Timberwolf by Adler Dominic

Author:Adler, Dominic
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Six

The Old God was armoured like a knight of yore, a great helm covering his face. We stood on a corpse-littered battlefield, crows cawing in a sky black with smoke. Bassarus’ gauntleted hands rested on the crosspiece of a sword, and he spoke with a sneering note in his voice. “I see you found yourself betwixt the legs of a succubus, Axel? As an old friend once said, ‘I can resist anything except temptation’.”

“I didn’t stand a chance,” I replied, trousers puddled about my ankles. “She must have put me under some kind of spell.”

A laugh echoed inside the helm. “A spell? I’ve never heard it called that before. I imagine you offered heroic resistance.”

I pulled up my trousers, fumbling one-handedly with the fly. “Where are we?”

“A world Magwytch recently graced with her presence,” Bassarus replied. “It’s been spectacularly fucked, even by her standards. The Steel Bitch is hungry, Axel. Very hungry.”

Nearby, a crippled knight groaned. A peasant appeared and crept up on him, sliding a knife into the eye slit of his helm. The wretch, chuckling, then began stripping the corpse of armour and weapons. “Did you see what happened with Hexberyn?” I asked.

“The seduction? Your traitorous thoughts? That happens when an Old God tries to manipulate another’s herald—you waste precious energy divining what’s happening. Bloody bad manners, that’s what it is.”

“Does that mean Eostre has more power than you?”

Bassarus’ eyes glowed beyond his visor. “I sense that gold-digging harlot’s aura about you. What does she want this time?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” I said, immediately regretting it. “Why am I taking messages from one god to another?”

“Because you’re a herald, you buffoon,” Bassarus snapped. “Firstly, I’m not talking to her because I don’t like her. Secondly, she sucks power from your world like a bloated leech. Should I parley with her, I’ve no doubt she’ll steal even more. Eostre… ugh. Your kind always flocks to a deity promising festivals and fucking. Equality and harmony—‘tis a bigger illusion than anything I’ve ever peddled.”

Bassarus reminded me of a grumpy adolescent. I resolved to tell him that one day, but not now. “Quite, my Lord. As you suspected, Stassia’s High Command intends to summon Magwytch,” I replied. “They’ve found a warlock, a Stassian called Wolfgang Balenfaust. They said he was her thrall, capable of performing a summoning ritual.”

Sheathing his sword, Bassarus stomped across the battlefield. I followed, trying not to trip on the carcasses lying everywhere. “Balenfaust? I’m dimly aware of the creature,” the Old God boomed. “He’s not bad, as far as sorcerers go. Yes, I imagine he’d be able to summon Magwytch. Given the proper resources, of course.”

“I’m in a position to stop the army,” I said. “I’ve the evidence I require.”

“Evidence?” Bassarus growled, stamping mud from his boots. “Evidence is a mortal concern. Did Eostre’s herald say anything else?”

I tried to remember Hexberyn’s words, as opposed to her curves. “This affair—it might be linked to a threat to the Immaculata of Pyr by the Machine Landers.”

“Interesting,” Bassarus conceded.

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