MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

Its surface was littered with glyphs and sigils, seals pilfered from a host of arcane texts—the Sefer Raziel Ha-Malakh Liber Razielis Archangeli, the Picatrix, the Liber Juatus, the Book of Abra-Melin the Mage, the Clavis Salomonis—a few meant to hide the stone’s power from non-initiates, while the rest promoted rapid healing. Bloodstones had an origin story nearly as interesting as Levi’s own. A Christian legend, so old its creator was lost to the ages, held that when Jesus was crucified, his blood dripped upon green jasper embedded in the hills of Golgotha, the place of the skull. The blood stained the jasper with spots of deep crimson, thus imbuing the holy rocks with mystic power. Healing powers.

Levi didn’t know the truth of such a tale, but he did know the stone, combined with the etched-on runes, did wonders. Perched on his stone, he could heal in hours what otherwise might take days, or even weeks. His healing was entirely dependent on his ichor, and though his body only held so much of the golden liquid at any given point, his beating heart did produce new ichor in time. Just like human blood. The bloodstone radically increased the rate he could produce the substance.

He examined the hole in his shoulder socket. Here on his bloodstone, connected to the earth—with the slip binding his wound together—he’d be good as new in no time. An hour tops.

Levi dug his fingers into the stump of his shoulder with a grimace, reopening the wound and dragging out a handful of golden ichor, which he casually slapped onto an equally glyph-carved tree trunk in front of him. The sigils were a varied combination of old Nordic runes and Greek script and spiraled around the trunk in looping swirls. He’d also worked a crude, uneven face in a gnarled knot at eye level.

The ichor flared and disappeared into the trunk, calling out to the spirit of the tree and opening a temporary conduit through which the being could manifest.

It would take a few minutes for the creature to surface, though, so the Mudman busied himself while he waited. He casually popped the lid off the container scooped a heaping portion of the clammy muck into his palm, and slathered it into his empty shoulder socket. A cool and refreshing ointment against the burning in his flesh. He set his arm across his lap, covered the ragged end in more slip, and crammed it firmly back in place with a silent snarl, his face a mask of agony.

“Looks like you’ve been on the unlucky end of a bad brawl, Mudman,” said a voice, huffy and wizened with age. Where once the gnarled knot had been, now lurked a tremendous face. Bright blue eyes sat in a twisted visage of bark, and a trailing mustache of wispy green moss descended from beneath a large and bulbous nose. Somarlidrel, a greater Leshy and the head Librarian of Glimmer-Tir, the capital of the High Fae of Summerlands.

Levi inclined his head a few inches. “Somarlidrel, you are well met. Let the water run deep, the sun be ever cool, and the shade of your tree grow long. Thank you for coming.”

“And you, Levi Mud-Brother,” he replied with a ponderous roll of his too-big eyes. “You’re too formal, Muddy, especially between old friends. No need for such ceremony. No need for it.”

“You know I don’t like being called Muddy.”

“And
you
know I don’t like being called Somarlidrel—it’s Skip, just Skip—but still you insist on formal names,” he said, then sighed, the sound like a strong wind rustling through tree branches. After a moment: “Truly, you look terrible, Levi. Someone accidentally run you through that pugmill of yours?” He chuckled, a hollow boom. Levi didn’t laugh. Nothing funny about having an arm ripped from its socket.

“Had a run in with a Thursr and a pack of Kobos,” he replied evenly.

“Truly? A Thursr you say? Haven’t heard about them leaving Outworld in ages. They’re rare you know, nearly extinct. Beasts breed so slowly, can’t keep their numbers up … Though, now that you’ve mentioned it, I seem to recall hearing about a sounder—that’s what they call their packs,
sounders
…” He trailed off as if he’d lost the train of thought entirely.

“You seem to recall hearing,” Levi prompted.

“Right, yes, that’s where I was going with it. I seem to recall hearing about a sounder of Thursrs hiring themselves out as sell-swords. Work for the highest bidder as muscle, that sort of thing.”

Levi bobbed his head noncommittally. “Could be, I suppose.”

“Well, what, pray tell, was the beast after?” Skip, just Skip, asked.

Levi filled him in about his hunting expedition in the Hub, the Kobock temple, the strange altar, the cryptic note, and, of course, Ryder. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone, pulling up the picture of the ancient bas-relief.

“I need to know about this.” He held the phone out, picture toward the living tree. “There’s something more going on here. Could be bad. It also holds a … personal significance.”

