Stromfel’s Teeth
Josh Reynolds


 	It was the afternoon of the eve of Mitterfruhl and the sound that rose from the streets was as deep and as black as the ocean bottom. Those who heard it first, mistook it for thunder. For the voice of the storm that had rolled in moments earlier from the Sea of Claws. The sound stalked beneath the celebratory ringing of the city’s bells like a sea-beast through the shallows and tore the holiday cheer from the hearts of every citizen who heard it. And as the last, dull echoes drifted out to sea, Marienburg erupted in blood and terror.

 	Near the docklands, hooves struck sparks from rain-slick cobbles as the evening market crowd screamed and parted. A grocer flew into the air, conducting a lazy somersault, trailing red the entire way. A matron was slapped from Manann’s realm to Morr’s by a flick of inhuman claws. Something pearly grey and wet-skinned swam through the sea of humanity like a sword through flesh, leaving mangled wreckage in its wake. Saw-edged teeth slammed home on an outthrust arm, tearing and masticating. 

 	The hooves thundered on, like an oncoming wave. Black, dead eyes rolled in tight sockets and the thing turned to face its pursuers as they burst out of the drover’s way, their mounts lathered and snorting. Steam rolled off of the animals in the rain. The horses were clad in emerald and turquoise barding and carrying men in heavy armour of similar hues. The knights carried tridents and their armour was engraved with piscine designs. At their head, a bulldog figure leaned over his horse’s neck and roared, ‘There’s the bugger!’

 	Manann take me if he’s not a master of the obvious, Erkhart Dubnitz thought. The broad-shouldered knight grinned behind his visor as he looked at the stocky shape of Dietrich Ogg, Grandmaster of the most humble, and violent, Order of Manann galloping next to him. Ogg would spit him on a hook and use him for bait if he made such a crack out loud. Ogg’s temper wasn’t the best even when he hadn’t been pulled from a warm feast-hall to ride through a storm in full armour, in pursuit of something with entirely too many teeth.

 	‘Speaking of which,’ Dubnitz muttered as the creature rose to its full height, gill slits flaring and its wedge-shaped head swinging around. It wore the tattered trousers of a sailor, now stretched and torn. It had the form of a man, though much distorted by muscle, but its head was utterly inhuman. As it spread its arms, the horses skidded to a stop, issuing alarmed neighs as their hooves splashed in the rainwater. 

 	The knights had pursued the thing from the red ruins of a tavern deep in Marienburg’s bowels, and it had left a trail of death through the Narrows as it made its way towards the North Dock. Monsters of one sort or another weren’t uncommon in Marienburg; things with too many limbs or too few clustered beneath the docklands like barnacles and there were stories of rats of unusual size in the sewers. Not to mention those one-eyed devils in the marshes. 

 	But this was something else again. It stood in the rain, barrel torso heaving, as if it were having trouble breathing. To Dubnitz, it looked as if someone had sewn a shark onto a bear and then beaten it until it got angry. 

 	‘Manann’s scaly nethers, Dubnitz,’ one of the knights breathed as he fought to control his agitated mount. ‘He’s a big one!’ Dubnitz glanced at him. Gunter was young. A merchant’s second son, his dreams of adventure in the great wide world had been sewn up tight and kicked out of reach by a handsome donation to the Order from his father. Still, once he’d come out of his pout, the boy had taken to the spurs quickly enough.

 	‘Bigger they are, Gunter,’ Dubnitz said, absently dropping his fist between his horse’s ears. The animal snorted and calmed. Dubnitz flipped up his visor and peered at the creature that waited for them at the other end of the market square. ‘Is that thing wearing trousers?’

 	‘I do believe it is,’ another knight said, cradling his trident in the crook of his arm as he lit a scrimshaw pipe. He sucked thoughtfully on the stem. ‘You don’t suppose it’s a modest beastie, do you?’

 	‘If it is, it’s doing a bad job of it, Ernst,’ Dubnitz snorted. ‘I can see it’s–’

 	‘Silence in the ranks.’ Ogg gestured towards the creature with the small trident that occupied the stump of his left hand. ‘If you’re quite finished mooning over it, would someone go and whack its bloody ugly head off?’ he snarled, his pudgy features bathed in rain, torchlight and sweat. ‘There’s a Mitterfruhl feast I’d like to get back to, thank you very much.’

 	The half-dozen knights all looked at one another surreptitiously. One of the first rules you learned in the Order was never, ever, under any circumstances, volunteer for anything. Unfortunately, some took longer to learn that lesson than others. 

 	‘Right, one spitted shark coming up,’ Gunter said, kicking his horse into motion before Dubnitz could stop him. The too-wide mouth gaped as the young knight drew close. It lunged and tackled his horse, wrapping grey arms around its neck and chest. As Gunter gave a yell and jabbed at it with its trident, the creature turned, yanking the whinnying horse off its feet and smashing both it and its hapless rider into the hard cobbles in a crash of metal. Black talons snatched at the tangled knight’s head. The ornate helmet burst, as did the skull within. 

 	‘Manann gather his poor, stupid soul,’ Dubnitz snarled, slapping his visor down. He’d liked the lad. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The creature tore Gunter’s corpse free of the thrashing horse and swung it about before hurling it at the others. Horses reared as the body hit the street. The shark-thing did not pause, but dove on towards Ogg, jaws wide. 

 	The Grandmaster tried to sidestep the creature, but the square was too crowded and it was too quick. It was on him a moment later, its talons tangled in his horse’s barding. The jaws champed at him and Ogg cried out. 

 	Dubnitz jerked his horse’s reins, causing his mount to bump against Ogg’s and both horses stumbled. The shark-thing lost its grip and rolled beneath the stamping hooves. The other knights had gotten over their shock and they closed in, hemming the creature in from all sides. 

 	Tridents plunged towards it, driving it back before it could rise. It retreated, still silent; its eyes were empty of everything save raw, wild hunger. Its blunt snout rose and it audibly sniffed the salty air. Then it spun about and began to lope away. 

 	‘It’s heading for the sea. Cut it off,’ Ogg said. 

 	‘I’ll do more than that,’ Dubnitz said, urging his horse into a gallop. The crowded streets were rapidly emptying as the creature raced on. It had fallen onto all fours, its heavily muscled limbs pumping. It shouldered aside a fruit wagon and toppled a night soil cart, spilling dung across the street. Dubnitz cocked back his arm, hefting his trident as his horse leapt over the fallen cart. ‘Manann guide my aim,’ he muttered, blinking rain out of his eyes. With a grunt, he hurled the trident, catching the creature in the back. It stumbled and caromed off a wall. It twisted around, snapping at the weapon that had suddenly sprouted from its back. 

 	Dubnitz circled it and his horse snorted and shied as the thing snapped blindly at it. The shark-thing shook its head and darted forward. Dubnitz’s horse reared and he was almost thrown from the saddle. The knight reached out and grabbed the haft of his trident, hoping to pin the creature down. Instead, he was ripped off his horse as the creature began to thrash. 

