The Dead had no names and no kin. They were beyond the dull hurt of their lives. They had only themselves and the everpresent specter of Hag Death, leading them on their procession to Her. They gave no notice to anyone else.
Yet tonight she could almost feel the brush of the Hag’s talons against her skin. The presence stirred the air, made her forget the wall between herself and the world Neweden. She could smell the miasma of decay, the sweetness of rotting flesh. The presence moved with familiarity in the land.
As if it was very secure in its domain.
Close, very close. It was as if Hag Death mocked her with Her gap-toothed grin, as if—turning quickly, gasping—she would see Her and the end of this life would come.
There are always endings.
The Dead were encamped on the plain of Kotta. Someone had found the ambition to start a small fire: it threw a wavering circle of yellow warmth across the dry grass. There was little food to be had; those of the Dead that still had the desire to feed themselves were now huddled about the blazing sticks, silently eating. The woman who had sensed the presence shook her head at them, then turned outward to the plain once more, snuffling like an animal. Yes, it was there, mingling with the odor of burnt meat and unwashed bodies (for why should the Dead, who counted themselves beyond the ken of life, care for hygiene?). It was a spice smell and the cool sweetness of rich earth: the spoor of the Hag wafted to her, elusive, on the northern breeze. She shook her head, lashing her neck with stringy, grease-matted strands of hair as she strove to capture the essence moving over Neweden. She concentrated on feeling that ethereal world that lay, a gossamer veil, over reality. This was a meditation she practiced while marching with the Dead, during the long days while they chanted the eternal mantra. She often saw visions through the marches. Once, even the face of Hag Death had appeared to her, and she had trembled at the thought that the Hag had come at last to claim her.
No
—she berated herself, pushing the thoughts away—
the Hag would come in Her own time.
Now she must get beyond the aching of her hard-callused feet, the itching of her flaking scalp, the hard knot of hunger in her belly.
Yes.
The sense of presence was still there, but she despaired of its coming nearer. She tugged at the ragged tunic falling down one shoulder, sniffing. She hunkered down on the earth, gasping handfuls of dirt and letting it fall back through her fingers. She stared at the darkness beyond the fire.
A star moved in the sky, from east to west.
She knew, suddenly, that this would be a full night for Neweden, an evening of unrest. The Hag would see to that: She was full of cold mirth and an uncaring amusement. The woman found herself hoping that the presence would turn to her. Then, perhaps, Hag Death would embrace her at last.
The Hag would pull her to Her sagging breasts, drooping blue-veined over her stomach. She would suckle the bitter milk of those paps as the taloned hands of the Hag tore open her skin, as if it were the husk of some insect. The empty body, bloody, would be disdainfully cast aside for the maggots, and Hag Death would draw out her naked soul and place the morsel in Her broken mouth.
To join with the All-Dead. To be, finally, at peace.
Letting the last of the dirt fall from her hand, she lay down on the high grass. Around her, the Dead—perhaps thirty of them in this group—slept or chanted or simply sat. The stars veiled themselves in cloud. Sleipnir, rising, colored the horizon with milky blue-white.
She wondered again at the Hag’s presence. Who would She touch? Who were they?
• • •
The city of Remeale sat on the edge of the Kotta Plain, near Arrowhead Bay’s triangular mouth. It was a mining town, a dirty and poor city perched wanly by the ravaged hills, a spectator to the exhumation of the earth’s riches. Sectors of Remeale were legendary for their filth and anarchy—“a lassari from Remeale” was a vile description for any person on Neweden, a vivid insult even if somewhat of a cliché—and those sectors were noted for their ability to supply anything anyone might want of an illicit sort. By day, Remeale was merely shabby; at night, it took on a filthy animation.
Here, two shapes moved in the black night, cloaked with rough capes dyed matte ebony and gray.
In this burrough, dying buildings leaned drunkenly toward each other, at times meeting in a decaying embrace above the narrow streets, trapping foul darkness below. The walkways, littered with the detritus of humanity, weren’t wide enough to allow a groundcar passage; at various places, a person walking would find himself crowded by the houses on either side or need to duck beneath an obstruction half-seen in the night. Even with the daylight, some part of the evening remained, darkening the area, making it a twilight landscape viewed through a dingy gel.
