Scar Night

by Alan Campbell

  “The outriders have returned,” Bataba said.

  The horsemen had broken through the infantry and reined in before a group of command tents situated behind the bulk of the army.

  “At least we know where Clay is,” Devon observed, “or wants us to think he is.”

  They didn’t have long to wait after the outriders had delivered their report. Buglers echoed commands through the lines of troops, and the armies of Deepgate rippled into motion.

  Hundreds of banners split aside and streamed to east or west. Rear cavalry units moved into flanking positions. Reservist infantry assembled into blocks between them, bristling with spears and pikes. Lines of pitch fire tore through the sand before ranks of archers and arbalests. Aether-lights flared in unison high above, and Deepgate’s warships started to converge, moving into position for a concentrated assault.

  The plain before them now levelled. Rocks popped and crumbled beneath the Tooth’s tracks, reduced to dust in the face of the great machine. Engines thundered. But to Devon these noises seemed distant, blanketed by a heavy silence in his mind.

  He waited. The Tooth rocked and juddered, slowly building speed, flattening everything in its path. Caravan tracks crisscrossed the desolate ground before them like old wounds. The stars seemed to wink in approval. Deepgate’s fire-lit trunks of smoke grew nearer.

  Still he waited.

  Soon enough the warships arrived, and the battle began.

  A colossal boom like a thunderclap sounded overhead, followed by a prolonged crackling. The desert flickered orange and red. Gouts of flame fizzed past the bridge windows and blackened the glass. Phosphor smoke seethed in their wake. But the Tooth shrugged off this attack as though it were summer rain.

  Boom, crackle, fizz.

  Two hundred yards ahead, a second shower of fire fell from the night sky.

  “They have missed,” the shaman said.

  “No.” Devon knew what was coming.

  All at once, the Deadsands burst into flame. For a quarter of a league to either side there was nothing but a lake of fire.

  “The ground is on fire!” Bataba cried. “Go around! Go around!” He groped for the control levers.

  Devon elbowed him aside, and maintained his course, driving the Tooth straight for the flames. “Calm yourself. They want us to hesitate here. They want to steer us aside. Spine will then try to board.”

  The shaman’s face had paled. Sweat beaded his furrowed brow and trickled down across his tattoos. He rubbed at the scar around his missing eye as if it were a fresh wound.

  “Afraid of fire, shaman?” Devon shouted over the mountainous rumble of the tracks and the roar of approaching flames.

  “We’ll roast alive!”

  “Only if we stop.”

  The Tooth ploughed on into the inferno. Smoke churned and boiled beyond the bridge’s forward windows. Embers streamed upwards in spiralling torrents. There was a snap, and one of the windowpanes cracked from side to side.

  “This is madness,” the shaman hissed.

  “Keep calm!”

  But smoke was now pouring through the cracked window, billowing across the ceiling. Bataba hunched beside Devon and breathed frantically through his headscarf. Tears streamed from his remaining eye. The Heshette councillors retreated, coughing, to the rear of the bridge.

  “Seal that crack!” Devon yelled. “If they drop gas now…”

  Bataba relayed the order to a runner waiting by the door. Moments later a tribesman appeared with a tub of thick, grey bone-gum. Flinching back from the heat, he set to work sealing the damaged window.

  The Tooth surged on, even deeper into the flames.

  Devon started to sweat as the temperature rose, the throttle feeling slick in his palm. His lungs rejected the poisonous air, and he vomited, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Men were barking orders in the corridors behind them. After plugging the window the tribesman staggered back, gabardine smoking. A runner appeared, muttered something quickly to the shaman, and disappeared. “A unit of Spine has landed on the roof,” Bataba said. “They tried to get in through the rear stairwell. They have been repelled.”

  A frantic tapping sound came from somewhere behind, then a shout: “Bolts!”

  Steel barbs rattled against the forward grille like sheeting hail. Further explosions shook the bridge as the warships renewed their bombardment.

  Boom, crackle, fizz.

