He didn't know how it happened, but ever since he had seen all these people underground, especially since he had seen the children with their haunted faces and tenuous futures, he had managed to focus his anger on the things that were invading his city.
The Okun and those red-skinned rumel.
Dirty relics and illegal blades and outlawed poisons, the gangs began to use every nefarious piece of equipment they could get their hands on. Archaic systems were established, a no-leader culture despite their reverence for Malum, and as a result they became surprisingly well organized, a rough but self-sufficient fighting unit, with no need for Imperial direction. Some of the more primitive, barbarous types were in their element, able to indulge finally in killing as much as they could. There was something strangely poetic about the freedom they now operated with.
While the Okun possessed an instinct for knowing exactly what was coming, the red rumel made easier targets. Unlike their allies, they didn't fight as one, so their small patrols were easily hunted down by the feral gangsters.
Malum himself was armed only with his messer blade and crossbow, and sauntered behind a group of gang members until they had cornered their enemy against some old factory wall, then he'd push his way to the front, fangs protruding, to watch the fear in those black eyes as crossbow bolts thudded into them at any attempt to escape.
Finally, he would slit their throats and thrust his maw forward to drink their blood.
*
On the third night after the gangs had become embroiled in the fighting, some insane genius released from their cells all the cultistbred monstrosities, the ones used for arena combat, and his followers rode them through the narrow streets to plough straight into large clusters of the invaders. The enemy's synchronicity didn't deter the hybrids in the least. Unable to register any kind of fear, and bred without susceptibility to pain, these monsters did not suffer from any hesitancy.
Creatures many feet tall, endowed with multiple limbs, thick hides glistening with scales, advanced, all teeth and violence, to bombard the sturdy ranks of the rumel and Okun. They tore through whatever streets they cared to, sectors that had already seen days of fighting. They killed late into the night.
As Malum and his colleagues looked on from afar, tenement blocks were now being appropriated in the name of the gangs, and it wasn't long before it was mooted that some of these buildings were no longer Imperial territory.
And by the next day they'd be designated as autonomous zones – pirate territory. The first such enclave lay in the heart of Saltwater, offering a fine view over much of the fighting, and during the next day it expanded into former enemy territory in Scarhouse. Such reoccupation of the invaded city – including the Shanties, Althing, Scarhouse, and the Wasteland – could potentially stretch for miles along the coastline.
This new realm would have no emperor.
F ORTY-EIGHT
Some distance from the front line of fighting, Nelum again found Priest Pias in the Jorsalir church. This holy place was redolent with incense and history. Breathing it all in, it brought him great solace to be away from the pressures of war. It was somewhere he might find a moment of blessed silence.
A few days of combat had passed, but he found the priest still there, lighting candles in front of the opulent tapestries hanging at the far end of the church, whispering verses to himself.
The old man peered over his shoulder as he heard Nelum's boots scuffing on the marble tiles. 'Ah, my holy soldier,' the priest called out, turning to regard the tapestry once again. 'I am deeply happy to see you have survived – clearly, Bohr smiles favourably upon you.'
Nelum approached the priest and kissed the jewelled ring on his extended hand. Here indeed was a magisterial figure. 'I'm surprised to find you still here. Wouldn't it be prudent for you to leave the city?'
'I find that in such troubled times, I am busier than ever. The shepherd's flock swells in number whenever death is easier to envisage – it has always been the way of things.' He gave a knowing half-smile. 'People need comfort, so I am here to provide it.'
'I can understand that,' Nelum replied.
'I have been hoping you might have news for me on your wayward commanding officer.'
Nelum paused, pondering the right thing to say. Every day he'd looked for the right moment to arise, but there were always too many others around. Even in the obsidian chamber they were rarely left alone together. Nelum had even tampered with Brynd's saddle, loosening the girth so it would slip round during combat, but that hadn't succeeded either. And he had meanwhile suffered his doubts, tested and questioned his motives. He could barely sleep because of the stress. 'It isn't easy, you know, waiting for the best opportunity. Sometimes I can't help thinking it is not the right choice of action.'
The priest nodded, but Nelum could sense some dissatisfaction in his manner. A vague sense of shame washed over him. How could he let down a Jorsalir priest, of all people?
'He's a very effective warrior,' Nelum offered, hoping the priest might review his stance on this matter. 'He's helped kill so many of the enemy so far, and his training and strategies have primed the army to the best of their abilities.'
'That may be so, but should we permit sinners of this kind to go free on the streets to pollute the minds of others? He does not count in the larger scheme of things. You could assume his role very easily… Walk with me now, for these are not matters for discussion in a public place.'
Under soaring arches, and between stout columns, Nelum followed the priest into a small, musty room near the front of the church. Ancient texts covered in mould and dust lay heaped in piles, and Nelum could see enough from their spines to know that these were rare works indeed – many not even written in Jamur script.
'Is this your study?' Nelum asked.
'Of a sort. We keep all sorts of forgotten books here, and there is a small group of us documenting their significance.'
'Are they not all recorded?'
'Many were lodged in the libraries of various monasteries and churches across the Archipelago, but because of recent occurrences, we are now being more cautious about whom we entrust with them. Now, please…'
Pias gestured to a large wooden chair standing next to a sturdy table. He lit a cresset as Nelum sat down, still feeling vaguely anxious. The sharp features of the elderly priest's face were exaggerated by the light.
The priest wandered over to a set of shelves to retrieve a small, cream-coloured volume. He opened its age-tattered pages while continuing the conversation. 'I'm going to talk to you about something called mantraism, of which you won't remember anything after you leave. I won't patronize you, but enough to say it is one of our most ancient and secret arts.'
'I'm not sure I understand what-'
The old man began chanting, a cycle of words, adopting old tones Nelum had never before heard, and whatever language it was, the words repeated themselves. Occasionally the priest seemed to stop speaking but the sound of his voice amazingly continued. Over and over again the incantation looped, and Pias now spoke on top of it, reading from the book, layering and harmonizing everything he uttered.
And, in the middle of all this, Nelum heard in urgent tones: 'Think how highly you would be regarded for having cleansed this world of such a corrupting influence. Your commander's kind is not natural. Men should lie only with women since it's for creation. Anything else… No, it cannot be. Lieutenant, try not to think only of this one lifetime, but where your soul will proceed in the next – you will be rewarded for this. So often we think only of this existence, when there are many more to consider. So you will, you must, find an appropriate time, and then you will begin to feel an absolute urge to kill your commander, and thus rid this world of such an abomination…'