his feet. Tales abounded in Selgaunt about the dire creatures that lurked in the city's sewers- creatures such as flesh dissolving slimes and intelligent algae men-but Cale had concern only for an ambush by guildsmen. This portion of the sewers had been sealed off from the main tunnels a few blocks away, and the guild regularly patrolled to keep it clear of anything, or anybody, unwanted.
He had walked less than fifty paces when he began to smell rotting flesh. Shielding the light of the candle with his hand, he crept forward and strained to listen.
He expected to hear the growl of approaching ghouls, but instead heard nothing. Warily, he advanced.
The stench grew increasingly stronger as he neared the turn in the tunnel that led toward the guildhouse. Still hearing nothing, he hugged the tunnel wall and stalked forward, blade at the ready. When he rounded the turn, he saw the source of the stink. Vomit raced up his throat but he gritted his teeth and swallowed it down.
Ahead of him, at the base of the ladder that ascended into the guildhouse, lay a pile of rotting corpses. Black rats, some of them as large as small dogs, feasted on the bodies. Most of them squeaked indignantly at his approach, left their feast, and scurried off.
'Dark,' he softly oathed. He shooed away with his long sword two stubborn rats that had not fled with the rest and knelt to examine the corpses.
A ghastly pile of decomposing flesh, the bodies lay heaped atop one another like cordwood, so rotted and intertwined that Gale could hardly tell where one corpse ended and another began. Fifteen or twenty men maybe, he couldn't tell for sure. Dead a tenday at least, maybe two. The stench made his eyes water.
Torn and naked, the corpses had been tossed down from the trapdoor above like garbage. Partially eaten by ghouls-Cale recognized the ragged wounds of ghoul claw and fang-the rats had been at what remained. Puss and blood assaulted his eyes. He tried to scrutinize the mangled faces more closely but could not recognize any of them before he had to turn away or vomit. The grotesque image of a half-eaten arm sticking out of the base of the heap, the limb seemingly reaching for release, stuck in his mind and made him sweat in the chill.
He tried to steel himself, for he knew he would have to disengage the tangle of bodies to clear a path to the
'ladder. It was either that or try to climb over.
Shuddering, he immediately dismissed climbing as a bad idea. A big man, he would likely find himself sinking into the midst of the corpses rather than walking on top of them. The thought of wading chest deep in rot made him gag.,
Holding his breath and stifling retches, he set to work, H' pulled the bodies loose from the pile and hurriedly cast them to the side. Many came apart in his hands. Others leaked so much fluid as he picked them up that pus and blood soon soaked his cloak. He worked as fast as he could. Grab, throw, gag. Grab, throw, gag.
When he finally cleared enough of a path to the ladder, he grabbed desperately at the rusty iron rungs and began to climb. Halfway up he vomited down the front of his cloak. At the same time he realized that he had left his candle sputtering on the sewer floor. He didn't care. He could not go back down, at least not right now.
When he reached the trapdoor, he shouldered it open with a grunt and climbed into the storeroom.
Darkness, but surprisingly, no guards. Light trickled in from beneath the only door out and provided a dim luminescence. Crates and bags lay broken and torn open. Spilled grain and splintered wood littered the ground. Only tattered scraps remained of the filthy rug that once had covered the trapdoor.
Relieved, and in no danger of imminent attack, Cale took a moment to strip his befouled cloak and use a torn burlap grain sack to wipe clean his blood-soaked arms and chest. After transferring his coin and tinderbox into his pants pockets, he tossed the cloak, the sack, and his leather gloves into the sewer below and closed the trapdoor. Still reeling from the sights and smells of the sewer, he put his hands on his knees and allowed himself a moment to recover. He inhaled deeply and enjoyed a breath of cleaner air. The charnel smell of nearby ghouls lingered in the air, true, but that seemed clean compared with the foulness of the sewers.