  Smoke blotted the view of the Deadsands completely. Tongues of flame licked the scorched glass. The heat grew intolerable. Devon kept the throttle hard forward, squeezing every ounce of power from the Tooth’s labouring engines.

  Bataba was on his knees, gasping. “We’re burning.”

  “The tar they dropped on our hull is burning,” Devon replied. “It will burn itself out soon.”

  But the shaman had a fevered look in his eye. “We have to turn back,” he cried. “Try another path.”

  “No,” Devon said. “We’re not stopping. We’re almost through.”

  “Turn back!”

  “Control yourself. Look!”

  Through a break in the smoke they saw Deepgate’s army marching. A forest of spears. Armour and shields flowed towards them like a tide of molten metal. The blackened bones of mangonels and scorpions stood out against the fire-lit smog behind. Even now, siege engineers were igniting the payloads on the mangonels, winding tension into the great bows of the scorpions. Closer, riders surged in from the flanks and loosed crossbow bolts that pinged and shattered against the window grille.

  And then they were out of the fire, and into cool, dark sand. Drums began to beat a low, steady rhythm.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  A bugle piped. The scorpions unleashed their spines. Iron-tipped shafts smashed against the hull a heartbeat later. Devon felt the throttle shudder in his grip.

  “Runner!” Bataba yelled.

  “Dawnside breach,” came the frantic reply. “The hatch is off.”

  “Fix it!”

  “Don’t touch those shafts,” Devon shouted above the din. “If they aren’t on fire, they’re saturated with poison.”

  The shaman shouted the order but a second barrage from the scorpions drowned out any acknowledgement. Drums pounded; deeper, faster.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  The tar on the hull had almost burned away. Through the charred glass Devon saw a boiling sea of armour, of spiked and visored helms, glittering swords and shields. Spears rippled as far as the horizon. Banners of black and gold snapped in the wind. Warships lit the sky with frenzied flashes of aether-light.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  At another cry from the bugle, a battery of mangonel arms came up with a thunk. Burning barrels and huge clay pots arced upwards, trailing smoke and tails of flame. A sound like a sigh filled the air. From the corner of his eye Devon saw Bataba back away.

  “Grab hold of something,” he warned.

  He didn’t turn to see if the shaman obeyed. Suddenly pitch and phosphor exploded ahead of them and bleached the forward windows. The bridge shuddered.

  Devon felt the engines skip a beat. He eased the throttle, then pushed forward hard. Bataba shot him a stern glance. Devon returned it warily. The Tooth juddered and lurched, then resumed its steady, rumbling progress. But something was wrong: the engine sound was coarser now, stuttering.

  Teams of engineers were using hoists to reload the scorpions and mangonels, ratcheting the range adjusters, igniting heavy drums with dripping torches. A thousand silhouetted figures crowded the ridge before the city, black against the burning horizon. Behind the marching infantry, strings of bowmen dipped arrows into trenches of flaming pitch, raised them high, and loosed them. Countless yellow arcs cut through the sky and fell, whining, before exploding against the Tooth’s hull.

  The engines stuttered again, seemed to pause, then lurched back to something less than full power.

  “What’s wrong?” Bataba demanded.

  “The engine is overheating.”

 
“Can you fix it?”

  “No time.”

  Crackle. The scorpions discharged their spines once more, and moments later the heavy shafts pummelled the huge machine.Crack, crack, crack . Devon flinched at the successive impacts. Panicked shouting came from the corridors behind, then screams of agony. The Heshette had found and touched the poisoned, serrated spines.

  “I told you to keep them away from those things,” Devon growled.

  “They’ve breached through to the inner walls. The corridors are blocked!”

  “Then cover them before you try to remove them!”

  Ssssssss.

  A second volley of flaming arrows swept up, arced, and fell like a shower of stars. Then the archers withdrew and broke aside to the east and west. Hundreds more infantry poured forward from behind. They were pushing siege-towers. To the sides, heavy cavalry raced to join the advance cavalry. A barrage of crossbow bolts lanced up from both units. Devon could hear the infantry now, the crunch of armoured boots, the rumble of massive siege-tower wheels.