 	Dubnitz hit the ground hard, his armour scraping on the cobbles. A clawed foot stomped down, nearly doing for his head the way it had done for poor Gunter’s. Dubnitz rolled awkwardly to his feet even as the shark-thing loomed over him. Foul breath washed over him and he swept his sword from its sheath in a wild, wide arc. Blood sprayed the far side of the street and the monster staggered, clutching at its split, hopefully useless jaw. Dubnitz didn’t give it a chance to recover. He sprang past it and grabbed for the trident, kicking it in the back of its leg as he did so. 

 	It toppled with a wheeze. He shoved on the trident, knocking the thing flat. It squirmed beneath him, gnawing at the cobbles. A sharp elbow hit his cuirass hard enough to put a dent in it. Dubnitz staggered, wheezing. The creature yanked itself off the street and whirled towards him. He swung his sword at it, but it caught his wrist in an unyielding grip. He dug his free hand into its throat, but it didn’t seem to notice, so intent was it on getting its teeth into him. Its weight drove him back and began to bend him double as it leaned against him. It stank of the deep places of the sea. 

 	Dubnitz glared through the eye-slits in his faceplate, meeting the thing’s eyes. For an instant, just an instant, he thought he caught sight of something in them other than hunger. Then its bloody, shattered jaws spread wide and it bent its head towards him. 

 	A moment later, its skull ruptured like an overripe fruit, splattering him with cold blood. He tore himself free of its grip and let the body slump. As it fell, it revealed a tall, one-eyed man who thrust a smoking Hochland hunting rifle into the hands of one of the soldiers behind him. The latter were clad in the uniforms of the Marsh Watch, and bore the insignia of Manann’s golden trident on their uniforms. 

 	‘Dubnitz,’ the one-eyed man said, stripping off his gloves as he approached the body of the shark-thing. One of the men accompanying him trotted close behind with an upraised shield to keep the rain off of his master. Dubnitz stood and saluted with his sword. 

 	‘Lord Justicar,’ Dubnitz said. ‘It is, as ever, a delight and a joy to see you.’ 

 	Aloysious Ambrosius, Master of the Marsh Watch and Lord Justicar of Marienburg, grunted and squatted, looking at the dead creature. Dubnitz turned as Ogg and the other knights rode up. Ogg’s face went through a number of contortions as he caught sight of Ambrosius before settling on what he likely thought was an expression of pleasure. ‘Aloysious,’ Ogg grated. 

 	‘Dietrich. Lovely weather we’re having,’ Ambrosius said as he examined the creature. 

 	‘At least it’s not raining cuttlefish again,’ Ogg said. ‘What are you doing?’

 	Ambrosius didn’t answer. ‘What have we here?’ he said as he reached beneath the creature and jerked loose something small. Holding it up to the rain to clean the blood off, it was revealed to be a shark’s tooth on a thin cord. 

 	‘A shark with a shark-tooth amulet,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That’s not odd at all, is it?’

 	‘Coincidence is the bugbear of lazy minds,’ Ambrosius said, rising to his feet. He rubbed his eye-patch with the heel of his hand. ‘One of these things just attacked me in the opera house, Dietrich.’

 	‘And it escaped?’ Ogg demanded. He turned in his saddle. ‘Mount up! We’ll–’

 	‘Calm down,’ Ambrosius snorted. ‘Of course it didn’t escape; I dispatched it. Cost me a cape of fine Cathayan silk though,’ he added regretfully. ‘And it ruined my evening.’

 	‘Manann forfend,’ Dubnitz said. Ogg and Ambrosius looked at him. The latter snorted and kicked the creature’s body. 

 	‘Indeed. I–’

 	The sound was as deep and as solid as a punch to the gut, and it interrupted the Lord Justicar just as effectively. The first toll shuddered through those gathered in the square and lumbered on towards the docks. Dubnitz staggered, feeling ill. It tolled again, and the street seemed to shiver. Distant screams erupted, and an alarm bell began to ring. ‘What was that?’ Dubnitz said, looking around. More alarm bells began to sound, ranging from the silvery peal of the fire bell on the Street of Mercy to the deep, grim boom of the Mourners’ Bell in the Garden of Morr near the Marsh Gate. And then, finally, the long, low melodious sound of the ship’s bell mounted above the doors of Manann’s own temple. 

 	‘It’s the Tide Bell,’ Ogg said. His eyes were wide with dismay. ‘Erkhart, Ernst, get going. The rest of you, pair off in squads and ride for the other temples.’ 

 	‘I just got my pipe lit!’ Ernst complained as he dumped the contents of his pipe on the street and stuffed it back within his saddle. 

 	‘Isn’t that always the way of it?’ Dubnitz said as he climbed back into the saddle. Moments later he and Ernst were riding hard for the Temple of Manann. Smoke from dozens of fires rolled through the city streets, and the rain beat it down into a slushy scum of ash. People ran through the streets, fleeing in panic. The celebratory mood of Mitterfruhl had turned into terrified anarchy. 

 	‘Pity about Gunter,’ Ernst said as they forced their horses through a choked square. ‘Lad had real promise, I thought.’ 

 	‘Promise is no proof against teeth and claws,’ Dubnitz said sourly. ‘Or against bad wagers. Did you know he still owed me five Karls?’

 	‘Owed–’ Ernst began as his eyes widened in sudden realization. ‘By Manann’s sea cucumber, that little rat owed me as well!’ He began to curse virulently. Dubnitz nodded sympathetically. 

 	‘Do you think his family might cover his debts?’ Ernst said hopefully a moment later. 

 	‘One thing at a time,’ Dubnitz said, pointing. 

 	The square before the Temple of Manann was packed with a heaving crowd. It was an undeniably angry heaving crowd at that and it pressed close about the doors of the temple. Several pale-faced temple guards stood between the crowd and the doors, their tridents locked to form a makeshift barrier. ‘This looks bad,’ Ernst said, gripping his own trident more tightly. 

 	‘Get between those guards and the crowd,’ Dubnitz said, kicking his horse into motion. He swatted about him with the flat of his trident, causing the fringe of the crowd to contract. People were yelling and screaming in a mingled cacophony of fear and anger. In times of trouble, people looked to their gods, but such a mob had been too quick to form. There was something other than blind panic at work here. 

 	‘Get back or get trampled,’ he roared as he nudged his horse into the current of curses, boils and rude gestures. ‘Don’t make me come down there.’ Probing hands went for his legs and his saddle and he gave a portly fishmonger a jab with the business end of his trident. ‘This horse is church property, get off.’ 

 	As his horse spun, lashing out with its back-hooves, Dubnitz caught sight of several priests of the sea-god standing on the marble steps of the temple, watching in consternation. Only one of them was a familiar face. ‘Goodweather,’ Dubnitz bellowed, ‘Fancy seeing you here!’ 

