Thieves' War Page 2

  “Rats. You put them in bags to fight?”

  “No… not recently,” I replied.

  I tore my gaze away from the statue and inspected another. The disturbing mix of sex and death festooned it as well. For my money, the iconography on display as a decorating choice was as subtle as a ferret in the pants. Sure, some places you want skulls. Cemeteries. Retirement homes. That one food cart you just can’t stay away from even though you know you’ll be shitting water for the next three days. Other places, you might want a dick. Brothels. Political debates. But mixing the two was a decision akin to agreeing to inseminate an elephant. The hard way.

  Now that I saw it, it was everywhere, a homage to over-the-top-masculinity. On the fountain, penises blew water into the air. The gate was fashioned like a skeletal gaping jaw, above which two carved hollow sockets hovered in the stone. A woman walked past, wearing a skull broach, the eyes fashioned from rubies. She set her jaw on seeing Rek, but said nothing, skirting us as she moved on.

  “What the fuck…” I muttered to myself.

  “What is it?” Rek asked.

  “Just a suspicion,” I said.

  “About?”

  “This place.”

  “Huh. Should we leave?”

  A huge clatter caught our attention, cutting my answer short. The front gate opened like a yawn in the skeletal face, and in strolled a carriage. Black-lacquered and big enough to hold ten people, it moved on spider legs, and for a moment, a wave of perfect panic rippled through me. Rek nudged me, nodding toward the back, and I noticed the steel vanes standing up from the rear. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a mage engine.

  The carriage came to a halt, and we piled in alongside six other recruits, all in various states of age, though for four of them, their dress shared characteristics. Clean and expensive, right down to their blades, they were well-groomed. Their clothing was worth more than Rek and I could have spent in a year. The other two, in cheap homespun clothing, wearing scratched and chipped weaponry, climbed in beside us. The wealthy looked anywhere but at us, moving to one side, away from the others in the carriage. I bit my tongue, trying not make a comment about those who think their shit doesn’t stink despite a preponderance of proof. The door closed, and the mage in the rear spoke a word, sending a wave of frisson into the air. The carriage lurched into action, and before long, the countryside passed by at a blur as the legs churned up turf.

  "Better than the whole penis thing, right?" Rek asked.

  The other members of the carriage turned to look at us, and I shrunk in my seat, pretending to look out the window.

  "Nenn?" Rek asked.

  I flipped him the bird.

  "Aw," he said.

  The carriage came to a halt, settling down on thick legs, and the door popped open. We filed out down the steps, one at a time into thick evening sun. The landscape had changed, from seaside city and pastoral fields to rocky plains bordered by thick forest. A stockade had been set up, and the camp beyond organized in neat concentric circles. Camp followers at the outskirts, followed by enlistees, then officers, logistics, and finally, at the center, the camp commander. A pair of flags flew from the big tent at the middle, one the Gentian arms—a cluster of skulls on a black field—the other of a fox carrying a blade in its mouth. My stomach rumbled.

  We stepped off the carriage, and a big man with a limp approached. I stretched, every muscle in my legs and back protesting from sitting still for so long. An involuntary groan escaped my lips, and I glanced over sheepishly, but no one else seemed to notice. The aide looked us up and down and then gestured to the tent in the center.

  "You two. Commander wants to see you."

  "Ah fuck," I whispered to Rek.

  "What?" Rek whispered back.

  "Just a feeling."

  We followed the soldier through neat roads beat into the ground, the pace set by his limp allowing us time to look around. Cookfires were set up in regular intervals, and the sounds of laughter and grindstones came to us from distant points. Men sat in circles, drinking, gambling, or bullshitting. Others maintained armor and arms or mended holey socks and shirts. The smells of roast venison and bear and vegetables drifted through the camp, and my stomach rumbled again10.

  We turned up a main concourse, past simple canvas, and into a row where the tents were more lavish, colored, and thicker material. As we approached the center of camp, more ostentatious displays of wealth appeared, pavilions replacing simple bivouacs. Personal guards stood at flaps, a glimpse of warm animal skins and furniture inside, and full dining sets and rugs in some cases.

