GOD KILLERS

Pt.3

AVATAR

II

Tunny Mal-Tuboly swung his booted feet up onto a stool, belched, and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the warm afterglow of a faux-traditional Hero’s Portion and three so-called Rafasi-bladders of Nettle ‘n Grudd wine.

“Not bad,” he muttered contentedly. “Not bloody bad at all.”

“Mal-Tuboly? May we speak?”

Tunny stumbled, cursing, half to his feet, hand fumbling at an empty scabbard – they’re being no weapons permitted in The Sayer’s Alms.

The Ornish Soul-less pulled back the stool, which had moments earlier supported Tunny’s feet, and carefully sat down, so that he met the now standing man eye to eye. Tunny was a stocky ball of improbable muscle beneath a sloven’s fat. Black coils spilled around his shoulders and were, along with two dark, sparkling eyes rimmed with curling black lashes, his only claim to beauty. A vast beard hid the remainder of his podgy features.

“Great Orn, man! Can’t a fellow drink in peace?” he spluttered, red faced.

“I did not wish to startle you, Mal-Tuboly. May we speak?” The voice, as with all the giant Ornish, had the quality of sounding like many in unison. At little more than a whisper it commanded regard. Tunny scrutinized the enormous tattooed figure, perched precariously on the seemingly diminutive stool, with wary eyes.

“You’re not from Thurford are you?” he paused. “You know, what happened in “The Fine Prospect” last night, well, it wasn’t really my fault old chap…”

The mercenary looked confused.

“No? Well, then. Good. Good. A sticky matter, best forgotten. No harm done.”

The Soul-less giant gathered his brow, looking troubled. He stared down at his own huge hands, spreading them palms up as if he were looking for answers there, then abruptly balled them into two minutely shuddering clubbed fists. He raised his magnificent, shaven head; met Tunny’s eyes again - who calmed, suddenly filled with compassion. He was, if nothing else, a man of empathy. It was in part what made him so endearing. Here sat an Ornish Soul-less - a son of that rare, ancient and most sacred race. The legendary offspring of Orn, the god who gave his name to the island within which Aetuland and Sutzeria nestled restlessly: Tunny also perceived a profound sorrow in the giant, and that reached out to him, instantly snuffing any misgivings.

“Right o.” he said. “All right. Please. Go ahead.”

The Soul-less looked over toward the window, beyond which - though they could not see it - lay the Ornisbach, and beyond that, Sutzeria.

He returned his gaze to Tunny.

“My name is Iutzparthi-Llud Pellaquial, though most know me as Pellaq. I am, as you see, an Ornish Soul-less, and a mercenary. I have been told you are well connected, Mal-Tuboly. That you might know where to find a man. I also have an offer you yourself might be interested in.”

Tunny peered intently into his companion’s troubled eyes.

“An offer, eh? And what might that be, old chap?”

“I do not wish to go into all the details now. It is a fragile matter. However, the man I wish to talk to is a soldier; one Woebeg Ban Errieu.”

Tunny’s eyes narrowed. “I may have heard of the fellow. Then again. It would help if I knew your particular interest. It might help me, shall we say, narrow it down a bit?”

Pellaq stroked his bald pate with a vast left hand. “Regarding Ban Errieu; his skills as a fighting man are well-known. We seek warriors. The finest. You‘ve a certain fame yourself, Mal-Tuboly. There’s hefty payment on offer. Ornish gold.”

Tunny was a master of the blade, though cursed with a rogue streak of cowardice. Too wilful to be a soldier, he found himself a wandering sword-for-hire. His nature suited only the briefest of loyalties. His bold declarations of honour, love or fealty were noisome and expansive, but they were sickly, and prone to wither. He was a romantic, a dreamer, hoping to find something great in the world, something worthy of his life - his death. The heartiest of companions, however, he enjoyed a peculiar kind of fame throughout Orn. His gift was to be beloved of most who met him - and a kind of small magiq there was in that.

Tunny nodded his fat round head gently.

“Sounds interesting. I’ll need to know more, of course, but give me a couple of days, all right old chap? I’ll see what I can come up with.”

