The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Let the militias have their moment of glory,” Edeard said quietly. “This has been a hard campaign. They deserve to be the ones ending it all.” That was true enough. For eight months the forces of city and countryside had been allied, chasing the Gilmorn and his remaining supporters across the provinces farther and farther to the west until finally there was nowhere left to run.

  “Politics,” Felax said with a disgusted grunt.

  “You’re learning,” Edeard said. “Besides, you two have nothing to prove, not after Overton Falls. I heard the daughters of those caravan families made their appreciation clear enough.”

  The two young constables looked at each other and shared a knowing smirk.

  Down by the outcrop, Larose’s longtalk was delivering a sharp ultimatum to the Gilmorn. They were outnumbered fifty to one and completely surrounded. They had no food. Their ammunition was almost gone. There was no help coming.

  Edeard wasn’t convinced that was quite the right thing to point out to a merciless fanatic like the Gilmorn, though in truth, they’d never reached this point of the assault before, so he didn’t know what would work.

  They carried on down the valley, passing several dead fastfoxes and ge-wolves. Edeard tried not to grimace at the brutally torn flesh of the animals. Argian was sitting on a moss-covered boulder where the valley opened out, quietly munching on a red apple. Several squads of militia were milling around, also wanting in on the finale. Their corporals and sergeants were having a hard time keeping them in line. Everyone quieted down as Edeard appeared.

  “Will he surrender?” Edeard asked.

  Argian shrugged and bit down hard. “He has nothing to lose. Who knows what he’s thinking?”

  “I see. Well, fortunately, we can wait. For as long as it takes.”

  “Ah,” Marcol exclaimed. “They’re arguing.”

  Argian gave the young constable a searching stare, then turned his attention to the outcrop. There was indeed an argument spilling out from the jagged rocks, a loud one, full of anger. Two men were confronting the Gilmorn, telling him they were walking out to surrender to the militia. Edeard’s farsight showed him the men turning away. The Gilmorn lifted his pistol and brought it up to point at the back of one man’s head. Edeard’s third hand slipped out and twisted the firing pin, bending it slightly out of alignment. The Gilmorn pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click. The bullet didn’t fire.

  Marcol cleared his throat in a very pointed fashion.

  Another argument broke out, even more heated than the first. Fists were swung. Third hands attempted to heartsqueeze. Men started wrestling.

  Larose gave the order to combine shields and move in.

  Two minutes later it was all over.

  There were militiamen perched on top of the rocky pinnacles, cheering wildly and waving beer bottles above their heads. Whole regiments were spilling over the site of the last fight, singing and embracing their comrades. Edeard couldn’t help but smile as he walked among them, taking the occasional swig from a proffered bottle, shaking hands, hugging older friends exuberantly. They were glad to see the Waterwalker, who had led the campaign, but they were prouder that they’d won the final battle themselves.

  Colonel Larose had established his camp on the far side of the fortress outcrop. Carts were drawn up in a large circle; long rows of tents were laid out, ready to be put up. A big open-sided canvas marquee had already been raised, with the cooks preparing a meal inside. Smoke from the cooking fires was starting to saturate the still air. At the center of the camp, the field headquarters tent was a drab khaki, guarded by alert senior troopers and a pack of ge-hounds. Orderlies and runners were skipping in and out. Eleven regimental flags fluttered weakly on top of their poles outside, representing the finest of city and country.

  The guards saluted Edeard as he went inside. Larose was sitting behind the wooden trestle table that served as his desk while a flock of adjutants hovered around with requests and queries. His drab green field uniform jacket was open to the waist, revealing a stained gray shirt. Senior officers were clustered at a long bench with all the administrative paraphernalia necessary to move and orchestrate such a large body of men. Even though it had been only a couple of hours since victory, orders and reports had begun to pile up. Larose stood and embraced Edeard warmly.

  “We did it,” Larose exclaimed. “By the Lady, we did it.”

  The officers started to applaud. Edeard gave them a grateful nod.