 	The young woman, slim and dark, blinked in surprise as she caught sight of Dubnitz. She gave a half-hearted wave as Dubnitz urged his horse closer to the line of temple guards. ‘Goodweather, can’t you summon one of those winds of yours, or how about something nastier?’ Dubnitz said, leaning over in his saddle. 

 	‘What are you doing here, Erkhart?’ she hissed, gathering up her robes and stalking down the steps. ‘I thought I told you to–’

 	‘What? Stay away from a temple dedicated to my patron god?’ Dubnitz said in mock disbelief. ‘And just because of a simple misunderstanding,’ he continued. 

 	‘Is that what you call it?’ Goodweather snapped, glaring at him. Dubnitz flipped up his visor. 

 	‘Of course,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘It was dark. Mistakes were made.’

 	Her fingers curled into claws. ‘Mistakes,’ she repeated darkly. 

 	‘Yes. I thought she was you, obviously. Forgive me?’ he said, leaning down towards her. Her punch, when it came, nearly knocked him off his horse. She hopped back as he righted himself, clutching her hand and cursing. He rubbed his jaw. ‘Is that a no?’

 	‘Yes,’ she snarled.

 	‘Yes you forgive me, or yes it’s a no?’ Dubnitz said. 

 	‘We don’t need your help!’ Goodweather said. 

 	‘Looks to me like you do,’ Dubnitz said, looking back at the crowd. The faces of the crowd were studies in frustration, fear and anger. Most of them were just scared. Some of them were trouble-makers looking to make whatever was going on worse. And others… his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a particular, peculiar figure, standing on an overturned cart and gesticulating in a frenzied fashion. 

 	The man was all ribs and shoulders, with coarse clothing and a dozen shark-tooth necklaces clattering around his scrawny neck. Strange tattoos covered his puckered, tough looking skin and warning bells went off in Dubnitz’s head. ‘Oh that’s not right,’ he muttered. He turned back to the fuming Goodweather. ‘See that skinny fellow on the cart there, Goodweather? What do you make of him?’ he said. 

 	Before she could reply, someone hurled a cobblestone into the head of one of the temple guards. The man’s head snapped back and he toppled like a felled tree. Dubnitz cursed and jerked around in his saddle as Goodweather rushed towards the fallen man. 

 	‘If you’re finished fraternising, Erkhart, I could use some bloody help!’ Ernst shouted, flailing about with his trident. His horse snorted as a human wave surged up around him, hands grabbing and improvised weapons stabbing, hacking or thumping. The crowd, unpleasant looking before, had turned ugly in a matter of moments. More cobblestones flew, accompanied by dung, bricks and several contradictory political slogans. Someone somewhere was beating a drum in time to the sound of the Tide Bell ringing. Dubnitz rode to the aid of his fellow-knight, but as he cut through the crowd, his horse gave a terrified snort and reared up. 

 	The sickening sound tolled again, rattling his teeth in his jaw and causing the world to spin before his eyes. His stomach felt like it had the first time he had ever climbed to a crow’s nest, as if it were full and falling all at the same time. His horse reared again, screaming and lashing out at something he couldn’t see. 

 	He heard cries of fright and saw bodies tumble past, trailing blood through the rain. A familiar smell bit into his sinuses and he forced his horse to drop down, revealing the hideous shape that was blossoming before him. The man was no different from any other; he had the look of a sailor or a sea-jack. He screamed and thrashed, his ballooning limbs snapping out to swat aside anyone who got too close. His eyes met Dubnitz’s and he reached out with fingers that looked like overcooked sausages.

 	‘Huh-help muh-meeee…’ he whined. His words spiralled up into a wordless shriek as pink flesh turned grey as twitching limbs wobbled in an unpleasant fashion. Bones cracked, splintered and re-knit even as the flesh on them puffed up and split and the face, once human, tore in half to reveal a great triangular maw full of razor teeth. 

 	‘Gods below,’ Dubnitz hissed. The creature, obviously in agony, thrashed about as it tore too-tight clothing off. It was the spitting image of the monster from earlier; possibly uglier, in fact, if it was possible. Before it could realise he was there, he stabbed down at its roiling flesh with his trident. The prongs sank into the mutating meat and the trident was jerked from his grip as the creature whipped around. Talons fastened on his horse’s snout and a single, savage jerk snapped the animal’s neck and nearly decapitated it. 

 	Dubnitz roared as he was forced to drop out of the saddle. He hit the street and immediately found himself being trampled upon by fleeing people. Luckily, his armour kept the damage to a minimum and he soon forced himself to his feet, just in time to meet the monster’s awkward, flopping charge. Moving quickly in full armour was difficult, but a strong desire not to be disembowelled lent him speed. He stumbled aside as the creature bounded past him, pouncing on a luckless man. The creature’s victim screamed just once before the shark-thing bit his head off in a single wide-mouthed bite. Dubnitz waited for the nearest bystanders to clear out of the way and then drew his sword. 

 	The shark-thing stuffed the rest of the body into its maw, chewing noisily. Its black eyes scanned the crowd like those of the animal it resembled; there was no glee there, no sadistic pleasure, nothing to imply that the thing gained any enjoyment from its actions. It had no impetus but cold, pure hunger. 

 	Dubnitz advanced towards it, sword held out before him. It turned, slurping a twitching foot down its gullet. Dubnitz grimaced and then blinked as he caught sight of a shark’s-tooth necklace dangling from its bulbous throat, the material of the necklace itself biting into the thing’s gray skin. He wanted to look around, to see if the skinny man with his many necklaces was capering about somewhere, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the monster. 

 	It gazed at him hungrily and started forward, picking up speed as it came. Dubnitz ducked under a wild sweep of its claws and his sword drew a red line across its barrel chest. The creature gave no indication that it felt any pain as it dropped a fist on him, knocking him to one knee. It snagged a fleeing woman as Dubnitz fought the catch his breath and took a leisurely bite out of her neck. 

 	‘Monster,’ Dubnitz snarled. He lunged and the beast flung the woman’s body at him, sending him stumbling. It jumped at him with a quickness that belied its size and its claws sank into his armour. 

 	‘Hold fast, Erkhart,’ Ernst shouted, galloping towards Dubnitz and his opponent. The other knight threw his trident, catching the shark-thing in its thigh. It shoved Dubnitz aside and turned, yanking the weapon loose in a spray of blood. As Ernst rode past, chopping down on it with his sword, it slapped him out of the saddle with the trident. Ernst crashed into the street and lay unmoving. The creature stalked towards him, still clutching the trident. 

 	Dubnitz rushed towards it and drove his sword between its shoulder-blades. It shuddered and threw its arms wide. He threw himself against the hilt, forcing the blade in deeper, hoping to shatter its spine or pierce something vital. It hunched over, chomping at the air. He was nearly pulled off of his feet, but he drove a boot into the small of its back and ripped his sword free. The shark-thing turned and grabbed for him. He backpedalled and chopped into its wrist. The blade cut halfway through its limb and stopped. It whipped its arm aside, pulling his sword out of his grip and stabbing at him with the trident. The tines scraped off of his cuirass and he tripped over his own feet, landing heavily. 

