Chainworld

by Matt Langley

  She was grateful they didn’t encounter Carlow in this bitter trawl through the sorrowful ranks of the Congregation, fearing that Shryke would snap at his insults and remembering all too vividly how he had leapt at her when she’d tried to wake him. It wouldn’t end well for the smart-mouthed Curate.

  Shryke insisted on walking through the encampment twice before he finally agreed to sit down and take some water.

  He was agitated and obviously suspicious of those around them.

  He kept rubbing at a patch of skin on the side of his neck, so much so he had made it raw.

  “You might want to bathe that and put some cooling balm on it before you scratch all the way through to the bone.”

  “No,” he said, dismissively.

  He kept moving his eyes from face to face around the camp.

  Wary. Anxious. Scared.

  Galdar knew Reverend Yane would call for them soon. Yane was anxious to find out what Shryke’s answer would be in the matter of becoming the Congregation’s protector, though Galdar knew it was a hopeless endeavour. Shryke was in no fit state to protect his own skin let alone three hundred worshipers. She said nothing.

  Shryke picked up the battle-mace.

  Its surface was intensely detailed. Raised lines and curved pictograms slithered over its angles and faces. The metal was alive with movement; it shimmered in the morning light, as if it were a silvery layer of metal beneath the sheen of clear mountain water. The handle was completely enclosed in leather strapping, which was black and well oiled. The whole thing looked freshly made. As Shryke turned it repeatedly in his hands, ever faster, Galdar felt her gaze becoming lost in its delicate whorls and incomprehensible sigils written into it.

  She had to reach out and stop Shryke’s twisting the weapon before she became utterly mesmerised by it.

  Shryke looked up at her. She couldn’t tell if his red-rimmed eyes were on the verge of anger or madness. One or the other. Shryke opened his mouth to say something, but in the end chose silence.

  He threw the battle-mace down onto the bedding of the shelter and went back to worrying at the raw patch on his neck, fingernails revealing small specks of blood.

  Galdar felt utterly helpless.

  If Shryke had been a member of the Congregation, perhaps he would have found solace or succour in prayer and contemplation. They could have carried out calming rituals with each other, perhaps gone into the church to worship together, or make confessions to one of the priests. But faithless, what could he do to unburden his conscience? How could he return to himself? He’d given her no indication over the past days that he believed in anything except himself and his duties as a warrior. If he worshipped anything it was the abstract concept of honour. Or perhaps money, as that was something he was willing to kill for?

  As Shryke scanned the faces nearby, Galdar took a few crumbs of earth from the ground beneath her feet and offered a prayer to Safehome on Shryke’s behalf.

  She left Shryke then, the assassin clawing at his neck.

  He said nothing but looking at him she saw desperation and fear in his eyes.

  It broke Galdar’s heart to see it.

  When she returned a few hours later, she wondered if Shryke had moved at all.

  He sat cross-legged in the entrance to his shelter, next to a fire that had long since burned down to ash. Thick black scabs were forming over the wound in his neck, but at least he had stopped digging at it. Galdar placed a basket of small winter fruits down at Shryke’s feet along with a jar of wine.

  Shryke was unmoved.

  His eyes darted.

  His tongue moved like a snake across his lips.

  She could see the fine trembling of his muscles.

  Through the service, Galdar had agonised about asking Yane to give Shryke more time to consider his answer to her proposition. Perhaps by Quarternight or Secondsun he would be recovered enough to consider taking up arms for them. But she didn’t want the reverend to lose confidence in the warrior. So, with a confused and worried heart, she chose silence. For a while she toyed with the idea of asking Lastag the Doctor to come to see Shryke; perhaps there were soothing balms or potions that might settle his angst? But Lastag was a cousin of Carlow, and worse, a gossip. Going to her would damage Shryke in ways that went beyond mere shivers.

  She bit into her knuckle, desperate to think of some way to get through to the hollowed-out warrior.

  She didn’t understand what had happened to him.

  Perhaps there were forces at work? Evils she didn’t dare guess at?

  The Assassins?

  Assassins use poisons, don’t they?

  Perhaps…

  Galdar heard footsteps approaching through the twilight. Determined footsteps. Shryke was unmoved as she saw her worst fears realised.

  Carlow with his branch and his twisted grimace of distaste.

  “I’ve told Yane all about him, you know.”

  Galdar wasn’t about to let Carlow get under her skin with his goading. Shryke needed her to deal with the things he couldn’t right now. She had to be his strength.

  “Told her what, exactly?”

  “About you and him.”

  She felt relief flood through her veins and relaxed. Carlow was still obsessed with the dark twist of his putrid imagination—good. Let him obsess about who she took into her bed. The more he stewed over that, the less likely he was to see the change in Shryke’s demeanour.

  “I saw you.”

  “Saw me what, Carlow? What has your jealous little brain dreamed up for us, eh?”

  Carlow spat with derision. “Jealous? Don’t make me laugh.”

  Galdar took a risk and stroked Shryke’s bicep. He stiffened, but didn’t move, “I’m sure a man like this could make us both very happy Carlow. What a specimen.”

