Monsters of Men

by Patrick Ness

  “I’m telling you this because you shouldn’t think we’re beaten!” the Mayor yells. “This isn’t a victory for them. It’s merely a setback! We’ll still go after them, we’ll still–”

  And then there’s a sudden shriek in the air above us, whipping by like a bullet and–

  –the whole hillside explodes outwards like a volcano of dust and fire and the blast wave knocks me and the Mayor and Angharrad down to the ground and a hail of pebbles splatters down on top of us, big boulders landing nearby that could smash us flat–

  “What?!” the Mayor says, looking back up–

  The dry falls is collapsing into the emptied pool below, taking all the spinning fire Spackle with it, dust and smoke heaving into the sky as the zigzag road is obliterated, too, the whole front section of the hill tumbling down on itself, leaving a jagged wreck along the top–

  “Was that yer men?” I shout, my ears ringing from the boom. “Was that the artillery?”

  “We didn’t have time!” he shouts back, his eyes reading the destruckshun. “And we don’t have anything like that kind of power.”

  The first billows of smoke start to clear a little, showing a big, gaping funnel where the lip of the hill was, jagged rocks everywhere, a scar ripped right outta the hillside–

  And Viola, I think–

  “Indeed,” says the Mayor, realizing it, too, a sudden, ugly pleasure in his voice.

  And standing up in front of a field of dead soldiers, a field covered with the burnt remains of men I saw walking and talking not ten minutes before, men who fought and died for him, in a battle he started–

  In front of all of this–

  The Mayor says, “Your friends have joined the war.”

  And he smiles.

  Weapons of War

  (THE RETURN)

  The blast hits us all.

  The hill that overlooks the valley is torn from the earth. The archers of the Land are killed instantly, as are all the Land near the edge of the hill when it exploded, the Sky and I only saved by a matter of body-lengths.

  And the blast keeps on occurring, echoing through the voice of the Land, stretching back down the river, amplifying over and over until it seems to be continually happening, the shock of it roaring through us again and again and again, leaving the Land dazed as one, wondering what the sheer size of the explosion means.

  Wondering what will come next.

  Wondering if it will be big enough to kill us all.

  The Sky stopped the river shortly after the sun rose. He sent a message through the Pathways to the Land who were building the dam far upriver, telling them to raise their final walls, drop their final stones, turn the river back onto itself. The river began to subside, slowly at first, then faster and faster until the arcs of colour thrown up by the spray of the waterfall disappeared and the vast width of the river became a muddy plain. As the sound of rushing water vanished, we could hear the voices of the Clearing raised in bafflement and fear at the bottom of the hill.

  And then came the hour of the archers, and our eyes went with them. They had slipped beneath the falls under cover of darkness, waiting until the sun rose and the water stopped.

  And then they raised their weapons and fired.

  Every part of the Land watched as it happened, seeing through the eyes of the archers as the burning blades tore through the Clearing, as the Clearing ran and screamed and died. We watched as one as our victory unfolded, watched as they were powerless to retaliate–

  And then came the sudden tearing in the air, the whoosh of something moving so fast it was sensed more than seen, a final, thudding flash that filled the mind and soul and voice of every member of the Land, signalling that our apparent victory would come at a cost, that the Clearing had bigger weapons than we thought, that now they would use them to destroy us all–

  But further explosions do not come.

  The vessel that flew over us, I show to the Sky when the Land begins to stumble to its feet again. He helps me up from where the blast knocked us back, neither of us hurt more than small cuts but the ground around us littered with bodies of the Land.

  The vessel, the Sky agrees.

  We go right to work, fearing a second blast every moment. He sends out commands to the Land for immediate regrouping, and I help him move the wounded to healing crèches, a new camp already organizing itself farther up the dry riverbed even in the early moments after the blast because that is what the Sky has ordered, a place for the voice of the Land to gather itself together again, to become one again.

  But not too far up the riverbed. The Sky wants the Clearing still in physical sight, even though the hill is so destroyed now there is no longer space for an army to march down it, unless it were to climb down single file.

  There are other ways, he shows to me, and already I can hear the messages being passed from him to the Pathways, messages that rearrange where the body of the Land rests, messages that tell it to start moving along roads that the Clearing is unaware of.

  It is strange, he shows, hours later, when we finally stop to eat and a second blast has still not come. To fire once, but not again.

  Maybe they only had the one weapon, I show. Or they know that such weapons are useless against the force of a backed-up river. If they destroy us, we will release it and destroy them.

  Mutually assured destruction, the Sky says, words that catch oddly in his voice, like foreign things. His voice turns in on itself for a long moment, searching deep within the voice of the Land, looking for answers.

  Then he stands. The Sky must leave the Return for now.

  Leave? I show. But there is work to do–

  There are things the Sky must first do alone. He looks down on my bewilderment. Meet me by my steed at dusk.

  Your steed? I show, but he is already walking away.

