New Enemies

  Chapter 24

  The next week yielded little for Slant: distracted by Tower's disapproval and his mother's condition, he allowed a Ganger to slash his arm. It wasn't a major injury, but being at ninety percent wasn't good enough when you risked your life, so he'd taken a few days off. Today, though, he was ready to earn money.

  Jar, his fence, had hinted that barges were smuggling weapons to Gangs in Port along with their regular cargo. It would have to be a major operation, buying and moving weapons during a war, but he was confident he could intervene, sell the better weapons, and return the rest to the Artificers in Blade's Birth.

  Slant left his apartment around midnight. Their old building looked derelict under Lun's vicious light, and the streets of Sol's Haven glistened in comparison. Still, it was better than where they'd once lived...

  He shook his head. Time to get his battlemind on.

  Aureu watched him pass through her like a cat watching an insect crawl along the floor. Patrolling Contegons gave him less than a passing nod. Merchants and Farmers, making quick deliveries with no one using the roads, raced by him without noting his existence. There were revellers, but not many as this was a working night. Besides, drunkards and Zoners steered clear of Sol's Haven and Sol's Greeting.

  Out into Ocean's Edge – a stupid name... his father once told him it was because people had once thought they were further south then they really were – it became a different story: Labourers and Mariners crawled over the docks and barges, Merchants and Clerics barked at each other, and Contegons paid close attention to everyone, ensuring the safety of vital equipment too heavy to be taken by carriage.

  If there were a smuggling ring, they would work in the north, where the cheapest docks were. Slant nodded to a Contegon who inspected him with interest, then walked against the Journey's flow.

  Ocean's Edge wasn't just docks: there were warehouses and even homes for the Merchants and Mariners. Side-streets and carriageways sprouted between them and, as he went, these side-streets allowed passage to Buyer's Haven, the Merchant's Quarter, and then Farmer's Park.

  The homes became more frequent as he went north. They also became smaller, slimmer. He'd never been to this part of Aureu, and was surprised to find nothing had been repaired in years: streets, homes, or docks. There were no patrolling Contegons here either, as no one used the ailing moorings at night.

  He doubted many people came this far up Ocean's Edge. Perhaps the Merchants who operated here had died in the Battle for Aureu, or were pressed into the Shields. Or maybe their betters had been sent to war, and they had taken the opportunity to move south.

  Slant might have discovered a new hunting ground.

  A scream echoed out: a woman's, terror and horror, it came from the north-east. Slant jogged over, keeping his footsteps quiet, to find whoever was in trouble. The second scream, though muffled, helped him locate her. He ran quicker, louder, and trusted to the attackers' need to silence their victim distracting them. He slipped his baton from his robes, knuckles white under his tight grip.

  He heard the Gangers before he saw them. “Shut her up,” one said.

  “Why? It's not like anyone will come to help her? Is it? Huh? No? You're all alone?” another said. He laughed, a strange squeak that chilled Slant. Then more people joined in, at least six different laughs mixing with the squeak.

  This was a Gang outing. Perhaps an initiation. And that meant murder.

  The Gang continued to taunt their captive, asking her cruel questions, eliciting more screams. Slant snuck alongside the gathering, then used a mirror to look around the building he hid behind. Seven men in black tops with rough skeletons daubed on them with white paint stood over a woman. Their victim's top had been torn. Her wrists were broken. She wept, tried to crawl away, but the Gangers moved with her, surrounding her always. Six were tall, well-built, in their mid-twenties. One was much younger, a thin blonde man who seemed more into this than his prospective new family.

  “Shut her up,” the oldest Ganger repeated. Flaming scars cut along his face and down his neck. If he didn't shave his head, the scars would sever his hairline too. “We don't want any heat.”

  “Contegons don't come here. They're too busy protecting the higher-ups.”

  “Or dying in the north,” a short, squat man said. He gave the squeaking laugh. “Don't forget they're also wasting their time dying for us. For you, huh, little lady?”

  The oldest looked to the young initiate and pointed. “Finish it.”

  Their victim screamed, a low and pathetic sound, when the young man nodded.

  Slant knew it was stupid to charge out. He knew he should wait to take them off-guard. But their victim was Tower's age, and he couldn't watch any more. He sprinted round their flank, and launched himself into the scarred leader, thinking it best to take them out first. Before any one noticed him jumping from the shadows, he had slammed his baton against the bastard's head.

  Slant threw the unconscious form at a Ganger to his right, sending both sprawling to the ground.

  “What the fuck?” the squeaker asked.

  “You're gonna die, you fool,” another Ganger said.

  “We'll see about that,” Slant replied. He stepped back into the side-street, narrowed the battlefield, and held his baton ready.

  With roars of indignation, the Gangers charged him. Slant knocked the first aside, sent them crashing into the brickwork. He slammed the baton onto the next Ganger’s shoulder, a satisfying snap his reward. The Ganger screamed, fell to his knees, and Slant kicked him in the teeth.

  “Hold up,” the squeaker said. “We've got a talented one here. Let's be more sensible.”

  “You're going to run?” Slant asked.

  “No,” he replied. Daggers appeared in his hands. “We're going to bleed you.”

  The others produced weapons, well-crafted daggers or strange blades that fit between their fingers like knuckle dusters. All except the youngest, who looked terrified, and the one who spat blood and teeth.

  “I see,” Slant said. His leather armour wouldn't stop those. He'd have to be smart, careful.

  He started by kicking the one he'd slammed into the wall, a burly man with a face made for sneering. His blow glanced off his leg, a little low, and deadened the muscle. The Ganger slashed back at him, and got only the material of his robe.

