by Luke Arnold
It did. I thought about the faces spread out around the church and how Tippity had carefully selected each one, plucking out specific souls to experiment on. I felt sick again.
“Is that what happened? You used one of your bigger bangers on Lance Niles? Is that why he got cooked and I didn’t?”
The sneer crept up his face like a ringworm.
“No. I didn’t kill that man, you moron.”
I watched him for a moment. Neither of us had anything left to say.
Goddamit.
I believed him.
I was sore and exhausted but I couldn’t sleep. So, after nightfall, I picked up a lantern and went south. Back to the stadium.
Things had changed out there since that night with Warren and Linda. A whole section of the field had been barricaded off and construction equipment was scattered across the field, illuminated by electric orange lights. Maybe the Mayor was hoping to start up the games again. Nothing like a bit of sport to take your mind off the misery on the streets.
I waited a while, till I was sure that I was alone, then I ducked under the bleachers. Beneath one of the seats, I found an old training dummy: a man-shaped sack used for tackling practice. I dragged him out into the open and pushed him up against the lamppost.
I took the machine from its holster and held it up, a foot away from the sack man’s head.
Then, I pressed the button.
A crack of lightning went off in my hands, echoing all the way back into town. From the end of the pipe, a curl of smoke cut the lantern-light.
There was a hole in the dummy’s head. Little clouds of cotton had come out of it and were catching a ride on the wind. I lifted up the lantern to get a better look at the damage.
The hole was small at the front. Just like the gap where Lance Niles lost his front teeth. I pulled the dummy’s head forward and there was a crater at the back. Just like the hole that had appeared in Lance Niles’s cheek and neck. Stuffing had sprayed out in both directions, like Niles’s spattered blood. The canvas was burned around the edges, just like the blackened collar and cravat.
Rick Tippity hadn’t been in the Bluebird Lounge. Lance Niles had met some other guest. Someone who’d been holding the same ugly death machine that I was.
There was no magic here. Just a vile combination of nuts and bolts. A tool made from twisted metal and chemicals whose only purpose was to administer a single shot of murder. I hated the thing in my hands, and I hated the way it sang to me even more. It was a fast-acting poison. A fall without the fear. It was drowning in your sleep. A cut to the heart. It was death delivered in an instant.
I looked into the pipe. Into that elegant darkness.
I let my finger rest on the button.
Instant.
My hand was steady. My eyes were clear. Clear enough that when I looked past the pipe, I saw the little shield stamped into the metal. The tiniest of letters engraved across the finger-guard.
V. Stricken.
The machine of death had a maker. Maybe it was the same person who shot Lance Niles. Maybe it was the same person who dropped it on my desk.
At the very least, it was something to work with; a chance to set things right.
I took my finger off the button and headed back home.
The next day, I copied the manufacturer’s stamp onto a piece of paper and took it around the city, asking other crafters if they recognized the mark. I went to a blacksmith first, then an armorer, but nobody knew the maker. I took it to weapons stores on both ends of town but didn’t have any luck. I finally got my answer back on East Ninth Street, from a Goblin at a corner store that sold lighters, switch-blades and tobacco.
“Yeah, that’s Victor. As far as I know, he’s still back in the Valley. He makes good stuff but the guy’s an asshole and too damn expensive. Tell me what you want and I’ll whip you up something at a quarter of the price.”
I didn’t dare show him the machine itself. Flashing it around the Steeme household had been enough of a mistake. I thanked him for his help and jotted down the name.
Somebody had put the weapon into my care and I could only think of three reasons: to frame me for Lance Niles’s murder, to tempt me to use it on myself or to lead me down this road of discovery.
Whatever the reason, I only had one idea about where to get some answers: out of Sunder to Aaron Valley in search of Victor Stricken.
27
I was broke again. Cash poor. Though I did have a small fortune under my ass, pushing her way through the snow.
The trainer told me I’d get most of the bronze back if I returned the horse in one piece. Easier said than done in this weather, but I was given plenty of tips to help me out: don’t run her too hard, keep her dry, warm her up slow and warm her down just the same, check her hooves regularly and keep to the road.
We took off her horseshoes so her hooves wouldn’t snowball in the ice. I bought a rug to keep on her back when we were riding and another to add at night. The trainer trimmed her forelock and gave her a good feed and we walked her around the yard to stretch out her muscles. I lost half a day and all my savings but she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I ever owned.
The trainer gave me as much advice about my own care as he did about the horse: bring food and a thermos of hot tea, take breaks, stretch, and don’t fall asleep in the saddle no matter how tempting it might be.
My horse’s name was Frankie. She had a thick mane and a brown and black coat that puffed out around her hooves like bellbottoms. I fed her some oats from my hand and a fresh apple and then we were off.
We’d had horses back in Weatherly but they were only used for pulling carts or plows. Never riding. That training came after I joined the Opus.
The night I enlisted, Hendricks, Amari and I celebrated by damn-near poisoning ourselves. I was allowed one day of recovery before Hendricks dragged me out of bed and shoved me on the back of a horse.