 	Coughing blood, the creature raised the trident over him. It dove towards his head and his palms slapped together around the outer tines. Jerking his head to the side, he guided the points into the street and kicked at the creature’s belly. It was like kicking a wall, but it rocked back, off balance. Desperate, he grabbed the head of the trident and snatched it out of the creature’s slack grip. Spinning the weapon around, he jammed it into the creature’s belly. It loomed over him, jaws snapping, and began to pull itself down the length of the trident. 

 	‘Dubnitz, get the necklace!’ Goodweather screamed from somewhere just out of sight. ‘Get the necklace you great oaf!’ 

 	He lunged for the necklace and hooked it with a finger even as the thing’s saw-edged teeth scraped his visor. Dubnitz ripped it free and the creature convulsed as if he’d removed a limb. It bucked and thrashed and he rolled it off of him with a grunt of disgust. It curled around the trident and its heels thudded into the street as steam began to boil off of it, carrying a strange stench into the air. 

 	Dubnitz watched in horrified fascination as the creature began to shrink back to human proportions. It sloughed off the corrupted grey hide, revealing bloody pink flesh beneath. The man gasped and gazed at him blankly. His wounds had not disappeared and as Dubnitz sank down beside him, he coughed, muttered and went still. He didn’t look much like a cultist; then, they never did. 

 	Still, he had asked for help. What cultist or mutant would do that? The knight closed the corpse’s staring eyes and stood as Goodweather moved quickly towards Ernst’s splayed form. Moving towards her, Dubnitz said, ‘Is he…?’

 	‘No. Just had his lights put out is all,’ she said, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘More than I can say for some.’ Dubnitz looked around. The square was now host to a scene of carnage – bodies laid heaped here and there, mostly the result of the crowd’s panic at the creature’s initial appearance. The survivors had cleared out quick enough, and the other priests were endeavouring to help those that they could, while the temple guard looked on warily. The air stank of smoke and blood, despite the rain washing both away. Alarm bells were still ringing, and he could hear the crackle of fire and the clash of weapons. The latter was likely the Dock Watch or Ambrosius’s Marsh Watch snapping into action with all the speed an underpaid, unenthusiastic autocratic body could muster. 

 	He looked back at Goodweather. She was an altogether more pleasant sight. Women weren’t a common fixture in the Grand Temple of Manann. Thus, Goodweather was, in many ways, an uncommon woman. She knew the holy sea-shanties backwards and forwards, even the rude bits most priests left out. And she had a punch like a mule. 

 	‘We’ve sent for the priestesses of Shallya, but they’re in the same situation we were,’ Goodweather said, wiping her hands on her robes and standing. ‘There’re mobs at every temple. What,’ she said, noticing the look on his face.

 	Dubnitz coughed and shook his head. ‘We might want to send runners and warn them to be on the look-out for more individuals wearing these little beauties,’ Dubnitz said, letting the shark’s tooth necklace dangle from his fingers. ‘How did you know, by the way?’

 	‘I guessed,’ she said with a shrug.

 	‘Dubnitz blinked. ‘What?’

 	‘In the stories, it’s always the amulet. Or the crown, or the glove or the ring, some out of place innocuous thing,’ she said, turning back towards the temple. She gestured to two of the guards. ‘Pick him up,’ she said, motioning to Ernst. They hastened to obey. 

 	‘Well, regardless of your astonishing disregard for my safety, you were right,’ Dubnitz said, hurrying after her. ‘The question is, why?’

 	‘Stories are stories for a reason,’ she said. She stopped and looked at him. ‘There’s something moving in the city. It’s in the air and the water; it’s in the rain, Erkhart,’ she said, holding out a hand. The rain filled her palm and gleamed greasily before she dumped it onto the street. ‘It’s moving through Marienburg, just out of sight and sense.’

 	‘Like a shark in the shallows,’ Dubnitz said, holding up the necklace and eyeing it. 

 	‘Are you trying to be funny?’ she snapped. 

 	‘No,’ he said. He bounced the shark’s tooth on his palm. It felt warm. He turned, prompted by some instinct. ‘Hunh,’ he said. 

 	‘What?’ Goodweather said.

 	‘I wonder what happened to our friend with a neck full of necklaces just like this one, the skinny wastrel on the cart. I suppose it’s too much to hope he got trampled.’ He looked at her. ‘Did you see him?’

 	‘No, I was distracted by the monster,’ she said tersely. ‘Give me that!’ She snatched the necklace out of his hands. A moment later she grunted and almost dropped it. 

 	‘What?’ Dubnitz said.

 	‘Stromfels,’ she hissed, turning the tooth over to reveal a curiously shaped scratch in the surface. The tooth seemed to squirm in the rain, and Dubnitz felt a prickling, crawling sensation in his gut. 

 	‘Oh bugger,’ he said. Stromfels… the god of pirates, storms and sharks. Every sailor’s least favourite things. The worship of the shark-god had long been outlawed in Marienburg, thought furtive sects still worshipped him in badly lit back rooms and isolated tributaries out in the marshes. It was a name that every follower of Manann, devout or otherwise, knew well. Stromfels was the bogeyman… the dark of the deep sea and the doom that waited down below the white-capped waves. ‘Was he just some deranged cultist then? Daemon-possessed?’ he said, his mouth suddenly dry. He looked back towards the body of the man who’d been a shark. Was that what it had been? He thought again of the confused, despairing look in the man’s eyes and shuddered.

 	‘If he was, then he was not alone,’ someone said. Dubnitz turned and his eyes went cross as he stared down the tip of a sword. On the blade dangled a half-dozen more necklaces like the one Goodweather held. Most of them were bloody. Dubnitz looked up. 

 	‘Lord Justicar,’ he said. ‘Ah, I ¬– that is to say, we–’

 	‘I see,’ Ambrosius said, leaning across the pommel of his saddle, his sword blade resting on his forearm. Dots of blood marred his cheek and armour. His horse whickered softly and stamped a hoof dangerously close to Dubnitz’s instep. Past the animal’s rump, Dubnitz saw members of the Marsh Watch, mostly looking worse for wear, moving through the carnage of the temple square, arresting those who weren’t dead or dying. Ambrosius tilted his blade, spilling the necklaces into Goodweather’s hands. ‘We have reports of more of the creatures, though we’ve only managed to kill a few. Their numbers are increasing. I am alarmed by this,’ he said calmly. ‘Ogg and the others are protecting the other temples in the district, as well as certain other, ah, strategically important areas.’ That meant they’d be guarding the richest and most influential members of Marienburg society, Dubnitz knew. Even in the midst of a crisis, Ambrosius was keenly aware of which side his bread was buttered on. 

 	Goodweather looked at the pile of teeth in her cupped palms and her face took on a slightly queasy look. Dubnitz looked up at the Lord Justicar. ‘That’s a lot of monsters,’ he said. 

 	‘One is more than this city needs,’ Ambrosius said grimly. 