The two intruders came to a brief halt in a doorway. The smaller of the specters leaned against a doorjamb that was many degrees from vertical.
“How close do you think we are, Ric?” The voice was a light contralto, pleasant even though roughened by whispering.
Light flared by the larger shape, which rapidly took on substance and form: a massive man enfolded in a cloak as dark as the streets around him, his face doubly hidden by a beard and longish blond hair glowing ruddily in the light of his handtorch. The light died as quickly as it had come, and he waited for his night vision to return.
“He’s close, if the apprentices have done their work well—and remind me to tell Thane Valdisa to repair this damned map. The light’s gone out in it, and I don’t like using the handtorch. We’ve still hours left to the contract, though. Dawn’s at 5:56:40, and it’s barely one at Underasgard.”
“Good.” Iduna sighed and pushed herself erect. “Let’s move, then. I want some time to do other things before sleeping.”
“Need a partner?”
“Certainly.” She touched his arm briefly, a quick caress. “Let’s get this over with.”
Masked again by night, the two Hoorka made their way down the tangle of streets, half-running and keeping to the sides of the walkways where shadows cloaked them. The Hoorka were rarely bothered by others, especially when on a contract, armed and alert, but they wanted no interference tonight. They turned at a corner where a hoverlamp sputtered fitfully and cast a dancing illumination over a sated wirehead sprawled in the intersection, his open eyes glazed and unfocused. He moved fitfully, spastic, as the Hoorka slipped past him.
They went by a large house where some celebration was evidently in progress. The Hoorka could hear conversation, music, and—once—a scream that held genuine terror, a ululation of horror. D’Mannberg paused a moment, listening for the repetition of the scream, but Iduna touched him on the shoulder, shaking her head. They began moving once more into the maze of tiny streets and claustrophobic alleys.
It was only a few minutes before they came to a small square where the buildings leaned away from each other to form a marketplace. Empty stalls sat in disordered ranks around the area; a few hoverlamps bobbed in their holding fields, throwing erratic shadows about the houses bordering the square. The Hoorka paused in the dark mouth of an archway leading into the marketplace, searching for any movement before they entered—Hoorka had been killed on contract before; that knowledge bred caution where the assassins suspected traps. It was, after all, the victim’s right to escape in any way he could. Dame Fate had no special dispensation for Hoorka, and Hag Death did not care who fell into Her maw. It was best to pray to She of the Five Limbs, the goddess of the extinct ippicators and patron of the Hoorka, and to be careful.
There was a man in the square.
They both saw him in the same instant. He sat on an overturned crate on the far side of the market, staring dully in their direction. The hoverlamps threw a gigantic shadow-parody of him on the wall behind. At the foot of darkness, he looked very small and fragile.
D’Mannberg squinted into the light. He nodded to Iduna and the two assassins walked slowly into the open space, drawing and activating their vibroblades. Their footsteps were loud in the night stillness, and the vibros gave forth a low humming that resonated and built, echoing from the buildings. The man made no move to flee from them. He watched the Hoorka approach, his face resigned and hopeless, his hands clenched between his knees. His head dropped slowly as they came nearer to him, as if he were unable to hold its weight any longer. By the time the Hoorka stood before him, he was in a huddled crouch. They knew he could feel their eyes on his back.
“Cade Gies, stand up.” D’Mannberg’s voice, though pitched softly, sounded loud in the square, deep and ritualistic. Iduna, beside him, looked briefly at the walls flanking the market. Heads had begun to appear at a few of the windows, curious people staring down at the tableau below them. It didn’t matter. The spectators didn’t look as if they intended to hinder the Hoorka in their task, and it was better entertainment than that offered by their holotanks.
Gies made no movement, still tucked against himself. D’Mannberg, glancing at his companion and the silent witnesses around them (lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of distaste at the watchers), put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He felt Gies shudder at the touch and move away with a soft moan. The assassin tightened his grip on the cloth and pulled. Gies came stiffly to his feet, hands balled into impotent fists, his eyes closed and his head averted. He waited, a thin, soft wailing escaping his clenched teeth.
