The Center isn’t the only place the crew goes to hunt crabs. The Stern is enormous, extending down many levels from the paltry three the Council can claim some authority over, and even on those three large sections are barricaded and abandoned to the scuttling, squirming creatures of the dark. That’s where we are now. Instead of trekking across endless bridges and platforms, we’re stalking through broken-down corridors, floors and walls flaking with rust, with jagged-edged holes in addition to the usual doorways. Given what happened last time I went to the Center, it’s a relief that here there isn’t too far to fall.
Meroe, much to her irritation, stayed behind, unable to keep up on her broken leg. I left the Moron with her. Now that we’re trying to work together as a pack, he’d only get in the way. That leaves me, Berun, Thora, and Jack. I’ve worked with worse gangs, in spite of a few … eccentricities.
I duck through a rusted-out hole in the wall and turn left, moving just slow enough that my footsteps won’t echo. When I reach the next doorway, I pause. Unlike the Deeps, here it isn’t truly dark during the day. Enough sunlight seeps in through the holes in the deck to take the edge off the gloom.
Up ahead is a dark silhouette, a long, low thing bigger than a horse. I stare a little longer, convincing myself that I can make out features that match the description of a shaggy—six fat legs, a long neck, hung all over with curtains of dripping moss and fungus. It’s hard to tell, but Jack seemed certain, and she knows what she’s doing. Probably.
Thora and Berun are still getting into position. I grip the metal at the edge of the hole—When they’re ready, I—
“Isoka…”
I practically jump out of my skin, clenching my jaw tight to avoid a yell. My blades come alive with a snap-hiss and I spin, but there’s nothing but darkness behind me.
For a long moment, there’s no sound but the crackle of Melos power.
“Hagan?” I say, very softly.
No answer. I turn back to the hole, and faint movement catches my eye. Gray motes, flowing in a stream through part of the wall, skirting the edge of the broken section. Hesitantly, I reach out my hand, laying one finger on the metal. The gray energy swirls around it.
“Isoka.” It is Hagan’s voice, a little stronger now.
Blessed’s balls. I’d just about convinced myself I was crazy.
“Hagan, can you hear me?”
There’s another pause, the faint crackling buzz that accompanies his voice rising and falling.
“… not strong enough…,” he says. “… somewhere … power…”
“I’m not strong enough?” I blink. “I don’t understand.”
“Garden … anomaly coming … Garden…”
His voice fades again. Before I can speak, I hear a bellow and there’s a flash of blue. Jack has made her move. With a shout of frustration I turn around and throw myself through the doorway.
The room is a large one, with holes in the ceiling letting a few rays of sunlight dapple the chamber. As my blades add their light to the tableau, I see the shaggy is aptly named. It looks a bit like an ox, if an ox had six legs and were taller than I am at the shoulder. Where the head of an ox would be, there’s a long, flexible neck, ending in a small sphere equipped with a wide, toothy jaw. Along its flanks and neck, curtains of dark green moss hang like matted hair, swaying with every movement.
Jack is standing in front of it, arms crossed, grinning like a fool. The shaggy gives another hooting bellow, swinging its head toward her. Jack bows, her shadow stretching behind her and up the wall. The shaggy bellows again, and lunges, its neck moving with the speed of a striking snake. Before it can hit home, Jack vanishes with a flicker of dark magic.
Her shadow remains, skipping neatly away from the confused shaggy. Jack’s well is Xenos, the Well of Shadows. It’s supposed to be one of the rarest wells, to the point that there isn’t a full-fledged Xenos adept in the whole of the Empire. I don’t know if Jack’s an adept, but the little I’ve seen her do is impressive. With another dark flash, she reappears atop her own shadow, in time to attract the shaggy’s attention again.
I have to admit it’s a thrill, fighting alongside other mage-born. I’ve spent my life in the certain knowledge that, no matter how much I trust them, none of my allies can truly match me. Now I have my pack. I wonder for a moment if this is how the Invincible Legions feel, going into battle, or the Immortals.
