Alan Campbell - Scar Night (Deepgate Codex, Book 1)

Scar Night

The Deepgate Codex

Book I

Alan Campbell

A Bantam Spectra Book

Copyright 2006 by Alan Campbell

Cover Photo by Stuart McClymont

Cover Art by Stephen Youll

ISBN-13: 9780553589313

Synopsis

Suspended by chains over a seemingly bottomless abyss, the ancient city of Deepgate is home to a young angel, an assassin, and a psychotic murderer hungry for revengeor redemption. But soon a shocking betrayal will unite all three in a desperate quest....

The last of his line, Dill is descended from legendary Battle-archons who once defended the city. Forbidden to fly and untrained even to wield the great sword inherited from his forebears, he has become a figurehead for a dying tradition. Now he lives a sheltered existence in one of Deepgates crumbling temple spires under the watchful eye of the Presbyter who rules the city.

Spine assassin Rachel Hael has better things to do than oversee the Presbyters angel. Each dark moon she must fight for her life among the city chains, hunting an immortal predator with a taste for blood.

But when a traitor brings enemies to Deepgates doorstep, Dill and Rachel are forced into an uneasy alliance with the citys oldest and most dangerous foe. They must journey down into the uncharted chasm to save their sprawling metropolisand themselvesfrom annihilation. Once they descend however, they learn that what lies below is far more sinister than what theyve been taught to expect.

For my Dad, who might occasionally have scratched his head at my dreams and ambitions,

but has never failed to do everything he could to help me achieve them

Acknowledgements

Sincere thanks and appreciation to Simon Kavanagh, Peter Lavery, and Juliet Ulman, three people who possess such a formadable wealth of talent that I wonder how there can be any left in the gene pool for the rest of us.

To Susi Quinn for the exhaustive crits and the zillions of printer cartridges she used up (Ill get you some new ones honest), and to Justin Chisholm, Barnaby Dellar, and Jocelyn Ramsay, three more good friends who gave up oodles their time and ink to offer advice.

A huge thanks to my writers group: Gavin Inglis, who helped me nail the start of the story, and Martin Page for his knoledge of old weaponryand those quirky verbs, which I nickedalso to Stefan Pearson, Andrew J. Wilson, Hannu Rajaniemi, Charles Stross, Andrew C. Ferguson, Jack Deighton, Jane McKie, and Guthrie Stewart, all of whom gave encouragement and feedback.

My graditude to the kind folks at Macmillan for all their hard workRebecca Saunders, Liz Cowen, and Jon Mitchell among many others. If I havent mentioned you, its only because I was feeling euphoric when we met.

Cheers to Oliver Chetham and Dagmar Tatarczytk for the cool video, and to Bret, owner of the Welsh Nun Pub in Koh Chang, for the chats and the dental work.

And love to Caragh. Without your support this page and the ones after it would probably be blank.

Contents

Chains snarled the courtyard behind the derelict cannon foundry in Applecross: spears of chain radiating at every angle, secured into walls with rusted hooks and pins, and knitted together like a madwomans puzzle. In the centre, Barrabys watchtower stood ensnared. Smoke unfurled from its ruined summit and blew west across the city under a million winter stars.

Huffing and gasping, Presbyter Scrimlock climbed through the chains. His lantern swung, knocked against links and welds and God knows what, threw shadows like lattices of cracks across the gleaming cobbles. When he looked up, he saw squares and triangles full of stars. His sandals slipped as though on melted glass. The chains, where he touched them, were wet. And when he finally reached the Spine Adept waiting by the watchtower door he saw why.

Blood, the Presbyter whispered, horrified. He rubbed feverishly at his cassock, but the gore would not shift.

The Spine Adept, skin stretched so tight over his muscles he seemed cadaverous, turned lifeless eyes on the priest. From the dead, he explained. She ejects them from the tower. Will not suffer them there inside with her. He tilted his head to one side.

Below the chains numerous Spine bodies lay in a shapeless mound, their leather armour glistening like venom.

Ulcis have mercy, Scrimlock said. How many has she killed?

Eleven.

Scrimlock drew a breath. The night tasted dank and rusty, like the air in a dungeon. Youre making it worse, he complained. Cant you see that? Youre feeding her fury.

We have injured her, the Adept said. His expression remained unreadable, but he pressed a pale hand against the watchtower door brace, as if to reinforce it.

What? The Presbyters heart leapt. Youve injured her? Thats how could you possibly

She heals quickly. The Adept looked up. Now we must hurry.

Scrimlock followed the mans gaze, and for a moment wondered what he was looking at. Then he spotted them: silhouettes against the glittering night, lean figures scaling the chains, moving quickly and silently to the watchtowers single window. More Spine than Scrimlock had ever seen together. There had to be fifty, sixty. How was it possible hed failed to notice them before?

Every single Adept answered the summons.

All of them? Scrimlock hissed, lowering his voice. Insanity! If she escapes He wrung his hands. The Church could not afford to lose so many of its assassins.

She cannot escape. The window is too narrow for her wings; the roof is sealed, the door barricaded.

Scrimlock glanced at the watchtower door. The iron brace looked solid enough to thwart an army. That still did not give him peace of mind. He looked for reassurance in the Adepts eyes, but of course there was nothing there: only a profound emptiness the priest felt in his marrow. Could they have injured her? And what would be the cost to the Church? What revenge would she seek? God help him, this was too much.

I will not sanction this, he protested. He waved a hand at the heap of dead bodies, at the blood still leaking onto the cobbles. Ulcis will not accept these opened corpses; every one of them is damned.

We have reinforcements.

And they will die too! the Presbyter snapped. Yet he recognized a lack of conviction in his own voice. Theyve managed to hurt her . In a thousand years, no one had accomplished as much.

Sacrifice is inevitable.

Sacrifice? Look at this blood! Look at it! Scrimlock stepped back and lifted his cassock clear of the blood pooling around his ankles. Hell will come for this blood, for these spilled souls. This courtyard is cursed! Evil will linger here for centuries. A hundred priests could not lift Irils shadow from these cobbles. Nothing can be saved here. Nothing .

The Presbyter could not decide which horrified him more: the thought that their Lord Ulcis, the god of chains, would be denied the souls of so many of his Churchs best assassins, or that hell might be lurking somewhere close by. The Maze was said to open doors into this world to take the souls from spilled blood. Scrimlock searched the gloom around him frantically. Perhaps hell was already here? Were these souls passing even now through some shadowy portal into Irils endless corridors? If so, what might come through the other way? What might escape ?

End this hunt now, he said. Let her escape. Its too dangerous.

You wish her to survive? the Adept said.

No, I The Presbyters shoulders nudged against something, and he wheeled round in alarm. A chain. I only wish to preserve the Spine, he said, clutching his chest. Pull your men back before its too late.

A howl of laughter came from above.