We went outside the city limits with a couple of insolent colts and Hendricks did his best to make me a rider. It didn’t come naturally. The next morning, we were met by a team of Shepherds and began our journey west.
Hendricks was my friend and mentor but, first and foremost, he was a leader. On the long trek to Opus headquarters, I was given my first taste of what our new relationship would be.
He knew how to push me till I was tired but not broken. I tried not to complain, but when my ass was red and my legs cramped, protests sometimes slipped out. When that happened, he would always keep moving. Push me just a little harder. Show me that I was tougher than I thought I was. When I was silent and stoic again, he’d announce that it was time to rest.
With those gentle, almost invisible lessons, he turned me from an errand boy into a warrior. We still laughed. We still ate together by the fire. We were still friends, but the tone shifted. It had to. He was my boss. What were once recommendations were now orders. Lighthearted jokes became reprimands. Questions turned into tests and I wasn’t allowed to sleep until I answered them correctly.
I understood why things had to change. By allowing me into the Opus, he was risking his reputation. Everything I did was seen as a reflection of his judgment. My failings were now his failings. My naïvety exposed a lack of education. My confusion slowed things down. My mistakes undermined his authority.
I’d always thought that there were no wrong answers with Hendricks. The question was always more important than the response. Not anymore. On the journey back to headquarters, I was taught facts, dates and the correct foreign words to use in certain situations so as not to set off an international incident.
But I was happy. How could I not be? We were together, out on the road, ready for adventure. For the first time in my life I felt like someone really knew me. I could have lived in that time forever.
Frankie shook her head, frizzing up her mane and sending vibrations through my arms. The clouds had cleared and there was nothing ahead but white powder and open sky. The glare off the snow gave me a hea
dache so I kept my eyes closed and let Frankie lead the way.
It was slow going at first but, once Frankie was warmed up, she increased the pace on her own. She found a rhythm that suited her and I didn’t interfere. The road was ours. The snow was only six inches deep and she kicked her way through without worry.
As the sun turned red on the horizon, Frankie slowed down to tell me that it was time to camp.
“You’re right, girl. We don’t wanna get caught in the dark.”
I took her off the path to an empty brick building with only three walls and went about making a fire. Frankie found a place for herself out of the wind and I put another blanket on her back.
I drank weak tea, cooked some rice and curled up in my bedroll to listen to the night, but it didn’t have anything to say.
28
The second day of riding is always a bitch. My muscles were stiff and sore and my ass was a big red rash. We were riding straight into a cold wind that pushed tears out of my eyes and chilled my cheeks. Frankie started slow and I didn’t argue with her.
The thermos was well-crafted and likely kept me alive. I boiled tea in the morning, drank my share, and filled the flask. When the contents went empty or started to freeze, we stopped by the side of the road and I built another fire, fed Frankie warmed water, refilled the flask, and headed off again.
I was headed north, on a rocky road beside a set of train tracks. The Sunder City express wasn’t running anymore but it once went all the way up to the northern cliffs, through the Dwarven caves and out to the desert.
Sunder didn’t have its own farms, so most food was imported from other lands. There were no farms on this part of the continent. Just the memories of mining towns that rose up over a season, cut the earth for a few years, then dissolved as quickly as they appeared. Roadhouses marked our way: places to buy refreshments or a room for the night, but all of them empty. On the second night, Frankie and I took over one of the abandoned buildings. We lit a fire in the fireplace and Frankie lay in front of it like a bloodhound.
On the third day, our path intersected with the Edgeware Trail: a wide track that hugged the June River from the mountains all the way out to the Western Sea. As we came to the crossroads, I saw smoke up ahead.
We crossed the track, then a wooden bridge, and continued into a brown forest of underdressed pine trees. At first, the trail was scattered with dry pine needles. After fifteen minutes, it was overgrown. After an hour, it was gone and we charted our course by following the gap in the balding trees and the smell of smoke. It was metallic and unnatural, like the steel district back when it was in action.
“Smells a bit like home, huh, girl?”
Frankie huffed her disapproval but continued weaving forward until she found the edge of a cliff that looked down at Aaron Valley – the very first Goblin village.
Pre-Coda Goblins were nocturnal creatures, deathly allergic to sunlight. Over time, they created technology that would allow them to venture further out of their caves. The history of their inventions was visible in the architecture of the valley walls.
At the bottom of the valley, in an area that would have been in shadow for most of the year, there was a spattering of round clay huts. The layer above was brick and stone: round arches and flat-topped fortifications. Higher again were copper suspension bridges that stretched between the cliffs joining shining metal towers together. The next level was reminiscent of the Opus headquarters or a picture I once saw of the Wizard home of Keats: smooth glass and silver bunkers cut into the rocky walls. Each layer was specific, beautiful, and appeared to be utterly abandoned. The only sign of life was the single hut on the valley floor responsible for belching out the black smoke.
