The air shimmered like spilled oil. An uncomfortably warm wind blew southwards through the arced maw of the Feeder Peaks and across the All-Seeing Lakes that circled the city of Voyeur. Northern winds were always unpredictable due to the frothing maelstrom of the Abyssal Ocean that flanked the city. As weather went, sticky warmth was considered a good day.
Between each of the nine jaundiced lakes that formed a ring around Voyeur were narrow pathways that linked the city with the outside world. Between the edge of the lakes and the city itself stood the creamy glow of the Order field. The protective sphere surrounded the city like a translucent eggshell. Its constant crackle created a low background buzz that could be heard from a mile away like a million starved mosquitos baying for blood.
Beyond the city and the Order field and the sickly lakes worked a lone figure. Wren Ashmoore let the wind sluice across her body as she worked, ignoring the constant pin-prickle sensation of sweat by keeping her hands busy with mushroom picking, and her mind occupied with singing softly into the soupy air. A leather sack was at her side, already half full with the morning’s harvest of fungi. The sack was her only companion beside a ragged magpie that stood on a nearby pillar of stone.
Few souls dared to brave the world beyond the crackling sphere of Order that protected Voyeur. Demons, mutants, and madness festered without an Order-field to keep the world in check. The worst terrors tended to avoid large settlements like Voyeur, but experience had taught Wren to always be wary. She never strayed too far from one of the land bridges between the lakes.
No human could swim across the All-Seeing lakes. They weren’t filled with water but rather thick jelly that sucked at anything unfortunate enough to find themselves within it. The viscous yellow discs rose like perfectly smooth hills towards their centre, each crowned with a pool of deepest black. When viewed from a distance they were unmistakably the colossal eyes of a dead god.
Fungi was the only thing that grew from the rotting flesh of the continent. Some species were small and grew in the damp shadows while others were taller or squatter than a grown man. Hundreds of shapes and colours spread out across the landscape before Wren in a sickly kaleidoscope of rot.
Wren knew a lot about fungi. You had to if you worked with them. It would be all too easy to mistake similar species and die gruesomely in a puddle of your own blood-filled vomit. Some didn’t even need to be eaten to be deadly. Spores alone could be deadly, and not every death was quick. Certain species even replaced a still living body’s nervous system with its own mycelium network, turning the poor soul into a zombified slave to the fungus. To the informed observer though they represented a world of opportunity.
Food was always scarce in Voyeur, so anything edible was coveted, but then there were also those that sought certain mushrooms for medicinal properties, others for their deadly toxins, and many that wanted to escape into the hallucinations that some fungi could trigger. There were other, more practical uses for them too. Wren had dedicated years to studying mycology and considered herself one of Voyeur’s experts.
This close to the city, the gigantic mushrooms known as skycaps had long since been felled, but they still loomed in the distance, close enough for all manner of horrors to approach unseen. Their wide caps formed a near unbroken ceiling, casting huge swaths of the land in an inky gloom that hid countless dangers. Even the softness of the fleshy white ground beneath Wren’s feet would mask the sound of footsteps. That’s why it was vital to always have an escape route nearby.
Wren worked quickly with a small knife made of bone, selecting a fungi and cutting it free with practised, almost mechanical movements before throwing it into the sack. The air was heavy with the perpetual sickly-sweet scent of death. With each step her feet sunk slightly into the cold, pallid flesh of the god corpse. Wren never wore shoes beyond the walls. Everything was soft with rot. Shoes quickly became damp and degraded, and repairs or replacements were hard to come by.
She only had two sets of clothing, one light shift made from webworm thread, a pair of snug trousers, an equally snug top, both of which had been handed down from her mother, and a cloak that was still far too big for her that had once belonged to her father. Wren wished she could wear the shift to help combat the weather but loose fabric catching or snagging was a death sentence, so Wren suffered the heat with little complaint.
Despite the constant danger Wren enjoyed the work. Her mother had taught her about the different types of fungi when she had been a little girl. Her mum had always been a thin, sickly woman, but she had never shown fear of being outside of the city. Wren remembered her mother telling her that observation was much better than fighting prowess. Why risk a fight when you know exactly where each threat might lay?
Most thought her mother mad. Who but a raving lunatic would take a child into the hellish wild? But even back then Wren had found a solace in the silence. There was a simplicity to the brutal landscape of death that couldn’t be found in the chaotic swirl of caged humanity.
“There’s a corpsehawk coming,” stated a nervous voice beside her.
The voice belonged to Krow the magpie. The bird cocked its head to the side and blinked all four of his eyes one at a time in a ripple that started with his back left eye and ended at the back right. His one foot shifted and hopped constantly, eager to take flight, while the peg that was fastened where his other foot should have been tapped the cracked stone surface in an impatient rhythm.
Wren followed the direction he was looking and spotted a distant speck in the red hued sky. It very well could have been a corpsehawk, not that it mattered. Anything outside of Order would kill her with frightening ease. Still, she trusted Krow’s vision. It had saved her life more than a few times.
“That’s the second one this week,” Krow muttered as Wren dropped the last mushroom into the sack.
“Could be the same one.”
“Could be. It shouldn’t be here though.”
“You could always fly up and ask it.”