“That so?” Skip replied. “And what might that be?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“But, I quite insist. We’re friends, Muddy, never doubt it, but neither forget that I’m the head Librarian of Glimmer-Tir, and information is my bread and butter. Might be, I can tell you something about that altar of yours—or, at least, point you in the right direction—but my dear Queen would turn me into firewood if I give away such information without receiving in kind. You know how it is, old boy, a gift for a gift. It is as it has always been.”

“I gave you the bit about the Thursr,” Levi said. “That should count for something. Probably someone, somewhere, could benefit from that tidbit.”

Skip frowned, his gnarled face scrunching, lips pulling into a grimace of distaste, forehead creasing with a thousand lines. “Don’t try and hustle me, Muddy, you know the rules. You gave that information freely. What’s more, you know the gifts must be of equal value, at least in the eye of the receiver, and what you’re asking about is important, so it requires
giving
something of importance.”

Levi ground his teeth. He didn’t like talking about his past, always best to look to the future. The past was a bloody mess, full of death and violence, even more so than the present. In those long ago days, he’d been more a force of nature, a walking weapon, than a thinking being. “I ought to turn you into firewood, myself,” he muttered under his breath, refusing to meet the shifty tree’s eyes. Skip was a friend of sorts, but how Levi hated striking bargains with the fae, even beneficent ones.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Skip replied, somehow managing to look down his lumpy nose at the Mudman. “And if you want my assistance, you know what it’ll cost you. Now, are you ready to deal or should I, perhaps, try back at a later time?”

“Fine,” Levi growled, waving his good arm through the air. “The altar, it’s tied to one of my earliest memories. My earliest memory, even. The details of my creation are still unclear to me”—he shrugged, which hardly hurt at all now—“but I remember the altar. Only in a distant way, though. Hazy. Like a dream … but it’s stuck with me all these years.

“I remember opening my eyes for the first time. It was dark, the moon a thin sliver of light in the sky. Rain drizzled down, falling into my open mouth. The smell of turned earth and musky decay. Then ozone and smoke. The harsh sting of lime biting at my nose—the Nazis used the stuff to mask the scent from the graves, you know that?”

“And the altar?” the Leshy asked.

Levi held up a hand,
patience.
“We’ll get there, yet, but if you insist on hearing this, then I insist you hear the whole story. I was born in a graveyard. Well, not a graveyard, too kind a term. A mass grave, an open pit. That’s where I opened my eyes for the first time. The first thing I ever saw was bodies stacked up beside me like cordwood. The first thing I ever felt”—he tapped a finger at his chest—“was the searing pain from the brand on my chest. Anger, blind rage, pushed me up out of that pit. My first emotions.

“Once I pulled myself free, I saw a building nearby, a squat concrete box, just through the trees. Looked like a bunker. An underground lab is what it was, I think. That’s where I saw the altar, or at least something like it. Hard to say because the memory, it’s muddled in my head. But I
think
it was the same.”

He pressed his eyes shut and held them closed. “If I close my eyes and call up the memory, I can
almost
see it in front of me. Can
almost
reach out and run a hand over it.
An altar with ruby eyes, surrounded by dead bodies, maybe fifty waiting to be buried. Some shot outright. Several missing body parts. A handful stitched together with animal pieces and chunks of halfies. There were soldiers there, too. A few Wehrmacht, a couple of scientists, but mostly Schutzstaffel …before that, after that? I dunno.”

He glanced up at the tree. Now Skip wouldn’t meet his eye. “I’m sorry,” the Leshy said after a while. “I’ll tell you what you need … and”—he faltered—“and I’ll keep what I’ve heard to myself. Such a story is yours to tell, I think, and no one else’s.”

Levi bobbed his head and looked away, kicking lazily at the lawn with one foot. “It is what it is,” he said. “No reason in keeping it secret, I suppose. Not from you anyway. So what about the altar? They’re doing something bad down there and I’d like to know what. Besides, I figure it might clear some things up about me.”

“Aye, aye.” The Leshy looked thoughtful. “I’ll wager it is bad, but I can’t tell you much about it. It’s Kobock workmanship, a religious artifact—”

“Don’t be crude,” Levi interrupted, slapping his good hand down on the surface of the bloodstone. “Don’t call what those monsters do down in the dark
religion
.” He imbued the word with scorn. “They’re monsters, Skip. Barbaric creatures who glorify death and murder. Who worship sin. True religion ought to call out the better parts of our nature, but Kobocks? They have no better nature. Their religion is a mockery. A perversion. The only thing those beasts really believe in is survival, murder, and hunger.”