  “We’re now inside ballistic range,” he cried. “The troops will engage.”

  Boom, boom, boom. The drums quickened.

  “Archers on the roof!” Bataba shouted. “Prepare to repel boarders.”

  The Tooth jolted, dipped forward, groaned, and slowed.

  “Trenches,” Devon said. He slammed the throttle back to full. Engines screamed. Bolts and arrows smashed to fragments against the window grille. The Tooth levelled, tilted back, then slewed sideways. Curtains of sand sprayed over the advancing infantry.

  But the machine began to climb, Deepgate’s war drums thumping like its own heartbeat.

  A tide of shields and spears broke around them. Grapples flew up from all sides. The Tooth struggled free of the trench. Devon blinked sweat from his eyes and knocked back a lever with his stump. The cutting arms lowered with a furious hiss. “Mow them down you said.”

  “For Ayen!” the shaman cried.

  Devon grinned, and activated the cutters.

  The engines hacked once, twice, and died.

  The Tooth jerked to a halt.

  A sudden silence filled the bridge, as though every man in the Tooth and the army outside had paused. Devon turned to Bataba, his face bloodless. “The propeller shaft,” he said. “Get your men down there to fix it or we’re dead.”

  “How soon can it be repaired?”

  “Not soon enough.” Devon rose from his seat. “Fetch the priest.”

  Below them, Deepgate’s army charged.

  * * * *

  Carnival backed away from the abomination. Her hand moved to the rope scar on her neck as though pulled there by some dark memory. “Will I kill it?” she breathed.

  “Someone already has,” Rachel said. “A long, long time ago.” She found it hard to believe the thing was even standing.

  Most of the angel was still there, but it leaned at an awkward angle, resting its weight on one leg. The other leg was withered and stunted, more bone than flesh. Three fingers remained on one hand, one finger on the other. Strips of intestine hung from its abdomen where leathery patches of skin—or perhaps just leather—had burst. Its yellow eyes were lidless and appeared to bulge, giving the creature an almost comical expression. It sucked air through a gap where its nose should have been. There was not a single feather on its wings, just tattered goose-flesh.

  It was the most pitiful, wretched thing Rachel had ever seen, and yet she had a strong sense that Carnival was afraid of it.

  Will I kill it? It was almost as if Carnival had asked for approval, but when did she ever need to ask anything of anyone?

  “I’d be doing it a favour.” Carnival’s voice trembled.

  “No,” Rachel said.

  The dead angel watched Carnival for some moments and it did not move. Then suddenly it bobbed its head back and forward, held out a closed fist, and said, “Shing.”

  Carnival flinched.

  “Shing!”

  “We don’t understand,” Rachel said.

  Mr. Nettle had retreated a few steps back and was watching the dead angel warily. Evidently he had decided this wasn’t Abigail.

  “Shing!” The dead angel pushed its clenched hand again at Carnival.

  “It’s trying to give you something,” Rachel said.

  “Shing!”

  Carnival extended her hand and the angel dropped something into it.

  “What is it?” Rachel stretched over to see.

  Carnival held up the object: an ugly bone ring, somewhat chewed.

  The dead angel lifted its chin. “Shing,” it repeated, then shaped its mouth into something that might have been a grin, before it turned away and folded itself back through the door.

  “Do you still want to kill it?” Rachel asked.

  Carnival had paled. For a moment, she looked lost, confused. And then her expression darkened and, to Rachel’s horror, the hunger was back in her eyes. “Why the hell not?” Carnival said, and stooped to follow the other angel through the doorway.

  Rachel grabbed for her, but hesitated. She had noticed Carnival slip the ring onto her finger. “Come on,” she hissed to Mr. Nettle.

  Beyond the door a sweating red-rock passageway sank before them, and then rose again a short distance ahead. The dead angel paused at the bottom, beckoned to them. “Grog,” it said. “Ussis.” Then it turned and loped away.

  “Did it just say what I think it did?” Rachel frowned.

  Carnival stared after the monstrosity, her expression dark, and made no response.

  “I suggest we head the other way.”

