The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (most life changing books .txt) 📗

The sandpaper sensation, in the back of her head. Rasce is coming.

Rat stops clawing at the wall, and instead shoves a limp human form through the gap. A woman, her face vaguely familiar to Cari from the old days. Karla Hedansdir, filthy and bedraggled, but still alive. Cari pulls the woman out, pushes her into Martaine’s arms.

“RASCE IS CLOSE. TAKE HER,” says Rat, through Martaine. “GO. I’LL GUIDE YOU THROUGH HER.”

“The hell with that,” snaps Cari. She fishes out her new-made talisman, presses it to the wall. Spar. Miracle. Take what you need from me.

The wall tears. Cari shudders, but she’s gone through far worse on her journeys, and barely notices the pain. Rat steps out of his prison, the rank stench of his presence bizarrely reassuring as he sweeps her up, his hug nearly crushing the life from her.

“Yours is marrow I shall be sorry to eat,” he whispers in her ear. Then, through Karla. “THERE IS SAFETY IN THE DEEP PLACES. COME DOWN TO THE REALM OF THE GHOULS.”

“I’m not running. I want to take Rasce down. Get back my sainthood.”

“AND THEN?”

“Take down the rest of them.”

“HURRH. UNWISE. FOOLISH TO GO LOOKING FOR FIGHTS. BETTER TO LET YOUR ENEMIES WITHER OVER THE YEARS. YOU HAVE NO PATIENCE, CARILLON THAY.”

“Spar doesn’t have time to wait. Neither do my friends on the Moonchild. We sit around waiting for the right moment, maybe it never comes. Are you with me?” It’s a gamble. There are two sides to Rat – there’s the street ghoul who was her friend, and the Elder Ghoul he’s become. The Elder Ghoul who was willing to kill her, once.

“THE GHOULS ARE SAFE. THE BLACK IRON GODS ARE SECURE,” says the ghoul. He stretches and grins. “I AM AT LIBERTY TO ACT.”

“You’re going to help save your friend because you’ve got nothing better to do?”

“HURRH. AND I AM HUNGRY. HUNGRIER THAN I HAVE BEEN IN A LONG TIME.”

“Spar doesn’t want to kill him unless we have to.”

Rat presses his claw to his forehead. “OF COURSE HE’D SAY THAT. DO YOU HAVE A PLAN?”

“I talk to Rasce. Failing that…” She holds up her knife.

“FORTUNATELY FOR US ALL, I HAVE HAD LITTLE TO DO BUT THINK FOR SOME TIME. IS THAT NOT RIGHT, KARLA?”

Karla struggles to lift her head from Dol Martaine’s shoulder. “Lanthorn Street,” she whispers with difficulty.

In the distance, rumbling down the tunnels, a sound like thunder.

“TEMPLE DENIAL,” says Rat. “AS IN THE GODSWAR. YOUNG RASCE USES LANTHORN STREET TO CONSUME THE SOULS OF THE DEAD. WE NEED NOT RECLAIM THE WHOLE OF THE NEW CITY. WE TAKE THAT PLACE OF POWER, AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW.”

“You sure?” asks Cari.

“TRUST A GHOUL TO KNOW THIS.”

“I have no fucking idea what’s going on,” says Dol Martaine. “Not one single clue. But that—” he jerks his thumb towards the rumbling noise, “sounds like trouble.”

The underworld reshapes itself to make a path for Rasce.

He descends like a swooping dragon, every step carrying him closer to Carillon Thay. The memory of her runs through the stone, like her tainted blood runs through his veins.

He can see her in the visions, although it hurts to look at her, psychic feedback stabbing his mind’s eye. She’s in the depths of the New City. She’s not alone – he’s aware of the Rat, of Karla, of another mortal man, but Rat only barely exists to him, and even Karla is just a smear of greasepaint, a fleeting wisp of flesh and bone. Carillon, though – she’s like him.

The dragon-tooth blade in his hand. He’s barely conscious of having a mortal body – so much of him is in the city around him, now.

She senses him coming. She and her companions scatter, like ground troops before the flaming breath catches them. Rat and the mortals hastening down one tunnel, Cari fleeing a different way. Experimentally, he reaches out with his mind and tries to squash her, to close a fist of stone around her, but the miracle’s countered. Does she still have some claim on his city, or is this some lingering reflex of Spar?

It’s better this way, though. More personal.

He slams the tunnel ahead of her closed, the stone melting and re-forming in an eye blink. Cari spins around, a cornered alley cat, a knife in her hand. She draws her blade across her palm, bloodying it.

He conjures a doorway for himself and steps into the passageway. The floor’s littered with pipes and broken machinery, more debris from the old Alchemists’ Quarter swallowed by Spar’s rebirth. He’s a creation of that alchemy, too, in a way – Doctor Vorz’s tinctures burn within him as he works the miracle, sending a pulse of light through the stone.

Rasce sees her at last with his own eyes.

“You look like him,” says Cari. “Artolo.” She steps lightly over the treacherous debris, a sure-footed thief. Circling around, knife in hand.

“My uncle. You maimed him.” The memory of the brief, one-sided duel between Artolo and the Saint of Knives runs through him, something else he’s taken from Spar. “And I’m told you stole his ship. Is he still alive?”

“People – and gods – who come after me and mine end up dead. Ask the fucking Lion Queen.”

Rasce laughs. “Behold! The dread Saint of Knives! And your Cousin Eladora, the grey eminence behind the scenes. Sending spies and assassins to torment me.”

“Something like that.” Cari adjusts her grip on her knife. “Listen, we don’t have to fight. Spar says—”

“The ghost still speaks to you? Where is he hiding?”

Cari scowls. “Never mind that. Spar says that you’re not a complete shit. There don’t have to be more killings. The city’s big enough for both of us, right?”

“To hell with this city. I shall be gone, soon. I shall fly with Great-Uncle.”

“Fuck it, I’m fine with that. You go. I’ll stay with Spar. I’ll…” The Saint of Knives spits on the floor. “I’ll even come to some arrangement with the dragon. Keep Eladora’s bloody peace, right? Look, I’ve seen