The Defiler by Steven Savile Read Free Book Online Page A

crazed smile spread slowly across the traveller's face, his bloodless lips curling back to bare a mouthful of rotten teeth, many of which had been replaced by small wooden pegs. There was almost no trace of sanity - no trace of humanity - within the little man's gaze. Instead, his dark eyes promised that all the torments of purgatory were locked up tight within his skull.
    The traveller reached out, his hand touching the warden's throat as though offering a blessing.
    "Balor spare you, boy." He breathed, in a small, raspy voice. It was a ritual greeting, no more portentous or omen-laden than a simple hello, and yet it placed a chill in Sláine's heart. Balor One-Eye spare you from the plague of man is the full greeting, Sláine heard the voice of the Crone inside his skull. The plague of man being evil, if you haven't worked that out yet. The idea is simple enough, before the advent of man there was no evil. He pressed at his temple, pushing the heel of his hand into his eye. Her words were like steel spikes being driven into his brain.
    "Get... out of... my... head," Sláine rasped, earning a puzzled look from Ukko.
    "I don't like this place, Sláine. I really don't like it."
    "You are not alone, dwarf," Sláine blinked back the sudden flare of pain. His mouth was parched, and his head swam, the ground shifting treacherously beneath his feet as he walked on past the guards, ignoring their stares.
    None of them moved to stop him.
    The gates of Purgadair were, like the city itself, immense structures more than five times the height of the men guarding it. Each railing in the gigantic framework was thicker than a man's arm and carved with the finest details. The weather-rot had begun to claim some of the finesse from the masonry but as Sláine reached out for the support of an iron handrail, his hand closed around the brooding likeness of a demon that had been woven into the pitted iron. Red tears of rust ran down its anguished face so it was impossible to tell if the demon regretted the rise of Purgadair or thrived on its soullessness. Together, the sand-blasted weathering and corrosion lent the demon the appearance of a desperate captive trapped within an iron prison.
    Beside him, Ukko peered down a long and winding street at the array of insanities on display. Sláine followed the direction of his gaze. There were no people, at least none like him, but there were crowds and mad delights. The street was filled with everything from puppet shows and the mimes plying their trade, weasel-faced children looking on in rapt delight; butchers and bakers filling their windows with foods and smells that tantalised the nose and revolted the eye; to the crazy warren of alleyways and curved stairways that wriggled between the buildings and the barrage of colours seemingly strung across every available inch of sky. Brightly coloured silks tied to bone-white tusks formed canopies over part of the street, shielding the bazaar of the bizarre from the worst of the sun.
    Seeing them, the children chittered and squawked animatedly, gesturing wildly at the strange intruders. The commotion served to draw even more unwanted attention to them.
    "I think we need to move on," Ukko said, pointedly. "Find this Skinless Man, make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here."
    "For once, you'll get no argument from me," Sláine rubbed at his chin, feeling the stubble rasp beneath his fingers. He turned too quickly, a wave of nausea welling up inside him. The pain in his head burned. He winced as he backed away into one of the countless cramped byways leading into the belly of the great city. "Come on."
    Purgadair was a place of vile wonder.
    Distant roars rumbled, chased by a rolling wave of cheers.
    Everything was so daunting, every building a behemoth of stone, every street horribly claustrophobic. Worst of all though were the denizens of the strange city. They were all slants on the same demonic fusion of animal and human, a different blend of species