure step into the stables. ‘You!’ Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking the identity of the man. It was the very person who had sent him to Murdertown – Maeldune Canna.
The Acoran stepped into the muted light. His face looked serene, almost happy.
‘Stay away from me,’ Bligh snarled. ‘I am on a mission.’ He felt around, hoping to wrap his hands on something to ward off the Acoran who would clearly not stand by and allow the old man to steal one of his Magistrate’s snorses.
‘A mission!’ Maeldune scoffed. ‘A felon?’
‘I am only a felon because you made me one,’ Bligh spat. ‘We both know you killed Captain Gramercy.’
Maeldune nodded. ‘Yes but knowledge is irrelevant when compared to power, and power is something I have in great abundance and you do not possess at all.’
Bligh tried to ignore Maeldune’s smug tone. He pressed his case. ‘I have been given a mission of great importance. Pylos Castalia himself has chosen me to carry a message to Cessair.’
Maeldune’s thin eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘Has he indeed? Was the good General aware of the fact that you should be rotting in the stocks right now.’
‘General Castalia freed me so that I could perform this duty.’
Maeldune stepped closer. ‘General Castalia has neither the right to free you nor the wisdom to appreciate the danger involved in taking the law into his own hands.’
Bligh stepped back, fearful of what was hidden in Maeldune’s words. ‘Danger? What danger?’ His back pressed up against the snorse he had been untying. It grunted unhappily and pushed Bligh back towards Maeldune.
‘Danger?’ the Acoran said with a sly smile creeping across his pale face. ‘This for example.’
His hand whipped into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a long, thin dagger. Without another word Maeldune plunged the blade into Jolon Bligh’s belly. A shrill, mournful cry broke from the old man’s lips as he fell to the straw-covered floor of the stables. His body shook for a few seconds and his last thought swelled in his brain like a blister – he had failed at the only significant thing he had ever attempted in his long life. It was a dreadful realisation to have as his life faded from his body. He could not even feel the pain of his torn flesh and shredded stomach – his despair and grief had made him numb to the physical world.
Maeldune put a shiny leather boot on Bligh’s still body and rolled it to the back of the stall. The old man’s blood dripped out over the straw, and the dry stalks stuck to his belly like a thatched roof.
‘Murdertown!’ Maeldune smirked to himself. ‘I could learn to love this place.’
The Stretcher marched down the cobblestone road that led from The Magistrate’s Arms down to the wharf. Puddles at his feet exploded as he stormed through them. His eyes were scanning every dark corner and recess, searching for the others who had accompanied the man who had attacked one of his colleagues. He pointed down an alleyway as he turned to one of the Magistrates who had left the tavern with him. ‘Search down there. I’ll stay on the road.’
The Magistrate pulled out his sword and vanished into the darkness of the alleyway. The Stretcher turned to the others. ‘Spread out. The Tethran was with a Helyan, a Kheperan and a priest in the tavern. Word is that a Sapphyrran, a Spriggan and two other men entered the city earlier tonight. They are to be arrested or put to rest,’ he snarled. ‘We will have justice before this night is done.’
Justice. The word was like a powder keg in Murdertown. It had fearful connotations. But it was not always that way…
The young Chamberlain stood at the front of the public assembly hall at the base of the Cessair Tower. Slightly raised above the throng of onlookers, Tiberius Llyr strode the stage like a veteran performer. Before him, a bevy of fifty-one judges stood to attention, listening as one to his condemnation of them. In the surrounding stalls Myrrans of all descriptions leaned forward to hear his closing comments.
‘And that is why, my fellows,’ Llyr proclaimed, ‘you must go. You have let down the very people you were charged to protect. You have allowed crime to flourish and in doing so you have created a state where the good man fears the bad, not the other way around.’
In certain sections of the massive crowd, rumblings could be heard. The criminal element Llyr was crusading against had gathered to witness the end of their days of rule. These felons – thieves, murderers, extortionists, kidnappers and the like – were demonstrably unhappy with the Chamberlain’s first public announcement but could do nothing to stop it.
‘The Myrran judiciary will be dissolved in thirty days. In your place we will appoint Magistrates. They will sit in judgement over all matters of law. There will be no appeals court. The judgements of the Magistrates will be unequivocal. I will personally select the Magistrates from all recommendations that are put to me and will be personally responsible should this initiative fail. But it will not fail! A new day has come. Justice will be taken from the shaking hands of old men and returned to the people.’