  Galdar dropped her hand before Shryke could shoulder it away. He reached up again to pick away at the edges of the scab. She felt him tense beside her, wary. And not because of Carlow’s presence. He cocked his head as though listening to something on the wind.

  Galdar looked back to Carlow but tried to keep half an eye on what Shryke was doing.

  “Your filth won’t be able to pollute the Congregation much longer.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And how did you work that out? Yane isn’t going to banish either of us for falling in love…”

  Shryke did react at that, but not in the way Galdar intended. The trembling in his muscles intensified. She saw sweat breakout on his brow. He continued to listen intently, moving suddenly up onto his haunches…alert…ready.

  But for what?

  “Love! Ha! Don’t make me laugh. His kind don’t love anyone. He hasn’t even looked at you since I got here. Maybe you’re a good roll in the ferns, but nothing more to a man like him. You’re nothing!’

  Carlow fell back as Shryke leapt up, grabbing the battle-mace as he did so. “I am betrayed!” He rasped, so much pain in those three words she thought his heart would break.

  Four Assassins on horseback burst into the clearing, swords drawn and wearing faces like masks of death.

  They circled and hollered.

  “Over here! He’s here!” Carlow called to them and backed away with a smile as wide as his heart was tiny, levelling a finger at Shryke.

  And suddenly it was obvious why Carlow had been absent from the encampment all day.

  The worm!

  But before she could leap at Shryke’s betrayer and unleash all of her pent up and clawed fury, Shryke pushed her down onto the bedding and stood astride her, swinging the battle-mace.

  The Assassins, following Carlow’s call, kicked their spurs into their mounts’ flanks and galloped towards him.

  They were upon Shryke in seconds.

  The battle-mace sailed and whistled in the air, but whatever dread had over-taken him since last night had diminished him.

  The mace sailed through empty air.

  Shryke took the full force
of a shield to the side of the face, battering him to the ground.

  All around the campsite, the members of the Congregation began to run blindly for the deeper trees—anywhere that might hide them from the death come riding among them again.

  “They’re back!” Jacka screamed, “They’ve come back to finish us! Mercy my Lord! Mercy!”

  Shryke managed to get up on one knee, but only to meet an Assassin’s boot as it thundered full into his face rupturing gristle and bone as it drove him sprawling back into the mud.

  An ebony hand came out of nowhere, grabbed the battle-mace, and swung it with all the fury of the Gods.

  One moment she wasn’t there, the next she was.

  The woman with the ebony skin and braided hair, stepped into reality from the world beyond.

  And she was a demon.

  Or an angel.

  She was incredible. She fought with such ferocity, unleashing the fury of the seasons upon the four Assassins, ending them.

  Her eyes blazed and her mouth roared.

  Galdar couldn’t move. She was rooted to the dirt, sure she was about to become one with the earth she worshipped.

  But the ebony warrior pulled Shryke from the ground, lifting him easily to throw him over the back of a horse, and lashed him there with the reins before she whacked the beast on the backside, and sent it galloping off into the twilight.

  Before she disappeared, the warrior woman lifted Galdar into the saddle of another, said “Get to the Sun-Machine. The Dreaming Army is there. Make sure they stay asleep. Shryke will know what I mean. And girl...” Galdar didn’t know what was happening but the woman’s earnest and kind eyes told her all she needed to know about whether she should follow her instructions.

  “Y…yes?”

  “Attend to his neck. If you don’t, he will die.”

  With that, the woman warrior placed the mace in the saddlebag of the horse and disappeared.

  Without another thought, Galdar kicked the horse into motion and crashed on in to the trees.

  Chapter 20

  Summer’s outline shimmered.

  Her existence wiped out from top to bottom until the air was clear and all Barl could feel on his hand, where a millisecond ago her hand had been gripping his, was the impression of a ghost.

  But then…

  With a rush and a gust of chill, mountain air, redolent of pine needles and wood smoke, Summer was back as if she’d never been away.

  There was a sharp crackle of energy between their palms and Summer was blasted backwards on a massive thunderclap.

  She slammed into the crash-couch as the echo of sound reverberated through the tiny capsule, amplified by the walls encasing them.

  Barl sucked at his throbbing fingers and went to Summer.

  “What happened?”

  Summer shook her head, trying to shake off the confusion, and sat up. She scratched her scalp and looked at the readings on the chronometer she wore on her wrist. The dials spun crazily, the readouts spiralling in intense flashing green and red, in languages Barl had no hope of deciphering. “I have no idea.” Summer said, followed by a low whistle of incredulity. “But it was mental.... Where did you send me?”

  “Send you?”

  “Where did you visualise before you blasted me who knows where?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t send you anywhere.”

  Summer looked at him hard. “You didn’t?”

  Barl shook his head. “No. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t think about anywhere or visualise anything. One second I was holding your hand, waiting for you to tell me how to jump out of here, the next you were gone.”

  “For how long?”

  “Less than a second.”

  “Okay. That’s something, at least.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I don’t remember. It stank of horseshit though. Have I told you how much I hate horses?”

