Someone had beaten him to it, and might even now be swaggering out the opposite end of the alley. Well, maybe the fool might circle back, and he could deliver to the bastard what he’d done to somebody else — and there was the body, the huddled, motionless shape. Walking up, Gaz nudged it with one boot. Heard a blood-frothed wheeze. Slammed his heel down on the ribcage, just to hear the snap and crunch. A cough, spraying blood, a low groan, then a final exhalation.
Done, easy as that.
‘Are you pleased, Gaz?’
He spun round at the soft, deep voice, forearms lifting into a guard he expected to fail — but the fist he thought was coming never arrived, and, swearing, he stepped back until his shoulders thudded against the wall, glared in growing fear at the tall, shrouded figure standing before him, ‘I ain’t afraid,’ he said in a bellingerent growl.
Amusement washed up against him like a wave. ‘Open yourself, Gaz. Your soul. Welcome your god,’
Gaz could feel the air on his teeth, could feel his lips stretching until cracks split to ooze blood. His heart hammered at his chest. ‘I ain’t got no god. I’m nothing but curses, and I don’t know you. Not at all.’
‘Of course you do, Gaz. You have made sacrifice to me, six times now. And counting.’
Gaz could not see the face within the hood, but the air between them was suddenly thick with some pungent, cloying scent. Like cold mud, the kind that ran in turgid streams behind slaughterhouses. He thought he heard the buzz of flies, but the sound was coming from somewhere inside his own head. ‘I don’t kill for you,’ he said, his voice thin and weak.
‘You don’t have to. I do not demand sacrifices. There is. . no need. You mortals consecrate any ground you choose, even this alley. You drain a life on to it. Nothing more is required. Not intent, not prayer, nor invocation. I am summoned, without end.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘For now, only that you continue harvesting souls. When the time comes for more than that, Gaz of the Gadrobi, you will be shown what must be done.’
‘And if I don’t want-’
‘Your wants are not relevant.’
He couldn’t get that infernal buzzing out of his skull. He shook his head, squeezed shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the god was gone.
Someone had wandered into the alley, weaving, mumbling, one hand held out to fend off any obstacles.
Who looked up at the last moment, in time to meet those terrible knuckles.
Krute of Talient slowed as he approached the recessed entrance to the tenement where he now lived. Someone was standing in the shadows, blocking the door. He halted ten paces away. ‘That was good work,’ he said. ‘You was behind me most of the way, making me think you wasn’t good at all, but now here you are.’
‘Hello, Krute.’
At that voice Krute started, then leaned forward, trying to pierce the gloom. Nothing but a shape, but it was, he concluded, the right shape. ‘Gods below, I never thought you’d come back. Do you have any idea what’s happened since you vanished?’
‘No. Why don’t you tell me?’
Krute grinned. ‘I can do that, but not out here.’
‘You once lived in a better neighbourhood, Krute.’
He watched Rallick Nom step out from the alcove and his grin broadened. ‘You ain’t changed at all. And yes, I’ve known better times — and I hate to say it, but you’re to blame, Rallick.’
The tall, gaunt assassin turned to study the tenement building. ‘You live here? And it’s my fault?’
‘Come on,’ Krute said, ‘let’s get inside. Top floor, of course, an alley corner — easy to the roof, dark as Hood’s armpit. You’ll love it.’
A short time later they sat in the larger of the two rooms, a scarred table between them on which sat a stubby candle with a badly smoking wick, and a clay jug of sour ale. The two assassins held tin cups, both of which leaked.
Since pouring the ale, Krute had said nothing, but now he grunted in amused surprise. ‘I just thought of something. You showing up, alive and hale, has just done what Krafar couldn’t do. We had a cult, Rallick Nom, worshipping the memory of you. Krafar outlawed it in the Guild, then tried to eradicate it — forced us deeper. Not deep enough for me — I’m under suspicion and they’ve gone and isolated me, like I was already dead. Old contacts. . look right through me, Rallick. It’s been damned hard.’
‘Krafar?’