  “You should be very satisfied with your men,” Edeard told him, loud enough for the other commanders to hear, especially those of the country regiments. “They behaved impeccably.”

  “That they did.” Larose grinned around generously. “All of them.”

  “And you,” Edeard told the Colonel. “You should stand for election when we return. The residents of Lillylight would appreciate a man representing them who’s actually accomplished something outside the city.”

  Larose gave a shrug that was close to bashful. “That would cause my family’s senior members some surprise and satisfaction, I imagine.”

  Edeard gave him a warm smile. “You were never a black sheep.”

  “No. Not like you, at any rate. But I like to think I had my moments.”

  “Indeed you did. But I hope you’ll give the idea some thought.”

  “It’s never as far away as we believe, is it, Makkathran?”

  “No.” Edeard let out a sigh. “Is he behaving himself?”

  “So far.” Larose gestured to a flap at the back of the tent, and they went through. An encircling wall of tents and fences had produced a small secure area at the rear. Right at the center, a tall narrow tent was standing all alone. Two guards stood at attention outside, older seasoned militiamen whom Larose trusted implicitly, their ge-wolves pulling on the leash. Both animals gave Edeard a suspicious sniff as he approached.

  “You know something odd?” Larose said. “For years the bandits have terrorized communities with impunity. Every survivor told stories of fearsome weapons. Yet throughout this whole campaign, we haven’t found one of the bastards armed with anything other than a standard pistol.”

  “That’s good,” Edeard said, staring straight ahead. “Would you want a new weapon to exist? One powerful enough to kill entire platoons in less than a minute?”

  “No. No, I don’t suppose I would.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody could build anything like that, not really. Not even the Weapons Guild.”

  “No,” Edeard agreed. “They can’t. Those weapons are just a fable that people used to tell each other about in times gone by.”

  “Like the exiles. You know, nowadays I find it hard to picture what Owain looked like. He and his fellows must have traveled a long way from Makkathran. Nobody ever found them.”

  “Losing an election can demoralize you like that. Nobody wants to dwell on what has been, not now that we all have a future.”

  “We do?”

  “It’s unknown, as always, but it’s there, all right.”

  Colonel Larose pursed his lips and walked on.

  The Gilmorn was standing in the middle of the tent with Dinlay and Marcol in attendance. Of all the aspects that resulted from Edeard’s ability to reset time, he always found this the strangest—seeing someone alive whom he’d previously watched die. And this Gilmorn was one he’d killed himself in a fashion that didn’t withstand too much sober examination.

  Inevitably, the man was unchanged. Not that Edeard had ever seen him at his best before. Last time, his round face with the idiosyncratic nose had been suffused with pain and anguish as his legs were ruined by the boulder. Now he simply looked tired and sullenly resentful. Not defeated, though. There was still defiance burning behind his mental shield, mostly fueled by good old Grand Family arrogance, Edeard suspected.

  The blacksmith was just leaving. He’d taken an hour to shackle the Gilmorn securely, with big iron rings around his wrists and ankles, linke
d together with tough chains. This way there were no fancy locks for his telekinesis to pick away at. The metal had to be broken apart by another blacksmith or simple brute strength; Edeard could do it, and probably Marcol, but few others on Querencia would be capable.

  “Finitan’s pet,” the Gilmorn said contemptuously. “I might have guessed.”

  “Sorry I missed our earlier appointment at the valley beyond Mount Alvice,” Edeard replied casually.

  The Gilmorn gave him a startled glance.

  “So who are you?” Edeard asked. “Not that it really matters, but you never did tell me your name back at Ashwell.”

  “Got your forms to fill out, have you?”

  “You do understand this is over now, don’t you? You are the last of them. Even if One Nation has any supporters left back in Makkathran, they’ll deny everything, especially you. The family Gilmorn has lost considerable status among the city’s Grand Families since Tannarl’s exile; they’re desperate to regain it. You won’t be accepted back, not by them. Of course you could try to throw in with Buate’s surviving lieutenants, the ones I banished. Though they, too, seem incapable of adapting; over a dozen have been sentenced to the Trampello mines in the last two years. At least they’ll have company; my old friend Arminel is still incarcerated there. Mayor Finitan changed the mine governor from Owain’s crony to someone who’s a little stricter.”

