Story

15. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

By way of congratulations, Toto has invited me to one of his Mama Jaques famous home cooked dinners. The old Jamaican woman is a goddess in the kitchen, and I’m never one to turn down a free meal, so of course I accepted, even if I don’t feel that debasing myself deserved much of a congratulations. 

Toto lives with his Mama Jaques. As he tells it, his parents worked away a lot, and one day just never came back. He was only a little kid at the time, and he’d lived with his maternal grandma since before he could remember, so he never seemed too fazed by the matter. But then that’s Toto down to a T. It could be Armageddon and he’d still be there with his smile telling us all to look on the bright side and focus on the good in the world. 

Their terrace house is tiny. I knock and wait. Music is playing inside. It always is. The smell of food fills the air. The place should make me angry. It’s a run down, almost forgotten neighbourhood filled with immigrants from across the world and the dregs of society too poor to find somewhere better, yet somehow the place radiates homeliness. The neighbours hold regular parties and exchange food, and children play on the streets without a care in the world. Every inch of the limited space is filled with passion and love.

Toto opens the door and greets me with a big bearhug. I indulge him for a moment then push him away with a laugh.

“Just because you’re providing food doesn’t mean you can have your way with me. I’m a virtuous flower after all.”

“Of course you are,” he laughs as he ushers me into the house. “Anyway, it is Mama who will have her way with you. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of her affection.”

As if on cue, Mama Jaques bustles down the corridor towards me like a guided missile. Resistance is futile. She has me wrapped up in her meaty arms in a heartbeat. Despite her age I’m confident she could still crush me if she was so inclined.

“Aww, look at you, my boy. What are they feeding you? Naught but skin and bones. I’ll make sure to give you an extra large serving. Get some meat on those twigs you call bones.”

“You insult me in the kindest of ways,” I manage to wheeze as I wiggle from her grasp. She hits me playfully across the arm with the force of a lumberjack’s axe.

“It’s no insult to tell the truth, boy. I keep telling Alexander the same thing. A girl wants some meat to hold on to while hugging. Look at you both. You could have a girl’s eye out on those collar bones. Ah, but forget that. Come in, come in. Get yourself settled.”

She leads us through to the kitchen. It is the beating heart of the house. The smell of spice fills the warm air. A small table surrounded by mismatched chairs is nestled into the already tight space. Nik-naks crowd the shelves between all of the usual kitchen clutter, and the tinny sound of the old radio washes over everything like a unifying cosmic force. Even when she isn’t cooking, the kitchen is Mama Jaques’ sanctuary. Her sovereign domain.

“So, Alexander was telling me you got a job with a charity. You are helping to spread good in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” I mutter. “He was probably very kind and failed to mention that I parade around town in a liver costume handing out leaflets.”

She shakes her head at me, not looking up from the chicken she is busy preparing. “What does that matter, you daft boy. A job is a job. My first job was scrubbing toilets. Lord did I see some sights there. But the work needed doing, and if not me then I’d be some other poor unfortunate soul. I experienced racism too. Of course I did. But it was also my culture that allowed me to follow my dreams and work with food. I mean no offence, but you full Brits have no wits for food. Some might even call it an affront.”

“I can see where Alex gets his optimism from.”

“Optimism is just words. Dear Alexander has too much British in him. You all speak the words and go through the motions, but you lack the passion for it. Sometimes people need a good smack to make them see sense. Counselling is all fine and dandy, but a well meaning hand can cut through to the core of an issue in ways words never can. 

“Violence doesn’t solve anything, Mama,” Toto cuts in. “You taught me that yourself.”

“Violence is a fool’s game. But violence is more than an action. It’s an intention. If you love someone and have to slap some sense into their head, then that’s one heart reaching out to another with love, not hate.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. It makes sense in its own way. Mama Jaques’ world feels so simple. Everything as black and white, good or bad. I like it, but I’m all too aware that the modern world is too complicated for such simplicity to exist anymore. 

The song changes to a catchy dance number and any seriousness is lost as Mama Jaques begins to dance and sing along, throwing on herbs and grabbing plates to the rhythm of the music. Her words turn to a chesty cough without warning and she is forced to hold onto her knees and wheeze for several seconds.

“Getting old is fun and all, but it has its drawbacks,” she finally manages to say as her breathing steadies. “I remember dancing all night. The music would take me and hours would slip by like shooting stars. Now one good song can do me in. Enjoy your youth while you can, my boys. I can’t bear the thought of you looking back in your senior years and having no cherished memories to hold on to. One day memories will be all you have left.”

The moment strikes me as incredibly sombre, but Mama Jaques has already moved on, humming to herself as she plates up the food. She ushers us to the seats and presents us with a chicken curry that makes my stomach rumble hungrily at the smell of it. 

“Let this be a fresh start for you. A positive change,” she announces as she grabs a small bottle of Jamaican rum and pours out a drink for us all. “There’s so many excellent ‘F’s in life, but let this meal be for good food, good friends, family, and the future.”

I raise my glass and drink to that.

Previous – 14.

Next – 16.

14. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

My worth is less than nothing. I already know this, but the confirmation in the eyes of those I’m forced to pester is an unwelcome reassurance. 

The meeting with Josh had been a simple formality like I’d expected. He asked when I was free to start, and being eager for some pocket change, I said straight away. So I was given my uniform and sent off into the world as simply and quickly as that.

My view of the world is warped. Psychologists could argue the minutia of my mentality in this regard, but currently I’m speaking purely physical. I stare at the passersby through a tiny sheet of black netting, my peripheral vision non-existent. Damp heat rises up while sweat rolls down my face, meeting in the centre ground that is my eyes. 

Someone kicks me from behind. I clumsily spin around but can’t pick out an obvious culprit. All of my recent thoughts of going teetotal are quickly dissolving in the face of humanity. I take a deep breath. There’s still work to be done.

I waddle down the street, pivoting erratically to try and intercept the paths of passersby. Everyone is going out of their way to avoid me. I can’t blame them. So far I’ve made at least two children cry just from the sight of me. Who the hell thought a giant costume of a human liver would be a good mascot? The damn thing is nightmare fuel. 

I’m carrying a charity bucket and a bundle of leaflets explaining the dangers of drugs and alcohol, as well as common forms of liver disease. A cartoon version of the mascot, Lenny the Liver, helpfully explains the facts and passionately argues against excessive drinking. I already hate the little prick.

I’ve only been at it for an hour, but it feels like an eternity. How do people turn their brains off for eight to twelve hour shifts every day? It’s torture. I feel like I’m dying from the heat even though a fine drizzle is misting the air. It’s taking a monumental effort to be responsible and keep working.

I totter along, barely aware of my surroundings. Everything is a hazy blur. The number of leaflets don’t seem to be going down despite my best efforts. It’s all too much. I sag against a wall and scream into the muffled darkness of Lenny’s innards. 

Someone pats me on the back. I turn and nearly shit myself. A giant blue otter is facing me down. I quickly realise that it’s another poor soul trapped inside a mascot. I can’t see their face, but I feel a sense of kinship and understanding pass between us.

“You new?” a masculine voice asks.

I nod, then remember that nobody can see my head. 

“Yeah. First day. Is it that obvious?”

“The scream of despair into the void? Nah. We all do that now and then. The armful of fliers is the giveaway. Nobody spends more than an hour handing this crap out. Come with me.”

I follow him without hesitation. At worst he is a psychopath and I’m about to get murdered by a blue otter while dressed as a liver. That would, without doubt, be the highlight of my miserable life. Think of the headlines. Instead of a dark alley though he leads me into a nearby pub. We get a few stares from the patrons but mostly we are ignored. 

As we approach the bar, the otter grabs my leaflets and places them beside several other piles of similar looking posters and booklets. The barman looks up at us but offers no other reaction. Weirdos littering his bar with crap was apparently a regular occurrence.

“The usual?” the barman asks. He isn’t looking at us. All of his attention is on the swirling browns of the Guinness he’s pouring.

“Cheers. Two,” the otter answers. 

A few seconds later the barman places two bottles of Corona in front of us. The otter grabs one easily. I fumble clumsily with mine. Gripping anything in this suit is hard work. I move towards a seat but the otter shakes his oversized head, his whole body swaying with the motion. He leads me out the door and down the side of the building where a long plank of wood is fastened to the wall like a bench. He slumps down onto it and I follow suit.

“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.

“Three years,” the otter answers. He fiddles around his neck until the head comes loose, revealing an older man. He is bald with a greying, close-cropped beard. 

I don’t have a head to remove so I have to unzip myself and pull the entire top half of the suit down to breathe a lungful of fresh air. I nearly choke on it. The pungent smell of piss fills the alleyway. The taste of Corona does nothing to wash it away.

“Three years,” the man repeats bitterly. “I used to make cutlery. Factory closed down a few years back and I couldn’t get a job doing something similar as the whole industry disappeared. People like me are relics of a dead past. Not smart enough to adapt, and too old to do honest labour.”

