The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Shkarauthir pointed. “There,” he said. “The Fallen Citadel of the Brass God. We arrive to the moot of all the modalmen clans.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Road to Oresz

  GARTEN’S VIGIL OVER the beach ended the first night with no sign of the Morfaan Josan. He was left alone in unknown lands. Far north, he thought, for the climate was sweltering. The trees foresting the clifftops were of unfamiliar types, and full of biting insects he had never seen before.

  He feared he was in Ocerzerkiya. War smouldered between the northern empire and the Kingdoms. Though hostilities were restricted to privateering actions on the high seas, a lone Kingdoms man abroad in their lands would not last long.

  The Heart of Mists, the giant opal Josan had entrusted him with, would bring him only more trouble, so he buried it several yards back from the edge of the cliffs. The ground was soft, the cliffs being of some friable yellow stone. He used a flat rock and his hands, not wishing to blunt his sword by digging. It was hard work, and his fingers were bloodied by the time the moons were risen and he was done. He marked the position with a trio of pebbles.

  There were no lights anywhere. No glow of distant cities or ships’ lamps on the sea. The jungle was a cacophony of chirps and animals cries. He recognised none of the constellations, but the moons were those of his own Earth, and the Twin was coming over the horizon out to sea, eating up the stars.

  Rarely had he felt so alone. He swatted at the things biting him. They plagued him so much he resolved to spend the night on the beach, though that left him exposed. He would plan his next move in the morning.

  GARTEN AWOKE TO another sweltering day. The Twin was still in the sky, its orb washed out but forbidding nonetheless. The sun was only beginning to rise, but it was already hot.

  He needed to eat, soon. More urgently he needed water. The only items he had were the clothes he wore and his sword. He missed Tyn Issy. He would have welcomed her advice.

  In the night the sea drew back, uncovering a huge plain of corals. Their fleshy parts were sealed away by neat stony doors. Air bubbles puttered from them, bursting in such multitudes that the landscape spoke in rippling pops. He could not hear or see the ocean.

  The Morfaan gate was completely exposed, it was rooted to a platform that had been titled by an upheaval of the Earth, and so the twin prongs that made the gate were angled toward the land. They resembled the jaw bones of a sea dragon set upright. Shellfish clad every part of the prongs, and they were hung with ribbons of weed, disguising the gate’s nature well. Close to the platform the remains of a road were visible under piles of shingle, blocks of stone and marine animals, now all withdrawn into their shells until the water returned, but the shore end was entirely buried under the sand. He looked behind him to see where the road might come out. He spied the grey teeth of paving stones hanging out over the edge of the yellow cliffs, and he decided he would start his orientation there.

  First, he would find himself some food. He picked his way through the rock pools, hunting for shellfish and guzzling them raw where he found them. He tried some of the seaweeds, but none were of varieties common in Karsa, and all were unpalatably bitter. The sun climbed. The heat increased. Swarms of fat flies descended on the exposed seabed in clouds so thick that Garten was forced from the beach.

  He clambered up the cliffs again, passing the place he had buried the Heart of Mists. The jungle hung thickly over the lip of the land, and it took him longer than he expected to fight his way through it to the road. By the time he had stumbled on the stones, he had sweated his clothes right through.

  The road was covered by leaf litter that turned into soil as it ran away from the cliff, concealing it again. Garten followed the course as best he could. Though at first the ground was level where the road had been, it was soon obscured by centuries of growth. He traced it by subtle signs: blocks of worked stone turned up by the trees’ thrusting roots and the occasional cut in the landscape.

  Walking on the road was only marginally easier than fighting through the forest around it. Though the trees were smaller on the old road’s course the undergrowth was thick, and he was raked by branches and thorns. Garten despaired of finding his way anywhere until, quite unexpectedly, the road joined a highway that was still in use.

  A slash of light in the jungle canopy warned Garten of the other road’s presence. He approached the edge of the forest stealthily.

  The highway ran in a dead straight line through the jungle. Trees towered over it, forced to gigantic sizes through competition with their fellows. Only at the edge could Garten see how tall the trees were, in the jungle their upper stories were hidden by the profusion of growth. The road was wide enough for four dray carts, and paved with uniformly fashioned blocks of stone. They were the same dimensions and materials as the few he’d seen poking through the forest floor, but if this highway were the same age as the buried road, it had been expertly maintained. A smooth camber curved off into shallow gutters. Yellow jungle soil showed around the edges where the foliage had been cut back. He looked toward the north, and saw nothing on the whole length of the road, but when he turned south he saw men working the verges, and a caravan passing between them. They were so far away they were as small as black ants.

  Garten could see nothing beyond the jungle and the road. He needed height. The trees in the forest saved their branches for their crowns, but those by the road had the light and opportunity to put out boughs to their sides. He searched out a tree he might climb before the people on the road reached him.