AVATAR

III

I’m shaking and I can’t see properly, and there’s a monologue running in my head, falling through my head, that’s taking my mind off the pain. I think I’ve lost my left arm but I can’t be sure, there’s no time to look, no time to stop the blood that must be pouring, gushing. I’m screaming like Thotlan, and the blade that writes the Karnaghk in the air should be a two-hander, but she sings beautifully all the same. Bloody vapour trails her passing, clotting my nose, I breath through a grin; a grim grin. And the faces are (scared/angry/mad/sad) all exactly the same, the same face, cut in two, in half, like fruit, an opening, so slowly, like a red bloom, in a cheek, an eye. Small explosions of crimson, bursts of salty metallic blood-sweat-tears. Clawing pleading hands. I’m laughing because it’s the best they’ve got, the very best. And it’s not enough because I’m nearly there and they can’t stop me. They can’t stop me. And the last ones run as I open their friend/brother/comrade neck to groin, shoulder to hip, wide open, like a flower, a big bright flower opening, red, facing the sun, opening up to the sun.

And I’m out, I’m out, and I’m laughing/crying blood sweat tears…

Hergal awoke to sodden sheets and an unfamiliar ceiling. A young noblewoman whom he did not immediately recognise stroked his forehead gently, mewing. He felt a knot of distaste writhe in his guts. Not physically unattractive, the girl was yet blemished by a smug, patronising air that hung about her like old sweat. She pouted in a manner that only contrived to intensify Hergal’s sudden distrust, eyes too full of questions. He bemoaned his lack of better judgment the previous evening having consumed far too much alcohol.

“Leave.” he whispered.

“Are you all right? You were dreaming...”

“I was dreaming, yes. Now I am awake. So please, do as I ask, and leave - preferably quietly.”

Any pretence at liking Hergal fled in a cold instant from the girl’s face. She stood, abruptly, wearing her nudity like a challenge, breasts jutting below a similarly jutting chin.

“So, what then, you’re just going to kick me out? Did I do something wrong - or was I just a fuck after all?”

Hergal did nothing to hide the frost in his eyes. “Don’t pretend it was ever anything more! Your being here tells the lie, so let’s not fool ourselves shall we? We’re not old friends. Look, please, I need to be alone. My head hurts. I don’t care in the slightest who you are. It’s an irrelevance. I have no idea what I said to you last night either, or how we came to be here – sorry if that bothers you, but I was very drunk. Regardless, I need you to go. Right now. Or do I owe you some sort of payment?”

The furious girl scooped up clothes strewn in ribbons and bunches across the floor. “How dare you! You’re definitely not the gentleman I thought I met last night! Fuck you!”

“That,” said Hergal, chuckling despite himself “is certainly true enough!”

Later, emerging from a modest guesthouse on Peribold Walk, Hergal pondered his dream. It caused him to rub subconsciously at his left arm beneath the elbow. He still sweated lightly.

“So, you are back to bother me some more, eh?” He reflected gravely. “Nuddfegh-Ho.”

Barachal Tush, the Sayer, found Tantrix-Alumnae much changed. Whilst Sayers had always induced a little fear in the human citizens of the city, and distrust in the Ornish, the outright disgust he now encountered on the streets verged on the alarming. His golden robes were spattered with globules of spit. Inn doors were noisily barred shut at his passing as word sped up the streets that a Sayer was amongst them. It grieved him enormously. He took it all as a sign that the Tells were right. That what he had gleaned in the Echoes-To-Be was coming to pass.

He knitted his gold and black furred brow into furrows. He was here at least. And those he sought - those whose futures would impact on that of the planet Arddn, on that of the very universe they all dwelt within - they were here also. Now. With the fate of uncountable lives resting heavily on his shoulders, such dark murderous looks as Tantrix-Alumnae’s ignorant populace cast him were of little consequence. He continued his troubled search through the streets, and, to the extent he was able, paid them little heed.

***

“A word, if you please sir!” A young male voice barked suddenly, at Hergal’s left. To his right another older man appeared, and Hergal was aware of at least two more people behind him.

“I’m in a hurry,” growled Hergal. “Speak as we walk, if you must.”