His words catch me off-guard. It’s a common story but it always hits too close to home.

“Same thing happened to my dad. That was twelve years ago.”

“It’s a tough world. What did he end up doing?”

“Killing himself.”

“Oh.”

The man falls silent. He drinks his Corona reflectively, his eyes firmly planted on his comically large otter feet. After a while he sighs then stretches, his frown easing as though he’s just reached some internal answer.

“It is what it is. Fuck me if it isn’t. Come on. You don’t want to get fired on your first day.”

Previous – 13.

Next – 15.

13. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Life is strange here. I should absolutely hate it. No internet, no alcohol, and no company other than an old lady. But here I am, a few days in, finding the whole experience strangely peaceful. I eat bland but healthy meals with Mabel, then for the rest of the day I isolate myself in one of the many spare rooms and write. 

I never really thought about how much of my time is spent trying. Trying to find a job. Trying to find an agent. Trying to find inspiration. Trying not to fail. It’s exhausting, and ultimately it’s got me nowhere. None of those are really an option here. I have nothing but time and blank pages to fill.

Every day I’ve had texts from my friends. I think I’ve spoken to them more since coming here than ever before. Their concern actually makes me uncomfortable. I like to think of them as bastards, not caring individuals with my best interest at heart. 

This is weighed against the complete lack of communication from Steph. Nobody else has spoken to her either, so I could be anywhere for all she knows. For the first few days, this was the hardest part. Had I really been that much of a burden to her? Was she really glad that I was gone? Now I don’t care. What’s done is done. The only thing important now is my future.

I’m not much inclined for optimism, but I’ve hit rock bottom and it’s proven to be softer than I imagined. I know this sense of peace won’t last so I’m enjoying it while I can. I view it as a holiday, or a writing retreat. 

When was the last time I had a holiday? Not since I was eight. Our parents took us to Skegness for a week. I don’t exactly remember much, but we used to go there every year. After Dad died, Mum never took us anywhere. All I remember is the sea. I’ve not been to the seaside since.

My phone starts to ring. It’s a number I don’t recognise. My stomach lurches. I hope it’s a cold-caller. It isn’t.

“Hey, it’s Josh, Tommy’s cousin. I’ve just got back to the steel city. If you’re still wanting the job then come down to the store this afternoon and I’ll get you sorted.”

“Yes, I still need it. Cheers mate. I’ll see you soon.”

Fuck. Seems like my holiday is over. Reality is knocking. I knew this was coming, but I’d still hoped for a few more days of peace.

“Off into the big world now then?” Mabel grins over her mug at me after I explain the situation to her as we eat lunch. “You’ll be grand, don’t you worry.”

I’m not so confident. The job is one I dread, and even if I somehow don’t hate it I know I’ll manage to fuck up somehow. I always do. Not for the first time my thoughts whiplash back to the scratchcard. Blaming all of my problems on Pete would be disingenuous, but all the major life-changing ones were squarely on the bastard’s shoulders. Steph’s betrayal and the straight up theft of my only hope. Things would be different if I still had that damn card.

I finish up my cuppa and stand.

“Anyway, I’d best be off. It’s a long walk from here.”

“Nonsense,” Mabel says sternly. “Look at those clouds. You can’t walk all that way in the rain. You’ve got to make a good impression on a job interview. You don’t want to be all sweaty and wet.”

“It’s not really an interview and I already know the bloke.”

“That’s not the point. It’s all about showing willingness and pride. That’s what my Frank always used to say. I can’t have you turning up in a state. Frank would be spinning in his grave. Here.”

She holds out a crisp £10 note that had been tucked into her apron pocket. I stare at it for a moment then try and turn it away. Mabel is having none of it. She grabs my wrist with surprising strength and shoves the money into my hand. 

“Get yourself a taxi. Go on. I’m not one to take no as an answer.”

I offer her a smile and make a dramatic show of ringing the taxi company. A shrill voiced woman confirms the booking. 

“There you go. A taxi’s booked. You happy now? I was looking forward to the walk. I’ve not left the house since I got here. One might call it a prison.”

Mabel frisbees a digestive biscuit at my head with a quick flick of her wrist. Her smile belongs on a demon, not a granny.

“Ain’t nobody stopping you from wandering. You scared I’ll block you in and force you to the floor if you try? These frail bones are mighty intimidating, eh?”

“Heaven, no! A sweet old dear like you would never try to overpower me. It’s poison I worry about.”

She laughs like a hyena and I start to fear she might have a heart attack. Still laughing, she stands up to make the habitual trip to the kettle. 

There is a well worn path on the floor from her seat to the stove. The house is huge, but her entire life is encapsulated within the narrow zone between kettle, table, and bed. I can’t help but wonder if she’s really happy. She’s rich, wants for nothing, and has a cheerful personality, but her life seems so empty. 

I wasn’t lying when I said I was looking forward to the walk. I’ve never much liked cars. Walking is an excuse to avoid responsibilities for a little while, a time where there are no expectations beyond simply reaching your destination. Even I struggle to mess that up. With a taxi booked instead though, I’m now left with spare time that I don’t know how to spend. 

I’ll never admit it, but I’m too nervous to do anything productive. I know the job’s guaranteed. These nerves are for once entirely unrelated to the prospect of failure. They drip from the inevitability of the future, and from my pride and ego when the mirror of reality is held up to them. I can see the only available path clearly before me, but is no path the better option? Is life at any cost a life worth living?

Content that I’m trapped here for a little while, Mabel pours me another cup of tea. I feel more tea than man. This is the longest I’ve gone without an alcoholic drink in years. Good hydration, regular sleep patterns, and a diet not made up almost exclusively of junk. My body doesn’t know how to cope.

“It’s your first trip out since you got here. Any grand plans for after your meeting? A special lady who’s been lonely without you?”

I snort and almost choke on my tea. Madaline had never called me back, so that was that avenue closed off. My mind barely has a chance to settle on her though before it jumps to the purple-haired girl from the shop. I feel a strange pang thinking about her. Though this in turn only reminds me of the scratchcard and sends a spike of anger through me. I try to shake it off.

“No special ladies for me I’m afraid. You’ve got no competition for my time. You’re truly blessed.”

“A young man like yourself should be looking to settle down soon. That’s what I keep telling our Larry. Folk these days just don’t seem to want it.”

“Want’s not got a lot to do with it. The world’s different these days. Everything’s bigger. More open. You meet more people, and have people from across the world all vying for the same jobs. Even our expectations are bigger. If I managed to get a decent job and find someone who I wanted to live with, you can’t raise a family on a single income anymore. We’re all little fish thrown into the primordial ocean.”

Mabel nods sadly. “Yes. That’s basically what our Larry said too. I don’t envy you youngsters. My generation had hardships, terrible ones, but it all felt like it meant something, that we were working towards a better tomorrow. Somewhere along the way I think we all got very lost.”

I don’t answer. What can I possibly say? Things are fucked. But how much can we blame on the generations before us? I look at certain people in the generation below me and I see burning anger. A desire to actively change the world. They’re born knowing that society is broken and that the dreams we are force-fed are lies. But for us, we’re complacent. Too bought into the system to rebel, and too utterly tired to care. 

A horn beeps from outside. I give Mabel a smile as I stand.

“Well, that’s my ride. Philosophy will have to wait.”

“Good luck. Show them your worth!”

Previous – 12.

Next – 14.

7. Those From Above and Below. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

A primal panic pulsed through Wren, each heartbeat bringing a fresh wave of fear and confusion. She simply couldn’t comprehend the empty room. Her mother was a frail invalid. Less than two minutes had passed,and there had been no hubbub that would have followed Rosabella being spotted on her feet. She had heard no shouts and there were no signs of a struggle. It was as though the woman had evaporated into the very air.

The shocked stasis of her thoughts was shattered by a sudden wailing shriek. The sound ripped her back into reality but it did nothing to ease her sense of confusion. It was painfully loud and seemed to assault her from every direction at once. She knew the sound. All residents of Voyeur knew it, and feared it. 

“Demons!” screamed one of the children. 

Wren dashed from the room and quickly gathered up the foundlings as calmly as she could manage. She smiled down at the children and gently soothed them despite the panic that she was barely keeping in check within herself. 

“We all just need to stay calm, okay,” she told the huddled gathering that had formed around her. “The guards will act quickly like they always do. You just need to stay in here where it’s safe and look after each other. Even a demon wouldn’t want to cross Rosabella. But I need to get the others who aren’t here to safety. Granny Vorshe is in charge while I’m gone. Silva, get some of the children on lookout just to be safe.”

It was a lie. Wren knew it was selfish but she needed to find her mother. Thoughts of the other children were a distant blur in the back of her mind. She ran from the orphanage, circling the building thoroughly in a widening spiral in search of any signs of Rosabella. All the while the siren screamed out its terrifying tenor. 