 	‘Mitterfruhl,’ Goodweather said suddenly. The two men looked at her. She made a face. ‘Mitterfruhl – the beginning of the rainy season-is a day sacred to Stromfels. Traditionally, it’s when his worshippers made their sacrifices.’ She looked up. ‘Storms were a sign of Stromfels’s pleasure.’

 	Thunder grumbled and the grey sky looked swollen and ill as Dubnitz looked up at it. ‘Sacrifices,’ he said. ‘As in more than one, you mean.’

 	‘Stromfels is a hungry god,’ Goodweather said. ‘He is as hungry as the ocean and twice as wild.’

 	‘Very poetic,’ Ambrosius said, sheathing his sword. ‘These amulets then are… what? Signs of his favour?’

 	‘That poor bastard didn’t seem very favoured to me,’ Dubnitz said, nodding towards the body of the former shark-man. Several more of Goodweather’s fellow priests surrounded the body and were engaged in a purification ritual involving sea-salt and crushed seagull bones. ‘More surprised really,’ he murmured. 

 	‘What?’ Goodweather said, looking annoyed.

 	He looked again at the necklaces. ‘They’re all the same, aren’t they?’ he said. 

 	‘What are you getting at, Dubnitz?’ Ambrosius said.

 	‘They’re all the same!’ Dubnitz said, gesturing to the teeth. He grabbed one of the amulets and pulled the cord tight. ‘Look at this.’

 	‘It’s made of horse hair,’ Goodweather said, looking puzzled.

 	‘Not what it’s made of but how it was made,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I grew up in the Tannery, remember?’ Located in the maze of streets that played host to the city’s tanneries, the Tannery was a squalid, foul-smelling territory and the gangs of mule-skinners and cat’s meat-men who made it their home were as dangerous as any dock-tough or river-rat. ‘Weave-men have particular ways of making cords. It’s like a signature of sorts.’ 

 	‘And these all have the same signature,’ Goodweather said, examining the others. She looked at him in shock. ‘Manann carry me, but your head might be useful for something other than balance.’

 	‘Now do you forgive me?’ he said. She glared at him but didn’t reply. Dubnitz looked at Ambrosius. ‘These were all made by the same person,’ he said.

 	‘I gathered, thank you,’ Ambrosius said. ‘The question would be, who?’ 

 	‘No idea,’ Dubnitz said, grinning. ‘But I know how to find out.’ Dubnitz pointed towards one of the large marble statues of Manann that stood watch around the temple square. ‘If anyone will know where these are coming from it’s that little mud-puppy,’ he said, indicating the boy who was crouched on the statue and watching the goings-on in the square. His blue coat was unbuttoned, likely because the brass buttons had been pawned. A ragged sash was wrapped around his waist, with a rust-dotted sailing knife thrust through it. Bare feet and fingers clung to Manann’s marble beard, despite the rain.

 	The blue-coats were omnipresent on the streets of Marienburg, especially when there was trouble afoot. If there was a riot or a festival or a brawl, they’d be there, on the fringes. People no longer even noticed them. Whether orphaned or abandoned, they all wore the same blue-dyed coats given to them by the priests who ran the Tar Street workhouses, and they all scampered through the streets like miniature northern savages, yelping and howling when those houses emptied for the evening. 

 	‘What would a street-cur know about Stromfels?’ Ambrosius said. 

 	‘Likely a surprising amount,’ Dubnitz said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘You wouldn’t believe what people let slip around little shell-like ears.’ Without waiting for a reply, Dubnitz strode towards the statue. When he reached it, he looked up at the boy. ‘Renaldo, you little snake. Get down here. I need to talk to you.’ 

 	‘Talk to me from down there, steel-fish,’ Renaldo said, sticking out his tongue. Renaldo was a regular face in the Temple of Manann. Dubnitz knew he begged alms from the merchants and picked the pockets of drunken seamen in the square. He’d boxed the boy’s ears more than once for trying the latter on Dubnitz himself. 

 	Dubnitz grunted. ‘I have a job for you, you ungrateful little eel.’

 	‘Does it pay in food or fancies?’ Renaldo said, shimmying along Manann’s outthrust arm. He hung upside down from the extended trident, his dark eyes narrowed cunningly. 

 	‘Both. Either,’ Dubnitz said. He let the shark’s tooth amulet dangle from his fingers. The effect on Renaldo was immediate. The boy hissed like the stray cat he resembled and scooted back up the statue. Dubnitz blinked. ‘That was unexpected. Renaldo, get back here!’

 	‘I ain’t taking that, steel-fish! I saw what those things do!’

 	‘And what’s that?’ Dubnitz pressed, circling the statue in pursuit of the boy. 

 	‘They’re cursed!’ Renaldo barked. 

 	‘Yes, well, I need to know where they’re coming from,’ Dubnitz said. ‘You don’t have to fondle the damn thing, just tell me where they’re coming from!’

 	‘Ikel!’ Renaldo crowed, eyeing Dubnitz suspiciously from behind Manann’s crown. 

 	‘What’s an Ikel?’ Dubnitz said. 

 	‘It’s not a what, steel-fish, it’s a who,’ Renaldo said. He stood on Manann’s shoulder and leaned against the statue’s head. ‘Ikel the marsh-man. He came into the Tannery about a week ago. He’s been shilling those teeth in the Beggar’s Market. Oleg the blind beggar tried to filch a few and Ikel cut him a sharp smile over his kidneys.’

 	‘Wouldn’t be the first time Oleg had to digest a bit of steel,’ Dubnitz grunted. ‘The Beggar’s Market, you say?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘What’s Ikel look like? Is he an inked-up gentleman, perchance?’

 	‘Like a squid shat on him,’ Renaldo said, nodding.

 	‘Wonderful,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Best scarper Renaldo, lest the Marsh Watch get hold of you.’ Dubnitz watched the boy slide away into the growing dusk and turned back to Ambrosius and Goodweather. ‘Beggar’s Market,’ he called out, tossing the amulet up and catching it. ‘Fellow called Ikel.’

 	‘You have a way with children,’ Goodweather said.

 	‘I’m something of a hero to the downtrodden, yes,’ Dubnitz said, puffing out his chest. 

 	‘Be that as it may, is the boy’s information good?’ Ambrosius demanded. ‘Can we trust it?’

 	‘As much as anything heard on the streets,’ Dubnitz said, tossing the necklace back to Goodweather. ‘I think Ikel was here earlier. Watching the festivities.’

 	Ambrosius’s eye narrowed. ‘Hnf. Priestess Goodweather?’

 	‘Stromfels is an enemy of Manann,’ Goodweather said, dumping the necklaces into the pouch on her belt. ‘Our missionaries in the marshes and in the north have been attacked before.’

 	Ambrosius sighed. ‘Fine. You two will go to the Beggar’s Market. Find this Ikel. Take him into custody.’ He looked at Dubnitz. ‘That means I want him alive, Dubnitz.’

