the stench of the tanneries or the moans of the women. The driver fought to keep the four beasts under control and their hooves clattered on ice-rimed cobbles.
“Well, I know him,” snarled Kell, as General Graal stalked towards the carriage and folded his arms. His armour gleamed. He ran a hand through his long white hair, an animal preening. “He’s the bastard in charge of this army. He called it the Army of Iron.”
“You know him?” Saark met Kell’s gaze.
“The bastard sent a couple of his soldiers to kill me and the girls.”
“He was far from successful, I see.”
“I don’t die easy,” said Kell.
“I’m sure you don’t, old horse.” Saark smiled, and turned back to the distant performance. The carriage door was opened by a lackey, and a man stepped down. He was dressed in furs, and held a cloth over his face against the chill of ice-smoke, which was dissipating even as they watched—its job now done. The man had shoulder length black hair, which gleamed.
“Who is he?” said Kell.
“That,” said Saark, staring hard at Kell, “is Dagon Trelltongue.”
“The king’s advisor?”
Saark nodded. “King Leanoric’s most trusted man. He is, shall we say, the king’s regent when the king is away on business.”
“What about Alloria?”
“The queen?” Saark smiled. “I see, Kell, you have little schooling in nobility, or in royalty. It would be unseemly for a woman to rule in the king’s absence; you would have her meeting with common-folk? Doing business with captains and generals? I think not.”
“Why,” said Kell, ruffled, “would Trelltongue be here? Now?”
Saark transferred his gaze back to the two men beside the carriage. “A good question, my new and aged and ragged friend. However, much as I would love to make his acquaintance at this moment in time, I fear your escape plan to be sound—and immediately necessary. Would you like to lead the way, Kell, to this pipe of disgorging effluence?”
Kell hoisted his axe, looked at Nienna and Kat, then tensed, crouching a little, at what appeared behind the two women.
“What is it?” hissed Nienna, and turned…
From the hanging wall of skins, moving leisurely, gracefully, came a Harvester. Its flat oval face seemed emotionless, but the small black eyes, coals in a snowman’s face, searched across the room. Vertical slits hissed with air, and the creature seemed to be…sniffing. The Harvester gave a grimace that may have been a smile.
“I followed you. Across the city.” The voice was a dawdling, lazy roll, like big ocean waves on a fused beach.
Saark drew his rapier, and gestured to the two women to move. He took a deep breath, and watched as the Harvester lifted a hand. The embroidered robe fell away leaving five long, pointed fingers of bone…
“I thought I explained, sweetie. You’re just not my type.” But terror lay beyond Saark’s words, and as he and Kell separated, Kell loosening his shoulders, axe swinging gently, Saark muttered from the corner of his mouth, “Watch the fingers. That’s how they suck the life from your body.”
Kell nodded, as the blast of terror hit him. He stood, stunned by the ferocity of fear which wormed through his mind. He saw himself, lying in a hole in the ground, worms eating his eyes, his skin, his lungs, his heart.
Come to me, came the words in his head. A song. A lullaby. A call stronger than life itself.
Come to me, little one.
I will make the pain go away.
The Harvester drifted forward, and with a scream Saark attacked, rapier moving with incredible speed; a lazy backward gesture slapped Saark a full twenty feet across the tannery, where he landed, rolling fast, to slam against a vat with a groan.
Five bone fingers lifted.
Moved, towards Kell’s heart.
And with tears on his cheeks, the old soldier seemed to welcome them…
THREE
A Taste of Clockwork
Anukis awoke feeling drowsy; but then, the ever-present tiredness, like a lead-weight in her heart, in her
“Well, I know him,” snarled Kell, as General Graal stalked towards the carriage and folded his arms. His armour gleamed. He ran a hand through his long white hair, an animal preening. “He’s the bastard in charge of this army. He called it the Army of Iron.”
“You know him?” Saark met Kell’s gaze.
“The bastard sent a couple of his soldiers to kill me and the girls.”
“He was far from successful, I see.”
“I don’t die easy,” said Kell.
“I’m sure you don’t, old horse.” Saark smiled, and turned back to the distant performance. The carriage door was opened by a lackey, and a man stepped down. He was dressed in furs, and held a cloth over his face against the chill of ice-smoke, which was dissipating even as they watched—its job now done. The man had shoulder length black hair, which gleamed.
“Who is he?” said Kell.
“That,” said Saark, staring hard at Kell, “is Dagon Trelltongue.”
“The king’s advisor?”
Saark nodded. “King Leanoric’s most trusted man. He is, shall we say, the king’s regent when the king is away on business.”
“What about Alloria?”
“The queen?” Saark smiled. “I see, Kell, you have little schooling in nobility, or in royalty. It would be unseemly for a woman to rule in the king’s absence; you would have her meeting with common-folk? Doing business with captains and generals? I think not.”
“Why,” said Kell, ruffled, “would Trelltongue be here? Now?”
Saark transferred his gaze back to the two men beside the carriage. “A good question, my new and aged and ragged friend. However, much as I would love to make his acquaintance at this moment in time, I fear your escape plan to be sound—and immediately necessary. Would you like to lead the way, Kell, to this pipe of disgorging effluence?”
Kell hoisted his axe, looked at Nienna and Kat, then tensed, crouching a little, at what appeared behind the two women.
“What is it?” hissed Nienna, and turned…
From the hanging wall of skins, moving leisurely, gracefully, came a Harvester. Its flat oval face seemed emotionless, but the small black eyes, coals in a snowman’s face, searched across the room. Vertical slits hissed with air, and the creature seemed to be…sniffing. The Harvester gave a grimace that may have been a smile.
“I followed you. Across the city.” The voice was a dawdling, lazy roll, like big ocean waves on a fused beach.
Saark drew his rapier, and gestured to the two women to move. He took a deep breath, and watched as the Harvester lifted a hand. The embroidered robe fell away leaving five long, pointed fingers of bone…
“I thought I explained, sweetie. You’re just not my type.” But terror lay beyond Saark’s words, and as he and Kell separated, Kell loosening his shoulders, axe swinging gently, Saark muttered from the corner of his mouth, “Watch the fingers. That’s how they suck the life from your body.”
Kell nodded, as the blast of terror hit him. He stood, stunned by the ferocity of fear which wormed through his mind. He saw himself, lying in a hole in the ground, worms eating his eyes, his skin, his lungs, his heart.
Come to me, came the words in his head. A song. A lullaby. A call stronger than life itself.
Come to me, little one.
I will make the pain go away.
The Harvester drifted forward, and with a scream Saark attacked, rapier moving with incredible speed; a lazy backward gesture slapped Saark a full twenty feet across the tannery, where he landed, rolling fast, to slam against a vat with a groan.
Five bone fingers lifted.
Moved, towards Kell’s heart.
And with tears on his cheeks, the old soldier seemed to welcome them…
THREE
A Taste of Clockwork
Anukis awoke feeling drowsy; but then, the ever-present tiredness, like a lead-weight in her heart, in her
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