The order fields kept all demons out of the city. It couldn’t stop those that were summoned from within though. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened now and then. Wren had heard that siren three times in the past, but each time she had her mother at her side to comfort her. Rosabella’s quiet confidence always reassured her and made Wren believe with every fibre of her being that nothing could hurt her. Now she felt weak. Vulnerable.

She forced herself to stop and think. The siren made it almost impossible for her. She couldn’t go on like this though. Her mother had vanished within a two minute period. Her room had no windows, and nobody had seen her leave, or anyone else enter. Even with the chaos caused by the siren she knew someone would have mentioned something like that. She had passed the door and it had still been closed. The makeshift door was heavy and creaked awfully. The noise it made was a necessary safety measure. Nobody had gone through it. Barring something supernatural, Rosabella must have left through a window.

Slower this time, Wren circled the building, carefully studying the slurry of muck beneath each tall window. A chaotic mess of footprints surrounded the orphanage from the children playing. It would be all but impossible to pick apart any one set from here. 

“Mistress has gone,” purred a voice from behind her. She turned to see Amber the cat perched on a window ledge. “Mistress is in no condition to travel.”

“Do you know where she went? What happened?”

“No. I was sat beside the stewpot hoping for delectable offerings. You reek of panic though, and the mistress’ scent has gone.”

“I need to find her. Could you pick up her scent?”

The cat looked torn between expressing disgust at being compared to a sniffer dog, and pride at her obviously heightened senses. “Purrhapse, if we are close enough. There are many overpowering smells, and mistress’ scent is certainly strange but very subtle. I refuse to mucky my paws though.”

Wren didn’t wait for Amber to change her mind. She grabbed the cat and moved away from the building. Amber hissed and quickly scrambled up onto Wren’s shoulder. The children rarely left the orphanages grounds, and those that came and went did so by the main street. If anyone had snuck in or out, then they must have left some trace on the outskirts. Buildings crowded in around the orphanage on all sides but few souls crossed the boundary that separated the old church from the mundane residences beside it. 

There! Barely discernible in the thick mud was a single imprint. It was slight but it existed. Wren found another solitary print a few yards away, then another. “Keep your steps slight and spaced”. It was advice that her mother had taught her to keep Wren from being followed. Amber confirmed Wren’s with a deep purr of satisfaction. It seemed Rosabella really had left of her own accord, though Wren had no idea how she could have moved so quickly and with such nimble steps when her body had withered so far. 

Wren followed the tracks until they joined a throughway and disappeared into the well-used path. Amber motioned for her to follow the street to the right when a scream broke her concentration and caused her to look up. Others followed until a crowd of terrified shouts rivalled the siren. They were coming from the same direction Rosabella had gone.

Wren didn’t think. She couldn’t allow herself to feel fear or she knew it would consume her. She just had to act. Against the sudden current of fleeing people, Wren ran toward the screams, her hand clutched tightly around a pouch of bone-bane spores. The only thing she cared about was finding her mother.

“Don’t run towards the stench of fresh death!” Amber hissed, digging her claws into the soft flesh of Wren’s shoulder. “Mistress wouldn’t be stupid enough to go near demons!”

“We have to follow her before we lose her scent! I can’t do this without you.”

“I’ll cherish those words and sense of value when my broken body is dashed across the floor by an unspeakable horror,” the cat spat, disdain dripping from each word. Despite this, she didn’t move from Wren’s shoulder.

She burst through the last of the people and skidded to an abrupt stop. The scene before her was like something from a nightmare. Crimson splatters coated the walls and soaked the muck between homes. At the centre of it all stood a creature that could only be a demon. It appeared as a giant twisted hand, all sinew and muscle, two fingers serving as legs, two fingers as arms, and a thumb at the top where its head should be. Thousands of smaller fingers twitched and curled across its body. The thumb was bent crooked so that the nail faced forward, giving it the impression of a face. 

Wren watched in horror as the creature pulled an unlucky man into its embrace. The large finger arms wrapped around him, locking him in place as the tiny fingers ripped at his skin and burrowed through his flesh. 

A stone hit the demon’s head and its attention turned to its assailant. So did Wren’s. Rosabella stood swaying a few yards from the creature, another stone held in her hand, her face pale but resolute. Her thin shift was damp and coated in dirt. She looked like she could barely stand yet there was no trace of fear on her face or in her body language. She faced down the monstrosity with an unnatural serenity. 

“Stop this. You’re not here for them.”

The demon dropped what remained of the man. It took a few slow steps forward then dropped down onto all five limbs and bounded forward like a twisted spider. In an instant it was on her, knocking her to the ground and pinning her down beneath it. 

All logical thought vanished from Wren’s mind. She was already halfway across the gap to where the demon and her mother were. The bone-bane powder would be useless. Rosabella was too close and Wren wasn’t sure that the demon even breathed. It certainly didn’t have a visible mouth or nose. The only other thing she had was her knife. It would have to be enough. 

Wren hurled herself at the demon’s back and drove the knife into its wiry tendons with all her strength. She slashed and bit at the smaller fingers that sought to pull her down. Each touch made her skin crawl. Amber jumped away and disappeared down an alleyway but Wren didn’t notice. She let out a feral scream as she hacked and slashed again and again.

The demon staggered to the side then collapsed to the ground. It was far from dead though. Its limb fingers bent backwards and suddenly Wren found herself in the palm of the hand. Its grip tightened and she felt the small digits begin to dig painfully into her. She expected blinding pain but it never came. The demon held her securely but it almost seemed frozen in place. The thumb swayed uncertainly between Wren and Rosabella.

“Wrenfred!” Rosabella screamed. “No! You aren’t supposed to be here! Run! Go!”

“Not without you!”

“It won’t stop while I’m here. They won’t stop. I’ve been a damn fool.”

Wren didn’t know how long her respite would last. She had to act fast. Mustering the last of her strength she surged up and jammed her blade into the flesh beside the thumbnail so the bone edge slid behind the keratin plate. The demon shuddered then gripped Wren tightly, She felt her bones creak under the force as the air was squeezed from her lungs. Her vision blurred then darkened.

The monster suddenly bucked and hurled Wren across the street. She took a liberating lungful of air and forced herself back onto her feet despite the searing protest of every joint in her body. Rosabella had a narrow dagger that she had plunged into the finger-demon, and despite its size, the weapon seemed to be causing it much more pain than any of Wren’s attempts. 

“Run!” shouted Rosabella. She stumbled towards Wren and grabbed her hand, pulling her down an alleyway as the monster rolled and writhed on the ground.

They sprinted down the passage, taking corners without slowing, their lungs burning with each breath. Crashes behind them told Wren that the demon had recovered from whatever Rosabella had done to it.

“Quick, in here,” Wren said, motioning towards an open doorway.

“We can’t hide. It’s got my scent now.” Each word took a toll on Rosabella. Wren was basically dragging her along now. “We have to fight it. Kill it. They can’t know about you. Head towards the Maw.”

Wren didn’t have the breath to argue or press her for more answers. The demon was closing in fast. 

“Fuck off back to the hells, you over-inflated hand!”

The shout was followed by a series of shattering sounds. Wren recognised the voice. She turned her head back to see Krow sweeping down the alley with a dozen other birds following behind him. Each was dropping a clay pot down onto the finger-demon. Acids and oils splashed across the monster, and a final pigeon dropped a lit torch that ignited the oils. The demon made no sound but it thrashed into walls and threw itself to the floor to roll through the thick mud. 

“Krow!”

“We’ll talk about my reward for saving you again when you’re safe. Keep going. The guards have a barricade set up just ahead.”

This was just the hope she needed. Her feet pounded through the slurry with renewed vigour. She just had to make it a little further and the guards would take care of the demon. Then they’d be safe. They were almost there. Wren could see the barricade at the end of the alley. 

The ground started to shake rhythmically behind her. The demon was back on the move. Wren mustered the last of her strength and the barricade opened up before her. She staggered through and it closed behind her, managing a few extra steps before her legs finally gave out and she collapsed. Rosabella fell beside her, her breaths an awful rattling sound that shook her whole slender frame. 

A dozen men with shields and spears rushed into place between the women and the demon. The demon burst through the barrier and was instantly set upon by the spears. It threw the men aside, shattering the shields with heavy swings of its arms. Its whole body was deformed and bloody. Burns formed pockmarks across its body and huge patches of the smaller fingers were missing. Still it showed no sign of slowing.

Rosabella pulled herself back onto her feet. Wren didn’t know how. She was completely spent so she couldn’t begin to imagine how her mother was feeling. The woman’s resolve amazed her as always.

“The guards aren’t going to hold it back long. Not this type of demon. They single mindedly track their prey. As demons go they’re one of the most durable.”

“What do we do then? Do you have any more of those daggers? That hurt it, right?”

“No. Just the one. They’re rare. It would have killed a lesser demon without an issue. This needs something bigger. We need to get closer to the Maw. Come on, my little Wrenfred.”

“I can’t move.”

“You’re my daughter. I know you can get up as many times as you need to. Now hurry.”