 	‘But of course, Lord Justicar,’ Dubnitz said, banging a fist against his cuirass smartly. 

 	‘You want me to go with him?’ Goodweather said, her tone implying that she hadn’t heard Ambrosius correctly. 

 	‘You have worked together before, yes?’ Ambrosius said, pulling on his horse’s reins and turning about. ‘Far be it from me to break up a successful partnership. Get me Ikel.’

 	‘But–’ Goodweather began, following Ambrosius. 

 	‘And do hurry,’ Ambrosius said, ignoring the priestess. 

 	‘But-but–’ Goodweather said, watching Ambrosius ride away. 

 	Dubnitz coughed into his fist. Goodweather turned and glared at him. ‘What?’ Dubnitz said. 

 	‘Let’s just be about this,’ Goodweather snarled. 

 	Luckily, the Tannery was close to the docklands. Marienburg was in a tumult. The streets were packed with people fleeing in one direction or another; some sought the safety of the temples while others huddled in taverns and shops. Though the shark-things were few, the rumours of them were flying thick through the canal-streets. Looters were mistaken for daemon-worshippers and the armoured knights of the Order of Manann for the black-iron clad warriors of the north. Mobs of panic-stricken citizens burned the buildings of their neighbours as old grudges blossomed into violence. Through it all, the rain pounded down like the tears of Marienburg’s many gods. 

 	Several times Dubnitz was forced to fend off the attentions of the opportunistic and terror-maddened. His sword was heavy with blood as he forced Goodweather through the throngs clogging the streets. However, those throngs thinned as they entered the Tannery, eventually disappearing entirely. 

 	The Beggar’s Market occupied a natural meeting point between several side streets in the Tannery. The stink of boiling fat and rotting meat was thick on the wet air. The streets were empty of life, save the scrabbling of rats in the gutters. Something crashed in the distance. Dubnitz wondered if another of the shark-things was loose somewhere. Ambrosius had said as much. The thought made his muscles tense. The haze of still-burning fires danced above the rooftops like a false dawn. 

 	‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Goodweather said. She had her hood pulled low, and the symbol of Manann was displayed prominently on her chest. ‘I should be at the temple. There are things to be done.’

 	‘Are they more important than countering the machinations of the minions of the shark-god?’ Dubnitz said, his palm resting on his sword hilt. Drying blood dotted his armour, hiding the piscine designs beneath red splashes. 

 	‘Minions,’ Goodweather repeated, looking at him.

 	‘What would you call them?’ Dubnitz said. 

 	Goodweather merely shook her head and looked around. Empty stalls lined the walls of the buildings on either side of the street. On any other night, rain or not, those stalls would be crammed with men and women selling their wares. The Beggar’s Market was almost a parody of the great mercantile squares that occupied other parts of Marienburg. Here was where the poor came to buy and sell their pitiful wares; they were doing neither tonight. 

 	‘How do we tell which stall we’re looking for? And where is everyone?’ Goodweather said. 

 	‘As to the latter, I can only guess. But as to the former… there!’ He pointed. The shark’s jaws were larger than any beast Dubnitz had had the misfortune to meet in the sea or otherwise. They spread wide on a rough cut wooden post mounted over a dingy stall. ‘They’re not a subtle folk, these worshippers of the shark-god.’

 	‘No,’ Goodweather said grimly. ‘Stromfels is as subtle as the oncoming storm.’

 	‘And as remorseless,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That explains that. The people of the Tannery have always had a nose for trouble. They go to ground like rats when trouble rears its head.’ He held up a hand. ‘Hsst…we’re being watched,’ he said softly. Goodweather twitched and looked around, her fingers sliding towards the knife on her belt. 

 	‘Why didn’t the Lord Justicar send any men with us?’ she muttered. The knife in her hand was hooked and serrated, the blade engraved with the name of Manann. 

 	‘Probably because he had none to spare, Goodweather,’ Dubnitz said, his eyes flickering across the street. ‘The whole city is going up in flames and inundated with monsters. Finding one man, no matter how important, isn’t high on his list of priorities.’

 	‘There’s no guarantee that Ikel is even here!’ Goodweather snapped, looking around warily. 

 	‘So who’s watching us then, hmm?’ Dubnitz said. The two of them had moved back to back instinctively. The rain had picked up, coming down now in semi-opaque sheets. Thunder snarled and then, the deep tolling rolled through Dubnitz’s bones. Goodweather gasped and clutched at her chest. The puddles of water collecting on the street rippled and the rain wavered into weird shapes. 

 	Shapes rose suddenly from the street, clad in rags and trash, their faces masked by blackened peat bags. Swords, axes and clubs were gripped tight in grimy hands. In silence, they rushed towards the duo. Dubnitz drew his sword and chopped upwards into an attacker’s skull in one smooth motion, cutting the man in two from chin to pate. He turned as another, carrying a rusty billhook, leapt wildly at Goodweather. The priestess flung out a hand, and a fistful of fish-scales drifted towards her attacker. The flimsy, tiny scales pierced the man’s chest, arms and face like tiny arrows, leaving blisters and burns in their wake. The man screamed and fell, clawing at himself. Goodweather swept her hooked knife out and cut his throat with one economic bend of her elbow. 

 	Dubnitz shoved her aside as an axe dropped towards her head. He caught the blade on his own, and sparks dripped into his face as the two weapons slid across one another with a squeal. He kicked out and was rewarded with the sound of snapping bone. The axe-man fell, and Dubnitz caught him on the back of the neck with his sword. The head rolled loose into the gutter. 

 	There was a scream from behind him and as he turned he saw a cultist stagger, clawing at the billhook sticking up from his back. Goodweather put a boot and jerked the confiscated weapon loose. Dubnitz inclined his head and she gave him a sharp nod. Then, her eyes widened and she hurled the billhook. 

 	Dubnitz cursed and fell backwards. The billhook scraped across his cuirass as it caught his attacker in the throat, dropping the man into a heap. ‘Nice throw,’ he said, straightening up and turning towards her.

 	‘Not really,’ she said, as the last of their attackers pressed the edge of his notched cutlass to her throat meaningfully. 

 	‘Drop your sword,’ the man growled, his voice muffled by his mask. 

 	‘No,’ Dubnitz said, starting forward. 

 	‘I’ll kill her,’ the other said.

 	‘He’ll kill me,’ Goodweather added.

 	‘No he won’t,’ Dubnitz said, drawing closer, the rain pattering across his armour. 

 	‘He won’t?’ Goodweather said.

 	‘I will!’ the cultist said. 

 	‘You won’t,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Because if you do kill her, I’ll hurt you for it.’ 

 	‘I do not fear death,’ the cultist said.

 	‘I didn’t say anything about death. I said I’d hurt you. And I will. I will personally oversee your sentence in the Temple of Manann. I will put the Question to you again and again, until you are nothing more than shark-chum. Your every moment will be an eternity of agony, my friend, and I will not let it end,’ Dubnitz said mildly. He stopped and extended his sword. ‘It’s your choice, of course.’