A tidal wave of approval broke upon the floor of the hall. As the applause faded, hoots of derision followed, aimed squarely at the fifty-one robed men standing at the foot of the dais.
One man, seemingly the oldest of the judges, hobbled forward, his cane clattering against the marble floor of the chamber. ‘You cannot do this. You have no right.’ He shook his cane at Chamberlain Llyr who stood his ground, unperturbed by the man’s public questioning of his authority.
‘Oh quite the contrary, Justice Obfuscato. It is you who have no rights. This radical change has the full endorsement of the Assembly of Nations.’ To the left of the dais, many ambassadors, governors and monarchs had taken front-row seats to hear Llyr’s great address. The looks on their faces said it all. They were beaming. Sick of the carcinogenic effects of the criminal underworld, they were delighted by the bold changes Llyr was willing to make. Llyr had no time for the endless oscillations of the Myrran public service, replete with their impotent working parties and exploratory committees. ‘Justices, we do not believe that you are equipped to deal with today’s problems. You have become irrelevant.’
Again, a surge of applause indicated where the common people stood on the matter. Justice Obfuscato looked up at the crowds. Intimidated by the strength of their support of Llyr, he decided to say no more.
Llyr raised his hands to quieten the crowd. ‘From now on, all criminals will be sent to prison ships that lie moored off the coast of Tethra. These ships – the Hulks – will be where we will hold all the world’s villains. Furthermore, we will have no more lawyers. Anyone caught practising law will be sent to the Hulks as will the civil libertarians who have championed the rights of the criminals for far too long. We will place all our rotten fruit in one barrel.’
‘Maeldune, where have you been?’ Pylos barked.
‘Keep your voice down General,’ Maeldune hissed as he ducked down under the tarpaulin the company was hiding under. ‘I’ve been looking for you. From the things I have heard, it’s clear you’ve managed to make a right mess of things.’
Pylos had no retort. Maeldune was right. He had made a mess of things. Gunther had been taken prisoner and the rest of the company had narrowly escaped the clutches of the Magistrates. Rather unheroically, the company now huddled under canvas sheets that lay on top of some scaffolding that lined the steep ramparts that separated Murdertown from the Nessan Sea.
‘You can stop this Maeldune,’ Sefar said angrily. ‘You’re Minister for Justice! The Magistrates will listen to you.’
‘I could stop it, that is true,’ Maeldune responded with an obvious air of superiority. ‘I could, but I won’t. We are meant to be travelling in secrecy. Should I reveal myself to the Magistrates now, our veil of secrecy will be ripped away.’
‘Nonsense!’ scoffed Sefar. ‘With all due respect sir, we lost that veil of secrecy some time ago.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ Maeldune retorted.
‘Enough!’ snapped Pylos. ‘We can get out of this without Maeldune’s help.’
‘Shouldn’t we go back for Captain Ross?’ Trypp asked. He did not particularly like the Tethran but it seemed wrong to leave him in the unforgiving hands of the Magistrates.
‘Gunther Ross was a thug,’ Maeldune sneered. ‘An unenlightened, common thug. It sounds as if he got what was coming to him. We have no need for liabilities such as he.’
‘Your loyalty is astounding,’ Pylos remarked.
‘You have no idea,’ Maeldune replied, seeming to enjoy the ambiguity of his statement. ‘General Castalia, I will remind you once more of the mission. We can’t go back. It would compromise everything. You should consider Gunther as a casualty of war.’
‘Shouldn’t we be leaving?’ asked Gerriod. Whilst Pylos, Sefar, Remiel and Gunther were getting themselves into trouble at the tavern, he and Trypp had found a boat they could use to effect their escape from Murdertown. The vessel, a small skiff, lay bobbing in the water at the base of the scaffolding on which they sat. ‘The boat’s directly below.’
‘As are our supplies,’ Mulupo added. The Spriggan had not been idle. He had procured fresh food and stores of water. Although he had said little since the massacre back at the theatre, he had remained focused upon the task at hand.
‘I’m not sure we should move now,’ cautioned Pylos. ‘Maeldune may have been followed here.’
Maeldune leaned close to Pylos so the Helyan could see his contempt. ‘Do not judge me, Pylos. It is your actions that have placed us in this position. I was not followed. Stick your head out and see. The Magistrates have moved on to scour other sections of the city.’
‘I doubt that,’ Pylos said. ‘They’re not stupid.’