Wren didn’t feel like she could stand, but seeing the demon push ever closer gave her the encouragement she needed. Krow grabbed her cloak in his talons and flapped frantically to help lift her. A wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her but she forced it down and followed after Rosabella. 

The central market around the Feeder Peaks and the Maw was deserted. They worked their way quickly through the stalls towards the towering obsidian pillars of the Peak. The finger-demon sensed them moving and ignored the guards. It started after them at a gallop.

They reached the edge of the Maw as the demon caught up with them. Rosabella pushed Wren to the side and faced the demon down, her heels kissing the plummet into the abyss behind her. Too late Wren realised what her mother was planning. 

The demon sprang at Rosabella, its fingers curling around to embrace her. From out of nowhere a golden blur slammed into it with a hiss, knocking it to the side. Amber the cat hissed and spat as her claws tore a flurry of gashes across what should have been its throat. The demon shrugged off the attack and Amber leapt back to stand between the creature and Rosabella.

“Nothing will harm the Mistress!” she hissed.

More guards appeared from behind and skewered the demon from behind. It reared up and batted them away, starting forward with a pained rage that clouded its senses. It kicked at Amber with enough force to send her flying back, straight into Rosabella’s gut. The blow knocked the woman back and she toppled over the edge. The demon stared after her for a moment in confusion, then its attention snapped to Wren as though she was its entire world.

A wave of unfiltered emotion flared through Wren as her mother disappeared over the edge. She screamed a wordless scream and grabbed a discarded spear from the ground. She had no conscious thoughts. She was a beast intent on the kill. She charged the demon without any concern for her own safety. 

Krow pecked at her hand and she opened her fingers just enough to allow him to slip a disc into her grip. Wren had just enough awareness to recognise it as a soul cell. She clenched it so hard that it hurt and directed her will down into the object. 

Blue flames burst into existence around her and spiralled along the length of the spear. Wren knew she didn’t have enough sparks to do much but she didn’t care. She had to do something. The spear slammed through the demon’s centre but Wren didn’t stop. She could feel the sparks fueling her body. She felt incredible strength. Without slowing she forced the demon back and they both toppled over the edge.

Air rushed past her as darkness enclosed around them like a coffin. She screamed with pure range and pulled more power from the sparks. A burst of power propelled her forward and the velocity of their fall increased. More speed. That’s what she needed. Every cell of her body screamed out in pain as she burned through her life savings of sparks.

Faster and faster she fell, the demon writhing and convulsing at the end of her spear. Then the darkness resolved itself into the unconscious body of Rosabella. She was still clutching Amber. Wren let go of the spear with one hand and reached out to grab her mother and pull her close. She hugged her tightly then drew upon the last fleeting sparks. It hurt so bad that she couldn’t breathe.

Then they hit the ground and the pain vanished completely. Wren saw a white light, then her soul dissolved into a sweet nothingness.

Previous – 6. The Saint.

Next – 8.

6. The Saint. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

Wren was woken by a sharp prod to her kidney. Her eyes snapped open to see a group of children around her giggling excitedly. She had overslept, and of course the children would be up early. Wren herself had told them to be ready for when Rosabella would wake.

A sense of excitement smothered out the weariness in her bones. She shooed the children away and quickly took her place in the line of children waiting to wash. When it was her turn she stood on the wide tray that collected spilled water and wiped her skin down with a cloth she had brought with her and a bucket of murky water. 

Wren dressed and donned her father’s cloak. She always wore it on days like this. A gaggle of children had gathered around her curtain in anticipation. She grabbed the flowers she had bought the previous day then set to work organising things for when it was time.

“Silva, could you brew a tea with some lavender please. Ginny, help Granny Vorshe cook up the roach mince I bought. Everyone else, get this place nice and tidy in case Mum is strong enough to walk. A cleanup is well overdue either way.”

The children dashed away to their various jobs, chattering excitedly the whole time. Rosabella had become a legend to the younger children who hadn’t known her before her sickness had worsened. They saw her as a sleeping princess from a fairytale who would one day wake up and save the world. Secretly, Wren hoped for the very same thing.

Wren walked through the hall straight to a small room at the back of the building. It was the only separate space and was the private sanctuary of her mother, Rosabella. The room was scarcely bigger than the pile of rags that made up a basic bed, but even so, it was a luxury that most in Voyeur didn’t have access to. Drawings by the children plastered the walls and all manner of stones and trinkets they had found were scattered around as good luck charms and decorative art pieces. The room had almost become a sort of shrine where people came to make their offerings.

Rosabella Ashmoore was laid upon the bundle of rags, her porcelain skin and white hair contrasting with the dark fabric like a ghost in the void. She was thin, painfully so, and her chest lacked the steady rise and fall of healthy breathing. She could have been a corpse, but some aura about her gave her the sense of an art piece, a moment captured in paint awaiting the chance to continue its life.

Rosabella had always been a sickly woman. Before giving birth to Wren she had been a teacher from another city but had travelled to Voyeur with Wren’s father. He had died in a mining accident before Wren was born, but her mother often told her stories about how wonderful he had been. Those stories always made her mother smile, no matter how much her illness was affecting her. It was why Wren liked to wear her dad’s cloak when she visited her. 

Wren knelt down beside her and watched, waiting for tiny hints of life that Rosabella still displayed up close. She reached out and held the pale hand in her own. It was almost skeletal. Gently she squeezed it.

“Mum. It’s time to wake up.”

Rosabella stirred ever so slightly. Wren repeated the firm squeeze and spoke the words again. This time her mother’s eyes twitched open and gazed upon her. There was a moment where terror flooded her eyes, then it faded and a calmness eased across her features. She smiled and squeezed Wren’s hand back.

“Good morning, my dear one.” Rosabella’s voice was soft and had a dreamlike quality to it. “How long has it been?”

“Another two weeks like we thought. Doc Tabbot has changed your serum again so hopefully it will start reversing things. He was able to stabilise your sleep to two weeks so he must be on the right track. Here.”

Wren fished out the small tube Doc had given her and uncorked it. She passed it across  to Rosabella and watched as she drank the liquid within. Her mother made a sour expression and stuck her tongue out.

“The taste never improves, but the doctor does what he can. I’m grateful. They always help to dull the pain.” Her features smoothed and she settled back down into the blankets, pulling several across herself despite the humidity. “What stories do you have to tell me this time, Wrenfred? I remember so little from the last time that I must have been with you only a short while. Please, tell me how you’ve been.”

Had anyone else asked, Wren would have given a dismissive answer. Her life was little more than a constant chain of work. She didn’t really socialise either. Now that Rosabella was unable to properly care for the orphanage someone needed to keep things floating. For her mother though, she wanted to paint a vivid picture of life that she could cherish from the confines of her room. She told stories of the children’s antics and as her recap neared its end she remembered something else that would make Rosabella smile.

“Deeno paid us a quick visit last week too. He’s doing well. He said he’s with the haulers now and shares a roof with a few of the other haulers and their families. Most importantly though, he said his partner is expecting a child. He promised they’d visit again when it has been born so he can introduce you. He’s grown up a lot these two years since he left us.”

“That is wonderful for him. Life continues even in hardship and beauty emerges from even the ugliest of times. It helps give you faith in a better future.” Her eyes lost their focus for a moment. Wren could tell she had slipped into another memory. After a few seconds they refocused on Wren.

“What about yourself, my dearest Wrenfred? Has anyone caught your eye yet?”

“You’ll be the first to know, Mum. I don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of thing. The only man that’s touched me lately was probably trying to kill me, and I accidently threw bone-bane spores at him. He grabbed me with a knife outside the wall and I panicked. I’m pretty sure most people just see me as the weird white haired witch girl.”

Rosabella’s eyes sharpened. There was an intensity in her stare that Wren hadn’t seen for years. “Someone tried to harm you? Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail. What did he look like?”

The questions went beyond concern for Wren. A fierce fear burned in the depths of her eyes. The look scared Wren. She tried to recall everything she could about the event.

“He was average height and scrawny. Wore the usual sort of rags you see everywhere in the outer city. Unkempt hair. I don’t think I was targeted as anything more than a young woman outside the walls alone. The knife was just a common working knife. I saw him following me but I couldn’t back to safety without passing him. I thought I could deal with him quickly and run but he was stronger than he looked. I think he was high on something going by how his eyes looked. I grabbed the first pouch I could and he definitely felt the bone-bane.”

Rosabella seemed to relax the more Wren spoke. The intensity and fear drained away and she slumped back down into the rags. “I’m glad you’re safe. There are a lot of bad people in the world.”

“Try not to worry about me. You taught me how to defend myself as a little girl and I’ve never stopped practising. I’m a fighter.”

The words had a strange effect on Rosabella. She tensed again, but this time there was no intensity. Instead it was as though she had slipped into a dream. Her pupils widened and expanded until they filled her whole eyes and her skin lost all its warmth.