The bird gave her a withering stare. His four eyes made it all the more intense. “Just because it can talk doesn’t mean it’ll parlay with me. It’d eat me as soon as say hello. No. Much better to ignore the problem and hope it disappears. Now let’s go. Corpsehawks have a nasty turn of speed when they spot a potential meal.”
“You’re right. We’re done here anyway. I’ve still got so much I need to do before Mum wakes up. I’ve been waiting two weeks to speak to her.”
Wren grabbed the sack and slung it over her shoulder. The knife stayed in her hand. Hidden dangers could always strike, and while anything could kill her, she didn’t want to make it too easy. Krow hopped across onto her shoulder and the two quickly approached the pathway between the eyes. He scanned the land behind them as Wren focused the land in front.
While Order stopped monsters, it didn’t prevent desperate cutthroats and muggers. As far as Wren was concerned, humans presented a bigger threat to her safety. Beasts and demons could be avoided, but people couldn’t be.
Strangers to Voyeur spoke of the constant unnerving sensation of being watched while in the vicinity of the city. To Wren and the other natives it was a simple fact of life. You couldn’t rely on that subtle unsettled feeling to alert of danger. Many had found that out the hard way. To travel alone was simply suicide. That’s why Wren had Krow.
She couldn’t rely solely on her friend though. She continued her soft singing and tried to look as carefree as she could. Potential observers were more likely to make mistakes when they underestimated the observed.
The pearlescent barrier of Order stood just beyond the ring of sightless eyes. The air crackled and the world beyond its flowing veneer looked warped as though the outer wall of the city was swaying drunkenly. Wren passed through it without slowing and let the feeling of crackling ice ripple across her skin and through her soul. It never failed to rip the breath from her lungs but she had experienced it enough to stave off the worst of the sensation. While it was uncomfortable for her, it was deadly for anything of a demonic nature.
Krow shuddered as they passed through, scrunching his four eyes tightly together. He let out a sigh as they emerged from the other side then shook his feathers.
“You think we have enough to afford a juicy eyeball for your good friend and bodyguard? You promised me one last week,” he asked her.
“I’m a woman of my word aren’t I? Sometimes unforeseen costs can’t be avoided.”
“You bought a doll for a whiny child who couldn’t look after her last.”
“Her house collapsing and killing her parents is hardly her fault. Humans need comforting distractions. I can’t bring her parents back, but a doll to hug and confide in is like a totem, something we place faith in and breathe a kind of life into. It’s important. Believe me. Anyway, I know you have your own stash of treasure you could trade for little treats.”
“Treasure to a noble bird such as myself is like a totem, something we place faith in and breathe a kind of life into,” Krow parroted. “Our ancestors were powerful dragons who’s social hierarchy was built around the accumulation of wealth. It’s in our blood. A part of our cultural heritage!”
“Fair enough. Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I think we should be set for today. Those wanton warlocks fetched a good price last time I found some.”
“Are they the little purple mushrooms with the questionable shape?”
“Yeah, those ones. Apparently when they’re prepared correctly they give the user an erection that lasts for three hours. People pay good money for that.”
“Why would anyone want that? Us animals learned early that the quicker the better. Why leave yourself vulnerable for longer? Surely it gets boring after a few minutes? And sore!”
Wren ignored the bird’s question. They were in the shadow of Voyeur’s wall now, right where she had discarded her shoes in the early hours of the morning. She slipped them back on then began to follow the jagged curve of the wall eastward towards the closest gate into the city.
The outer wall was a mess of bone, hide, and chitin that was liberally plastered with wattle and daub. It only stood about ten feet tall and could be broken apart fairly easily with a hard tool and a little time, but time was exactly what it bought the people within. It kept most of the beasts out and put just enough of an obstacle in the way of an invading tribe that a proper defence could be mounted.
It wasn’t long until the two lookout columns that flanked the eastern gate came into view. It was known as the Foragers’ Pass and was the smallest of the city’s gates. Two guards stood beside the gateway itself with another two standing atop the columns. The two on the ground were armed with shields and spears while the two above each had a tall basket filled with javelins. The constant damp made bows all but useless. All four had a bagpipe-like instrument hanging at their side which could be used to communicate with the guards within the city itself. The lower guards greeted Wren with curt nods as she approached. Her white hair made her distinctive, even at a distance, so she rarely had to identify herself.
“Looks like you had a good morning,” the older of the two commented. He was a bald man with a drooping moustache who went by the name Russ.
“It’s a lot easier to work when I don’t have people attacking me,”
“I can’t send out Griss every time someone passes through the gate,” he said, nodding his head towards a stern looking pigeon who perched nearby. “You know the dangers of coming out here well enough. Not that there’s many stupid enough to follow a witch.”
“It didn’t stop the last one,”
“What can I say? There’s no accounting for terminal stupidity. The three days of full body cramps you put him through should have done the trick though. They say he screamed non-stop the entire time. You’re developing a reputation.”
Wren frowned. “I only wanted to paralyse him. I panicked and grabbed the wrong pouch. The bone-bane spores are meant for bigger creatures.”
Russ placed a scarred hand on Wren’s shoulder. He was missing half of his pinky finger. “That bastard followed you with bad intentions. He got what he deserved, and he can thank the dead gods he’s still among the living to reflect on his actions.”
He stepped back to let Wren pass through. She nodded and stepped through the gate and into the city of the All-Seeing god.
Matthew Roys 