by Ben Galley
The beetle was behaving at last.
It could have even been said that Farazar was starting to enjoy the creature’s lurching gait. It wasn’t that he had learned to tolerate its unpredictability, but rather to work with its strange habits. All it had taken was perseverance.
It was this determination – this iron will – that had kept them moving and brought the city lights much closer. They filled his view, sunrise to sunset; myriad pinpricks of light set in a jagged mountain range of buildings, black against the purple dusk. For what must have been the hundredth time that day, he stared up at the mighty pillar of the Cloudpiercer – his Cloudpiercer – and grinned eagerly.
He kicked the beetle on, not that it did much to spur it. The throne awaited him, as did whatever his daughter or the torrid sereks had been plotting in his wife’s absence. Nilith had jeopardised everything for her greed, and Farazar damned her for it. Damned her to the void. When he was on his throne again, he would keep her for forty days, and make her watch her body decay until she evaporated, banished forever. That would teach her. Grinning smugly, Farazar held his eyes on the city and let the beetle do the work beneath him.
It was when they rounded a dune that he saw the distant crack in the earth, black against the sand. It ran south from the edge of the Sprawls, lined by small candles hanging from rope railings. They stretched into the sands and gathered around a squat building. Bent over it was a bone-like structure: three huge black tusks upended so their points crossed. Several more buildings spread out in a line from there. They looked dilapidated, and those furthest out had been swallowed by the dunes. If Farazar squinted, he thought he could make out shapes moving across the maw of a bright square deeper into the Sprawls.
If he still had a heart, it would have been pounding against his ribs. Farazar leaned to the side, as he had learned to do, and slowly turned the beetle towards the Nyxwell. Even from a few miles away, there was no mistaking the dark river and the structure. The Nyxites had always marked their territory with flamboyance. Their version of it, anyway. Farazar thought it drab, macabre and outdated, just like the Nyxites. Perhaps Farazar would finally take control of the wells himself once he was back in the Cloudpiercer. Declare it a royal responsibility. This little trip through the desert had taught him a thing or two about seizing what a man wanted. He may not have been a man any more, but he knew what he wanted. He had spent long enough hiding in his sanctuaries, both north and south. He had grown soft, and though it had cost him his life, it would not cost him his rule.
He kicked at the beetle’s armoured sides, and again, until the creature clicked in annoyance and finally put some speed into its gait. Farazar turned around to steady his body, and as he did he saw the dark mark on the face of a white dune, several miles behind him.
There was no moon tonight but stars aplenty, and in their light it looked like a wagon with three horses around it. He couldn’t spy any people, but he recognised the shape of it enough to know he’d seen it before. The man in the gold and flat hat.
Farazar did not believe in coincidences. Once more he kicked the beetle, until it whined so much he feared it would stop moving altogether. It stumbled into a good trot, but so did the man behind them. Farazar swore he heard the snap of a whip over the rushing breeze, and felt desperation descend. It made him lean forwards, urging his stupid insect on with what scant weight he had.
There was little time to fetch a half-coin from the Nyxites now. If they refused him, he could either race into the streets on the back of a beetle, or fuck the intentions of both this man and Nilith, and throw his body into the Nyx unbound. He had promised himself freedom, afterlife or the void, and though it disappointed him deeply not to have the freedom, he was a stubborn bastard. If it stopped Nilith, so be it.
With the beetle’s stumbling canter, the Sprawls and the Nyxwell edged closer. Barely two miles to go, and they were agonising. Farazar spent them snatching looks over his shoulder, seeing the man and his wagon come closer every time. Now and again he would lose them between the dunes, and Farazar would tense in hope, glowing darker and moodier when they reappeared.
The chase drew so close that he could see a cage on the man’s wagon, and something glowing faintly inside it. The two horses pulling the wagon were slathering and wide-eyed.
Farazar began to undo some of the ropes binding his body to the beetle’s carapace, getting ready to push it into the first scrap of Nyxwater he could find. His corpse began to squelch, bouncing with the creature’s canter. Even then, in that moment, hand hovering over the wrappings, Farazar wondered what his old self looked like after several weeks under the hot sun. He didn’t dare to look.
