The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,153

the mouth of an alleyway stood an apron-wearing hulk. The blood on the apron wasn’t his. He wandered up and down, mumbling to himself. When he caught sight of the Lazars he went mute and statue-still, like a child, hoping to hide in immobility. Fulk nodded to his men and checked Sofia was behind him. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he murmured. ‘The hosts are the ones in most danger.’

Soon the butcher forgot his purpose and started mumbling again, arguing with an unseen other. ‘I’m not going back,’ he insisted in a girlish lisp. ‘I said No. It’s cold and it’s dark—’

The Lazars came closer, dragging their spurs in the dust, when suddenly the butcher brandished his cleaver and screamed, ‘I said NO!’

Fulk stood his ground as the butcher charged. His men either side waited patiently and when Fulk took a step backwards they stepped forwards, slamming their shields into the blundering mass. The cleaver flew up as he tumbled down and the knights fell upon him, pinning his arms.

Sofia caught the cleaver and smiled at Fulk’s disapproving snort. ‘What? You’ve got an axe!’

Fulk didn’t have time to argue; his men were struggling with the butcher. He sat on the man’s chest, gripped the mask on each side and pulled. An unearthly dual voice emanated from the butcher’s scabbed lips: ‘Nnnnuuughghgh-gh-ga,’ he groaned, while the girl within him screamed like a harpy, ‘SAID NOOO!!!’

The flesh clung to the mask as Fulk pulled and at last it came free with a ripping sound. There were bloody lesions on the man’s cheeks and forehead, but he was already snoring. Fulk held the mask like a dead rat – it belonged to a girl with a high forehead and a pouty, sulking mouth. He threw it against the wall under the nearest Madonna Muerta statue. The fragments fell to the pile of other would-be deserters from the Land of the Dead.

‘When a mask is broken—’ Sofia began.

‘They can never return. She knew the rules.’

They walked on. Amongst the occasional discarded mask lay the bodies of dogs and cats and goats. Once they came upon a partially eaten horse. ‘Supposed to lock the stables,’ Fulk tutted. He looked at Sofia. ‘Folks who starved to death tend to have an appetite.’

‘No kidding.’ She threw the cleaver in the air and caught it, getting used to its weight. It took an hour to circumnavigate the city, then Fulk sent his men out on a final random sweep of the backstreets.

Sofia accompanied him back to the citadel. A young knight standing outside greeted Fulk with relief. ‘Grand Master! Thank the Madonna – inside – I don’t know how they got in. All the doors were locked—’

‘How many?’

‘Two, I think.’

Fulk sent the Lazar to get some back-up. After he ran off, Sofia slapped Fulk on the back and flipped her cleaver nonchalantly. ‘Two? We can handle that.’

They walked down the corridor, which was lined with empty coffins. At the end, it split into two; to the left was a dark corridor, an ossuary, the piled bones feebly illuminated by thin shafts of morning sun. A dry musk filled the air. The other way led to the training hall, a large chamber illuminated by big circular windows. A pair of deserters were wrestling in the middle, though it was a clumsy affair: both parties were frantic with hate, but neither was used to their temporary body.

‘Old grudge?’ said Sofia.

‘Looks like. It’s better that they’re focused on each other.’ Fulk advanced with confidence. ‘Stay here. I’ll handle it.’

Sofia snorted and began to follow, when she heard a lapping sound to her left and paused. She saw a shadow – a white face – scramble by a shaft of light at the end of the dark corridor, and mocking laughter.

One of the wrestlers pulled the other to the ground and pulled his ear off, but he didn’t appear to notice. Fulk risked a quick glance behind him. ‘Contessa?’

He was about to go and look for Sofia, but instinct made him turn again – just in time to see the two wrestlers coming for him, their quarrel forgotten. Fulk backed away as the pair charged, shocked: this kind of coordination between deserters was unheard of. He slapped the first in the face with the broadside of his axe and as soon as the porcelain mask cracked, the host tumbled over soundlessly, already asleep. The other was more nimble; he dived at Fulk, grabbing his axe hand. Fulk hit the ground heavily with a grunt