poured and shaped using arts long forgotten. Jane’s light showed us ancient vaults, cracked in places and scaled with lime. We wove a path around fallen blocks, larger than cart-horses, heading deeper all the time, like worms burrowing to the core, seeking the roots of the mountain.
‘Shut your moaning, priest.’ Row came up behind the Nuban and showed old Gomsty his knife, a wicked piece of ironwork to be sure.
Father Gomst let up his wailing at that, and I did miss it for the echoes had been quite haunting. I fell back for a word. That, and to make sure Row didn’t decide to carve up our gift to the monsters before we’d handed it over proper-like.
‘Peace now, Father,’ I said.
I pushed Row’s blade aside. He scowled at that, did Row, all pock-marks and squinting eyes.
‘You’ll just be changing flocks, Father,’ I told Gomsty. ‘Your new congregation might look a little fouler, but on the inside? Well I’m sure they’ll be fairer than Row here.’
The Nuban grunted and shifted Father Gomst’s weight on his shoulder.
‘Set him down,’ I said. ‘He can walk. We’re good and lost now, there’ll be no running.’
The Nuban set old Gomsty on his feet. He looked at me, his face too black to read. ‘It’s wrong, Jorg. Trade in gold, not people. He’s a holy man. He speaks for the white-Christ.’
Gomst looked at the Nuban with a hatred I’d never seen in him before, as if he’d just grown horns and called on Lucifer.
‘Well now he can speak to Gorgoth for Christ,’ I said.
The Nuban said nothing, his face a blank.
Something about the Nuban’s silences always made me want to say a little more. As if I had to make it right with him. Makin scraped at me that same way, but not so bad.
‘It’s not like he can’t leave,’ I said. ‘He’s free to walk home if he really must. He’ll just have to earn himself some food for the journey and a map is all.’
The Nuban gave me the white crescent of his smile.
I walked on, a cold voice inside me whispering, whispering of weakness, of the thin edge of a wedge, of a sharp knife cutting without tears, of a hot iron to cauterize a wound before infection spread. It doesn’t do to love a brother.
Jane’s light dimmed and flickered as I drew near. She recoiled slightly with an intake of breath. I curled my lip and imagined her falling from a cliff. It worked better than I’d hoped. She gave a squeal and covered her eyes.
Gorgoth stepped between us. ‘Keep away from her, Dark Prince.’
So I walked in the shadows, and they led us on into the mountain. We followed wide tunnels that stretched for miles, level-floored with curved ceilings. Rust stains ran the length of the passages in parallel lines, though to what end men would lay iron in such a manner I can’t say, unless these were the pipes through which the secret fire of the Builders ran.
We left Jane and all but two of her kindred at the shores of a lake so wide even her silver light could not reach across the waters. The Builders had made this place too. Stone gave away to water with a single sharp step, the ceiling stretched flat and without adornment. Jane’s folk moved away toward shelters of wood and skins huddled at the water’s edge. Gorgoth led them, one hand enveloping Father Gomst’s shoulders.
Jane paused, her gaze moving between the two grotesques who remained to guard us. She said nothing but I could feel the undercurrent of unvoiced speech as she instructed them.
‘No final words for me, little one?’ I asked. I went on one knee before her. A fierce humour gripped me. ‘No predictions? No pearls to throw before this swine? Come, share a glimpse with me. Blind me with the future.’
She met my gaze and the light dazzled, but I wouldn’t look away.
‘Your choices are keys to doors I cannot see beyond.’
I felt anger rise in me and pushed it down with a snarl. ‘There’s more than that.’
‘You have a dark hand on your shoulder. A hole in your mind. A hole. In your memories. A hole – a hole – pulling me in – pulling—’
I seized her hand. That was a mistake, for it burned the skin and froze the bone in equal measure. I’d have set it down if I could, but the strength left me. For a moment I could see only the child’s eyes.
‘When you meet her, run. Just run. Nothing else.’ It felt as though I were speaking the words, though I could hear Jane’s voice frame them. Then I fell.
I woke to the light of torches.
‘He’s up.’
I found myself face to face with Rike.
‘Jesu, Rike, you been gargling rat piss again?’ I pushed his brutal jaw to one side and used his shoulder to lever myself up. The brothers began to rise around me, hefting their packs. Makin came from the water’s edge, Gorgoth looming behind him.
‘Don’t go touching the Prophetess of the Leucrota!’ He used a mock-scold. I could see the relief hidden in his eyes.
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I said.
Gorgoth paused to scowl at me, then led the way, holding a pitch-torch the size of a small tree.
Our path angled up now, the tunnel thick with dust that tasted of bitter almonds. We walked for less than a thousand yards before the way broadened into a wide gallery crossed by stone trenches of obscure purpose, yards across, and as deep as a man is tall. At the mouth of the gallery a wooden pen hugged the wall, the stays bound with rope. Two children huddled together in the middle of the bare cage. Two leucrota. Gorgoth hauled the door open.
‘Out.’
They were neither of them past seven summers, if summers were a proper count for the dark halls of the leucrota. They came out naked, two skinny boys, brothers to look at them, the younger one perhaps five. Of all the leucrota I’d seen they looked the least monstrous. A black-and-red stippling marked their skin, colouring them like the tigers of Indus. Dark barbs of horn jutted from their elbows, mirrored in the talons on their fingers. The elder of the two shot me a glance, his eyes utterly black, no white, iris, or pupil.
‘We don’t want your children,’ Makin said. He reached into his pocket and tossed a twist of dry-meat to the brothers. ‘Put them back.’
The meat twist skittered to a halt at the elder child’s feet. He kept his eyes on Gorgoth. The littlest watched the dry-meat intently, but made no move. Their skin stretched so tight over the bone I could count every rib.
‘These are for the necromancers, don’t waste your food on them.’ Gorgoth’s rumble came so low it hurt to hear it.
‘A sacrifice?’ the Nuban asked.
‘They’re dead already,’ Gorgoth said. ‘The strength of the leucrota isn’t in them.’
‘They look hearty enough to me,’ I said. ‘With a meal or two in ’em. Sure you’re
