Ashes of the Sun

by Django Wexler

  Maybe we won’t need it. Maybe Naumoriel would fulfill his side of the bargain. But if not, then at least we’ll have an option.

  Late that evening, when Kit slipped into his tent, he told her what he’d done. She kissed him and called him brilliant before she went for his trousers again. After an enthusiastic interval, she fell asleep by his side, nestled in the crook of his arm. She looked younger when she was sleeping, without the swagger and the cocky smile, pale skin smooth and broken by a dozen small scars, body lithe and muscled, with only the barest hint of breasts and curves. He worked his fingers into her short blue hair, and she grumbled and shifted in her sleep.

  The kind of partners who spend time naked together. Gyre smiled at her description. Is that what we are?

  Eventually, he fell asleep. In the morning, Naumoriel led them past the junction of the nameless river with another, and they clambered over a field of rocks to enter a valley, now moving upstream. Not long after, it became clear to Gyre that their real journey had only just started.

  “Duck!” Kit shouted.

  Gyre threw himself flat. A blaster bolt crackled overhead, detonating against a looming plaguespawn the size of a bear. The explosion tore off a long limb, halfway between an arm and a tentacle, which held one of the soldier-constructs in a death grip. Another pair of constructs hacked at the thing from behind, severing enough of its many legs that it toppled sideways with a wet-sounding bellow.

  One down. There had been two of the giants in the horde of bone-and-muscle monstrosities, standing out among their smaller brethren like boulders in a sea of pebbles. Gyre had never seen a plaguespawn that large, nor had he ever heard of the things attacking in vast packs. Since they’d passed into the hidden valley, all the usual rules had apparently gone out the window.

  This stretch of riverbank was a mass of struggling constructs and plaguespawn, two sets of inhuman creatures animated by dhaka striving to tear each other to pieces. The constructs were bigger and stronger, with stone-and-metal plating covered in spikes and blades, and individually they were more than a match for the haphazard monsters. But there were so many plaguespawn, dozens of smaller creatures backed up by a few of the larger varieties, including these latest monsters taller than Gyre. Four times so far the wave of fleshy things had descended on them, and four times they’d fought their way free, but the constructs were falling one by one, pulled down like lions fighting packs of dogs.

  This fifth attack was the worst yet. At first, Gyre had barely had to draw his sword. Now he and Kit fought for their lives alongside Naumoriel and his inhuman creations.

  Naumoriel himself, in his enormous war-construct, grappled with the second giant plaguespawn. One of his claw-arms had sliced deep into its body, but the thing had thrown several other limbs around it, and the ghoul couldn’t get free. His other claw snapped and dodged, keeping back a dozen reaching tendrils trying to pry open his canopy.

  Fucking plaguefire. Gyre concentrated and felt the click from his skull. The energy bottle at his side grew warm, and the struggling constructs were wreathed in layers of shadow. The silver sword buzzed in his hand, and he sprinted toward Naumoriel with long, loping strides.

  There were a dozen smaller plaguespawn separating them. A construct was dogpiled under three of them, struggling to rise. Gyre fell on them like a whirlwind, his sword lashing out on neatly plotted trajectories to intersect the monsters’ makeshift bodies with maximum violence. One of the three came apart at one blow, separated into two shuddering halves, and the second lurched away missing most of its inside-out head. The third swung at him with broad claws, but Gyre felt like he had all the time in the world to duck under them, shadows passing over his head. He thrust his sword up into the thing’s guts, then twisted it to let stolen viscera gush out.

  More of them came at him, two or three together, working side by side with unnatural coordination. Only his speed and the shadows projected by his silver eye kept him safe, while the ghoul blade he wielded was sharper and lighter than it had any right to be. He left wreckage in his wake as he closed in on the remaining giant.

  One of the larger stone-constructs stumbled in front of him, crushing a struggling plaguespawn between its outstretched hands. Gyre swarmed up it, gripping its rocky surface with his free hand and pulling himself onto its shoulders. From there, without pausing, he leapt for the plaguespawn’s back, sword outthrust to make a handhold. For a moment he hung there, the thing’s muscle shifting and rubbery under his fingers. Then he started to climb, boots slipping, using his sword to brace himself. By the time he got to the top of the thing, its tentacles were reaching for him. He dropped into a crouch and intercepted them, one by one, drawing a neat line across their shadow-path and sending them spinning away.