  The Gilmorn held his hands up, the chain clanking as he did so. “Is this what you’re reduced to, Waterwalker, gloating over your victims?”

  “And you? Goading someone whose village you destroyed?”

  “Touché.”

  “You set me on the path that led to this day. I enjoy that.”

  “As Ranalee and others enjoy Salrana. I’ve heard she’s very popular. Fetches quite a high price in the right circles, so I understand.”

  Dinlay’s hand fell on Edeard’s shoulder. “Let me deal with him.”

  “You?” The Gilmorn sneered. “A eunuch does the Waterwalker’s dirty work? How amusing.”

  Dinlay’s face reddened behind his glasses. “I am not—”

  “Enough of this,” Larose said. “Waterwalker, do you have any serious questions for this bastard? Some of my men can get answers out of him. It might take a while, but they’ll persist.”

  “No,” Edeard said. “He has nothing vital for me. I just wondered why he kept on fighting, but now I know.”

  “Really?” the Gilmorn said. “And that is?”

  “Because I have taken everything else away from you. There is nothing else for you to do. Without your masters you are nothing. You are so pitiful, you cannot even think of anything else to devote yourself to. When the time comes for your life to end, you will have achieved nothing, you will leave no legacy, your soul will never find the Heart. Soon this universe will forget you ever even existed.”

  “So that is what you have come here for, to kill me. The Waterwalker’s revenge. You’re no better than me. Owain never went into exile. I know you murdered him and the others. Don’t set yourself up as some aloof judge of morals. You’re wrong to say I leave nothing behind. I leave you. I created you. Without me, you would be a countryside peasant with a fat wife and a dozen screaming children, scrabbling in the mud for food. But not now. Not anymore. I forged a true ruler, one who is every bit as ruthless as Owain. You say I can do nothing else? Take a look at yourself. Do you tolerate anyone who doesn’t comply? Is that not me, the very ethos you claim to despise?”

  “I enforce the law equally and impartially for all. I abide by the results of elections.”

  “Words words words. A true Makkathran politician. May the Lady help your enemies when you become Mayor.”

  “That’s a long time in the future, if I ever do stand.”

  “You will. Because I would.”

  Edeard’s cloak flowed aside with the smoothness of jamolar oil. He reached into a pocket and took out the warrant. “This is the proclamation signed by the Mayor of Makkathran and notarized by the provincial governors of the militia alliance. Given the scale of the atrocities you have perpetrated for years, you will not be returned to civilization for trial.”

  “Ha, a death warrant. You are nothing more than the tribal savages we enlisted.”

  “You will be taken to the port of Solbeach, where a ship will sail eastward. When the captain has voyaged as far as the seas will allow him, he will search for an island with fresh water and vegetation. There you will be abandoned with seed stock and tools sufficient for your survival. You will live out your life there alone to contemplate the enormity of your crimes. You will not attempt to return to civilization. If you are found within the boundary of civilization, you will immediately be put to death. May the Lady bless your soul.” Edeard rolled up the scroll. “Constables Felax and Marcol will accompany you on the journey to ensure the sentence is carried out. I’d advise you not to annoy them.”

  “Fuck you. I won, and you know it. This alliance is the start of One Nation.”

  Edeard turned and started to leave the tent.

  “Owain won,” the Gilmorn shouted after him. “You’re nothing more than his puppet. That’s all. Do you hear me, Waterwalker? Puppet to the dead, puppet to the man you murdered. You are my soul twin. I salute you. I salute my final victory. Family blood will govern this world. They say you can see souls. Can you see the soul of Mistress Florrel laughing? Can you?”

  Edeard hardened the shield his third hand created, blotting out the vicious shouting as he walked away.