“If you are obliging, Munger-lover, and allow us to escort you out through the Lion Gate, you will come to no harm. There have been changes in Tantrix-Alumnae since you disappeared. Your kind, my Lordt Warloq, is no longer welcome here.”

Hergal, frowning, turned to the younger man - a city noble by his dress and bearing, quite at odds with the accompanying thug.

“Well, then, what have we here?” he said. “You know, clearly, that I am a Lordt of Tantrix-Alumnae – though not by my ring I would guess. As such I would normally expect better manners from someone of your evident standing. But then you are correct - I have been away from this place for a while. Things change. So tell me, how is it you know so very much about me? And why exactly is it that you choose to address me as both a Munger-lover and a Warloq?”

The youth wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I’ve spent some hours this morning - shall we say - researching you, Lordt Ban Egan. And, do tell: Where have you been for so long, and yet not aged a day? We, here, know of your kind. But these are modern times. Our times. As I see, you still favour the fashions of the Ornish. Quaint. It was a look my father embraced in his youth. My generation chooses not to look to the past. Indeed we would rid the city of all the dark, dangerous ways it once embraced. Warloqery - all Munger associated trickery - are practices we are committed to purging from these lands. The Ornish themselves are not above our scrutiny, sacred or otherwise. Let the shit-eating Nefarean scum be ruled by the fear of magiq and it’s like, we shan’t be so easily cowed! You see - we are armed with a new knowledge; the surety that the world does not barter in dreams. This is a harsh, solid reality we live in, and we will defend the honesty of that with our lives. We say the practitioners of our enemies’ dark arts are themselves our enemies. And we watch for any such people as might return here; we have eyes in many places. In sleep you damned yourself…”

Hergal burst open the older man’s left eye with a ringed finger, then ducked as a thin blade sliced through the air above his head. He rolled lightly on the cobbled street and was up again. Spinning around, sword now free of sheath, he carved a blur of intricate patterns in the air. The young noble was shocked to find fine slits opening across his forehead and both cheeks, weeping red rivulets.

“A man’s dreams are his own, and not subject to the laws of this city, let alone this world.” Said Hergal, a frost in his eyes, as he peripherally noticed his carnal companion of the previous evening fearfully backing her way through the gathering crowd with a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she pointed at him but could utter nothing. He cursed her silently.

“I suggest you get your friend here some medical assistance.” he hissed. “And I certainly hope you’re paying him well enough, poor sod. Now then, I have been friend to Tantrix-Alumnae for longer than you can guess, and may it always be so. As for my whereabouts these last how-many years - that is none of your bloody business. But I tell you: It was spent in service of this realm, and this island, Orn. My age is my own concern - but as you see; I take care of myself.”

“Fuck you, Warloq! We’ll get rid of your kind soon enough! We’ll put you all to the fucking Torch...”

Hergal’s blade flashed again above the bridge of the noble’s nose, pricking him. He stared along the blade’s length, meeting the man eye to eye.

“I don’t know you - not yet. But, if I were you, I would get out of the city. You have no idea who you’re messing with. I don’t forget faces, and yours has some - let’s say - distinctive features now. I’ll enjoy finding out who you are, what games you play here. And I’ll relish hunting you down. Rest assured, your own ignorance will be your downfall. Now piss off, boy. I’m bored of this.”

The man glared at Hergal, crimson blazing in his cosseted blood-streaked cheeks. A hand hovered uncertainly above his still sheathed rapier. He seemed to be deciding on what his rejoinder might be - but then he grunted abruptly, gestured that the two others attend the injured man, and shouldered his way belligerently through the gathered onlookers dabbing a handkerchief at his bleeding face.

Hergal kept his sword poised and steady until they had all departed then sheathed it in the manner of a larger, rougher man - Brec’s legacy. Bile burned his throat. A slight tremor danced up his spine, bristling the hairs on the back of his neck. Blood throbbed up around his temples.

Turning brusquely, Hergal marched to the next throughfare into Ardinax Street, where he puked against a wall. A short while after that he refreshed himself with a drink from one of the many spas, cleaning his bloodied hand and splashing his face in the naturally warm mineral water. Then he walked shakily on, via Penn and Willow Street and Duhn Ring, arriving eventually at the Raven Gate - the only way into the Old Town.