  As the afternoon dwindles away, I do as the Sky asks and walk back up the dry riverbed, past the cookfires and healing crèches, past the Land’s soldiers, recovering after the blast, tending to their weapons, readying themselves for the next attack, and mourning the body of the Land that died.

  But the Land must also keep living, and as I get far enough upriver from the blast site, I pass members of the Land regurgitating the materials used to build new bivouacs, with several huts already reaching their way into the still smoky evening. I walk by the Land tending to flocks of whitebirds and scriven, part of our living larder. I walk by the bivouacs of grain and the fish stores, replenished now from the emptied river. I walk past the Land digging new latrine holes and even through a group of young ones singing the songs that will teach them how to sort out the history of the Land from all the voices, how to turn and twist and weave the mass of sound into one single voice that will tell them who they are, always and for ever.

  A song whose language I still struggle to speak, even when the Land talks to me at the pace they would to one of those children.

  I walk through the singing until I find myself at the paddock of the battlemores.

  Battlemores.

  They were always creatures of legend to me, seen only in the voices of the Burden as I grew, in dreams and tales and histories of the war that left us with the Clearing. I half-believed they were fantasies, exaggerated monsters that either did not exist at all or would be grave disappointments in the flesh.

  I was wrong. They are magnificent. Huge and white, except when covered in clay battle armour. Even without it, their hides are thick and formed into hard plates. They are nearly as wide as I am tall, with a broad back that can easily be stood upon, the Land using the traditional foot saddles to stay upright.

  The Sky’s steed is biggest of all. The horn that thrusts up from its nose is longer than my entire body. It also has a rare secondary horn as well, one that only grows on the leader of the herd.

  Return, it shows as I approach the paddock fence. The only word of the Burden it knows, taught it by the Sky, no doubt. Return, it shows, and it is gentle, welcoming. I reach out and place a h
and in the space between its horns, rubbing gently with my fingers. It closes its eyes with pleasure.

  That is a weakness of the Sky’s steed, shows the Sky, coming up behind me. No, do not stop.

  Is there news? I show, taking my hand away. Have you made a decision?

  He sighs at my impatience. The Clearing’s weapons are stronger than ours, he shows. If there are more, the Land will die in waves.

  They have already killed thousands these years past. They will kill thousands more even if we do nothing.

  We will continue with our original plan, the Sky shows. We have shown our new strength and driven them back. We control the river which deprives them of water and lets them know we can drown them at any moment should we release it all at once. And now, we will see how they respond.

  I stand up straighter, my voice rising. “See how they respond”? What possible good can–?

  I stop, as a thought comes, a thought that stops all other thoughts.

  You do not mean, I show, stepping forward. You cannot mean that you will see if they offer a peaceful solution–

  He shifts his stance. The Sky has never shown that.

  You promised they would be destroyed! I show. Does the slaughter of the Burden mean nothing to you?

  Calm yourself, he shows and for the first time, his voice is commanding me. I will take your counsel and experience, but I will do what is best for the Land.

  What was best once before was leaving the Burden behind! As slaves!

  We were a different Land then, he shows, under a different Sky and with different skills and weapons. We are better now. Stronger. We have learned much.

  And yet you would still make peace–

  I have not shown that either, young friend. His voice is growing calmer, more soothing. But there are more vessels coming, are there not?

  I blink at him.

  You have told us this. You heard it yourself in the voice of the Knife. There is a convoy of vessels coming with more weapons like the one fired today. These things must be taken into account for the long-term life of the Land.

  I do not respond. I keep my voice to myself.

  And so, for now, we will move the body of the Land into an advantageous position and we will wait. The Sky walks to his steed and scratches its nose. They will soon find they cannot live without water. They will make their move, and even if it involves another weapon like today’s, we will be ready for it. He turns to me. And the Return will not be disappointed.

  As dusk turns to night, we return to the Sky’s own campfire. And as the Land and the Sky turn towards sleep, as the Clearing makes no move below us to attack again, I layer my voice to obscure it like I learned from a lifetime with the Clearing, and within it, I examine two things.

  Mutually assured destruction, showed the Sky.

  Convoy, showed the Sky.

  Words in the language of the Burden, words in the language of the Clearing.

  But a phrase I do not know. A word I have never used.

  Words that are not from the long memory of the Land.

  They are new words. I could almost smell the freshness on them.

  As the night pulls in and the siege of the Clearing begins, that is what I keep hidden in my voice.

  The Sky left me today, to be alone, as the Sky occasionally does. It is a need of the Sky, of any Sky.

  But he returned with new words.

  So where did he hear them?

  {VIOLA}

  “I thought you were hit,” I say, putting my head in my hands. “I saw one of those things hitting a horse and a rider and I thought it was you.” I look back up at him, tired and shivery. “I thought they’d killed you, Todd.”

  He opens his arms and I press into him and he holds onto me, just holds onto me while I cry. We’re sitting next to a fire the Mayor’s built in the square, where the army’s making its new camp, the less than half of it that’s left after the attack of the spinning fires.