He could see a handful of Nyxites now, milling between the buildings with candles in their hands. He could hear the music of some flute, wailing over the bustle of a nearby night bazaar. There was less than a quarter mile to go now. The rift was a stone’s throw away, arcing towards him as though heading off the chase. He bit his lip as hard as his formless teeth allowed, straining to go faster.
‘I need copper! Copper, Nyxites!’ he bellowed.
None of the robed bastards moved, merely exchanging concerned looks. Farazar looked about for guards or sellswords, but there were none to be seen.
There came a hiss and a sudden thud, and the beetle came crashing to the earth. Farazar tumbled over its spiny head and into the dust with a cry. Without bones to break or a brain to stun, he wasted no time in sprinting back to the collapsed insect. A thick triggerbow bolt protruded from a gap in its carapace.
‘Gah!’ he grunted. ‘It’s your fault for not having a thicker shell!’ The beetle burbled away woefully as Farazar dragged his body from its back and began to haul it towards the rift.
Farazar pushed all the strength he had into his hands and feet. The sand slipped beneath his bare soles, but the body moved, and quickly too. He heaved and he heaved, trying to ignore the approaching rumble of hooves and wheels.
‘I need a copper coin! Help me!’ he yelled again. A few Nyxites were coming forwards, tentatively. They were not looking at him, but at the wagon racing after him.
‘Fuck you, then!’ Farazar cursed, wild eyes turning to the Nyx and locking there. Only a score of yards remained. Sand scraped beneath the body; the strain was unbearable. Ten yards. His glow turned white as he screeched with the effort. Now five. The Nyxites began to scarper behind their building.
‘So be it!’ Farazar roared. ‘So be it! No binding tonight, you fetid bastards!’
He slumped to a heap at the edge of the rift and threw everything he had behind his body. It teetered on the edge of the black-stained rock.
‘YAH!’ he cried, shoving once more as hooves and skidding wagon wheels sprayed him with sand. He felt the pull of the earth take his corpse as strong, inhuman arms grabbed him by the shoulders. He was dragged backward, but he did not care; his body would momentarily be in the Nyx, and he would soon be gone from this place.
Farazar looked around with a grin, trying to find Nilith before he was whisked into the ether. He wanted to see the shame and failure etched into her face.
Instead, he met a bulbous lump of grey skin with no eyes and a maw filled with glowing fangs. He realised then what held him in its grasp. The monster’s jaws were already wide and poised to sink into his shoulder, which they did with relish.
He screamed as the pain ran through him. Black veins spread from where the fangs sank in. Glee turned to terror and Farazar began to thrash. It only made the pain worse, but somehow he found time to wonder whether he’d made a mistake in choosing the afterlife. It was turning out to be a severe disappointment.
‘Desist!’ somebody shouted. There came the snap of a switch. ‘Not food!’
The monster let go, slithering back on a legless body and whining horribly. Farazar was left to sprawl on the sand and clutch at his shoulder and clench his ghostly teeth. The black veins receded, replaced with burning white lines. Some of his vapours were missing from a ragged patch around hi
s shoulder, where bite marks still glowed.
Seething, he reached out towards the Nyx but only managed to claw at the sand. What’s wrong? Why am I not in the afterlife?
‘A fine attempt, shade, but you are out of luck,’ said a voice, and Farazar looked up to find a resplendent-looking man in a wide-brimmed hat standing over him. He was pointing at the shallow rift. ‘Go on, after you.’
Under the man’s watchful eye, Farazar crawled forwards until he could peer into the Nyx. Instead of a pool or river of oily waters, he found only ink-stained rock. At the bottom of the rift, a dozen feet down, he spotted his body lying curled like a fat grub, dry as the stone around it. He understood now why the Nyxites were peeking out from behind their adobe walls. There had been no help to give.
Farazar’s fist met the sand with a puff, and his forehead quickly followed. Disappointment was a sour draught. ‘Where has it gone?’ he mumbled against the earth as the man bound his hands with black rope. Judging by its weight, it had a copper core. ‘It can’t have just gone!’
‘Haven’t you heard, half-life? Nyx has all but dried up in the Sprawls.’