“The fighter fled for five long forties with friendly fortune’s aid. Now foul foes find footprints once again. Fear! Fear! Fear! The frenzied fervour flowers soon. Foetal sins will finally be found. The forever forgotten fighter falls to fell deeds. Death dawns and divinity devours. They are coming!”

The words burst from Rosabella in a horse rasp. Then it was over. Rosabella sagged, her breath coming in gasping pants that shook her frail frame. Tears ran down her face in a silent torrent. Wren had never seen her in such a state before.

“Mum?”

The word seemed to snap Rosabella back to reality. She clutched tightly onto Wren’s hand.

“What happened? What did I say? I don’t remember anything. Only pain.”

Wren relayed the last few moments, trying hard to remember the exact wording. She knew her retelling wasn’t perfect but the general message was hauntingly memorable. Rosabella simply listened, her face unreadable. Finally she spoke.

“I need to think. Go help the others with dinner. I’ll need to gather my strength to properly clear my mind.”

“But what was that? A vision? They’ve never been that violent before.”

“It isn’t the first time one has come like that. They used to all be like that. I learned how to control them but my guard was down. It isn’t a pleasant. experience.”

“What does it mean? Those words scared me.”

“Don’t fear, my darling. I promise I’ll protect you. Just give me a little time. I’ll make everything better. I promise.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? It’s fine if you need to rest.”

“Don’t be silly. I bet the children have been waiting for me. I know you have. I just need a minute to gather myself. Help me to stand, dear one.”

Wren obeyed and helped Rosabella to her feet. The woman was so light, her skin so cold. When she was up though she stood tall and didn’t sway at all. Even as frail as she way, Rosabella wore strength like a cloak around her shoulders. Wren tried to help her mother to dress but Rosabellas waved her away.

“I’m still capable of dressing myself, dearest one, for a while at least. Help set the table. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Wren reluctantly left the room. By the smell floating through the orphanage, the food was almost finished anyway. The centre of the room had been cleared by the children and a long mishmashed table had been assembled. Most of the work looked to be done already. She watched Silva as he poured tea into a mug and carried it across to the head of the table. Rosabella always appreciated a hot drink when she woke. Wren met him there and picked up the cup as he placed it down.

“I’ll give her this now. I know it will get cold if we leave it here. She’ll not get a chance to drink it once the other children start asking her questions.”

She took the drink and took a steady walk back to her mother’s room. She opened the door and froze. The cup fell from her slack fingers and shattered, the scalding water splashing across her legs. Wren didn’t even notice the pain.

Somehow, Rosabella was gone.

Previous – 5. Pilgrims on the Path.

Next – 7. Those From Above and Below.

5. Pilgrims on the Path. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

At night the darkness was total. Sometimes there was a moon, sometimes several, but tonight there was nothing. It was as though they had been packed away into a box, or a coffin. 

Brother Cassowar had studied the stars and the constellations even though they didn’t hold relevance any more. Most of the stars had burned out, or rather, been snuffed out. He saw it as a loss of humanity itself. His interpretation of ancient texts was that the stars represented potential for early humans, something to stove towards and put faith into. The stars proved that there was more beyond the limits of the earth. 

They had been right. Humanity had ventured into the stars, but what they found were the gods. 

His musings were cut off by a grunt from Brother Krann. They had briefly paused their journey while the larger man checked in with his spectors. All Icuri could summon spectors but Krann was something of a specialist. Cassowar found the demonic puppets distasteful and rarely utilised them but Krann had dozens in operation at all times. 

“My spectors have identified the target. Intel is verified.” Krann intoned. 

“Good. No more dead ends. We’ll recover the relic and return to Father Leonardo without delay. Try to keep the killing to a minimum.”

“Sometimes victory holds a steep price in blood, brother.”

This time it was Cassowar who grunted. Krann was correct, but there was a certain art to subtlety. He felt that the church shouldn’t be messy. Death and deception were necessary but collateral damage simply made them look bad. 

They resumed their journey without making camp. Neither had slept in three days. Sleep wasted time. It was a weakness, so they pushed it aside. Icuri could forgo sleep for a week without feeling any particular detriment. It allowed them to cover large distances in a fraction of the time it would take others.

The two men didn’t speak. There was little to say. Sociolisation hadn’t been a part of their education at the Schola. Peers died regularly and there was no concept of down time. If you were awake you were training or learning. The Icuri had no interests or personality beyond structured indoctrination. Maybe that was why Cassowar disliked the spectors. They reminded him a little too much of himself.

“Do you sense them?” asked Krann, breaking the quiet. Cassowar nodded.

“I do.”

“I feel a primal bloodlust. It won’t be long until even Icuri will face attacks. Travel will be more eventful.”

Krann was right. There were dozens of creatures observing them, weighing the men up, eager for blood and flesh. It wasn’t a coincidence. The creatures had gathered around the pathetic excuse of a road. Each week they grew in numbers. If something wasn’t done soon then travel would become impossible without a well-armed convoy.

“They are very close to the city,” Cassowar observed.

“They are,” Krann said with a slow nod.

The silence returned. Both men were at high alert. It took a lot to spook an Icuri. It wasn’t fear. Few of the forest monstrosities posed any real threat to two Incuri, it was more about the threat to order. The Church of the Divine had spent centuries building trade routes and diplomatic missions. The current peace and prosperity they were all blessed to be a part of was entirely due to the efforts of the church and visionaries like Father Leonardo. A resurgence of aggressive beasts risked that hard one peace.

Cassowar didn’t have much time to dwell on these thoughts. They had only been walking another half an hour when they crossed the forest boundary and emerged into open skies and rolling hillsides. Like a crown of rot, the city of Voyeur opened up before them. A circle of colossal eyes like jewels in the night around tall walls. Then a spiral of streets that all lead to the gaping maw of the dead god and its void-black beak that rose like monuments to a terrifying age long passed. 

Even in the darkness and without an Incuri’s vision the city would have been visible by the glow of light that emanated out from it. It lacked the artistry and architectural prowess of Devotion, but then the souls huddled within those utilitarian walls didn’t have the grace of the church at its foundation.

The two men crossed the fields of fungi and approached the main gateway into the city. There was no need for subterfuge. Missionaries of the Divine were welcome in any bastion of civilisation. 

As they passed through the orderfield, a small smile tugged at the corners of Krann’s mouth. Cassowar shot him a warning glance and the older man shrugged. Order stopped demons from entering but they didn’t prevent demons from being summoned once inside its protective sheen. 

The gate was a wide mesh of bone lifted by a crank within the gatehouse. There were six visible guards, each armed with a shield, a shortened pike, and a nearby supply of boneshard javelins. It was more than enough to kill a beast or rabble of half-starved bandits. Cassowar was confident he could kill them all before they could call for backup from the garrison just beyond the second gate.

Luckily for them this wasn’t the plan. He nodded to the lead guard and smiled warmly as the men approached. 

“Very late for unarmed pilgrims,” the guard muttered. “Damn suicidal to travel by night, even for your lot.”

“The Divine protects,” Cassowar said with a humble bow of his head. 

The guard made a dismissive noise but didn’t question them further. His men patted them down then he ushered them through into the outer city. 

Krann’s nose wrinkled at the torrent of humanity that opened up before them. He spat into the dirt.

“These Voyeur bastards have no respect for the church. They live like animals. I think we should use this opportunity to show them why they need the Divine. Put the fear into them, then in the chaos we grab the relic.”

“Or we could just walk in, grab it, and leave. Quick and easy. Chaos creates too many uncertain factors.”

“Chaos is a tool, little brother. Watch and learn what it means to be a true Icuri of the Divine. Voyeur will fall to its knees, and it will be the Church that offers a hand, along with a needed sense of security. Follow my lead.”

Cassowar gritted his teeth, bowing his head to hide his sneer.

“Understood.”

Previous – 4. Days Unending.

Next – 6. The Saint.

4. Days Unending. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

The orphanage that Wren called home was unlike anything that surrounded it. In stark contrast to its neighbours it was a squat, single storey structure, constructed from hundreds of bones, driftwood, and chitin plates. It was an old building, ancient by Voyeur standards, originally built as a church to the dead gods. The people eventually realised that no amount of praying would bring them back, but a primal fear and sense of sacredness kept the structure untouched long after it had been abandoned.

When Wren’s mother had arrived in the city with nothing but the clothes on her back and a crying child barely old enough to walk, she had stumbled on the church and found it to be a safe place to hide away. Slowly Rosabella had renovated the rejected building into a sanctuary for other rejected souls. In the fifteen years Wren had lived there she had watched it grow into the largest orphanage in the city. She had no memory of a home before moving here, but then she had only been two years old when her mother had claimed the place. 

Those who passed by gave the building a wide berth. A carefully curated aura of fear shrouded the place, most of which emanated from Rosabella herself. Rosabella was a gentle, nurturing soul, but it was a dangerous and hard world, especially for young women. For many girls, a life of prostitution was the best they could hope for. At least they got paid for that. For others, life was far worse. So Rosabella had always taught Wren that the best answer for unwinnable violence was fear. 