 	The cultist shoved aside Goodweather with a cry and launched himself at Dubnitz. Dubnitz beat aside the cutlass with an almost gentle gesture and spun around, swatting the man on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. The cultist dropped onto the water-logged street like a pole-axed ox. Dubnitz looked at Goodweather, who was rubbing her throat. ‘Are you all right?’

 	‘Yes. Nice speech,’ she said. 

 	‘I meant every word,’ he said softly. 

 	‘Of course you meant it. You always mean what you say, when you say it. That’s the problem, Erkhart,’ Goodweather said. Dubnitz fell silent. He occupied himself with jerking the cultist to his feet and shaking him into sensibility. 

 	‘Up,’ Dubnitz barked. The man groaned and Dubnitz prodded him with the tip of his sword. ‘Where’s Ikel? Did he know we were coming?’ 

 	The cultist didn’t answer, shaking his head. Dubnitz lifted the man’s chin with his sword. ‘Talk, or I’ll begin carving the Litanies of the Sea on you, friend. And my friend here has enough salt to do the job properly.’

 	‘Erkhart…’ Goodweather began.

 	‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dubnitz said, glancing at her. She shook her head.

 	‘So do I. Hold him,’ she said. As Dubnitz swung the weakly struggling cultist around, Goodweather scooped up two handfuls of rainwater. She murmured into her cupped hands, and the water bubbled in a strange fashion as she placed it beneath the cultist’s nose. Steam rose from the water. ‘Take off his mask,’ she said. Dubnitz complied. The cultist was a pale faced, pop-eyed man, with strange ritualistic scars on his cheeks and forehead. The steam wavered in the rain and then plunged up into his nose and eyes. The cultist shuddered and gurgled. 

 	The hairs on the back of Dubnitz’s neck rose as the body in his grip went slack. ‘What are you–’ he began. Goodweather silenced him with a look. 

 	Finally, she stepped back. ‘Release him.’

 	Dubnitz did, and gladly. The prayers of the servants of Manann were a strange, wild thing and though he served the god, Dubnitz knew that there were mysteries that he would never be privy to. The cultist jerked back and forth, gurgling. ‘Lead us to Ikel,’ Goodweather said, her face slick with rain and sweat. Her eyes showed the strain of what she was doing. The cultist spun and staggered, like a marionette. Then, with a moan, he stumbled off. 

 	‘Let’s go,’ Goodweather said hoarsely. Dubnitz followed her.

 	‘What did you do to him?’

 	‘A simple trick, though I’ve never tried it with anything larger than a seagull,’ she said. She rubbed her head. ‘As long as the steam stays in him, he’ll do as we say. Manann will compel him. But once it escapes…’

 	‘Hopefully he’ll get us to where we need to go then,’ Dubnitz said. 

 	The cultist led them on a crooked, circuitous route through the Tannery. As they entered a badly lit cul-de-sac, the deep, black tolling happened again, and it made Dubnitz’s head feel as if it were fit to burst. Goodweather grabbed her head and nearly sank to her knees. Prayers to Manann burst from her lips in desperate speed. The cultist shuddered to a stop as it happened, steam rising from his ears, mouth and nose. The street seemed to be submerged beneath murky water and vast, terrifying shapes slid between the buildings, swimming from shadow to shadow. 

 	Dubnitz opened his mouth to speak, and bubbles flowed into the air around his head. The rain had become something else entirely. His limbs felt sluggish and leaden and as the echoes of the deep boom faded, and those immense, terrible shapes shot past and over him into the city faster than any bird, the world snapped back to normality. 

 	Goodweather clutched at her amulet, her thumbs pressed tight to the trident symbol of Manann. She looked at him, her face pale and her eyes wide with horror. Dubnitz knew that his own face was likely the mirror image of hers, but he shook it off. 

 	The cultist lay limp on the street, his body contorted and rigid. Dubnitz didn’t have to examine him to know he was dead. ‘I think we’ve found the place,’ he rasped. 

 	The store front had seen better years. It was shabby even by the standards of the Tannery and it smelled of rotting fish. A number of the latter had been nailed to the lintel, their blank eyes staring out at the street. It was only by looking carefully that Dubnitz could tell that the fish had been nailed up in the shape of Stromfels’s symbol. He felt cold and sick and he hesitated before the door. 

 	‘We could go back. We could get help,’ Goodweather said from behind him. 

 	‘And what would happen between now and then, eh?’ Dubnitz growled, all humour gone. He looked up into the rain. There was a feeling on the air, like sailors got just before that first storm-tossed wave crested the bow and caused the boat to dip alarmingly. ‘Those bells – whatever they are – are becoming stronger. You felt it as well as I did.’

 	‘We’re at the eye of the storm,’ Goodweather said. She gingerly touched one of the fish and then drew her fingers back as if they’d been burned. She looked at him. ‘Erkhart…’

 	‘I know,’ he said. Then he lifted a boot and kicked the door in. Sword at the ready, he shouldered his way in. Rain dripped down through the sagging ceiling and ran in rusty runnels across the mouldy wooden planks of the floor. There was a vile smell, like a pig left too long on the butcher’s block in the summer air. ‘You’d think there’d be more guards,’ he said quietly. 

 	Goodweather stepped past him. She pulled a gull feather from her pouch and released it. A cool breeze, smelling of the clean sea, took it and carried it through the shop towards the back of the room. The feather dropped to the floor and spun gently in a small circle. Dubnitz stood over it, his eyes narrowed. He dropped to his haunches and, with his sword-point he traced the edges of a trapdoor out in the thin skin of mould that covered the floor. 

 	Carefully, he levered it open with his blade, revealing an unpleasant looking set of stairs. A foul stink wafted upwards-he smelled blood, and stale water. He looked at Goodweather. ‘Ladies first,’ he said. 

 	‘Manann’s sword before Manann’s shield,’ she said piously. 

 	‘Bloody dark down there,’ he said. 

 	‘Isn’t it?’ she said. Dubnitz sighed and started down. The smooth stone of the foundations were wet to the touch, sweating with the stuff of the canals which criss-crossed the city. No place in Marienburg was more than a few feet from the water, whether it was fresh or salt, canal, marsh or sea. The city floated on moist foundations, the stones eroded century by century. Dubnitz paused at the curve of the stairs. Weak torchlight illuminated the bottom steps and he could hear the steady slap-slap of water against stone. Some places in the Tannery had underground docks, for moving illicit goods into the marshes or deep wells that provided water. 

 	Goodweather pressed against his back. He continued down. Goodweather gasped as they caught sight of the first body. The man lay sprawled in the corner across from the steps. His hands were curled around the handle of the knife buried to the hilt in his belly. He was not alone. A dozen more bodies filled the oddly angled confines of the cellar. More than a dozen, in fact. Bodies were heaped upon bodies, all with self-inflicted wounds and all surrounding the deep well of scummy water that occupied the centre of the cellar. 