  The other Gangers approached. A gangly man lunged at him to create an opening. Slant stepped aside, and broke his arm with a clean swipe. His blade dropped. Before it hit the ground, Slant slammed an elbow into his nose, broke that. The Ganger crumpled, groaning, and the others backed off. In the silence that follows, the woman they had attacked moaned in agony.

  “What a horrible criminal here, fellows” the squeaker said as Slant stepped back from his victim.

  “I think we've got a public service to perform here, haven't we?”

  “We do. A nice public gutting would do, I think.” Again, he squeaked his mirth.

  “Big talk from someone who's already lost three of their Gang,” Slant said.

  “Oh, congratulations, you've taken out an old man and two idiots. You must feel like an Acolyte.” The squeaker grinned horribly. “Well, I hear Acolytes die as well as everyone else.”

  The whole crew charged as one. Fighting multiple foes was about awareness, knowing what was happening behind you, to your sides, at all times. The narrow battlefield helped: the bastards would struggle to get round his sides without blocking one another. Blades swept at his face and torso, from his left and right. He jumped, ducked and dodged, waiting to get under their guards. Slashes nicked his arms and robes: he allowed these small blows, a dozen cuts better than one deep stab.

  The Gangers would beat if they were patient, sensible. But they didn't become Gangers by the virtue of patience: the vicious-looking thug beside the squeaker lost his rag, broke rank to charge. Not only did this barrel his friends away, but it narrowed Slant's focus: he span away from the fist-blades and delivered blows to each hand,
then the man’s head. The headstrong idiot dropped his weapons, and was then thrown into his friends.

  The squeaker dodged the body and dropped his focus just enough for Slant to risk jumping at him. Slant took a cut to the cheek as he tackled the bastard, winding him. Slant rolled away and scrambled to his feet, blood dripping down his cheek. The squeaker fell awkwardly: he grabbed one of his friends to stabilise himself, which distracted the man, his puffy eyes widening at the squeaker's selfishness.

  Slant surged forward and slammed the baton against the puffy-eyed bastard's head. He fell into the wall, smacking his head again, and slumped.

  The only standing Ganger stabbed at him, nicked his shoulder. Slant hissed, then brought the baton against the bastard's stomach. He spluttered, stumbled back. Slant roared and smashed him against the wall. Kicking his weapon away, he broke the man’s favoured arm, then turned to the squeaker.

  “What the fuck are you?” the squeaker asked. “Are you an Acolyte?”

  Slant broke the bastard's nose, then his leg. The squeaker's screams were deeper than his laugh, satisfyingly so.

  They were all down. He'd survived. Weakness waved over him then. The Gangers moaned and groaned, each disabled and destroyed. Slant took a deep breath, and wiped those wounds that bled freely. His robes were ruined: his armour hadn't fared much better. With any luck, these bastards would have enough money to cover the repair costs.

  “Damn you,” someone said. “What are you doing?”

  He looked up. It was the youngest Ganger, the initiate, who he'd thought had run away during the melee. The young man wore a calm weariness. He even held himself differently, standing like a Shield-General.

  “I'm not in any mood to deal with you,” Slant replied. “Don't join a Gang again, else what happened to them will happen to you.”

  The Ganger shook his head and looked to his left. “What should I do with him?”

  A figure stepped into the alley then. He wore a grey robe like Slant's, but its seams were tighter and its fabric smoother, more refined. He clinked when he walked, armour beneath his robes singing. White blond, an old wound rendered his right eye milky and useless. Strongly-built and purposeful, he looked for all the world like a Gang Lord.

  “This must be the 'Grey Shield'. You just cost us months of work,” he said, his voice rich. “But look at what you did to these Gangers. I think you should come with us. We clearly have much to discuss.”

  Slant stood, gripped his baton. “And why would I come with you?”

  The man stepped forward, smiling slightly. “I can offer you a purpose, a job: beating random Gangers is getting you nowhere. But, mostly, because my men will give you extra orifices if you don't.”

  Slant looked up. Above him, two slight-looking figures stood on the roof, their bows taut. They couldn't have been waiting for him: if Slant had ruined months of work, this must have all been set up, planned.

  Slant's heart rose: these were vigilantes, like him.

  “What about the girl?” Slant asked, lowering his baton.

  “Oh, she'll be taken to a Doctor. Cycle, see to that.”

  “Yes, sire,” the young 'Ganger' said.

  “That's stupid,” Slant couldn't help but say. He stepped in front of the whimpering woman. “She won't go with him: he was in the Gang that attacked her. You'll just make her terrified.”

  Cycle stopped, looked scared. The bows above him creaked as the bowmen aimed.

  This leader took a breath, then laughed. “Of course, you are right. I should have considered that.” He looked up. “Weather, you take her instead. Ensure you go to String, he owes us a few favours.”

  “Yes, sire,” one arrowman said. They melted back over the roof, though Slant could hear them strapping their bows to their back to clamber down the roof.

  “Thank you,” the leader said. “Now, come with us. I am eager to talk to you.”

  This could be a trap, a Gang looking to put an end to his vigilantism. His instincts screamed at him to resist, to run. But he didn't, because they called their leader 'sire.' That was an affectation from the Stations, from someone used to enacting Sol's will. Gang Lords don't operate like that, always preferring some grander title, or just their name.

  “Alright,” Slant said. “But I'm keeping my mask on.”

  Wasp shrugged. “Fine. I'm sure that, when you hear me out, you'll remove it of your own will.”

  “Can you at least introduce yourself?” Slant asked as she stood beside the man.

  “Of course, of course. My name is Wasp.”