  For the next few minutes Summer paced around the capsule, scratching her head and tapping her chronometer. Eventually she stopped. “None of this makes any sense. I have no idea where I went. I have no memory of how long I was there, and no idea how I was brought back here. If you didn’t do it, who did. And why did they do it? Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to answer that.”

  “Good, because I’ve got no idea either.”

  Summer sat down, crossed her legs and held out her hand. “Right. Let’s try that again.”

  Wind blew across a blasted and exposed moor.

  A sick, red sun hung livid in a cloudless grey sky like an open wound.

  The air tasted foul.

  Barl wanted to spit the taste away.

  His feet were in wet, coarse, straw coloured grass.

  Mud and water squelched below him as he walked. The water soaked into the bottom of his trousers, filling his boots, and making his toes cold and uncomfortable. Against the horizon, where the sun hung as if hacked into the very sky, he saw the silhouettes of armies fighting. Bannered pikes swung and danced, swords hacked, and volleys of arrows flew into the air like startled field-birds, over and over and over, filling that vile grey sky with a deadly steel-tipped rain.

  The wind carried the clash and clang of steel.

  Huge dragons, flying on impossible wings circled the battle breathing gouts of smoky flame. The beasts were incredible. The membranes of their wings bloody red, stretched thin as they banked and turned, riding the thermals. Wicked incisors longer than he was tall, scales thicker than any manmade armour. How these things rode the air, even with the displacement caused by the beating of their mighty wings, never mind how their flight skimming across the heads of the warriors could be so majestic, was a miracle Barl didn’t think he’d ever understand.

  He didn’t know what he was doing here.

  He wasn’t a warrior.

  And yet, when he looked down at his hands, he was aghast to see a short sword, balanced for a boy, resting in his palm as if it was meant to be there.

  “Summer?” he called out.

  He looked around desperately hoping to see that she was near.

  The last thing he remembered was sitting in the escape capsule, Summer telling him to close his eyes. Anything after that was lost until the moment his eyes opened here on this plain, half a mile from a raging battle with a sword in his hand and his boots filling with water.

  “Summer!” He tried louder.

  A hand fell on his shoulder. “Come on kid, are you trying to get us killed already?”

  Summer stood next to him in the wet marshy grass. Her upper body was covered in a black breastplate, and armguards. She held a metal shield inscribed with an ornate dragon, and on her head, she wore a protective helm which seemed to match the grim face of the flying beasts above them.

  Summer fingered the material of Barl’s thin sweater. “We’ll need to teach you about the benefits of armour,” she said with a wry smile. “If we live that long.”

  “Where are we? Where have we travelled to?”

  “We haven’t travelled at all. Our bodies are still in the capsule. This is The Plain. This is the inner world. The Plain of Heroes. The world of panic and pain. This is where we draw the energy to weave codespells and ultimately where we source the magic we need to travel.”

  Barl couldn’t take it in. He looked around as the wind bit into him. The inner world? The Plain?

  “If we are lucky, we’ll find my Familiar quickly and she will grant us a quick death.”

  “That doesn’t sound very lucky.”

  “The alternative is being burned alive by dragon fire.”

  “In which case I hope we get lucky,” Barl said.

  Summer set off across the grassy tussocks, her armour reflecting the wide grey sky coldly in the dying light.

  Barl had no choice but follow.

  The battle raged below them on the plain.

  An endless sea of grey armour splashed with blood and ichor of all shades.

  The grass ran red.

 
Streams foamed crimson.

  As far as the eye could see, the armies tore at each other, blades biting deep, bones and flesh opened up. Barl counted a dozen different species of fighter in the near vicinity alone. Snarling dog-faced warriors, others with faces like balled leather fists, teeth and skin of every size and every hue. The weapons were bloody and rusted with age and stained by dead flesh. In the air, the dragons circled, breathing flame that scorched down across the ground turning that flesh and bone to cinder and ash as the majestic creatures flew on huge black wings. Volley after volley of arrows flew up from the field of battle, aimed at the dragons. They bounced off thick scales and skittered away harmlessly, answered by brutal gouts of flame that seared and scorched earth and archer just the same.

  The Plain was tundra cold, but the air around the battle steamed it was so hot. And thick with the stench of carnage.

  A litter of limbs and heads and entrails made a carpet of horror over which the warriors fought.

  Hacking. Stabbing. Killing.

  Barl was sick to the stomach just watching.

  Even the destruction of the Minular, with its ruptured Bantoscree and brutal detonations was nothing compared with the savagery of this battle.

  Barl looked again from the unfamiliarity of the sword up to the only point of understanding he could find in the whole nightmarish landscape—Summer—and even she in her black armour seemed changed. She was utterly different—as if the armour made her something more than Summer. Something more than who she really was.

  Or perhaps this was who she really was, and the Summer he knew was somehow reduced?

  “Why are we here?”

  “To die. Don’t you listen?”

  Summer took a small telescope from her belt, opened it and surveyed the field of battle. After a moment, she said, “Yes. There she is.”

  She snapped the telescope shut and returned it to her belt, “Come on, kid. Time to do this thing.”