‘Lies!’
‘Truly. They say the city’s not too far behind, despite the emperor increasing the price of Nyxwater. Shipments out from the city are too slow or too expensive for the folk in these parts.’
‘Why?’ came a familiar voice. Farazar looked up to see Nilith’s face pressing against the thick bars of the cage atop the wagon. Still alive, which was a deep shame. One of her hands was hidden within her coat. He was irritated to see her healed, with new clothes on her back, and apart from the trace of worry in her eyes, fairly well rested. He inwardly cursed her.
‘Why do they say the Nyx is drying up?’ she asked.
The man shrugged. ‘Unclear. The Nyxites are clueless. I believe the Cons—’
‘One gods damned moment, peasant! Who the fuck are you to interfere with my dealings?’ Farazar demanded as he was veritably carried to the wagon. The monster slithered alongside like a loyal snake, grey tongue lolling hungrily over its fangs. ‘I have a right to my freedom!’
‘I, shade, am Chaser Jobey of the Consortium—’
‘And a right inconvenient shit,’ muttered Nilith.
Jobey spared a moment to whack her fingers from the bars with his switch, but she was too quick. ‘As I was saying, I am here to reclaim your debt.’
‘What damn debt? Speak, man!’
Jobey looked a little put out by Farazar’s regal tone. ‘The toll to pass through the Kal Duat mine. Your debt has been set at your life. Seeing as that is already taken, your servitude will suffice. Freedom is no longer your right, I’m afraid.’
Farazar raised his chin, glaring fiercely as he was hitched by his bonds to Nilith’s side of the cage. The creature was shepherded into the other side, behind the partition of bars. ‘It was this woman’s fault, not mine! Do you expect a shade to be responsible for his owner’s actions?’
‘You deplorable twat,’ came the hiss from behind him.
Jobey moved to the rift with a hook attached to a rope. Within moments, he was hauling up the body and dragging it across the sand. ‘Seeing as you fled this woman and this body is not yet bound, I can only assume you are nobody’s property yet. Therefore you can be held responsible. You shall belong to the Consortium, and soon.’
‘How dare you! I demand to know who this Consortium of yours thinks it is!’
Nilith had more words for them. ‘A hive of inconvenient shits.’
Jobey whacked the bars again. He seemed a man short of temper. ‘As I have already told your companion, shade, the Consortium are a group of businessmen, and exceptional ones at that. The Chamber of Trade thinks itself the power behind business in the Arc, but in fact that belongs to the Consortium. Hence you would do well to respect them.’
‘That’s why we have never heard of them, is it?’ muttered Nilith.
The chaser occupied himself by dumping Farazar’s body onto the wagon’s rear. He craned his neck as far away from the bundle as possible, mouth at a severe downward angle. He clamped a scented napkin to his face as soon as a hand was free. ‘It’s the wise businessman who knows the benefits of confidentiality. Privacy. You have no right to know the Consortium’s dealings.’
‘And you have no right to levy spurious tolls! Only the emperor makes such rules, and he has not granted you any such permission!’ Farazar barked at him.
Jobey gave him a sour yet smug look as he mounted the wagon’s seat. ‘Your woman said the same, and I shall tell you what I told her. The emperor has no care for this city. Only his wars. His own empress has fled, and his daughter has enough trouble with the city spiralling into havoc. That is why we save the royal family the trouble of passing decrees, and do as we please. And why not, when it was the last emperor who sold the Consortium the land in the first place, decades ago?
‘We are not some measly market traders hawking yesterday’s fish, shade. Why, where do you think the stone for the city’s towers and high-roads comes from? Consortium quarries. Or the grain in Araxes’ grain stores? Belish crops on Consortium wagons, sold to the Chamber of Trade. Or whose ships carry in furs and jewels for tors and tals? The Consortium’s. If the emperor ever came out of his Sanctuary, he would learn that this empire consists of more than just the city of Araxes.’ Jobey cocked his head then, as if trying to place a memory. ‘I must say, you look rather familiar to me,’ he said to Farazar.