There were many ways down but they were all made from narrow walkways and rope bridges. Far too precarious for a horse.
“It’s still early,” I told Frankie. “There should be enough light for me to make it down the side of the cliff, ask my questions, and come back for you later. Sound good to you?”
She groaned, which I took as reluctant compliance.
I led Frankie back into the woods and tied her to one of the trees, leaving some water and the last of the oats. She wasn’t impressed with where she’d found herself but I had a feeling she’d known what she was in for from the first moment she saw me.
I hadn’t brought enough food. Hopefully whoever was at the bottom of the valley would have some to spare, or could at least point us in the direction of something green.
I went back to the edge of the cliff and surveyed the possible paths down. I chose one that looked like it had been reasonably maintained, off to my left, and took three steps in that direction.
Then, I was launched into the air.
My first thought was that someone had pushed me out into the chasm, but I wasn’t actually falling. I was hanging upside down with my arms flailing about and my belongings dropping out of my pockets.
There was a rope around one of my feet. Looking up, the rope was suspended between two of the pine trees. The cord was already cutting into my ankle as my body swung stupidly around in the air.
Swaying between the trees, I searched for a way to take the pressure off my leg. I was too out of shape to get my hands near the knot, so I flailed out with both hands and snatched one of the trunks.
The tree had been trimmed and sanded. No branches. There weren’t even any notches or grooves that I could use to hoist myself up. My grip was tentative at best and the idea of trying to get higher felt risky because if I lost connection to the tree I’d go swinging on my ankle again.
Now that my hands were taking some of the weight, my foot did feel better. The pain was being shared equally along my hamstring, back, shoulders and shaking hands.
A bell was ringing. It must have been set off when I stepped into the trap, but I’d only just settled enough to hear it.
I looked down, and noticed the outline of more traps around the ridge of the valley. Pits covered with nets and more ropes running between tree trunks. Every gap was filled with some near-invisible trick that was only made obvious from my higher vantage point.
From here, I could see all the way down into the valley floor where the door to the smoking hut was open and someone was standing in the entrance.
He watched me for a bit, then went back inside. A minute later, he came back out and climbed a path towards me.
He didn’t need to rush. I wasn’t going anywhere. My body was stretched out between the tree in my hands and the rope around my foot, with my belly hanging out of my clothes begging to be disemboweled. I wrapped one arm around the tree trunk so I could use my other hand to search my pockets.
My Clayfields were gone. Brass knuckles had fallen out along with the last of my coins. The machine was still in its holster under my ribs and my knife was in my belt. I took out the knife.
There was no way I could get it anywhere near my foot. If I wanted to cut myself free, I’d have to get to the line at the top of the trunk.
The wood was tough, so I couldn’t just stab my way up like an ice climber. Instead, I sawed a little groove into the wood, deep enough so that when I re-sheathed my knife, I could use it to lift myself up a few more inches. Then I took the knife out again and repeated.
I was three notches up when the world glowed orange.
“That’s enough of that.”
It wasn’t easy to look down. I’d got myself all twisted up like a fancy pastry. When I tucked my head between my shoulders, there was a Goblin standing under me. He had a tired expression, a light on his hardhat, and a crossbow.
“Drop the knife,” he said.
I hesitated, hoping to steal one final moment in which I could come up with some daring escape plan.
The Goblin was having none of it. He poked the tip of the loaded crossbow into my bare belly. I dropped the knife.
“I told your friends that you lot better not come back here,” said the Goblin.
“I… I don’t have any friends.”
>
He cocked the crossbow and I panicked. My hands came loose and I went swinging again. I slammed into the trunk on the other side and spun madly around. When the momentum slowed enough for me to see clearly, the Goblin had the crossbow pointed between my eyes.
He had green-blue skin that looked rubbery and wet. His bat-like ears were lined with copper rings, and his dark-tinted goggles hid everything behind them.
He was wrapped in fur – it looked like wolf – but his trousers only covered one leg. The other was made of metal: a complicated arrangement of cogs and pistons with an articulated claw at the bottom. The joints moved smoothly as he shifted his weight.
“I know what you’re here for, and you ain’t getting it.”
“I don’t think—”
“I warned you what would happen if any of you came back, and I pride myself on being a man of my word so—”
I’d put my hand on the holster while I was spinning. So, before the Goblin could put an arrow in my brain, I pulled out the machine and pointed it at him.
It wasn’t like that time I’d pointed it at Harold Steeme. The Elf’s first reaction had been one of confusion because, of course, he had no idea what the weapon was capable of. The Goblin, on the other hand, stared at it with fear, disbelief and familiarity. He knew exactly what I was pointing at him.
“I told you, I don’t belong to any group,” I said. “I have no idea what threats you made or who you made them to and I haven’t come looking for your weapon because I already have it.” He looked from me to the machine, and lowered the crossbow to his side. “Victor Stricken? I’m Fetch Phillips and I believe this machine of death belongs to you.”