  Finally, we arrived at the commander's tent. The aide limped inside, indicating we were to wait for him to return. After a moment, he stepped out and swept the tent flap to the side.

  "You may enter," he said.

  "Thanks, sire," I snapped.

  He ignored me as Rek and I tramped past. The inside of the tent had every amenity known to man, and a couple they'd probably not yet considered. A short man at the far end stood hunched over a table covered with maps, his wide frame tense. He turned and grinned at the sound of our entry, the patch over his eye winkling a little.

  "Rek! Nenny! About time!"

  The knot in my stomach chose that moment to rear its head, and I vomited a little, spitting bile to the side.

  “Aw, the rug,” Cord said.

  Awkward Reintroductions

  "Id it broden?" Cord asked between his fingers.

  They hid his broken nose. I'd punched him in the face a few seconds after our reunion. Anger still boiled in my guts.

  "Where the fuck were you? Why didn't you come find us? What's up with your eye?"

  I wound up for another punch, and Rek grabbed me. I lashed out with a foot and tried to kick him anyways.

  "I wad dead. Amd den I wadn't. I had to do a ting for Cabor," his voice cleared up as he spoke. "And then I traded the eye to get my curse back. Without the yucky spitting shit up part."

  I took a deep breath, and then another. Rek let me go, and I approached Cord. I stared him hard in his eye.

  "So, what's the angle here?"

  He grinned. "That's the spirit. I had a thought."

  "Gods help us all," Rek said.

  "Anyway, that thought was: War. Good gods y'all, what is it good for? And it turns out, war's good for getting rich. And who has money?"

  "Rich people?" I supplied.

  "Exactly. Who likes to start wars?"

  "Uh, rich people?"

  "Bingo-roni."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. The point is, I can kill two birds with one stone this way. The rich guys get to serve in a respected mercenary company, get a bit of credibility to their names, and in return, a few suffer ‘accidents’. A quarter of their assets default to the company to defray training and administrative costs, and the rest get to sit behind the lines and talk about what a shame it was."

  "And they agree to this?" Rek asked.

  "Acceptable risk. In Gentia, upward mobility is limited by service. We provide service and they risk death. You can’t convince anyone with a fortune that death is a remote possibility half the time. Wealth breeds arrogance1."

  "Yeah, but how do you win battles?" I asked.

  Cord grinned and laid a finger aside his nose. "Ace in the hole."

  Tug 2 chose that moment to walk in. Impossibly attractive, not very bright, he was an old friend of Cord's, and just as gold obsessed. He was also a competent enough necromancer. I looked around, but didn't see his golem, Elvis, anywhere. Thank the gods for small miracles.

  "Ah, okay," I said.

  "What?" Rek asked.

  "They resurrect the dead nobles, use them for fodder. Explains Tug here," I said

  "It's Tug Tuggerson now, miss," he said.

  Cord nodded. "He was ennobled."

  "Hell of a trick. What'd you do?" I asked.

  "Resurrected the Gray Lady's dog," Cord said.

  "And nothing horrifying happened?"

&nb
sp; "No. I mean… it was dead for like, a week," Tug said.

  "Ick," Rek said.

  Cord nodded. "But it's the Grey Lady. She's a bit... off."

  "All of this explains the tents we passed on the way up, then."

  "Oh, and I have something else to show you," Cord said.

  He led us through a smaller flap at the back of the tent, up a short dirt path that wound to the top of a hill. From its peak, we could see the forest stretched for miles. Closer, near a pile of stones, something lay beneath a canvas tarp. The wind snapped at the edges, and the small hairs on the back of my neck rose. The air wavered around the object like a heat mirage.

  "Is that what I think it is?" I asked.

  Cord walked over and swept the canvas back. The thing underneath stood just over three feet tall. Round and squat, its center was open like a barrel, though I couldn’t see a bottom when I peered in. Instead, inky blackness rippled in its place. Wires ran from the exterior to several tall slim steel cylinders that thrust toward the sky. Veins and skeins of flesh entwined with the wires and made a nebulous mesh connecting it all. It thrummed with a soft hum, and at its base, a glass window through which a brain was visible, floating in a viscous green fluid.