  Free of the need to defend itself, Naumoriel’s construct gathered its strength and went on the offensive, giving the plaguespawn a shove that nearly sent Gyre toppling off. As it staggered, the construct thrust its other clawed arm into the core of the thing, blades cutting into a massive clutch of eyes. Black blood gushed forth, and the plaguespawn weaved drunkenly, its legs spasming. Gyre jumped clear, hit the ground in a roll, and popped back up, looking for his next opponent, only to find none remaining.

  “Kit!” He looked around for the familiar shock of blue hair. “Kit, are you all right?”

  Finally he spotted her, one arm waving to him from the other side of a downed construct. Gyre sheathed his sword and switched off his augmented perception with a click. A glance at his energy bottle showed that it was nearly empty—he’d brought four with him, and this was the second he’d exhausted in these fights.

  He found Kit with her saber laid across her knees, back to the construct’s mutilated body, breathing hard. She was covered in blood, both black and alarmingly red, the latter coming from a slash across her midsection and another on her biceps.

  “Chosen defend,” Gyre said, kneeling to help her. “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah.” She waved her free hand vaguely, panting. “Not as bad as it looks. Just. Winded.” She touched her stomach and winced, her fingers coming away sticky. “Ow.”

  “Hang on.” Gyre bent closer, peering at the wound. “That needs stitching and quickheal, at least.”

  “Not sure our taskmaster will give us the time.” Kit nodded at Naumoriel’s war-construct, which had shaken itself free of the dying plaguespawn. Other constructs, in obedience to his silent instructions, were forming up, ready to continue the march.

  “Plague that.” Gyre took Kit’s hand and pulled her to her feet, sending a fresh wash of blood into her already sodden shirt. They walked together over to Naumoriel. “Hey!” Gyre said.

  “Humans,” Naumoriel’s distorted voice answered. “We proceed up the valley.”

  “Kit’s hurt,” Gyre said. “She needs to rest. Plague, I need to rest.”

  “We have no time.” One smaller arm waved at the assembled constructs. There were less than a dozen left. “Our forces are depleted. The plaguespawn will return. We must reach the head of the valley. If she cannot continue, leave her.”

  “No,” Gyre said. “She comes with us. You promised you’d help her, once we finish this.”

  “If we delay, none of us will survive.”

  Gyre thought of the remote trigger, buried in his pack, and gritted his teeth. “Then, do something about it!”

  The canopy opened. The construct’s two smaller arms reached in and brought Naumoriel down to ground level, holding him face-to-face with Gyre.

  “There is a limit,” the old ghoul said, “to the insolence I will tolerate from your kind.”

  “You’re welcome to leave me behind, too,” Gyre said. “But you won’t, will you?” He tapped the brow above his silver eye. “You gave me this because you knew we’d need it to get here.”

  “Do not overestimate your importance. I was merely determined to make use of every available resource.” He sighed. “However, given our depleted state, I cannot deny your contribution. Here.” />
  He extended a hand and placed it on Kit’s forehead. She gasped, and Gyre watched the long cut on her stomach knot and close, as though it had never been. Naumoriel withdrew, and the construct’s tentacles lifted him up again.

  “Conserve your energy as much as you can,” the ghoul said. “I do not have much left to spare if you run low.”

  “I will.” Gyre inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “We proceed.” Naumoriel looked up the valley, then over his shoulder. “We are nearly there, but we do not have much time.”

  As his canopy resealed and the war-construct stalked off, Gyre bent beside Kit. “Doing all right?”

  “Yeah.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “That was… weird.” She looked up at him and swallowed. “Thanks. You could have let him leave me.”

  “Partners, right?”

  “Right.” Kit grinned. “Nearly there, he said?”

  “Let’s hope.”