  The scarred angel’s fists tightened suddenly. She flexed her broken shoulder: bones cracked, and her skewed wing straightened. She grunted, and took off after Shing.

  Cursing, Rachel ran after her. Somewhere behind her, Mr. Nettle’s crutch creaked.

  Cressets dripped grease into congealed mounds and milky puddles on the floor. Rachel skipped round those, but the chain between her and Carnival sloshed through them and was soon soaked and glistening. Rachel’s hand kept returning to her empty scabbard as she ran. Time was running out.

  The red passageway ended at a heavy door. Shing halted, bobbed its head again, and attempted another ghoulish smile before it yanked the door handle. The door moved inwards with a sucking sound. Cold air rushed out and past them, and they stepped through.

  Walls of white water thundered down into darkness on either side, forming a tall, misty corridor without floor or ceiling. They appeared to be standing on a ledge high on the wall of a vast cavern.Or the edge of another abyss? An ancient chain bridge zigzagged between the waterfalls and vanished thirty yards ahead, where a weak red light suffused the mist. At this end the iron spans of the bridge looked weak; in the distance they seemed as delicate as lace. Looking down, Rachel saw nothing but frothing water

  If this is Hell, what lies below?

  “Grog,” Shing said, and bounded on without hesitation.

  They moved cautiously. The bridge was treacherously slippery. Rotten beams squelched and broke underfoot, sending fragments tumbling into the dark. Chains steamed and dripped. Rachel’s leathers were soon soaked. Ahead, the red light grew steadily brighter, and gradually the deluge of water eased: first to sheets; then trickles like silver ropes; then drips. The mists parted, and they found themselves standing before Ulcis’s palace of chains.

  Without any visible means of support, the iron palace smouldered like an angry red sun in the darkness; amid a great knot of walkways, stairwells, balconies, and platforms all stitched with chains. Huge braziers burned within. There were no walls, but Ulcis’s palace was nevertheless a prison. Cages had been woven into the structure or hung from chains and hooks at every level. These were crammed full of people.

  The Hoarder of Souls was slumped on a massive throne in the centre of his palace, watching their approach.

  “Grog,” Shing said.

  “He means god.” Ulcis’s voice boomed across the void. “His vocal
cords rotted centuries ago.” He sounded regretful. “Along with its wings and mind. I patch them up, but when the flesh is full of maggots, what can you do? This one is undoubtedly the worst. It never had the hunger to sustain itself.”

  Rachel, Carnival, and Mr. Nettle stepped off the bridge and ducked inside the confines of the palace chains. The god’s throne sat on a dais in the centre of a broad platform, surrounded by the numerous suspended cages. A carpet of bones covered the floor around him. Rachel loosened the leather straps around the burner and poisonsong bolts at her hip. Cages creaked overhead and cold, hungry eyes turned to follow their progress.

  “They are agitated,” said Ulcis. “They smell meat.”

  “Grog,” Shing said.

  Ulcis reached down, plucked a bone from the floor, and threw it at Shing. It missed, skittered off the platform, then slipped between the chains and into the darkness beyond.

  Shing bounded after it, but stopped before the edge, its shoulders slumped. “Grog?”

  “One day its survival instincts will fail,” Ulcis hissed, “and I’ll be rid of it for good. The things below this palace would soon tear it to pieces.”

  “More of your slaves?” Rachel asked.

  “The gates of Iril lie below,” replied the god.

  “And what, exactly, is Iril?”

  Ulcis smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Grog?”

  “Leave!”

  The creature hesitated, then bowed awkwardly and lurched back across the bridge.

  The god of chains eyed Mr. Nettle’s crossbow indignantly. “I suppose this other one is human. Or aspires to be.” His voice sounded like crumbling rocks. “They will keep coming down here, from some implacable need to stand before a god. Great balloons or flying machines with sails, fins, and propellers—I’ve seen it all. A man in a chair tethered to hundreds of sparrows, trailing feathers.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I had the chair repaired.”

  “This is Mr. Nettle,” Rachel said, “and he didn’t come to stand before anything. He’s looking for his daughter.”