The Vorrh

shadows, stood a man with a floating white melon head. His face looked like it had no bones beneath: a puffed-up bladder, smooth, immaculate and totally unnatural. Had Nebsuel constructed this face? Is this what he would look like in a few days’ time?
    Sidrus stepped over Tsungali’s body, keeping the long, razor-sharp blade held before him, never wavering from its aim at Ishmael’s neck.
    ‘Don’t scream. Open your mouth and I will open your throat,’ he said in a clear, foreign accent. ‘Answer my questions quietly. Where is Nebsuel? What have you done to him?’
    ‘Done? We have done nothing; he is out buying wine.’ Ishmael’s voice shook, but his new face held its defiant composure. The blade moved closer.
    ‘Don’t lie to me, freak. Why would he trust you and this old dog, alone in his home?’
    He kicked at Tsungali and the sound of his death throes rattled loudly, obscuring his last words. Ishmael’s heart contracted in mortal fear of the cold-blooded killer, but he managed to scratch out an answer.
    ‘He has been operating on both of us.’
    This made no sense to Sidrus. Why would the healer bother with them after what they had done to the Bowman? And yet he could see the raw, stitched meat of this one’s face. He twisted Tsungali over with his foot and saw the strap that held his new arm. He nicked through it with the point of the blade and the hollow wood tumbled off. He put the flat of the blade against the stump and brought it up to his face. He sniffed at the fresh sutures and knew it to be true.
    ‘Did you injure or kill the Bowman?’ he asked.
    ‘Do you mean Oneofthewilliams?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Sidrus, startled at the creature’s knowledge of that name.
    ‘No. We left him in the Vorrh. He left without us.’
    ‘And the bow?’ Sidrus’ blade twitched.
    ‘He… he gave it to me.’
    Sidrus was dumbfounded; how could any of this be true? Why would Oneofthewilliams give the sacred thing to this meat-faced youth?
    ‘I will have the truth!’ he said, drawing another blade from concealment and advancing towards Ishmael’s shrinking bed, his small, cold eyes calculating where to cut first.
    There was a sharp, metallic click from across the room, like somebody standing on a twig of iron. Sidrus knew what it was, even before he heard the voice.
    ‘Twelve grams of splinter round at four metres,’ it said. ‘Put the blades down where I can see them, old friend.’
    Sidrus obeyed in slow motion, sneering at Ishmael.
    ‘Nebsuel, I thought this scum had disposed of you.’
    He started to turn towards the rifle’s muzzle, which peered at him from across the room.
    ‘Very slowly, old friend. I know your ways and I am not alone.’
    ‘But it was you who summoned me here?’ said Sidrus.
    ‘Yes, but I was wrong, and so were you to slay a man in my house.’
    A rope was swiftly lowered from the ceiling, a loop tied at its end.
    ‘Put your hands in the noose,’ said Nebsuel.
    ‘There is no need for this; you can trust me. It will be better for you in the long term if you do.’
    ‘Put your hands in the noose.’
    ‘You tempt my anger,’ snarled the cleric.
    ‘Put your hands in the noose! You are tempting your death, and you know I will do it.’
    Sidrus thrust his hands into the looped rope; there was a small tug from above to tighten it and then a great wrench, which lifted him from the ground and high into the space above. A dry, rumbling sound filled the room with its mechanical power. It halted, and Nebsuel shouted up.
    ‘You hang between two great wooden drums. If you displease me, you will be mangled through them and crushed to a rag before you can take a breath. Do you understand me?’
    ‘I do!’ came a faint voice.
    ‘Now, tell me exactly what weapons and charms you have about your person.’
    Sidrus began to recite an inventory of his possessions; Ishmael was astonished at the length of the list. When it was over, Nebsuel stepped out of the shadow; he held a black dove in his hand. He winked at Ishmael and threw it into the air.
    The bird disappeared towards the sky and he pulled a wooden lever concealed in the wall. The drums turned, slowly this time, and Sidrus was lowered to the ground. He was white from the strain of hanging by his twisted arms, dangling like a puppet. He glared at Nebsuel, who put a small ball of leaves in the wide muzzle of his short rifle and pushed it into Sidrus’ face.
    ‘Eat it.’
    ‘Fuck you!’
    ‘Eat the sedative or eat the