It had been Rosabella who first suggested that Doc Tabbot collect mushroom spores from Wren’s samples to create defensive powders, but even before that she had encouraged rumours of her supernatural abilities. The white hair had very much helped to sell the idea. Few dared to approach the orphanage or accost those that called it home. This was doubly true for Wren herself who now seemed to share the supernatural reputation. It helped to protect her, but it also isolated her and alienated those who she once had hoped to be close with.

A dozen children rushed out to greet Wren as she neared the door. They ranged in age from three to twelve, though the orphanage itself cared for the elderly and the crippled too. Rosabella called them her foundlings. Each had been defined by that which they lost, but together they had found a home. Their laughter and high-pitched voices lifted Wren’s spirits. It reminded her that there was always hope and positivity in the world. She handed out a few of the edible mushrooms she had kept and left the children chewing happily on the morsels. 

Inside was a riot of colour. As part of Wren’s work she sometimes created colourful paste that the children used as a thick paint to draw pictures across the walls. It was pure chaos, but it was home. Some of the pictures were from children who had left years ago, but their memories remained. There were no internal walls. Instead a series of thin curtains and hides hung from the rafters to mark separate rooms. They were open during the day, leaving the orphanage open planned, then drawn in the evening for a little warmth and privacy. 

As much as Wren wanted to see her mother, she knew she needed to wait. There was still work to do before she could think about having any time for herself. The eastern wing of the orphanage was her workshop. The curtained off area had a pungent odour and was cluttered with stacks of rectangular frames made from bone, baskets of fungi, cloth rags, and clay pans that were the source of the sharp smell. Wren emptied the remaining contents of her sack onto the floor then settled into the small open space kept clear of clutter.

An orange cat emerged from a pile of rags and yawned dramatically as it sauntered across the room.

“You still haven’t died then?” the cat asked. She sounded disappointed.

“Hello to you as well, Amber.”

“Well, at least you haven’t brought that silly bird with you today. I don’t suppose that he at least died?”

“No, Krow is still alive too.”

Amber looked even more disappointed. “Oh well. There’s always tomorrow. I take it that since you’re in here then it will still be a little while until the mistress wakes?”

“That’s right. Tomorrow morning I expect. Will you use that time to catch any of the bugs I hear scuttling around?”

“Tempting, but I think I’ll just lay here and watch you work. I find watching others toil much more satisfying. I’m sure you understand.”

Wren had expected as much. She pushed the cat from her mind and turned her attention to her work. The mushrooms that littered the floor were all dry, corky polypores that crumbled and broke apart when squeezed. These types needed to be soaked first so she pulled a clay basin beside her and placed the samples within before reaching for the closest of the odious pans. 

Water, like most resources, was very valuable. There were no rivers or sources of freshwater. The people of Voyeur had to rely on collected rainwater mostly. While the city stood beside the Abyssal Ocean, the waters there were tainted, not to mention dangerous. The sea water was used but it needed careful filtering first. This meant that what water the orphanage had access to was needed for drinking and washing.

Inside the pan was a golden liquid that gave off a rank smell. Urine. It was an abundant resource that served Wren’s purpose well. She poured the pan’s contents over the mushrooms then added the contents of a second pan. The washerwomen had given her the idea. They used urine to help clean clothes and bleach fabric. Apparently humans had been using it for thousands of years, long before the gods, and the smell was a small price to pay for the results. 

She left today’s samples to soak and retrieved a similar basin she had set up the week before. The mushrooms within were soft and spongy now and their colour was a shade lighter than they had been. She cut them up into small chunks using her knife and placed them into a large clay mortar before sprinkling in some of the bone dust she had bought. Using a pestle she ground up the mushrooms, adding a little more urine to turn it into a thin paste, and added a dose of the lavender to help combat the smell.

 Next she grabbed two of the bone frames. One, called a mould, had a fine web mesh stretched across one side while the other, a deckle, didn’t. She placed the mould onto a clay tray with the mesh at the top then placed the deckle above it so that the mesh was sandwiched between both frames. From here she poured the pale slurry gently across the mesh until it was evenly coated in mushroom pulp. The excess liquid drained through the mesh, slowly filling the tray beneath.

Wren repeated this process across several moulds and deckles until all of the mushroom puree had been used. Returning to the first deckle, she lifted the top section and put it to the side while she grabbed a cloth from a nearby bundle. Now that the liquid had drained, the remaining mushroom pulp had settled into a firm rectangular sheet. She placed the cloth over the pulp and gently patted it down to draw out any extra moisture. 

Carefully, but with a practised ease, she tipped the pulp sheet onto the cloth then covered the other side with a cloth too. From here she moved to the side of the room where a series of clay slabs lined the wall. She placed the bundled sheet onto one then lifted another to sit atop it. The weight helped to squeeze out remaining moisture and flatten any lumps and bumps. 

When each sheet was locked into place she crossed the room to an identical set of stacked slabs. Wren lifted each upper slab and removed the cloth until she held several bundles in her arms. She peeled free the cloth and threw them into a pile. Now only ten cream coloured sheets of paper remained. Wren neatly stacked them together and slid them into a leather folder that already contained several other pages.

Paper was a valuable commodity. Yes, it was time consuming to produce and came in limited supply so was financially lucrative, but it also helped the world continue to grow. Wren had seen first hand the power of paper. It allowed ideas to outlive the brains that thought them up, and allowed them to spread across society without distortion or error. 

Be it diagrams for new buildings or mechanisms, ingredients for salves, or even stories and songs that lifted weary hearts, paper unlocked a creativity within the human soul that kept them growing and evolving. Wren was proud to be a part of that endeavour, even if she couldn’t create a meaningful idea of her own.

If she sold it all then she wouldn’t have to work so hard, but there was a beauty in the joy that such a simple thing brought to the children. Her mother had taught her to fold paper into the shape of a bird as a little girl. The whole process for making paper was something that Wren’s father, Fred, had shown Rosabella when they first met. Exchanging secret messages by flying paper birds through Rosabella’s window was one of the memories her mother most loved to tell. Now Wren would regularly make birds for the children to play with.

With her work temporarily completed, Wren had one more job before she could hopefully sleep. She tidied her equipment then took a sheaf of paper and left the room. She made straight for the door but slowed as an elderly woman rose from a crooked chair and approached her.

“Leaving again, child? You’ll end up like your mother if you don’t learn to rest.”

The woman was called Granny Vorshe by the children. Her leathery skin was cracked by wrinkles and her white hair was thinning. She looked too old to do much of anything yet it was her who took care of most of the children’s day to day care. 

“This is the last job today, I promise. A quick delivery to the supply camp then I’ll be right back.”

“Your mother has big shoes to fill, girl. Don’t think you need to live in them.”

“I know, Granny Vorshe. Please don’t worry.”

Wren offered the older woman a smile as she pulled away towards the exit. She maintained it until she was through the door and past the children who were playing just outside. Only then did she let it slip away like water through grasping fingers. Wren sighed, suddenly all too aware of how tired she felt. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath in.

She thought about Granny’s words as she forced her legs to move again. It wasn’t that Rosabella’s shoes were too big to fill. Wren kept the orphanage running just as well as her mother had. It was more that her mother had heavy shoes to fill. She felt the weight of the responsibility, the constant expectations, and the unending list of jobs that needed to be managed. Wren was feeling worn down by it all, and she had only been treading water in the few years since her mother’s health had declined. Rosabella had built and managed it all for over a decade.

The streets were no less crowded with the coming of the evening. Even in the dead of night there was a bustle of activity. It never stopped. She pushed her way through the crowds back towards the Feeder Peaks. They were the heart of the city and drew the crowds into their spiral like pooling blood. 

Wren approached a checkpoint and joined the line of men and women waiting to descend into the gullet of the god. There were several children there too. Their smaller bodies made accessing certain passageways all the easier. There was something for everyone within the god, if they could survive the journey.

Most were joining the work crews to harvest materials like bone and sinew from the secured zones, but the more adventurous would venture further into the uncharted depths in search of unfathomable treasures. The dangers were near suicidal, but the potential rewards were grand indeed.

Wren shuffled along with the crowd onto a large platform rigged with pulleys and ropes. When it was full the platform lurched into motion, lowering down into the gloom of the maw. A wave of sickness bubbled through her stomach as the god swallowed them down beyond the reach of the fading daylight. She forced the sickness down but judging by the retching sounds around her, not everyone was as experienced at fighting the sensation.

They descended for long minutes that felt like hours until the platform lurched to a stop beside a long building lit with dozens of blazing torches. A foreman stood nearby directing the new arrivals. It was a wide open space filled with workshops, cranes, and massive piles of raw material. It was functionally an independent town that processed the god parts so they could be transported up into the main city.

Wren made her way straight to the administrative office beside the platform. A harried looking man with translucent hair and a pronounced twitch in his left eye greeted her. 

