Cameron Johnston - God of Broken Things

The wardens carrying the chained bodies of the Scarrabus-infested magi glanced at the jar and then eyed me warily as they slipped past into the rooms used for dissection. I took a little diversion further up the tunnel to pay my respects, such as they were.

Most of the doors in this area were sealed with arcane locks and intricate wardings that nobody had dared to touch since Shadea’s sacrifice, but the one at the far end had been taken off its hinges and the doorway crudely widened with hammers. If the old woman could see what they had done to her chambers she would have flown into a rage. The room beyond was lit by an ornate candelabra holding fat, dripping candles, the flickering light drank up by a huge and ragged sphere of dark metal that trailed snaking tubes and fibrous shreds of steel muscle. What was left of Shadea was exactly where it belonged – amongst her precious research subjects as a thing to be taken apart and studied. We were not even sure if she was wholly dead inside the wreckage of the ancient war engine. It still fizzed with potent magic that burned against my Gift like hot iron.

I suffered mixed feelings every time I saw her like this. I had always hated her elitist arrogance and exacting tuition, her foul temper and venomous tongue. Still, she had sacrificed herself without hesitation to save us all.

“Stupid old woman,” I muttered. After a moment’s hesitation I pulled off my left glove and placed my hand on the black metal, tracing gouges left by the teeth and claws of the Magash Mora as it tried to tear her body from the titanic war engine powered by her Gifted blood sacrifice.

I shuddered. That dread name… that monstrous thing… Bile seared the back of my throat as memories seeped out like pus.

I forced them down and focused on the metal under my hand. It was cool but not cold, and my magically-enhanced senses felt a tiny but regular vibration, as if she but slept and snored softly within. But my Gift found no hint of living thought within her metal tomb.

“Thanks for what you did,” I said. “Of course, you lot had planned to sacrifice me to that titan first if you could, so a big fuck you for that. Still, as you suggested, I am trying to be something better than I was, to find another path. I have a purpose now, and in these mad times revenge is as good as any.” I patted it. “You were one hard old bitch, but you spoke a lot of sense.”

Soft footsteps approached and stopped in the doorway. The woman’s mind was cool and calm as the eldritch waters she summoned and controlled, and harboured just as much potential for raging destruction as storm-tossed winter waves.

“Hello Cillian,” I said, turning to face her. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles and her long curly hair had been left to roam free, devoid of her usual elegant circlets. Her fingers were ink-stained from writing unending orders and missives. She was a paper soldier in this war and I thought no less of her for it.

“Are you done insulting Shadea’s remains?” She was visibly still pissed off with me for letting her sleep.

“For now. But that’s between me and her.” I intertwined my fingers, cracking the knuckles. “As Shadea might say: we have business to attend to.” Then, not wanting to draw attention to what lay beneath my right glove, I slipped the other back on.

Her lips pressed tight but she said nothing and escorted me into the antechamber of the dissection chambers, to where Alvarda’s corpse was chained face down to a table ready for the knives. A bewildering array of polished tools hung from racks: blades and hooks, saws and spoons and wires and other things I had no names for. All had served some sort of macabre purpose in Shadea’s liver-spotted hands. Had the city not been attacked I might have ended up here myself. I dreaded to think what other horrors lurked in the large chest by the far wall.

As she led me through into the next room a strange dislocation washed over me. My Gift was cut off from the sea of magic. I felt heavier and a fog engulfed my senses. A Sanctor was here!

In the centre of the next room Rikkard Carse sat gagged and bound to a bulky steel chair bolted to the floor. His hands and legs were chained to the frame and a steel band secured his throat. A metal cage had been lowered over his head and locked in place. Secure as that was, you couldn’t be too careful with a magus, and so on a stool by the far wall sat an unwelcome and familiar face: the sanctor Martain, hero of Black Autumn, lauded by the High Houses and Arcanum for taking down the Magash Mora at Shadea’s side – ungrateful bastards the lot of them.

The magus-killer and I bore no love for each other, but once you’ve dived headfirst into carnage together to save your city you do acquire a certain grudging respect. We exchanged nods.

Cillian approached the captive young aeromancer and inspected the fastenings. “Has he tried to escape?”

Martain shook his head. “He has made no attempt to open his Gift nor has he uttered any coherent words.” He glanced at me. “What has been done to him?”

“That is none of your concern,” Cillian replied, backing away. “The Halcyon Order are sending a magus skilled with body magic to investigate the corpse in the next room. You will keep watch over Rikkard until we are ready to interrogate him. Do not get too close and keep your blade ready for anything unusual.”

Martain was no idiot. Given my unexpected presence he suspected at least some of what we were about. He stood and drew his sword. “As you wish, councillor.”

We retreated to the antechamber and closed the door behind us. Outside of the sanctor’s area of effect we both sighed in relief, loosing a tension that neither of us had been aware of.

I cricked my neck. “I will never get used to that.”

Cillian frowned at me. “Let us hope you never have to. You sail too close to rocks for comfort. You are lucky that I don’t order you kept under guard.”

We spent the next few minutes snipping and snapping at each other until Old Gerthan arrived. He leaned heavily on his cane, still dressed in his voluminous striped nightclothes and floppy cap, long out of fashion before I’d been born. His eyes were red and grainy and he looked distinctly unimpressed at the sight of me. “This had better be worth interrupting my sleep, boy.” He looked to Cillian. “Councillor, what causes you to haul me from my bed?”

I felt awful, particularly given it was me who sent him off for much-needed sleep in the first place!

“I do apologise, Gerthan,” Cillian said, “but I thought it best to keep the circle of knowledge as small as possible.” She waved a hand at the robed corpse chained to the table.

He shuffled past Cillian. Taking a look at the subject in question he shot an alarmed look at her. “Alvarda of House Kernas has been murdered? Or were you successful in your hunt?”

“Scarrabus infestation,” I supplied. “We have one host alive and one dead.”

He nodded, set his cane to one side and rolled up his sleeves. “Very well, then let us see what we can discover.” He held his hands over the corpse, a fingerbreadth from touching the cold flesh, and slowly worked his way up the body, muttering to himself, frowning and chewing on stray wisps of beard. When he reached a soft bulge at the top of the spine he hissed, and after a moment’s hesitation proceeded to scrutinise every inch of the skull.

While he was busy with his work I opened my Gift and sensed nothing from the creature. Still, even mundane animals were beyond my ken so that meant little.

When he stepped back he frowned in puzzlement and began stroking his beard. “Whatever manner of creature infests him is still alive. It does not appear to be daemonic in nature, or more accurately, it is not a denizen of any of the Far Realms we have yet documented. The creature interacts strangely with my magic, producing a sort of echo in the aether.” He met and held our gaze. “I would suggest disabling it now. The body of Alvarda Kernas is regenerating despite the arrow that minced his brain. We do not wish the parasite to regain movement.”