After a few moments, he stood upright and mentally prepared himself. He did not know what he should expect. The guild seemed to have undergone some kind of purge in his absence. He felt certain that the corpses in the sewers below were former Night Knives. Dabbling with the demonic must have finally driven the Righteous Man insane. The guildmaster was purging the guild of unbelievers and transforming Mask's faithful into undead. The realization caused Gale to despise religion all the more. A man lost himself when he took the rites. The Righteous Man had lost himself. The attack on Stormweather had not been an attempt to get at Cale through his family. It had been merely a ham-handed attempt to get at Cale, an unbeliever. Thazienne's injury and all the dead were incidental.
Doesn't matter, he told himself, he did what he did and he goes down anyway.
Ready, he knelt before the door and listened. Nothing. He had the benefit of surprise then. Slowly, he pulled the door openA body slammed into it and knocked him backward. He caught a glimpse of gray flesh and dirty fangs. Ghoul!
He leaped back with a shout and brandished his blade, expecting a flurry of claws, fangs, and stink. Instead, the ghoul inexplicably halted in the doorway. It growled softly, almost a purr, then stepped backward into the hall, out of Gale's sight.
Stupefied, Cale stood there, blade ready. He waited for a tense moment, but nothing happened. What in the Hells?
The ghoul-Cale now recognizsed it from its long black hair as Tyllin Var, a former pickpocket specialist and Mask believer-reappeared in the doorway. It snarled impatiently and waved a clawed hand, beckoning Cale forward.
Gale's heart thudded in his chest but he quieted his fear with anger. Seems I'm expected after all, he thought. Gripping his blade in a sweating fist, he advanced cautiously out of the room.
As with the storeroom, the guildhouse was in a filthy, chaotic shambles. The long main hall stretched before hint, dotted with open doors and littered with debris like the aftermath of a street riot. Broken weapons, half-eaten bodies, shredded clothing, rotten food, overturned chairs and tables, all lay strewn haphazardly about. Behind Tyllin, who flashed Cale his fangs in an evil grin, stood a ghastly formation- pair upon pair of ghouls lined the hall at even intervals, a grisly formation of twisted gray bodies that marked a processional path directly to the shrine. The double doors to the Righteous Man's sanctuary and worship hall stood open, hut from where Cale stood, he could not pierce the dimness of its interior.
Tyllin stood aside, regarded Cale with slitted eyes, gave a snarl, and waved him forward. Presented with no other option, he stalked cautiously past Tyllin and made his way down the hall. Cale realized how futile his resistance to an attack would be at this point.
Eyeing him hungrily, each pair of ghouls growled softly as he walked between them. Some pawed the air and snarled, unable to conceal their insatiable desire for his flesh. He kept his long sword ready and watched them all like a hawk, but none of them made an aggressive move.
As he passed each pair, they fell in behind him and herded him toward the shrine. Only a third of the way down the hall, he already had a small crowd of ghouls behind and still more before him. He could feel their hungry eyes boring into his back. Surprisingly, he felt unafraid. He felt the liberation of a condemned man being led to the gallows. He knew now that he would not get out of here alive, and the realization freed him from fear. Neither of us is coming out of that shrine, old man, he vowed.
Though many of the ghouls still wore clothing or had tattoos that Gale recognized as belonging to a one-time comrade, their feral yellow eyes no longer contained anything recognizably human. Magic and religious fanaticism had mutatA yellow-eyed shadow flitted in the corner of his vision. He whirled on it, blade high. Nothing was there.
Nothing but the gaming parlor where guildsmen once had bet their take from jobs on the chance deal of cards and the random fall of knucklebones. Human vices that Cale could understand.
Still scanning the darkness of the parlor for the shadow demon, his eyes fell to the floor and he gave a start. He stopped walking and looked more closely to be sure his vision had not deceived him. The crowd of ghouls behind herded closer. The floor just inside the doorway of the parlor appeared to be slowly boiling, like simmering soup. He felt title hairs on his arms rise and bend toward the weird floor, as though pulled. Had the shadow demon vanished into that? Before he could consider further, a chorus of impatient growls sounded from the ghouls.
'Maaassk,' they mouthed as one, and the press of their vile, stinking bodies forced him forward.
Mask indeed, he thought as he walked. This is where your fanaticism has brought you, old man. He kept his eyes away from the half-eaten corpses
