The Last Voyage of Elissa Harrow by Denny Flowers

Author:Denny Flowers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-13T00:00:00+00:00

About the Author

Denny Flowers is the author of the Necromunda short story ‘The Hand of Harrow’ and novella Low Lives, featuring the characters of Caleb and Iktomi. He lives in Kent with his wife and son.

An extract from Low Lives.

Four hunters departed Slag Row. Five if you counted the unbloodied rookie, though none of the others did. The trail was not hard to follow; wherever their quarry passed there would be stories, improbable deeds and daring feats. It did not concern the hunters that the accounts were mired in contradictions. All that mattered was the hunt.

The five suffered their first casualty just outside Sump City. Whilst the rest slept, Bor Meathook pressed on alone, intent on being the sole claimant of the bounty. The other hunters found his body a day later floating in a pool of refuse, unharmed if you discounted the knife wound in his chest. They knew Meathook had been arrogant and at times sloppy, but he was no amateur. Lars the Sly, the group’s self-appointed leader, had seen him break a man’s neck with a backhand slap; had seen him dislocate a shoulder with a vigorous handshake. The former Goliath had been a mountain of muscle, and surprisingly quick for someone his size, but his life was still ended with a single thrust. The rookie obsessed over the injury, measuring the length of the incision and the path of entry, as though cataloguing the killer’s methods. The rest of the party silently paid their respects, each recalculating their share of the bounty now it would be split three ways. Four if you counted the rookie, though none of them did.

The remaining hunters continued, more cautious now. Since Meathook’s death the trail had vanished, their quarry aware of the pursuit. Perhaps they would have escaped had it not been for Garak the Seeker. The old man struggled to keep pace with the younger hunters, but he had the uncanny ability to know where their prey would flee to. It would sometimes be the smallest clue – a stray hair or errant boot print. More often there was no real sign at all, and the old man would consider each route in turn before inevitably guiding them down the right path. He’d smile when they asked how, exposing a motley collection of ill-formed teeth, and explain that he’d spent most of his life running; he knew where they ran because it was where he would have run.

The hunters lost him just outside Sinkhole, the sump lake that had long since swallowed the Orlock territory of Ironcrown. The old man had been so intent on the trail he had failed to spot yellow eyes bobbing just above the surface of the toxic waters. He screamed as the sumpkroc seized him, his fingers scrabbling on the bank as he was dragged below. The rookie fumbled for her weapon, but Lars held out his hand, motioning her to be still. There was no need for a tracker now; there was only one path left.

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