Despite his reservations, Pylos edged along the scaffolding to a point where he could lift the tarpaulin and get a good view of the surrounding area. He gripped the timber frame of the scaffolding and slowly rose up on his haunches, peeling back the canvas sheet under which he hid.
At first he did not move. Gerriod, frustrated by the interminably long wait, called to Pylos. ‘Well? Are we are out of trouble?’
Suddenly the Helyan ducked; the movement was swiftly followed by the sound of a metal object striking the timber framework above their heads. Pylos threw the tarpaulin back to reveal the approach of at least twenty Magistrates. ‘Sorry Gerriod,’ he said looking at the spiked metal ball that missed his head by less than an inch. ‘We’re not out of trouble yet.’
Gerriod fell awkwardly – head first – and the sound of his skull hitting the timber rail of the skiff was so loud, it could be heard over the tumult of the waves upon the base of the sea wall. Trypp was a lot more fortunate; he landed relatively softly on a large coil of rope on the deck of the skiff. This piece of luck coupled with his impenetrable carapace meant that within seconds of landing in the boat, he was ready to do what he could to bring about their escape. Gerriod, by contrast, was out cold on his back.
‘That’s the last of us!’ called Remiel. ‘Let’s go!’
‘We’ll have to row until we get out a bit,’ Pylos said.
He took hold of one of the oars. ‘Get on the other one!’ he barked at Maeldune, who was about to voice his opposition to being ordered around when a small spiked ball cracked against the transom board behind him. Maeldune quickly jumped into the seat beside Pylos and together they pulled hard on the oar. The blade of Pylos’ oar dug deep into the water, but Maeldune’s stroke resulted in the blade just bouncing across the surface. As a result the skiff turned 90 degrees, rather than away from the sea wall.
‘Put your back into it,’ growled Pylos.
They pulled on the oars again but Maeldune accidentally pulled his right out of the oarlock. Again the skiff turned but went nowhere. A volley of spiked balls rained down from the scaffolding above. One struck Trypp’s carapace and bounced off into the water, the shock of the near miss causing the Sapphyrran to bite his lip.
Pylos was not so fortunate. An iron ball embedded itself in his shoulder. He grunted in pain but was so focussed on the job at hand, he did not pause to pull the object out of his skin. ‘Again!’ he roared, but Maeldune was so busy fumbling around, he failed to make any stroke at all. For the third time, the skiff spun around on its axis. Pylos’ eyes were white with rage. Maeldune glared back at him and said, ‘I’m not a sailor!’
‘Maeldune,’ Pylos hissed, ‘if you don’t learn to row very quickly, you’ll get us all killed.’ He then pulled the ball out of his shoulder, ignoring the blood which spouted out of the wound like a small fountain. He could feel the ball’s poison cutting through his veins, tightening his muscles, constricting his breathing and accelerating the beating of his heart. He knew he could ignore the pain for only so long. Soon it would consume him and he would be dead, but he also knew that if he did not pull the boat out of the reach of the Magistrates, they would all die anyway.
Maeldune tried to wedge his oar back into place but the entire paddle slid through the oarlock and before anyone could do anything, it was ripped out of his grasp by the choppy waters surrounding the boat. Moments later it was irretrievably pulled out to sea.
Pylos froze, staring at the disappearing oar. He had no words that could express the crushing feeling in his stomach. Maeldune had become more than a liability; his every action seemed designed to place them in harm’s way. The politician’s head sank down into his hands and for a long moment no-one said anything in the boat.
Suddenly another volley rained down from above. Silhouetted against the night sky Remiel could see three Magistrates clambering down the scaffolding. Their next volley would not miss. ‘We have to get out here now!’ he yelled over the crashing sea, pointing up at the scaffolding.
Another five Magistrates scrambled over the wall high above and made their way down the iron and timber framework that covered the greystone wall like a lattice.
Pylos swivelled his head upward. ‘I’m not going to stay here and get picked off by these thugs,’ he snarled.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Trypp, incredulity clearly evident in his voice.
‘I won’t die like this,’ answered Pylos, setting one foot on the transom board. ‘I’m going up.’
‘No, there’s another way,’ Trypp urged. ‘They are not the enemy, Pylos.’ The Sapphyrran swivelled about so that his back was to the sea wall. A half-second later, a spiked ball bounced of his carapace and skittered across the deck. When Trypp turned back to face Pylos, the Helyan said, ‘They’re not the enemy? You sure about that?’