Farazar narrowed his eyes. His bonds shook with the frustration and outrage running through him. His desires counted for nothing since his death. It was infuriating. A soul, at its heart, was nothing but desire. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you, Chaser Jobey. Both you and your Consortium!’
The wagon lurched forwards without care for Farazar’s threats, heading parallel to the Outsprawl’s edge and away from the curious looks of the Nyxites. No sooner had the wheels started moving than Nilith prodded him in the back and whispered in his ear.
‘There’s always comfort in knowing you were right, at least. You did tell me you’d see me in Araxes,’ she snickered.
Farazar snarled as he hunched away from her, arms lashed and taut behind him. He stared at the empty Nyxwell until it was lost behind a dune, wishing death on this putrid man and his monster, on his Consortium, and on the wife who had brought all of this upon him. The wife sitting beside him in a cage, clutching her arm to her belly, looking sorrier than he had ever seen her.
At least that was some comfort.
Chapter 2
The Outsprawls
How does the Arc control its borders? I’ll tell you how. Ghosts. A fucking million of them, armed and armoured, spread between my islands and Araxes’ coast. They never need food, water, rest, or medicine. That is why nobody challenges Emperor Farazar’s lands, and why I cannot invade. My only tactic is to outlast his ghostly hordes, let them smash themselves against my copper gates, and wait for the Arctian Empire to rot from within.
From Scatter Prince Phylar’s diary, dated year 999
Grit crunched between her teeth and in the cracks of her dried tongue. She tried to pull more air into her lungs, but her jaw seemed locked in place. Her swollen eyes were cemented shut by sand and sun-baked blood.
Heles couldn’t feel the rest of her body at all.
Panic forced her eyes open. Such a small and simple movement, and yet it took all she had. Bright sunlight surged into her throbbing eyes, and she retched.
Only then did she feel her body: afire in a hundred places as she convulsed, spewing up nothing but bloody water, and fuck all of it. It still threatened to drown her if she didn’t move or tilt her head. Heles rolled herself between hurls, and chewed sand to keep her stomach still. If ribs could speak, hers would have been screeching in agony. Her legs were still numb, and she listened for a kick of sand as she tried muscles she had known for decades. To her relief, there was a gentle scuff; barely more than a twitch, but enough to know her spine wasn’t broken, and tha
t something bound her knees.
Though the sun blinded her, it was having a warming effect. Her pain had been so vicious she had not noticed she was cold. Freezing cold, in fact. She lay there for a moment, wondering how a single body could ache so much and not be dead.
Heles looked around, noting the sand’s rosy glow and the dew on a nearby spur of butchered cactus. Its maroon, finger-like branches and scattered pale fruit, not dissimilar to eyeballs, shone with it. Somebody had wanted it out of their path. She knew how it felt.
No.
Only palms and flowers sprouted in Araxes. Crimson rhipsa usually grew where desert met city. Heles twitched at the realisation.
Breathing heavily, and ingesting copious handfuls of grit into her lungs, she forced her head up so she could survey her blurry surroundings.
Closing one eye showed her an adobe wall with a barred window. With a painful twist of her head, Heles saw a white cottage half-swallowed by a small dune. Between her and it lay another body. Just a dark lump, but somehow she knew it. Her heart began to stir some more.
Heles angled her head to see rippling sand leading off into the endless desert. Too pained to move, she put her ears to use. There was a ringing in one of them, and a persistent thumping in her head, but besides that, she heard the buzzing of insects, the sizzling of dew and the rumble of a distant city.
The Outsprawls. They’ve dumped me in the fucking Sprawls.
She attempted to move, but something bound her arms as well as her legs. Heles looked down, eyes bulging at the sackcloth that was wrapped around her. She began to writhe. Spittle foaming at her mouth, she heaved herself into a roll. She screamed when she turned over, feeling broken bones crunch in her wrist and smacking her split forehead against the sand.
Twice more she rolled, until the sackcloth had loosened enough for her bruised fingers to claw at the earth. Spitting what grit and vomit she could scrape from her mouth with her swollen tongue, Heles sprawled beneath the sky and let the sun warm her, perchance even heal her. She needed to feel something other than pain, and the roasting heat was in abundance. It let her know she was alive.