“Excellent! Be a dear and take our completed volumes back up with you. Paper gets restless down here, especially in large quantities. The logbooks are essential but they’re untrustworthy. Why, one tried to bite my toe off only last week. It’s still bruised even now.”

Wren didn’t question the man. Strange things happened inside the god all the time. She merely nodded and picked up the pile of bound books that the man indicated. He gave her instructions on where to deliver them to then transferred her the agreed sparks. Her soulcell was looking impressive but she knew it would mostly be gone by the end of the week.

When she returned to the top of the maw it was nighttime. Even time moved strangely down there. Tiredness clung to her now, suffocating her. She fought it down and adopted her seemingly carefree stroll through the city streets. She couldn’t afford to look tired. Anything that painted her as a target more than simply existing as a young woman had to be avoided. Spores caused too much collateral damage in a crowd. Not that she would let that stop her from defending herself.

Nobody attacked her. She made it back to the orphanage safely, only letting her mask of calm awareness fall when she closed the curtain around her small rectangle of living space in the corner of the church. She didn’t have the energy to relax. No sooner had she swapped into the airy shift than she collapsed onto the patchwork quilt she called a bed where sweet dreams of childhood swept over her.

Previous – 3. Dangers.

Next – 5. Pilgrims on the Path.

3. Dangers. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

Brother Cassowar walked along the Dream Road, though little told it apart from the rest of the hellscape around him. For years settlers had sought to connect the cities of Voyeur and Purity together by a safe highway, but the effort had been long since abandoned. 

He had been taught all about the Dream Road during his time at the Schola Divinitus. It had been a lesson about the corruption of their environment, as well as the ego and fallibility of man. Teams of workers had set out, cutting back the skycaps in a wide lane, then took fire to the mold and rotting puss that coated the pale skin of the god below. Nothing could hold back the spread of decay though and in the end the road was once again consumed. 

Despite this, it hadn’t been an entirely fruitless venture. While it was no pristine highway, the road still carved a path between cities that was clear of larger obstacles, and gave a line of sight between the traveller and the oppressive gloom of the skycap forests to either side. If a group of trained guards were present, it could almost be considered a safe journey.

Brother Cassowar didn’t fear the journey. He had travelled the wilds often since his initial trials back in the schola. Twenty children around the age of eight had taken that journey. Only six returned. The harsh landscape was a home to Cassowar. He feared nothing out here. He feared nothing at all for all the fear had been stripped from him and purged.

It was his given crusade to find and return stolen church property from somewhere within the city of Voyeur. On the surface it was a simple task, but it had been given to him directly by High Father Leonardo himself. Such an honour was intoxicating. Cassowar was eager to please the High Father, just as all Icuri were.

Cassowar stopped and studied the roadside. Someone had been attacked here. His sensitive nose picked up an undercurrent of scents below the ever-present pang of decay. Those of blood and urine. It was impossible to see traces of any liquid through the fetid slime and mold but he knew they were there. Faint lines in the grime suggested something had been dragged away from the road to the right.

It was no business of his to investigate. His objective was clear. This didn’t stop him from following the trail into the murky gloom of the forest’s edge. He was naturally inquisitive and liked to know things. He found it helped to keep people alive longer. The air was suffocating here. Spores clung to the stagnant air and the ground sucked at his feet, the colourful growths seeking to claim anything that came into contact with them. Cassowar paid them little mind.

Sure enough, a short way into the skycaps lay the remains of a body. Beasts had picked most of it clean and fungi was already spreading across the strips of flesh that were left. It had only been there an hour or two. Cassowar had seen the rot grow across sleeping men, softly and slowly, until they awoke unable to move. Those screams had been haunting. 

Cassowar studied the scene from a distance. Stalks and tendrils of fungi rose up around the body towards the ceiling of mushroom caps. In the inky haze it was difficult to tell species of fungi apart, or more worryingly, the fleshy legs of giant predators. His enhanced eyes picked out shapes where others would only see darkness. A creature with too many legs towered above the corpse. He could make out a spiky body at the centre of a dozen spindly legs.

Stiltstalker. Adult male. No injuries. The analysis flashed through Cassowar’s mind in an instant. The creature hadn’t been the thing that had killed the man. No doubt it planned to use the fresh body as bait. Stiltstalkers hunted in plain sight by standing still, their legs blending with the stalks and tendrils of the litany of fungi, while the hardened carapace of the body waits patiently above to strike down on unsuspecting prey. 

The body was none of his concern, and neither was the stiltstalker. Cassowar was curious though. Few travelled the roads alone. A broken spear lay on the ground nearby but a single spear wasn’t enough out here. That meant the man had either been a desperate nobody, or had a well charged soul cell that he expected would have saved him. The minimal risk to find out which it had been was worth the potential reward.

Cassowar took a step forward. The faint squelch of his boot pressing into the spongy earth was the only sound. Noise, just like everything else, was consumed by the damp rot. He carried no weapons. He didn’t need to. Cassowar was a weapon, just as he had been trained to be from his earliest memories.

He approached the closest leg of the creature, careful to stay outside of the ring of limbs, and placed a hand on the cold surface. From touch alone it was near impossible to feel any difference from an unassuming fungus, but Cassowar felt the faintest ripple of anticipation flutter through the stalk. 

Life and death was mostly a matter of mathematics. His earliest instructor had taught him to see everything as a series of equations. Knowledge is power. Though Cassowar knew that knowledge without practice and physical alteration still meant little in the grand scheme of things. 

Often people would turn to fire to combat dangers like a stiltstalker. It worked well enough if the flames could consume the flesh fast enough, but the fungus coated carapace was cold and damp, difficult to set alight. It took a surprising amount of energy to do more than startle such a creature. Cassowar knew better. He drew upon his soul cell to manipulate the invisible particles beneath his palm that made up the fabric of the universe. With the immediacy of a whip-crack he commanded the particles to freeze. 

Ice crackled around his fingers, spreading up and through the stalk in instantly. The stiltstalker howled its thin, piping wail of panic as it tried to pull away. Cassowar didn’t wait for the ice to encase the creature. All of the energy that he had stolen from the heat around him he channelled through his body and into his other arm. He struck out with the force of a hammerblow, shattering the beast’s leg in a rain of ice shards and ichor. It toppled with an agonised screech. Cassowar stepped past thrashing limbs and drew a small knife from his belt. He drove it into the body, piercing its tube-shaped heart. The thrashing stopped.

The whole fight had lasted a handful of seconds. Cossowar wiped down his knife as he approached the man’s body. He knelt beside the corpse and checked the shredded clothing. There was a torn envelope soaked in blood, and a small blue disc. He pocketed the envelope then took a closer look at the disk. It was a soul-cell, damaged but still usable, filled with currency. The unfortunate man had clearly been taken by surprise before he could utilise the power he had possessed within the disc.

Cassowar took out an identical blue disc from his own pocket then drew lines across both. There was a glow of light as the contents of the man’s soul-cell were transferred to his own. He dropped the spent cell and returned his own to his pocket.

A damp squelch sounded behind him. He turned and peered into the darkness. A new figure was stalking through the undergrowth towards him. Cassowar stood but paid it no mind as he opened the envelope. He already knew who the figure was.

“Brother Cassowar, you seem distracted from our task.”

“Brother Krann,” he greeted in a respectful tone. Cassowar didn’t like the man, but brotherhood transcended such petty issues as being a sociopathic arse.

Krann was a large man in both height and muscle mass. Cassowar was still young but he was by no means small yet next to the older Icuri he felt like a child. He wore the same simple brown robe as Cassowar but that was where their similarities ended. Cassowar couldn’t feel fear but he knew that if he could then all of his senses would be screaming at him to run every time he was in the man’s presence. Perhaps others felt the same around Cassowar himself.

“Such scenes are always worth the time to check. Lone messengers tend to offer excellent blackmail opportunities, or political information,” Cassowar explained even though he knew he may as well be speaking to a particularly ugly rock. 

“Leave such mundane tasks to those deserving of them. We were given gifts and a higher calling. Come. My spectors have a sighting. They report an informant found the white haired witch. She left him screaming for days straight. The spectors are closing in on her location as we waste time here.”

Cassowar nodded. “Understood. Let’s go. Father Leonardo’s relic clearly won’t return itself.”

Previous – 2. Lives Much Like Maggots.

Next – 4. Days Unending.

2. Lives Much Like Maggots. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

Wren passed through the gateway and entered into a ring of open space that had originally served as a no-man’s-land between the inner and outer wall where any threat would be trapped and clearly visible. Those days were long in the past. Now it was filled with hundreds of tents and pavilions belonging to travellers, migrants, or those too poor to get by within the city itself. While the smell of death was unpleasant, the distinctly human smell was worse. The conditions here were awful, but at least they were within the safety of Order.

Beyond the tatty camp rose the inner wall of Voyeur. Unlike its outer counterpart, this wall was twice the height and bore a smooth clay finish that gave it a sense of uniformity unknown to the rest of the landscape. Guards patrolled the top of the wall while colourful flags and banners flew from its vast surface. It was a bastion of protection in an otherwise deadly world.

