“Yes,” said Mithos simply, leaning closer to him. I had begun to notice something about him that I didn’t like, a smell not unlike the rancid butchers we had passed earlier. Dirt and blood, caked and drying. Foul.
“You want to taste the power,” he rasped. His voice had a thick, sluggish quality that made me faintly nauseated. Mithos nodded and drank from his mug.
“Drink,” said the man significantly. “Drink ale till you can get something better.”
I stared hard at Mithos. I had a very bad feeling about this.
“Drink of the destroyer and you’ll never be destroyed,” rasped the voice. “I know where it is, if you want it. Though it will cost you.”
“How much?” said Mithos mechanically.
“A little gold.” He shrugged. “Maybe more. But you know it’s worth it.”
“What is it?” Mithos asked, and I saw a tension in his shadowed face.
“The ritual,” he answered, “the blood charm. The life of a raider engorged with the lives of his victims. Yours for the drinking. Yours for life.”
He leaned close to me and smiled. Something black and coagulated stuck between his rotten teeth. His breath smelled like decaying flesh. I turned away, suppressing the bile in my throat.
“Take us there,” said Mithos, rising.
The stranger rose and lurched towards the door, swaying strangely, his dark, decrepit cloak trailing through the sawdust. We followed.
He led us through the streets, through alleys I wouldn’t have dared to pass at this time of night in other circumstances, though I was too focused on the shambling figure in front of us to worry about anything as mundane as a mugging.
“What are we doing?” I whispered to Mithos.
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “probably nothing of any use. Still, we’ve nothing better to do.”
I could think of a hell of a lot of things that were better than wandering the lightless streets with this foul- smelling maniac, but I said nothing.
All of a sudden we came to an unmarked doorway. He led us inside and up a narrow, creaking stairway. I put a hand into my cloak and gripped the hilt of my shortsword. At the top of the stairs was a big man with a shaved head and a spiked mace. I let go of my sword. Behind him was a curtain of wooden beads, and as our guide muttered to him, he stepped aside and we passed through.
On the other side we found ourselves in a small room dimly lit with thick candles that made the walls flicker madly. The bead curtain rattled behind me and I felt eyes turn upon us. There were people arranged in a circle around what looked like an altar stone. The stone was at least six feet long and on it rested the body of a headless man. He was naked, and a similarly naked but ancient woman was chanting over his corpse, opening his veins with a large knife. There was blood all over her.
“Oh, this is great,” I hissed at Mithos, “I just love black-magic rituals. They’re so
Silently he nodded at the corpse’s feet, where clothes and armor were piled. I saw the folded scarlet cloak and the bronze cuirass. There was no helm, but since there was no head, that wasn’t surprising. I looked at Mithos again for explanation but he was staring at the naked priestess or whatever she was. Her tired flesh hung in ripples and bags, which the candlelight caught and emphasized.
She was collecting the corpse’s thickened blood in a goblet, mixing it with some strong-smelling alcohol to make it fluid, and heating it over a candle, all the while chanting something inaudible under her breath. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and hot wax. It stuck in my throat. The woman pushed her hand into the corpse and there was a sucking sound. I looked away at this, but Mithos pressed a coin into the hand of our guide, who was leering at us with gruesome satisfaction, and started whispering to him. “Where did you get the body?”
“North, towards Hopetown. They attacked a wagon of silver traders. Killed them all. Only this one of the raiders fell. We have his blood, his life. Now it is time to drink.”
“Actually,” I muttered, “now that you mention it, I think I’ll pass after all. I’m sure it’s delicious, but I had a really big dinner. ” I stopped as the priestess took a long gulp from the chalice and some of the thick liquid dribbled down her chin. I could bear no more.
Blundering out, down the stairs and into the street, I spat and gasped and waited for Mithos to follow.
He didn’t. Ten minutes passed before he emerged, wiping his face and marching me swiftly along the narrow street back towards the Swan.
“What happened?” I gasped.
He didn’t reply, just kept walking. I repeated the question but he muttered, “Nothing. Come on. This is a dangerous area.”
He didn’t relax till we were back at the inn. He threw himself onto his bed and sighed up at the ceiling.
“Such a pleasant evening,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And worthless.”
“No,” he said, “it wasn’t.” Fishing in his pocket, he produced a small leather purse. “This was taken from round the raider’s neck.”
He emptied it onto the floor and I pulled the lamp closer to see. Some small coins rolled out and under the bed. A square of stiff paper fell to the ground. It was a pass to the Hopetown market dated three days ago. The blank spaces on the printed card had been filled out by a strong hand in black ink. “Permission given to a group of six under the name of Mr. Joseph (trade party leader) to trade in the Hopetown market for the date of 7.7.” Three days ago.
“Which means what?” I said.
“It means we head north at first light,” said Mithos. “Better get some sleep.”
He blew out the candle and I lay there in the dark, trying not to think about the blood ritual, or what Mithos might have done to get his information.
SCENE XXXV The Hopetown Road
By nine o’clock we had gathered the party and were making for Hopetown. They were right about that portcullis. It was still closing almost ten minutes after we’d gone through it. Of course, you could see for miles from the walls and towers, so there was no danger of an army catching them with their pants down.
The dangers of the road notwithstanding, I was glad to leave Ironwall, with its self-important duke and its blood-drinking inhabitants. A couple of times I spoke to Mithos about that night, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. After a while, neither did I. We had our clue and I chose to forget how we’d got it.
We traveled incognito, you might say, most of our armor concealed by voluminous cloaks and hoods. Orgos, being the most easily recognizable in these uncosmopolitan parts, rode inside the wagon with me. I sat at the tailgate, cradled my crossbow in my lap, and prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.
I didn’t. We’ll never know if some scout of the raiders watched from the distant hills and decided we weren’t worth attacking, but that suited me. We reached Hopetown shortly after sundown, rented rooms at the Bricklayer’s Arms under the name of Morgan, and unloaded crates of iron and copperware that we had hurriedly purchased in Ironwall. We dined on fat-basted potatoes and roast pork with lots of bristly crackling. Garnet and Renthrette had a salad.
“Tell us a story, Will,” said Mithos, his eyes closed and his head back.
Orgos caught my eye and nodded. I thought of something suited to my audience, took a long breath, and began:
