Alan Campbell - God of Clocks

The assassin took a deep breath. “Stop!”

A man came at Rachel with an axe, tails of hair flying behind him. She broke his teeth and then threw him, slamming his body to the ground. “I said stop!” The sudden exertion left her lightheaded and reeling; she struggled to disguise her frail condition.

Mina had bitten her lip. She was backing away towards the inn doorway, muttering promises to her devilish little dog.

“Don't do it, Mina,” Rachel cried. “Not here.”

The thaumaturge stopped. Her eyes widened, staring beyond Rachel.

Rachel turned and grabbed a second man's upraised arm and dragged it down so as to bury his axe in the mud. She stove her elbow into the wooden panels lashed around his guts and then tipped his unbalanced body forwards. A third and fourth attacker stormed up the banks of the earthen island still clutched in Dill's hand. Rachel raised her hands. “We're not here to fight.”

They grinned and reached for her, then pulled back, as if teasing. The taller of the two unwound a coiled rope lasso from around his palm and elbow. The light from the inn danced on his black-lacquered armour. His companion stroked his beard down, thrust out his tongue, and then raised his knife.

“We're here on Cospinol's orders,” Rachel said. “Here to recruit those still loyal to Rys to fight the Lord of the Maze. I need to speak to your captain.”

“Captain's busy,” said the shorter man. His wooden armour clicked as he lunged for her with his knife. At the same moment his companion threw his rope, aiming a loop at Rachel's head. Rachel caught the rope and wrapped her arm around it and yanked hard as she sidestepped the clumsy knife blow. She kicked the smaller man off balance and pulled his companion closer. “You're wasting my time,” she said. “We're not your enemies.”

The tall man looked uncertain now.

But then a great murderous roar came from the door of the inn. Hasp stood there, naked but for his hellish blood-filled armour. He was blind drunk and brandishing a whisky bottle. In his other fist he clutched the same axe that Rosella Hill had swung at Rachel. He took a long slug of whisky and bellowed, “Fucking traitorous cowards! Too scared to fight with us at Larnaig!” He tottered forward down the stoop and almost fell. And then he lurched three steps sideways and looked at Rachel's opponent and lifted the axe again. “I am Hasp of the First Citadel and I'll murder every one of you bastards.”

Rachel glared at Mina. The thaumaturge merely shook her head in warning. Clearly, Mina didn't think it wise to interfere with him.

The man at the end of Rachel's rope backed away from the god, his eyes wide with horror. She dropped the rope, letting him go, and turned to Hasp.

Hasp swung his axe at nothing and then staggered forward again.

“Hasp,” Rachel shouted, “get inside before you kill someone and ruin any hope we've got.”

“Murder them all,” Hasp growled. “Bastard wood-chopping cowards.” His bleary eyes focused on her. “You've hurt your head. I should protect you from these… foes, young lady.”

“Protect yourself, you idiot. You're stinking drunk.”

Hasp gave her a lopsided grin that seemed to clash with the bitterness in his tone. “I have numbed the insect,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Drank it into submission. The king's Mesmerists have no power over me here.”

“These are not Mesmerists, Hasp. They're Rys's men.”

“Rys?” He staggered sideways, then caught himself and looked at the fire-lit chaos all around him. “They should have fought with us at Larnaig.” He sat down on the ground and stared at the axe in his hand.

Four woodsmen had now scrambled up onto the ground surrounding the inn. They wore interwoven wooden plates over banded leather and carried either iron bludgeons or strips of steel, flat-hammered and honed into rude hacking blades. They began running towards the seated god. One cried out, “I speak for Lord Rys, you fucking demon.”

Rachel rushed forward to defend Hasp. “He is Rys's brother,” she yelled. “Lord of the First Citadel and Menoa's only enemy in Hell for three thousand years. What are your intentions, woodsmen? If you mean him harm, then you are a traitor to Coreollis and I will fight you here.”

The four hesitated.

“He's got a foul fucking mouth, girl.”

“That doesn't change who he is.”

The man who had claimed to speak for Rys now grunted. He was taller and broader than most of his comrades, yet as dark as a Heshette. His armour had been finely carved and painted with deep green lacquer. On his forehead ran a wide red scar, perhaps caused by the brim of a smashed helmet. He had narrow eyes, deep set on either side of a doubly crooked nose, and lines of corded black hair that fell upon his shoulders like the tails of a whip. He studied Hasp for a long time, then looked at Rachel.

“Why doesn't the arconite attack?” he said.

“Menoa doesn't control him.”

The woodsman raised a hand and shouted out above the din to the men attacking Dill, “Hold off! Ricks, Nine-inch, Pace, just stop your fucking racket so I can speak.”

The sound of clashing weapons subsided as the woodsmen ceased their attack and gathered around the Rusty Saw.

The man with the scar said, “My name is Oran, and this caravan is under my protection. Who the fuck are you people?”

The woodsmen had come from a bustling town called Ferris, four leagues to the south, Oran explained. Earlier today they had passed through Westroad, the very settlement from where Dill had plucked the Rusty Saw. Now his men were much amused to find themselves in the same damn tavern once more.

“We thought we'd drunk this place dry,” Oran explained. “And now we find it mysteriously restocked. That bastard Hill was hiding booze somewhere.” He sat at a table opposite Rachel and Mina, staring thoughtfully at his glass while a score of his woodsmen roared and laughed and slammed down drinks over at the bar. Orange light from the stove lit his darkly stubbled face and scarred forehead.

“What are your intentions?”

Oran glanced at his men, then back at Rachel. “How much are you prepared to pay?”

“Enough to keep your people from starving,” Rachel replied, “and to keep you on the right side of the war. The human side, I mean. Menoa might offer you more gold, but he'll expect your souls in return.”

His brow creased as he mulled this over, his scar forming new contours. “Two hundred and sixty men won't be enough to keep those things off your back,” he said. “I doubt ten thousand men could do it. Nobody has ever killed an arconite.”

She nodded.

“Then we're of no use to you.”

“We'll pay you anyway. Better to have allies against the unforeseen than to suffer enemies we needn't have.”

He continued to frown. “Two hundred and sixty men won't be enough to keep those things off your back,” he said again. “I doubt ten thousand men…”

Rachel felt an odd prickling sensation at the back of her neck, as if an unseen hand had brushed her.

“… ever killed an arconite,” Oran finished.

Rachel bit her lip, and stared at him for a moment. Was he just drunk, or being deliberately difficult? “You just repeated yourself, Oran.”

His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I said we'll pay you anyway. Everyone needs to eat.”

He shrugged. “Your charity does us an injustice,” he said, “but I won't refuse it.” He reached a hand across the table.

Rachel hesitated. Was she reading too much into his apparent repetition? After a moment, she sighed, and leant forward to accept his hand.

As their palms clasped, the woodsman added, “We also require payment for our horses and mules. The animals won't follow this monster, nor any creature that stinks of the Maze. They'll need to be turned loose or taken to the stockyards at Himmish to await our return.”