“Cade Gies, your life has been claimed by Hag Death. Dame Fate has severed the cords of your existence.” D’Mannberg’s words were brittle with ritual, but then they softened in pity/disgust as Gies suddenly jerked away from the Hoorka and doubled up, retching dryly. D’Mannberg stared down at the frightened man. “We’re not monsters, Gies. You’re a slave of the Hag, but we can make your passage to Her easier. It needn’t be painful or frightful.” His voice was a whisper, harsh in darkness. Gies did not reply. Still hunched over, he spat once, then again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His breathing was rapid, wheezing from his lungs.
“Look at us, Cade.” Iduna’s velvet voice seemed to calm him. Gies stood, slowly, his gaze sweeping over the onlookers, now leaning on their elbows in the windows. His broken stare finally came to rest on the Hoorka. He saw two pairs of oddly sympathetic eyes. The rest of their faces were masked in their nightcloaks.
“Death comes to each of us,” Iduna said. “Even as an offworlder, you can understand that. Hag Death will have Her due. And we Hoorka are but instruments in Dame Fate’s hands.”
“They’re not my gods.” Gies’s voice was a cracked whisper, his eyes as wild as an animal’s, pleading with their moist softness.
“You’re on Neweden, and those are the gods that rule here.”
Gies shook his head. “I don’t believe in gods.”
“Then simply believe in death,” d’Mannberg said. “You had your chance to escape us and you chose not to run—the apprentices explained your alternatives to you.” D’Mannberg’s voice struck at Gies as if it were a weapon. The man shuddered under the impact.
“You’re going to murder me!” His last words were a frantic shout that echoed back to them from the surrounding walls.
“Not the Hoorka,” d’Mannberg replied, very softly. “We’re but weapons in another’s hands. The guilt, if any, belongs to them.”
“Who?” Gies demanded. His hands clutched at the assassin’s nightcloak, and d’Mannberg backed away a step.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Tell me, if you have any compassion. I’m dead anyway— what difference would it make? Tell me, so that I can haunt her from my grave.”
D’Mannberg glanced at Iduna, an exchange without words. “I don’t know who signed the contract, Gies. I would tell you if I knew, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”
Gies swayed softly, as if he might fall. D’Mannberg reached out to steady the man. “I can’t tell you,” he continued, “but your kin will know. All Neweden will know. Our code commands that all successful contracts be made public. You can be assured of that.”
“It’s not
fair!”
He ended with a wail. A few more windows dilated to reveal new spectators.
“The Hag is never fair.” Iduna held out her hand to Gies. The man looked down, as if expecting to see a vibro held there. But the palm held only a small gelatin capsule.
“Take it, Gies. It’ll make your passage to the Hag enjoyable.” Iduna waited as Gies reached out with a tentative forefinger to touch the capsule. He had small hands, dainty hands—he had not seen much labor. His fingertips trembled, and he hesitated, looking at d’Mannberg.
“Consider the alternatives, man. Would you rather I used my vibro?” He held out the weapon to Gies. Its angry snarl was frighteningly loud to the man. Gies, his lips tightly clamped, shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Oldin—she wants Neweden, and she’ll take it as she’s taken everything else.” He grasped the capsule gently between thumb and forefinger—always with that slight aura of the effete—and held it for a moment near his mouth. “She’ll destroy you, too. You’ll see.”
With a convulsive movement quite unlike his normal demeanor, he tilted his head back and swallowed.
“Soon?” he asked.
D’Mannberg nodded.
The two Hoorka moved back from Gies as he sat on the crate once more. Gies stared at the assassins, blinking slowly. He grinned, abruptly, then giggled, a sound that, reverberating, became a full manic laugh. D’Mannberg glanced about the market: they were still watching, the silent ones, leaning forward now as if they wanted to be closer to the moment of this pathetic man’s death, as if the Hag might momentarily become visible as She came to collect the proffered soul. D’Mannberg knew that this night would fill the next morning’s conversations.
Gies was still laughing when his body found that it could no longer support itself. He fell backwards to the ground and rolled onto his side, his legs doubled up, fetal. He took a deep, rattling breath that began to dissolve into hilarity, then was suddenly still.