Bands of blue light have materialized around the creature, spreading across its legs and along the curve of its neck. Thora and Berun, on the other side of the chamber, are both concentrating hard, wrapping the shaggy in bonds of Tartak force. Intent on Jack, it doesn’t notice until it’s too late. The thing tugs against the binding, and I see Berun flinch, but it’s stuck fast.
Which is my cue. I come out from the doorway, running alongside the beast until I can get at the base of its long, curving neck. I duck forward, blades slashing, sending strands of thick green flying. Liquid spatters across me, beading on my armor, and starts to sizzle. I feel pinpricks of heat as the stuff tries to eat its way to my flesh. Charming. I grit my teeth and push forward, surrounded by crackling green lightning and acrid smoke. One of my blades makes contact with something solid, and I swing in that direction, barely able to see. I can feel the cut, though, and the gush of fluid. I hack at the long neck again, like a lumberjack trying to fell a tree.
There’s another bellow from the shaggy, and I turn to get a glimpse of its mouth coming at me, the neck doubling back on itself. I duck, reflexively, but before it reaches me Jack is there, her shadow rising from the deck in front of her like a paper cutout. The shaggy’s head collides with the flat black shape and recoils as if it had struck a wall.
“Finish it!” Jack says. She’s grinning, as always, in spite of the fact that threads of smoke are rising from her clothes where flecks of acid have landed.
I leave her to watch my back, and turn to my task. It doesn’t feel like a fight. More like a chore, a butcher hacking apart a carcass with measured strokes, only with a lot more blood. Eventually, I hit something vital, and black blood spews forth in a torrent. The shaggy gives a despairing gurgling bellow. I skip sideways and it staggers forward and collapses to the floor.
It’s getting hot inside my armor, coated as I am in acid, but I don’t dare drop it for fear of letting that stuff onto my skin. I glance at Jack, who is still smoking slightly. Berun is on his knees, gasping for breath. Thora kneels beside him, patting his shoulder.
“There,” she says. “You did well, lad. Better than I would have given you credit for.”
“What about me?” Jack pops up beside Thora, emerging from a shadow like a fish jumping from a lake. “Any praise for Clever Jack?”
“You were brilliant,” Thora says, patting Berun’s shoulder again and getting to her feet. “As always.”
“And my reward?”
Thora gathers the slender girl close with a hand at the small of her back and kisses her thoroughly. My ground-in instinct to look away from such a display wars with an undeniable interest, and under other circumstances I might have left them to it. As it is, though, I give a loud cough.
“A little help?” I spread my arms, which are still steaming with acid. The heat inside my armor is getting seriously uncomfortable.
Thora pushes Jack away, ignoring the disappointed noise she makes. “Sorry, pack leader,” she says. She uncorks a waterskin and lets the stream play over my armor, the water making strange patterns as it runs along the flickering surface of the energy field. It takes two skins before I feel like I can risk letting my power drop, sucking with relief at the cool air.
“Did you know that stuff burns?” I ask Thora.
She shakes her head. “I hadn’t heard of anything like that. Maybe this one has something different growing on it than most shaggies.”
“Maybe it’ll flavor the meat,” Jack says, looking the dead beast over. “Good eating on these.”
I nod, then glance back at the doorway I’d come from. “Good work, all of you. Just … give me a minute, would you?”
“I sometimes get like that after a fight,” Thora says to Jack behind me. “You get carried away and don’t realize how much you’ve been holding it in.”
“The general Hespodar’s two greatest military maxims,” Jack says, in all seriousness, “were ‘never let the phalanx press into broken ground’ and ‘always piss before the battle.’”
“You made that up,” Thora says.
“Possibly.”
Around the corner, I press my hand back against the edge of the torn metal. But the flow of gray light has faded, and Hagan’s voice is gone.
Rot. Because what I need is more mysteries.
* * *
The aftermath of a hunt, I’ve learned, is as well planned as the system of tithes and protection payments that keeps the Sixteenth Ward running.