  This valley was much like the other, scrub grass and small trees, but there was no sign of any goats or rabbits, no animals larger than an insect. That was hardly a mystery, though, given the plaguespawn. The ground sloped steadily upward, sometimes in rocky patches they had to scramble past, which the ghoul constructs handled with surprising agility.

  They skirted an outcrop of boulders, where the valley’s little stream burbled into a broad pool, and found themselves looking at a flat wall of rock, perhaps a half kilometer off across a stretch of scrub grass. Above it, a mountain rose steeply to a jagged, snowcapped peak.

  “There it is.” Even distorted by his construct, Gyre could hear the satisfaction in Naumoriel’s voice. “At last.”

  “It, um. Doesn’t look like much,” Kit said.

  “There is a door into the mountain,” Naumoriel said. “I will open it.”

  “I think you should hurry,” Gyre said, looking over his shoulder.

  Plaguespawn crowded the valley behind them. There were dozens, hundreds of the twisted things, in every possible size and shape, bones and muscles and eyes combined at the whim of a mad sculptor and brought to horrifying, shuddering life. The largest of the beasts glided through the swarm, the others parting around them like a silent wake. Gyre counted two—three—five of them, each the size of Naumoriel’s war-construct, walking on multiple legs with long, twisted arms wrapped in skeins of bone armor.

  “We can’t fight that,” Gyre said.

  “We do not have to,” Naumoriel said. He still sounded calm. “We only have to reach the door. Now, run.”

  Gyre met Kit’s eyes, and they ran.

  The war-construct was slow to accelerate, but it gradually picked up speed, legs moving in a blur as it stomped through the grass. Gyre put his head down, arms pumping, but he felt the upward slope cutting into his pace. Kit darted ahead of him, lighter on her feet. The remaining constructs brought up the rear.

  The plaguespawn came after them like a horde of locusts. The fastest took the lead, bounding like wolves. Teeth clattered and gnashed, and claws of splintered bone unfolded. Four of Naumoriel’s constructs peeled off and threw themselves in the path of the leading monsters, smashing the lightly built plaguespawn to bits, but the lead wave simply parted around them to continue the pursuit. A few moments later, one of the giants arrived, its huge claws cracking rock and metal to tear the constructs asunder.

  Halfway there. Gyre was falling behind, Naumoriel’s construct surging ahead like a runaway wagon, Kit hard on its heels. He concentrated, and with a click in his skull the world went slow and shadowy. His steps became leaps, as though gravity had gotten lazy.

  Another seven constructs turned and planted themselves in the path of the plaguespawn, leaving only a pair beside Naumoriel. The war-construct had nearly reached the wall, and it planted its legs stiffly and slewed to a halt less than a meter from the rock. Its tentacle-arm brought up a small, flat-ended device that Gyre recognized as a ghoul code-key, like the one Kit had used to open the way to the destabilizer. Naumoriel pressed the thing against the wall, and something deep inside shuddered to life. The ground shook under Gyre’s feet.

  Slowly—too slowly—the rock began to part. Kit turned and started firing her blaster at plaguespawn only moments behind them, blowing three of them apart before her sunsplinter went dry and the weapon emitted only a thin whine. Gyre drew his sword, watching the shadow-paths of the coursing monsters multiplying like a wave.

  “Inside!” Naumoriel bellowed. He’d turned his war-construct around, swinging its massive claws in horizontal arcs that sent the broken bodies of plaguespawn tumbling. “Now!”

  Kit needed no urging. She holstered her blaster and ran for it, darting between the legs of the war-construct and through the gap in the rock. Gyre went after her, ducking under the swipe of a claw as it left shadow-trails across his vision. It was dark beyond the door, but his silver eye showed him a vast, high-ceilinged space, and—

  He was on his knees. What? There was a click, and the world of shadow-lines faded. Then the vision from his silver eye went black, leaving him with only the thin line of daylight from the doors behind them.

  “Gyre?” Kit skidded to a halt. “Gyre, what’s wrong?”

  I… I can’t… He couldn’t move, as though his limbs were lined with lead. Couldn’t speak. Unconsciousness beckoned, like a deep, black sea.

  “Naumoriel!” Kit said.