“Say what you will,” the old tree replied, “but I can quite assure you, Levi, they do have their religion and it informs every aspect of their lives and culture. It’s at the heart of why they do the things they do. They worship old things, dark gods of death long banished by the Great White King, but worship it is, all the same. I’ve talked to a Kobock shaman or two in my day, and they’re much more intelligent and thoughtful than you’re giving them credit for. And their blood magic—it’s crude, but brilliant.”

Levi slammed a foot against the ground, sending a tremor rumbling through the yard, ripples wriggling across the surface of the pond in the far corner by the fence. “Enough. The shamans are the worst of the lot. I’ve seen the fruits of their hands.” He pulled the phone back out, brought up the photo of the fleshy, malformed golem, and thrust it toward Skip. “There’s filthy blood magic at work. There it is. Nothing brilliant about it.”

“As you say, Levi,” the tree responded, his tone one a parent might use with an unruly child. “I’ll let it go, but you’re really in no position to cast stones. Need I remind you that your power is blood magic, too. Not terribly different from the shamans. This conversation is irrelevant either way, though, since no Kobock shaman is likely to sit down and give you a lesson in comparative religion.”

“And you can’t tell me anything about it,” Levi said. It wasn’t a question. The tree loved to blather on, so if he knew anything of use, he’d have spilled it ages ago.

He sighed, his mossy mustache fluttering out. “I’m a scholar of Summerlands—despite a limited knowledge, Kobocks don’t fall into my field of specialty. I can check the library, but the Faire Folk of Summer care little for dark things of deep earth.”

“Earlier, you said you could point me in the right direction. Even if you don’t know yourself, I’m sure you know who would know.”

“You flatter me.” The tree shed a huge grin. “And, as it turns out, you’re quite correct. One of the High Fae of the Winterlands could tell you, I suspect. It’ll mean a trek into
Thurak-Tir
, though.”

“You have any shortcuts to Winter?” Levi asked. “I’m not keen on having to drag some Rube girl through the Endless Wood. Don’t want to be away from earth that long, either.”

“Sadly no.” Skip paused as if choosing his words very carefully. “Relations are strained between courts just now. Some kind of goings-on with traitors and conspiracies. Business involving the Guild of the Staff and Lady Fate herself. Affairs far outside the paygrade of our likes. And I’ve never exactly been the sociable sort to begin with … Come to think of it, though, I have a friend of sorts who could help I think. A mage. I know how you feel about their like—a sentiment felt by many, I can assure you—but this bloke’s a different sort.”

Levi had little experience with the magi and their Guild of the Staff, and that was the way he intended to keep things. The magi, self-appointed protectors of humanity, were well known for their thuggery, and even the slightest infraction could leave you facing their heavy-handed justice. Though Levi killed only murderers, he suspected if the Guild ever discovered his existence and occupation it wouldn’t be long before he had unwelcome visitors gracing his doorstep. Still, if the other option was a trek through the Endless Wood, it’d almost be worth it.

“Tell me about this mage friend of yours,” Levi finally said after mulling it over for a bit.

“An academic, more concerned with knowledge and wisdom than enforcing arbitrary laws. He’s a historian, archeologist, and a cultural anthropologist. Deals mostly with mythology and non-human religion. If anyone is likely to know what this altar is, it’d be him. Professor Owen Wilkie is his name, and last I heard he was working on a dig site out in the Sprawl.”

“The Sprawl,” Levi replied, voice dry and unamused. “The Sprawl isn’t any less dangerous than the Endless Wood.”

“Aye, but the walk is a damned bit shorter.” He chuckled. “A damned bit shorter, indeed. And I think you’ll find old Professor Wilkie a fair bit more affable than anyone in Winter.”

Levi pondered. A bird chirped nearby. A chattering squirrel answered in kind.

No good options, and other leads to run down. Levi wasn’t well connected in the supernatural community, and he would never be described as a sleuth. For a second, he considered dropping the whole business—turning the girl back over to the cops and putting her and the altar out of mind for good. Seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Much easier to go back to life as usual: work, church, hunting expeditions every few months. Nice, boring, simple, safe.