City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [111]
Machaon sauntered around the body, leaning to and fro to examine some further detail, while his observations emerged only as a mumbled incantation on his lips. Jeryd was growing impatient.
‘It was caused by a species of animal, that much is certain. This was not created with teeth, at least I don’t believe – nothing was mauled here. The line of severance seems to run from top to bottom, which, judging by the distribution of the incision, indicates a large beast striking downwards. At a guess I’d say it stood much taller than a human. Or a rumel.’ He gestured to the huge ripping gash above the ribcage, and the collapsed bones underneath. ‘Yet it’s far too messy for a hand-held weapon – at a guess, we cannot be certain. That scarring is not indicative of a cultist relic, although some of them are incredibly complex, so it’s tough to say. All in all I would wager that these wounds were caused by some creature unknown to us. I hear rumours of a new race having attacked our neighbouring islands. Do you think it might signify something along those lines, investigator?’
Jeryd had heard the commander discuss the Okun, yet they were only slightly taller than the average man. And two witnesses had mentioned something else.
A spider?
Jeryd knew it. Didn’t want to believe it, but he knew it. He was not at all delighted about this avenue he would have to explore. Just the thought of it brought a surge of fear rushing to his head, started his heart racing. How could it be that he ended up chasing the kind of creature that terrified him more than any other?
‘Investigator . . . are you all right?’ Machaon interrupted his thoughts. ‘You seem a bit unsteady.’
‘I’m fine,’ Jeryd grunted. ‘It’s been another early start for me, that’s all.’
THIRTY
One of the hybrids had died in his absence, leaving Voland dismayed. He hunched over the corpse, a cat-like thing with a massive spiralling shell on its back, studying it carefully under the light of the lantern. It would only have managed to waddle, unable to cope with the bony weight of the exoskeleton. Two little brown paws now lay perfectly still, though even when it was still alive these were ineffective. With a pencil, he prodded it. There was no sign of wounding, no emission of blood. It was probably due to heart failure, he surmised – the stress of being alive had been far too much for it. Hybrids didn’t always work out, didn’t always live for very long.
Leaning back with a sigh, he vowed to bury it soon. He covered it with a cloth, gripped the lantern, and rose to his feet.
Upstairs now, old boy.
His chair was one of those battered old leather things, the kind that you didn’t care if you spilt something on, intended solely for the business of relaxing. Which is what he wanted to do now. He’d had a hard day working and he just wanted to relax.
Cressets provided a warm light in his makeshift study. There were a few books here and there, scattered rugs and artwork on the green-painted walls. The room was rather pleasant, despite the odour that rose from below whenever the weather was bad.
He tossed his top hat on a side table, alongside a cup of whisky, then reclined into his chair with a sigh. He slid off his shoes and socks, and began to massage his sore feet.
‘Oh not again,’ he muttered aloud: the outer layer of epidermis was peeling heavily. Only one of his appendages was a human foot – the other had been claimed from a mega-magnus beetle he’d bought off a cultist trading from Ysla. After recovering from severe frostbite caught on an expedition twenty-something years ago, he was forced to utilize his skills in multi-taxa surgery on mending himself. Such procedures being a bit of a lottery, he had attempted the job with several different mammalian appendages until he had found sufficient benefit from the inert properties of a coleoptera. It had been painful and near-impossible to operate on himself, but with the help of