  Dimly, Gyre saw the war-construct back through the door. With a grinding crunch, the rock face abruptly reversed its motion, the huge slabs sliding closed again. Naumoriel’s claws smashed the plaguespawn that threw themselves at the gap, driving them back, and his two surviving constructs handled anything that got past their master. A moment later, the doors closed, with a spurt of black blood from the desperate plaguespawn caught in the gap.

  “Naumoriel!” Kit shouted. “Something’s wrong with Gyre!”

  “I expect his energy bottle is exhausted,” the ghoul said as his war-construct turned delicately about. “Replace it.”

  Gyre fought for consciousness as Kit rummaged in his pack. He felt her pull the bottle away from his side and fasten another to the strap on his belt. As soon as it was close enough to his skin, it grew warm, and he could feel power flowing into him. His silver eye flickered to life again, pushing back the darkness.

  “Gyre?” Kit said, standing back. “Are you okay?”

  Gyre tried to speak and nearly vomited. He swallowed hard, nodded, and pushed himself to his feet, swaying a little.

  “I’m…” He swallowed again. “All right. I should have switched that out earlier.”

  “I didn’t realize it would hit you so badly,” Kit said, handing him the exhausted bottle. Its glow was totally dead.

  “Neither did I,” Gyre said. “Remind me not to do that again.” He took a long breath, stomach settling. “Are you okay?”

  “So far.” She rummaged in her pouch and came up with a vial of nighteye, adding a drop to each of her eyes. After blinking for a moment, she stared around with huge, dark pupils. “Wow. This place is… big.”

  “It is unique,” Naumoriel said. “We had never attempted anything like it before, and certainly nothing like it has been constructed since.” The canopy of his war-construct popped open, and he took a deep breath of the cold, dusty air. His undistorted voice echoed from the distant walls. “Welcome to the Leviathan’s Womb.”

  Chapter 24

  Maya had never traveled into the Shattered Peak mountains, except for her brief foray to Deepfire, but from everything she’d heard she expected it to be a difficult and dangerous affair. They’d agreed that speed was of the essence, so she’d used the bulk of her travel funds to buy three swiftbirds in Grace, and stocked up on supplies and maps to supplement Marn’s mumbled directions. Unlike the crossing from Uqaris, once they were away from Grace, the land was sparsely populated, so she and Tanax could protect the party from plaguespawn without risking exposure as centarchs. When they’d ridden out through Grace’s considerably less busy northern g
ate, just skirting the unmetal hull of Grace in Execution, Maya had prepared herself for a rigorous trip.

  Instead, if anything, the journey had become more pleasant as they went along. The foothills of the mountains rose rapidly north of Grace, and they left the stifling heat of the plains behind. Maya’s swiftbird was a friendly, biddable creature named Blackbar for the color of her tail feathers, and her long, loping pace devoured the distance and coped easily with the rocky ground. Contrary to their name, swiftbirds were slower than a warbird over short distances, but they had much greater endurance, and Blackbar seemed to be able to maintain her steady stride indefinitely.

  With the maps and a little guesswork, Maya surmised it was a five-day ride to the place Marn had specified, the foot of a tiny nameless valley at the bottom of a jagged mountain called Cracktooth. Away from the main passes, the map grew vague, but according to Marn all they had to do was find the outlet of a certain stream and follow it as it wound its way upward. Finding the right stream, in a mountain range full of little creeks fed by snowmelt, might be a challenge, but Maya was determined to try.

  In any event, that was for the fifth day. Until then, they rode quietly up wooded hillsides, following animal tracks or bare ridges where they could, and pushing through the forest when there was no other way. It never grew so dense that they were really troubled, nor steep enough that it bothered the birds, and if there were plaguespawn in the area they didn’t show themselves. The latter, in fact, became almost eerie—Maya had done most of her traveling in the Republic, but based on everything she’d read and heard, they should have encountered at least a few of the awful creatures. When she mentioned it to Tanax, he only shrugged.

  “Maybe they all migrate down toward Grace,” he offered, “where there are more humans to eat? Or maybe someone came through and hunted them out recently.”