Wren weaved her way through the sprawling tangle of tent ropes and clotheslines, slipping between the heavy flow of humanity as the outer city residents went about their lives in a bustling chaos of mundanity. All manner of animals intermingled with the men and women, adding to the confused cacophony of the place. Every foot of space was filled with movement and noise. Compared to the near silence past the Order barrier it was overwhelming. 

Merchants attempted to sell their wares, shouting to be heard over the already painful clamour. Most of the goods Wren could see were broken, useless, or well past their prime, but the people here didn’t have the luxury of being picky. A vulture blocked her path as she was passing a table filled with dead animals and squawked loudly at her.

“Now then, young mistress, care to take a gander at my finely curated stock. You look like a girl who could use a feline companion. A pretty kitty would suit you much better than that mangled magpie on your shoulder. I happen to have a beautiful specimen with a gentle demeanour,” the carrion bird told her with all the gusto and charisma of a seasoned salesman. He flicked his head in the direction of his stall.

There was indeed a cat there. It had black fur and was laid on its front, its black eyes staring forward, and its chin resting on its front legs. It was still. Suspiciously so. There was no telltale sign of breathing and even the carefully arranged pose couldn’t hide the vacancy of the eyes.

“That cat’s clearly dead.”

“She’s just sleeping. With her eyes open. She’s a little strange.”

Wren stared at the vulture until he shifted his weight uncomfortably and shrugged.

“Fine, the cat’s dead,” the vulture relented. He changed tact quickly and pressed on. “Still, just think of all the uses. You could have it stuffed as a lovely decorative piece, or deconstruct it for that lush fur. Meat is meat after all. You can’t go wrong with a nice feline stew.”

“The eyes do look juicy,” Krow added hopefully.

“Until I sell all this then we don’t have the sparks to buy anything. Maybe next time,” she said, nodding respectfully to the vulture. She didn’t wait for a response before disappearing back into the crowd.

Wren’s target wasn’t anywhere in the jumble of the outer city but rather was the main gate into the heart of Voyeur. A dozen armed guards stood around the entrance and barred entry for most of the bedraggled travellers who sought to pass. Bags were checked and clothing was patted down. Only a small trickle of those lining to enter were allowed to pass. Wren joined the queue and waited her turn just like the others. When she finally reached the front the guard gave her a small nod of recognition but still checked her sack of fungi. He didn’t pat her down and asked her permission before checking her belongings. It seemed her reputation as a witch really was spreading.

The guard waved her through the gate and she emerged into the inner city of Voyeur. Wren watched as newcomers to the city froze in place around her and stared dumbly at the crude imitation of heaven that sprawled out before them. The streets were paved with plates of cream chitin that meandered in every direction between tall blocks of white buildings that looked to be carved from colossal bones. Rising up from the centre of the city stood the Feeder Peaks, twin halves of a huge beak that had once been the terrifying mouth for the god whose corpse they occupied. The obsidian mountains leaned over the gaping maw that led into the warped darkness of the god’s innards. 

Wren slipped past the stunned travellers and continued towards the closest apothecary store. The sights of the city were all she had ever known and held little wonder for her now. Salves and Salvations was all she had eyes for at the moment. The shop was on the second level of a corner building. She heaved the sack up the carved stairs that ran along the outside of the structure and ducked her head through the narrow doorway. 

The room was dimly lit with yellow mushrooms that gave a soft glow of fluorescent light. Shelves upon shelves littered the walls filled with vials and ingredients. Behind a slab of bone that served as a counter was an old man who worked away with a mortar and pestle. Most folk knew him as Doc Tabbot. A multitude of smells assaulted Wren’s senses but she was used to it at this point.

“What have you brought for me today, child?” the old man asked. His voice was strained, his throat damaged many years before in an accident. Wren knew that behind the counter he only had one leg. 

She ignored the fact that he had called her child again and proceeded to tip out her haul onto the counter. She quickly formed two piles then swept one pile back into the sack. What was left was an assortment of fungi that would best suit the apothecary’s needs. The old man looked over them critically, picking up each sample and studying it closely. Eventually he nodded, a small, satisfied smile creasing his weathered face. 

“You deliver quality ingredients as usual. Three hundred sparks.”

“Three fifty.”

“Three hundred and twenty and not a slither more.”

“Deal.”

Doc Tabbot tutted softly to himself. “I much preferred it when you first started bringing me supplies. You were grateful for the smallest scraps back then.”

“I was six and you were exploiting me.”

“Details, details,” he muttered dismissively. “Though I don’t suppose you’d gather up some slugs and snails like the old days? I’m running low.”

Wren couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll get some of the kids to gather a few. They could do with something productive to do. I’ll handle the selling side though before you get your hopes up.”

“Fine, he grunted. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a palm sized disk of blue-tinged bone. “Here’s your payment for today.”

Wren pulled out a blue disc of her own. Doc Tabbot scratched something across the surface of his with a large pin until it began to flicker with a ghostly flame. He then held it over Wren’s until the flame surrounded both discs. After a second the flames faded and Doc slipped his back into his pocket.

“Three hundred and twenty sparks just as promised.”

Wren had once read that before the gods made contact, people had used metal coins and paper notes as currency. The funny thing was that they didn’t smelt down the coins or burn the paper. They existed solely to be passed around without any inherent use. She couldn’t begin to imagine how that had worked. In Wren’s world, if something didn’t help directly to keep you sheltered or fed then it had no value.

Even though the gods themselves were long dead now, their sparks had remained. The sparks were tiny slithers of souls, fragments of spiritual energy that could be collected and dispersed using specially made artefacts called soul cells. The sparks fuelled society. Not only could they be used for trade but they could be consumed to create fire, heal wounds, or even empower an individual’s body. Sparks were a valuable resource indeed.

“Oh, before you go, here’s the usual concoction for your mother. I’ve increased the potency and changed one of the active ingredients. I’m hoping it will keep her conscious a little longer than usual. Give her my regards,” the old man said as he handed across a finger length bone tube topped with a cork. Wren stashed it and gave the man her thanks.

She still had a lot of work to do before her mother was due to awaken. Her next stop was at one of the markets to pick up supplies now that she had some sparks to use. The market was heaving with people and animals as usual, a miniature version of the sprawling stalls and tents of the outer city, though here things were more ordered and the goods had an expected level of quality. 

Wren’s first stop was to pick up a small pouch of eyeballs to fulfil her promise to Krow. The magpie gobbled one down greedily and danced across her shoulder as he devoured it. Next she grabbed a bundle of roach mince from a stall that had several roaches tethered beside it for sale. The large insects skittered back and forth along their little patch of space, their heads swivelling to follow each passer by. Wren watched them, trying to connect her thoughts with them like she would with animals, but it was fruitless. Whatever phenomena had connected the consciousness of most animals together when the gods arrived had not included insects. 

Her next stop was for some bonedust before finally reaching her last stop at a stand filled with flowers. While conditions outside the orderfield were generally too harsh for everything but fungi, within them it was possible to grow small plants like flowers and herbs. Most of the flowers were reds or dark colours, but dedicated growers were able to produce brighter, lighter coloured specimens. Wren bought a small bouquet of pink flowers and a sachet of strong smelling lavender. Fully stocked up, she left the market behind and began her journey home.

She passed by the Feeder Peaks and the Great Maw, slowing only slightly to watch the men and women at work, a system of pulleys constantly hauling raw materials out from within the god’s body. Teams of workers dragged bone and putrid meat from the maw to clean and repurpose whatever they could. It was here that Krow hopped off her shoulder. 

“”I’ve got some errands of my own to run. Important business.”

“You just don’t like being around children.”

“They’re loud, seem incapable of understanding personal boundaries and consent, and are just generally sticky and awful. Utterly frightful creatures. Anyway, you don’t need me there. I know how much you’re looking forward to seeing your mum. She was only awake for five minutes last time afterall.”

He took off, disappearing over the rooftops to do whatever it was he did when Wren wasn’t around. Krow was tight-beaked when it came to his personal life. She didn’t mind. He was entitled to his privacy. It wasn’t like she owned him. 

Wren picked up her pace even more until she was almost jogging. Now that she was nearly home her excitement was building. It had been two weeks since she had last heard her mother speak. Her slumbers had been growing in frequency and length for the last few years. She was very ill, but every time she awoke she spoke words of great wisdom. Wren longed to talk with her. To listen to her tell stories of her past and for Wren to vent all her feelings over hour long chats like when she was little. That was unlikely now but Wren would hold on to every fleeting moment she could have with her.

In just a few scarce hours, Rosabella Ashmoore would be among the living again.

Previous – 1. A World of Rot.

Next – 3. Dangers.

1. A World of Rot. (When Dead Gods Dream)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

When Dead Gods Dream.

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.

Next – 2. Lives Much Like Maggots.