  "What in the seven fucking snowy hells is this?" I asked. "Is that a fucking Harrower engine?"

  "It's a Harrower engine," Cord said, as if he hadn't heard the question.

  "Are you fucking insane3?" I asked.

  "I know what you're thinking," Cord continued. Again, as if he hadn't heard me. "I am not insane. I know exactly what this baby does."

  He slapped the side, and it let out a low moan that rippled through my guts. A bird fell from the sky, plummeting into the center. The machine burped into life with a sound like a ripping sail. The cylinders on the sides rotated around it like cars on a carousel, each glowing with a black light that sent the surrounding countryside into stark negative relief as they passed. Cord backed away, Tug not far behind.

  "What?" Rek said.

  "What?" Cord shouted.

  The machine screamed in response and the cylinders spun faster and faster. Above the engine, clouds swirled in a counterclockwise manner. Purple light gathered at the center.

  "Fuckin' un-fuckin'-believable, you fuckin' moron!" I shouted.

  The machine's scream rose, and we took shelter behind a nearby pile of boulders as a beam of purple light shot upward, joining the clouds. They ripped asunder, tearing a hole in reality. Silence abruptly filled the space, making our ears ring. I looked up as something small and black fell from the sky, coming to land with a resounding smash that cracked the earth atop the hill.

  Pitch-black feathers covered its body, golden eyes staring from inky pinions. It clacked its beak once as Cord rose and approached it.

  "It's cute!" he said. He extended a hand and petted it.

  The raven screamed and snapped at his fingers, shearing his remaining pinkie off with the efficiency of a razor. Cord cursed and squeezed his hand to stop the blood flow, tying the palm with a strip hastily ripped from his shirt. I drew my blades, ready to impale the little nightmare. Cord hissed a breath and raised a hand despite his pain. He shook his head, then reached into a pouch at his side and tossed the bird a chunk of something red and raw. It snarfed it down and allowed Cord to rub its head this time. Rek, Tug, and I came to stand beside him.

  "What the fuck is it?" I asked.

  "Unpleasant," Rek said.

  "Yeah, that's a demon, Cord," Tug said.

  "I think I'll call him Urk," Cord said.

  I rolled my eyes and started down the hill path, Rek and Tug in tow.

  "Hey, where you guys going? This is cool! Guys?" Cord called.

  We'd regrouped in Cord's tent, finding couches and chairs to take the weight off. Cord paced; his hand wrapped in a bandage while his unnatural healing did its thing. He couldn't regrow lost limbs, but he wouldn't be bleeding out any time soon. The raven, Urk, rode his shoulder, chewing happily on what looked suspiciously like a kidney, the organ clutched in one set of talons while the other steadied the bird on his shoulder.

  "I feel like you need a nickname," I said. "Cord Eight-Fingers. Cord the Lacking."

  He ignored me.

  "How about Cord, the Mathematically Challenged?" Rek asked.

  "Too wordy," I said.

  "Cord Shitbrain," Tug suggested.

  He flipped us the bird.

  “At least you’ve still got that one,” Rek said, rolling his eyes.

  "Okay, what's up your butt?" I asked.

  Tug snickered.

  "The Hestians are coming," Cord said.

  "And?"

  "And, we have to beat them. Or this whole thing," he waved his hand in a vague circle, "goes bye-bye."

  "Yeah, losing the meal ticket would be bad. Solutions?"

  Cord shrugged. "We could summon a whole shitload of Urks."

  I shook my head. "I'd rather wipe my ass with a cactus."

  "Send in the rich guys?" Tug suggested.

  It was Cord's turn to shake his head. "That's kind of part of the whole not losing our money thing."

  "Okay, so...," I said.

  "Set the forest on fire," Rek said.

  "That would never work," Cord said.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "Because, uh... well... shit. Okay. That's not a terrible idea," Cord said.

  "Then set archers on the hills and just pick off whoever runs out," Rek said.

  I looked at Rek. "You're scary."

  He shrugged. "Just lazy. Look at how much I don't have to swing my axe."