Trypp ignored the comment. He jumped past the mast and scooped up the coil of rope he had fallen on earlier. In one fluid motion, he looped one end of the rope in a figure-of-eight around his body to secure it tightly. The other end was thrown to Mulupo who instinctively moved to the boat’s bow and commenced tying it to an iron ring hanging underneath the skiff’s small bowsprit. The Sapphyrran did not wait for Mulupo to finish securing the line; he pushed past Sefar and dived over the skiff’s rail, disappearing soundlessly beneath under the waves.
Just as Mulupo finished the clove hitch on the rope, the line went taut and the entire keel swung about until it was facing out to sea. The boat then pitched forward, the keel sinking deep into the water. Pylos scanned the waves before him looking for Trypp, but the Sapphyrran did not surface.
The boat sliced across the surface of the Nessan Sea. Underneath the choppy waves, Trypp powered through the water, his long arms and legs moving in large sweeping arcs. The weight of the boat was considerable, but Trypp’s muscles, honed on the cliffs of the Skyfall, were up to the task. Within a minute, they were well out of reach of the Magistrates who clung to the scaffolding, livid that their quarry had eluded them.
Remiel stood at the mast, looking westward, back towards Murdertown. His cloak billowed and his cowl was temporarily blown from his head revealing thick dark hair. A warm wind blew against his face. ‘There’s our westerly. Let’s hoist the sail.’
He and Pylos moved as one and the sail went up and filled instantaneously. The skiff jolted as it was thrust forward, impelled by the strong winds blowing off the headland behind them. Within seconds Pylos was at the boat’s port, his hand outstretched. A pale blue hand with two long fingers shot out of the water and clasped themselves around the Helyan’s wrist. Pylos braced himself and with a sinewy heave, pulled Trypp Elan onto the deck.
Trypp panted heavily. His carapace moved in rhythmic spasms as he refilled his lungs with air. Pylos put a hand on the Sapphyrran’s shoulder in recognition of his impressive display of strength and quick-thinking. Exhausted as he was, Trypp managed a small smile, relieved that he had managed to extricate the company out of their predicament without loss of life. The smile quickly faded when he gazed over at Gerriod lying on the deck unmoving.
It was a little easier to see now they had moved out of the darkness under the sea wall. The rain clouds that had graced Murdertown earlier had moved away and two of the Myr’s moons now shone over the Nessan Sea. By this light Trypp could see the sorry state Gerriod was in. The mariner’s red hair was flat and damp with blood. Remiel squatted down next to him and stroked his head. Although this looked to be no more than a tender gesture, Trypp noticed Gerriod responded to it. Within moments of the priest’s touch, the mariner became conscious, dazed but unharmed by his sickening fall from the scaffolding. The Sapphyrran had heard many things about the Order of Garlot, but restorative powers were not among them.
Remiel stood up and made his way to the prow of the skiff. As he passed Pylos, he placed a hand on the Helyan’s shoulder. Trypp expected Pylos to wince – it was the same shoulder that had been hit by the poisonous spiked ball – but the Helyan did little more than shiver at the priest’s touch.
Although Maeldune had no injury, he looked more poorly than anyone else in the boat; the shifting Nessan Sea had already taken its toll upon him and he hung over the rail as if he were about to vomit at any moment. Sefar also looked ill at ease in the boat; he stared at the sea as if it were an enemy capable of any misdeed.
‘What now?’ Remiel said to Pylos. Although the General was not the official leader of the expedition, Maeldune was in no shape to protest. The Acoran hung over the rails like wet clothes upon a washing line.
Pylos looked westwards, back at Murdertown. ‘Whilst we have this wind behind us, I suggest we head north-west. That should take us near the Garlot Peninsula. We should reach the Nessan coast within two days if this wind stays constant. Once we’re in sight of the Abbey at Garlot we can hug the coast until find a beach to land the skiff.’
‘I agree,’ Remiel said.
Pylos moved to the stern and took hold of the long wooden pole that controlled the angle of the rudder. ‘I’ll take the tiller.’
‘I’ll see to the sails,’ said Remiel.
‘I’ll tend to the mariner,’ said Trypp.
‘He’ll be okay,’ reassured Remiel. ‘Just keep him comfortable.’
Gerriod raised himself onto his elbow and scanned the boat. ‘We’re still alive?’ he said with a faint smile on his face.
‘Only just,’ replied Trypp.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ the mariner mused. He closed his eyes and fell back onto the floor of the skiff. Within moments, he was asleep, happy in the knowledge that they had all escaped death for one more day. Life had stopped being about living. It was about eluding death.