 	In fact only three living forms occupied the cellar as Dubnitz and Goodweather reached it. A man easily recognizable as Ikel was one and the other two were soon of no consequence. As Dubnitz stepped forward, the two cultists stabbed each other and fell in a heap. 

 	As they fell, the strange, fang-like shard of black stone that thrust out of the dark water of the pool shuddered and vibrated with a hideous bell-like peal of noise. It was thunderous in the confines of the cellar, causing the stones to grind against one another. The water swirled suddenly with a number of water-spouts and Dubnitz shielded his face as shadowy immensities burst free of the pool as the bell-noise pounded at his bones and eardrums. The shadow-things shot upwards, passing through the upper floor and away as the echoes of the bell faded. 

 	Blinking through the pain of the sound, Dubnitz focused on Ikel, who smiled at him in apparent recognition. The cultist grinned, revealing crudely filed teeth. ‘You’re too late,’ he said. ‘Stromfels’s teeth dig deep into the meat of Manann’s realm. The King of Sharks will have his Mitterfruhl feast.’

 	‘Looks like he’ll be doing it sans guests,’ Dubnitz said, kicking a body. Ikel chuckled. 

 	‘Blood must enter the water to bring the sharks,’ the cultist said. 

 	Dubnitz caught Goodweather’s eye. Her face was as stiff as those of the corpses that lay around them. ‘They needed a sacrifice.’

 	‘Blood calls to beasts,’ Ikel cackled, rattling the shark’s teeth necklaces he wore. ‘We gave them away freely. Good luck charms we called them, and aye, so they are… Stromfels’s luck!’ Dubnitz saw that the black stone was studded with such teeth. Indeed they almost seemed to be growing from the rock like barnacles. Hundreds, thousands of sharp shark’s teeth poked through the slick surface of the stone and the sight of them made his flesh prickle. 

 	‘What?’ he said.

 	‘The necklaces,’ Goodweather breathed. Her voice was full of horror and loathing. ‘The teeth are parts of Stromfels, parts of his power, even as this symbol I wear is Manann’s.’

 	The realization hit Dubnitz like a fist. ‘Then everyone wearing one of those…’

 	‘They belong to Stromfels now!’ Ikel yelped. ‘They are Stromfels. Or they will be. It takes blood, so much blood…’ Dubnitz froze, remembering the great shadows he had seen. Moving like sharks through the streets. Had they been seeking the wearers of the necklaces? Were they daemons hunting hosts to use to feed and ravage the city of the sea-god?

 	‘What was the point?’ Dubnitz said, tearing his eyes from the stone and moving closer to Ikel, who sidled aside, his fingers tapping on the hilt of the knife thrust through his belt. 

 	‘Careful Erkhart,’ Goodweather said. ‘Don’t let him do it.’

 	‘Don’t let him do what?’ Dubnitz snapped.

 	‘Don’t let him kill himself. If he kills himself, the sacrifice will be completed,’ Goodweather said. ‘And those who haven’t been transformed yet will be.’

 	‘Silence,’ Ikel snapped. ‘Manann has no voice here. This is Stromfels’s place. Stromfels’s temple!’ He gestured wildly at the black stone. ‘His teeth pierce the veil of Manann’s flesh, opening the way for us… for all of us!’ 

 	‘To do what then?’ Dubnitz said harshly, his eyes on the knife in Ikel’s belt. If he could keep him talking…

 	‘To feed the god,’ Ikel said. ‘Stromfels is as hungry as the ocean, and like the ocean he must be fed.’ He drew the knife. ‘His children burst through the veil and feed on the unworthy. And it is our honour to help them.’ Ikel lifted the knife to his throat. ‘It is my honour–’ 

 	‘No!’ Goodweather shouted, flinging her own blade. It slid across Ikel’s wrist and he yelped and dropped his knife. Goodweather leapt on him, robes flapping. ‘Erkhart, get the stone,’ she said.

 	‘And do what with it?’ Dubnitz roared, plunging into the water. It closed about his legs greedily, and his limbs went immediately numb, nearly causing him to fall. Things brushed against his knees and he nearly fell forward into the stone. He caught himself at the last minute, his hands shooting out against the stone. Impossibly, the metal and thick leather of his gauntlets gave way before the teeth like thin paper and Dubnitz snarled in pain. He jerked his throbbing hands back. His palms bled freely. 

 	Goodweather, struggling with Ikel, shouted, ‘Get it out of the water. Hurry!’

 	Dubnitz looked at her and then at the stone. It gleamed nastily and he hesitated to touch it again. But, not knowing what else to do, he sank down into the water, digging for its base. His blood coloured the water as his fingers were shredded. Pain ran wild up his forearms and sparks bounced at the edges of his vision. It felt like his hands were being chewed. 

 	‘Dubnitz, hurry!’ Goodweather called from behind him. 

 	With a groan, Dubnitz lifted the stone. His chest and shoulders swelled and his feet slid beneath the water as he ripped it free of the pool. Fangs fastened into his thigh as some unseen something coiled about his legs. He stamped blindly, and a powerful blow crashed into his back, nearly knocking him over. He staggered forward, still holding the stone aloft. It seemed to grow heavier, its weight doubling and tripling. His arms trembled as he fought to reach the edge of the pool. 

 	In his head, he heard the slash of a shark’s fin through eternal waters and the thunder of a great, gluttonous heart. His lungs were full of water and the smell of his blood spread across the spirit-sea that held Stromfels and his progeny. Shadow-things spun around him, darting at the edges of his vision and fear cut through him like a knife. ‘Manann help me,’ he muttered. For the first time in his life, the prayer was a sincere one. 

 	He caught a glimpse of movement, and saw Goodweather on her back among the bodies, Ikel straddling her, his filed teeth darting for her throat. Dubnitz, reacting on instinct, bellowed and hurled the stone at the cultist. It caught Ikel in the head and shoulders and he fell without a sound, the black stone settling on him with an almost hungry squelching sound. Despite the blood, there was no toll of sound. No shadow-things springing from the water’s depths to rampage through his city. Nothing, save a disappointed silence. 

 	The waters of the pool thrashed suddenly and then went still. The oppressive feeling of the cellar faded slowly, as if whatever presence had been causing it were receding. Dubnitz collapsed, half in and half out of the water. He coughed and looked at Goodweather, who got to her feet slowly. ‘Did it work?’ he said, pulling himself out of the water. 

 	‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking around. ‘I think so.’

 	‘You think so? You seemed bloody certain when you were ordering me in there!’ Dubnitz growled, trying to get to his feet and failing. His hands and legs were covered in blood and the shredded remnants of his armour. 

 	She helped him sit up. ‘It seemed like the thing to do.’ 

 	‘Seemed like the…’ Dubnitz gaped at her. ‘Are you saying you guessed?’

 	‘I suppose I did, yes,’ Goodweather said hesitantly. 

 	Dubnitz began to laugh, softly at first, and then great, echoing guffaws. Goodweather joined him and the sound of their mingled laughter drove the last lingering shadows back into the depths.