  I snorted. "This guy's going places. Maybe not the good place, but places."

  "If any of us end up in the heavens, I'm going to say that someone either tricked the gods or killed them," Tug said.

  "Tangentially, Tug—whatever happened to Elvis?" I asked.

  "He's uh..." He looked at Cord.

  I blinked. "His brain's in that fucking machine, isn't it?"

  "Maaaaaybe..." Cord said.

  "Gods, you two," I said.

  "Tug's idea," Cord said.

  "He's a golem!" Tug protested.

  "So much for free will, eh?" I said.

  Cord had the good sense to look ashamed.

  "How long until the Hestians get here?" Rek asked, changing the subject.

  Cord turned to his table, looked at the maps laid there. "About a day. They've got to work their way through the woods. Even if they get around half the traps our scouts set, and keep to the clearer paths, they'll still have to contend with downed trees and ambushes. We're not going to make it easy for them."

  Rek and I joined him at the table. "What's their disposition?" Rek asked.

  "Archers, footmen, some shock troops—they call them shrikes—not much else. They couldn't bring siege engines or cavalry through. But they do have the 101st Bang Legion," Cord said.

  “Bang Legion?” I asked.

  “They use some sort of tube to fight. More efficient than a bow, and accurate. Their motto is ‘Out of My Cold Dead Hands’4,” Cord said.

  I sighed at the machismo. "Can they come over the forest?" I asked. "They've got mages, right? They could fly people in."

  Cord nodded. "It's possible. Even if they do, we outfitted some ballista for air targeting. Inferno bolts, acid netting. They're not going to get much through. I'm sure they know that."

  "Then why are they even pushing here?" Rek asked.

  "I don't know," Cord said.

  "It's going to be a slaughter," I said, staring at the map.

  "Yeah. We're gonna be rich," Cord said.

  Tug Meat, So Sweet

  We stood at the crest of the Harrower engine hill, surveying our deployment. Archers stood at surrounding peaks, ballista arrayed below and around them. Each inferno bolt was full-sized, glass globes of liquid fire affixed to the tips. The acid bolts were similar, though four balls on the ends composed the tips, netting bunched up between them. As with the inferno bolts, similar glass globes of
acid waited in the center of the netting. When deployed, they could burn a grid pattern through man, beast, or structure.

  The forest below seethed with movement, the Hestians no longer able to conceal their approach.

  I watched the movement for a minute, then turned to Cord. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why kill these men? You once believed that death was necessary only for justice."

  He turned to me, puzzled. The raven on his shoulder hopped and resettled with the movement.

  "For one, they’re fascists. I can’t think of anyone who needs killing more. Two, I'm sending a message. I don't like this any more than you do, but the fact is, until the number of dead is unacceptable to the men sending them to their deaths, I'll do what's necessary."

  "So, you'll end war? This war? All war?"

  "No. But I will make them deeply consider ever sending men off to die to begin with. To wholly and unabashedly consider their stances on oppression and hate."

  "Is the cost worth it?"

  He sighed. "Maybe the blood cost is the only thing worth it. These men, they don't consider any other. Family, food, health. They’re secure in what they have. In their privilege. War brings famine, disease, rot. It brings broken hearts and broken families. And for what? This piece of land, or that one? Fuller coffers, more power? Does anyone make war for peace? What would that look like? No, the cost isn't worth it. It never is. But it has to be paid. So, I'm going to bleed these Hestians. Then I'm going to bleed the Gentians. I'm going to push them until the mud in the fields is churned red, because it's all bullshit, Nenn."

  He turned back to the waiting lines and raised an arm. Several of the ballista fired into the tree line, the globes shattering on impact. Fire spread in a wave, engulfing trunk and branch, shrub and vine. Screams echoed from the foliage as the front line of invaders succumbed to smoke and flames. He turned to another line of siege engines and raised his arm again. They fired, the twang of their bowstrings sending a deep thrum into the air. As they flew, the nets snapped open, the globes inside shattering and coating the ropes. When they struck the first line of trees, they sizzled through, felling the trunks. They dug into the tree line and as they met the fire, sent up thick clots of smoke.