  Edeard wanted to travel on alone, but Dinlay wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t argue; he just said nothing while Edeard shouted hotly at him, maintaining his quiet stubborn self. In the end Edeard gave in, as they both knew he would, and ordered the regiment’s cavalry master to saddle two horses. The pair of them rode off together toward Ashwell.

  The landscape hadn’t altered, only the use it had once been put to. Half a day’s ride from his destination, Edeard began to recognize the features that had dominated his childhood. Shapes on the horizon started to register. They were cloaked in different colors now as the vegetation had changed, crops giving way to a surge of wilder plants. The road was completely overgrown, hard to distinguish, though the buried stony surface was still perceptible to farsight. The fields around the village, once rich and fertile, had long reverted to grassland and bushes, with their old neatly layed hedges sprouting up into small trees. Drainage ditches were clotted with leaves and silt, swelling out into curiously long pools.

  It was a warm day, with few clouds in the bright azure sky. Sitting in his saddle, Edeard could see for miles in every direction. The cliff was the first thing he identified. That hadn’t changed at all. It set off a peculiar feeling of trepidation in his heart. He had truly never expected to come back here. On the day after the attack, he’d left with the posse from Thorpe-by-Water and had glanced back only once, seeing blackened ruins chuffing a thin smoke into the open sky, and even that image was blurred by tears and anguish. It had been too painful to attempt another look; he and Salrana had ridden away together, holding hands and bravely staring ahead.

  Now nature had completed what Owain and the Gilmorn had started. Years of rain and wind and insects and tenacious creepers had accelerated the decay begun by the fires. All the village council’s halfhearted repairs along the rampart walls had finally started to give way, leaving the broad defenses sagging and uneven. The outer gates had gone, their charcoal remnants rotting to a thin mulch where tough weeds infiltrated their roots. Their absence exposed the short tunnel under the ramparts, a dank uninviting passage of gloomy fungus-coated brick. Above them, the stone watchtowers sagged; their thick walls held fast, though the slate and timber roofs under which so many sentries had sheltered across the decades were gone.

  Edeard dismounted and tethered his skittish horse to the iron rings just outside the arching portal. The sturdy metal at least remained untouched.

  “You okay?” Dinlay queried cautiously.

&nbs
p; “Yes,” Edeard assured him, and walked through the dripping tunnel, sweeping aside the curtain of trailing vines. As soon as he emerged into the village, birds took flight, great swirls of them shrieking as they flapped their way into the sky. Small creatures scampered away over the rough mounds of debris.

  Edeard was prepared for ruins, but the size of the village caught him by surprise. Ashwell was so small. He’d never considered it in such terms before. But really, the whole area between the cliff and the rampart walls could fit easily into Myco or Neph, the smallest city districts.

  The basic layout of the village remained. Most of the stone walls survived in some form or another, though collapsing roofs had demolished a lot of them. Streets were easy to make out, and his memory filled in the lines wherever slides of rubble obscured the obvious routes. The big guild halls had withstood the fires well enough to retain their shapes, though they were nothing more than empty shells without roofs or internal walls. Edeard sent his farsight sweeping out to examine them, then immediately halted. Lying just below the thin coating of dirt and ash and weeds that had engulfed the village were the bones of the inhabitants. They were everywhere. “Lady!”

  “What?” Dinlay asked.

  “There was no burial,” Edeard explained. “We just left. It was too … enormous to deal with.”

  “The Lady will understand. And the souls of your friends certainly will.”

  “Maybe.” He looked around the desolation and shuddered again.

  “Edeard? Do any linger?”

  Edeard let out a long reluctant sigh. “I don’t know.” Once again he reached out, pushing his farsight to the limit of resolution, striving to catch any sign of spectral figures. “No,” he said eventually. “There’s nobody here.”

  “That’s good, then.”

  “Yes.” Edeard led the way toward the carcass of the Eggshaper Guild’s hall.

  “This is where you grew up?” Dinlay asked with interest as he scanned around the nine sides of the broken courtyard.