Riding at his side in the front of their modest column, Skintick said, ‘A name like “Bastion” invites images of ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons, suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,’ he added with a sigh, ‘we must be witness here to the blessed indolence of Saemankelyk, the Dying God’s sweet blood.’
Memories of his time in the company of the giant mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too uninterested to explain.
Since we failed him.
The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see the bleached flats stretching out from the old shoreline, stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left, inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows, but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there-the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of wrapped figures motionless.
They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no one in sight.
‘We’re being watched,’ Skintick said.
Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid eyes.
‘As if we’ve done just what they wanted,’ Skintick went on, his voice low, ‘by delivering Clip, straight to their damned Abject Temple.’
That was certainly possible. ‘I have no intention of surrendering him-you know that.’
‘So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A fanatic priesthood and a god?’
‘Yes.’
Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.
Nimander frowned at him. ‘Cousin, I don’t recall you possessing such blood-lust.’
‘Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we’ve been pushed long enough. It’s time to push back, that’s all. Still, that damage to your hands worries me.’’Aranathn did what she could I will he fine.’ He did not explain how the wounding felt more spiritual than physical. Aranatha had indeed healed the crushed bones, the mangled flesh. Yet he still cradled them as if crippled, and in his dreams at night he found himself trapped in memories of that heavy block of obsidian sliding over his fingertips, the pain, the spurting blood-and he’d awaken slick with sweat, hands throbbing.
The very same hands that had strangled Phaed-almost taking her life. The pain felt like punishment, and now, in the city before them, he believed that once more they would know violence, delivering death with terrible grace.
They reined in before the gate’s archway. Sigils crowded the wooden doors, painted in the same thick, black dye that marred the walls to either side.
Nenanda spoke from the wagon’s bench. ‘What are we waiting for? Nimander? Let’s get this over with.’
Skintick twisted in the saddle and said, ‘Patience, brother. We’re waiting for the official welcoming party. The killing will have to come later.’
Kallor climbed down from the back of the wagon and walked up to the gate. ‘I hear singing,’ he said.
Nimander nodded. The voices were distant, reaching them in faint waves rippling out from the city’s heart. There were no other sounds, as one would expect from a crowded, thriving settlement. And through the archway he could see naught but empty streets and the dull faces of blockish buildings, shutters closed on every window.
Kallor had continued on, into the shadow of the gate and then out to the wide street beyond, where he paused, his gaze fixed on something to his left.
‘So much for the welcoming party,’ Skintick said, sighing. ‘Shall we enter, Ni-mander?’
From behind them came Aranatha’s melodic voice. ‘Be warned, cousins. This entire city is the Abject Temple.’
Nimander and Skintick both turned at that. ‘Mother bless us,’ Skintick whispered.
‘What effect will that have on us?’ Nimander asked her. ‘Will it be the same as in the village that night?’
‘No, nothing like that has awakened yet.’ Then she shook her head. ‘But it will come.’
‘And can you defend us?’Nenanda asked. ‘We will see.’
Skintick hissed under his breath and then said, ‘Now that’s reassuring.’
‘Never mind,’ Nimander replied. Wincing, he tightened his grip on the reins and with a slight pressure of his legs he guided his horse into the city. The others lurched into motion behind him.
Coming to Kallor’s side Nimander followed the old man’s gaze down the side street and saw what had so captured his attention. The ruin of an enormous mechanism filled the street a hundred paces down. It seemed to have come from the sky, or toppled down from the roof of the building nearest the outer wall-taking most of the facing wall with it. Twisted iron filled its gaping belly, whereflattened, riveted sheets had been torn away. Smaller pieces of the machine littered the cobbles, like fragments of armour, the iron strangely blue, almost gleaming,
‘What in the Abyss is that?’ Skintick asked.
‘Looks K’Chain Che’Mallc,’ Kallor said. ‘But they would offer up no gods, dy-ing or otherwise. Now I am curious,’ and so saying he bared his teeth in a smile not directed at anyone present-which was, Nimander decided, a good thing.
‘Aranatha says the entire city is sanctified.’
Kallor glanced over. ‘I once attempted that for an entire empire.’
Skintick snorted. ‘With you as the focus of worship?’
‘Of course.’
‘And it failed?’
Kallor shrugged. ‘Everything fails, eventually.’ And he set out for a closer examination of the ruined machine.
‘Even conversation,’ muttered Skintick. ‘Should we follow him?’
Nimander shook his head. ‘Leave him. If the city is a temple, then there must be an altar-presumably somewhere in the middle.’
‘Nimander, we could well be doing everything they want us to do, especially by bringing Clip to that altar. I think we should find an inn, somewhere to rest up. We can then reconnoitre and see what awaits us.’
He thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Good idea. Lead the way, Skin, see what you can find.’
They continued on down the main street leading from the gate. The tenements looked lifeless, the shops on the ground level empty, abandoned. Glyphs covered every wall and door, spread out from every shuttered window to as far as a hand could reach if someone was leaning out. The writing seemed to record a frenzy of revelation, or madness, or both.
A half-dozen buildings along, Skintick found an inn, closed up like everything else, but he dismounted and approached the courtyard gates. A push swung them wide and Skintick looked back with a smile.
The wagon’s hubs squealed in well-worn grooves in the frame of the gate as Nenanda guided it in. The compound beyond was barely large enough to accommodate a single carriage on its circular lane that went past, first, the stables, and then the front three-stepped entrance to the hostelry. A partly subterranean doorway to the left of the main doors probably led into the taproom. In the centre of the round was a stone-lined well-stuffed solid with bloating corpses.
Skintick’s smile faded upon seeing this detail. Dead maggots ringed the well. ‘Let’s hope,’ he said to Nimander, ‘there’s another pump inside… drawing from a different source.’
Nenanda had set the brake and he now dropped down, eyeing the bodies. ‘Pre-vious guests?’
‘It’s what happens when you don’t pay up.’
Nimander dismounted and shot Skintick a warning look, but his cousin did not notice-or chose not to, for he then continued, ‘Or all the beds were taken. Or some prohibition against drinking anything but kelyk-it clearly doesn’t pay to complain.’’Enough,’ said Nimander. ‘Nenanda, can you check the stables-see if there’s feed and clean water. Skintick, let’s you and I head inside.’
A spacious, well-furnished foyer greeted them, with a booth immediately to the right, bridged by a polished counter. The narrow panel door set in its back wall was shut. To the left was a two-sided cloakroom and beside that the sunken entranceway into the taproom. A corridor was directly ahead, leading to rooms, and a steep staircase climbed to the next level where, presumably, more rooms could be found. Heaped on the floor at the foot