  The attack that stopped after I fired a missile.

  I came racing down on Acorn immediately after the blast, riding through the square, shouting Todd’s name until I found him. And there he was, his Noise still shocked and even more blurry from another battle, but alive.

  Alive.

  Something I changed the whole world to make sure of.

  “I’d have done the same,” Todd says into my head.

  “No, you don’t understand.” I pull away a little bit. “If they’d hurt you, if they’d killed you . . .” I swallow hard. “I’d have killed every last one of them.”

  “I’d do the same, Viola,” he says again. “Without even thinking twice.”

  I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “I know, Todd,” I say. “But does that make us dangerous?”

  Even through the blur, his Noise gets a confused feeling to it. “How do you mean?”

  “Bradley keeps saying war can’t be personal,” I say. “But I dragged them into this war because of you.”

  “They’d have had to do something eventually, if they’re half as nice as you say–”

  My voice rises. “But I gave them no choice–”

  “Stop it.” And he pulls me to him again.

  “Everything all right?” the Mayor says, coming over to us.

  “Go away,” Todd says.

  “At least allow me to say thank you to Viola–”

  “I said–”

  “She saved our lives, Todd,” he says, standing a bit too close. “With one simple action, she changed everything. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”

  And in Todd’s arms, I go really still.

  “Leave us alone,” I hear Todd say. “Now.”

  There’s a pause and then the Mayor says, “Very well, Todd. I’ll be over here if you need me.”

  I look up at Todd as the Mayor leaves. “If you need me?”

  Todd shrugs. “He coulda just let me die. It woulda made things easier for him if I wasn’t hanging around. But he didn’t. He saved me.”

  “He’ll have a reason,” I say. “And not a good one.”

  Todd doesn’t answer, just takes a long look at the Mayor, who’s talking to his men but watching us, too.

  “Your Noise is still hard to read,” I say. “Even more than before.”

  Todd’s eyes don’t quite meet mine. “It was the battle,” he says. “All that screaming–”

  And I hear something, deep in his Noise, something about a circle–

  “But are you okay?” he asks. “You don’t look good, Viola.”

  And now I’m the one who turns away, and I realize I’m unconsciously pulling my sleeve down. “Lack of sleep,” I say.

  But it’s a weird moment, like there’s something not quite truthful hanging in the air for both of us.

  I reach into my bag. “Take this,” I say, handing him my comm. “To replace yours. I’ll get a new one when I get back.”

  He looks surprised. “Yer going back?”

  “I have to. It’s full-out war now and it’s my fault. I’m the one who fired that missile. I have to make it right–”

  And I get upset again because I keep seeing it in my mind. Todd safe in the viewscreen, not dead after all, and the army getting out of range of the spinning fires.

  The attack was over.

  And I fired anyway.

  And dragged Simone and Bradley and the whole convoy into war, one that might now be ten times worse.

  “I’d have done the same, Viola,” Todd says, one more time.

  And I know he’s saying nothing but the truth.

  But as he hugs me again before I leave, I can’t help but think it over and over.

  If this is what Todd and I would do for each other, does that make us right?

  Or does it make us dangerous?

  [TODD]

  The days that follow are kinda scarily quiet.

  A night and a day and another night pass after the spinning fire attack and nothing happens. Nothing from the Spackle up the hill, even tho we can st
ill see their campfires glowing in the night. Nothing from the scout ship neither. Viola’s told them all about what kinda man the Mayor is. They’ll wait till he comes to them, I guess, and send whatever messages thru me. The Mayor don’t seem in no hurry. Why should he? He got what he wanted without even having to ask.

  In the meantime, he’s placed a heavy guard around New Prentisstown’s one big water tank on a side street just off the square. He’s also had soldiers start to gather up the town’s food and put it into an old stable next to the tank to make a foodstore. All under his control, of course, and at the edge of his new camp.

  Also in the square.

  I’d have thought he’d take over nearby houses, but he said he preferred a tent and a fire, saying it felt more like proper war out in the open with the army’s Noise ROARing its way around him. He even took one of Mr Tate’s uniforms and had it fixed for himself so he was a spiffy new general again.

  But he also had a tent set up for me across from him and the captains. Like I was one of his important men. Like I was worth the life he came back to save. He even put in a cot for me to sleep on, to finally sleep on after being awake thru two straight days of battle. It seemed almost embarrassing to sleep, and practically impossible to do in the middle of a war. But I was so tired I slept anyway.

  And dreamed of her.

  Dreamed of when she came looking for me after the blast and how I held her when she got upset and how her hair stank a little and her clothes were sweaty and how she somehow felt both hot and cold, but it was her, it was her in my arms–

  “Viola,” I say, waking up again, my breath clouding in the cold.

  I breathe heavy for a second or two, then get up and outta my tent. I head straight over to Angharrad and press my face against her warm horsey side.

  “Morning,” I hear.

  I look up. The young soldier who’s been bringing Angharrad fodder since we set up camp has arrived with her early feed.