  The tree was easier to climb than he expected. He reached the topmost branches without difficulty and looked out over the jungle.

  Unbroken canopy stretched in every direction apart from toward the east where, miles away, mountains punched their way out of the green. South, the caravan was coming closer. Judging himself well hidden, he stayed in the tree.

  The caravan was of twelve immense carts pulled by teams of dracon oxen. Nine of them were piled high with material, mostly lumber, but a few were stacked with crates. The remaining three, at the rear, supported tents and wooden apartments painted gaudy colours. The carts were so large and complicated they were more akin to ocean-going vessels than land vehicles, needing eight tall wheels to bear their weight.

  Armed guards in blackened steel armour marched at the front of the column. More manned small towers sat at the rear of three of the carts. Four drivers were needed to operate the equipment required to steer the dracon teams. The front of the carts were raised up and cantilevered out over their draft beasts’ rumps to accommodate the drivers’ station. Long reins coming off metal hoops fixed into the dracon’s horns were lashed to axles turned by devices like ship’s wheels. At the rear set of wheels, curved levers manned by two men apiece worked mechanisms that pushed massive iron brake pads against the wheel rims.

  Garten shrank back into the shadows. No one looked up.

  The carts with tents passed under him. Men lazed on the decks, served by women dressed in long white gowns that hid their shapes and covered them neck to ankle. Three of the men smoked pipes, talking and laughing.

  The last cart rolled past. Behind it walked four files of people, manacled at the wrists to long chains. Men, women and children. More soldiers brought up the rear of the column, half of them mounted on black-scaled riding dracons.

  They were definitely Oczerks. Garten was in Ocerzerkiya. No one in the Kingdoms kept slaves.

  He waited until the caravan had passed almost out of sight before he clambered down. The work team was still a few miles away in the other direction. Garten darted across the highway and plunged into the jungle, trusting to distance and solitude to hide him.

  The mountains—he decided to strike out for them. He would be cooler, and away from immediate danger. Up there, he would have time to think.

  He set out, uncertain if he could make it across such rough terrain.

  He never had the chance to find out. He walked directly into one of the
mounted soldiers from the caravan. Broken shrubs showed the path the man had taken to double back through the jungle. Garten had his sword in his hand almost as soon as he saw the sauralier, though his duelling weapon would be little use against an armoured opponent.

  The soldier undid his face mask and removed his helmet. He was dark skinned and tall, with straw-coloured hair in tight curls on his head; typically Ocerzerkiyan in appearance. He said something in his native speech to Garten. Getting no response, he shrugged and whistled over his shoulder. More men emerged from the trees, three with swords drawn, and two with bows. Their dracons made no noise in the jungle.

  The bowmen nocked their arrows. The rider repeated his words. Bowstrings creaked.

  Garten calculated his odds. He’d be dead before he moved.

  Cursing, he threw down his sword and held up his hands.

  The lead rider gestured to his warriors. Two dismounted.

  One of the men came forward and kicked Garten in the back of the leg, dropping him to his knees. Another clapped irons around his wrists. At the command of the leader, they hauled Garten up, and shoved him back onto the road.

  More mounted warriors came out of the forest on the other side, their dracons croaking. The men shouted back and forth. Garten took another shove in the back. The caravan waited in the distance.

  Garten was escorted down the road and clapped in irons at the end of the human chain. The soldiers shouted something at him and wheeled their dracons about. A horn blew, and the caravan creaked into motion, yanking Garten’s arms out in front of him and dragging him along.

  Garten had been captured by slavers.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Captain Heffi’s Quandary

  TYN GELVEN WOULD be the first to admit his passage from the Sotherwinter to a moving ship of iron was foolhardy. The pain he suffered bore this judgement out. The road was wild, for the Tyn had changed greatly since the road was built, so it saw Tyn Gelven as foreign, and rebelled against his presence. Worlds uncounted whirled past him as he ran faster than any ray of light. The time between the ship and the land at that speed would be measured in fractions of a thousandth of a second, were his route not so circuitous. The road did not run straight, and passage between two near points might require a journey of a million years, were it attempted at human speeds. He searched frantically for his destination, peering into myriad realms. Five times he thought he had it, and came close to opening the door, only to see the ships he viewed were not those of his time and place, but belonged to other streams of fate. All the while the road sent coruscating flames after him that licked at his feet and burned his soul. Defences installed against trespassers turned blindly against the road’s masters.

  As Tyn Gelven’s strength was giving out, he spied the ship, and slowed to allow himself egress into the mortal world. Golden clouds of malevolence engulfed him and gnawed with burning teeth at his body. In agony, he scrabbled for an exit into the Prince Alfra.

  When the door opened from the place between the worlds he fell out at great speed, slamming into a shelf of tinned goods in the ship’s main hold. His body was slight, but imbued with such momentum it knocked the shelving down and bent the metal racks holding it. Supplies crashed loudly off the ship’s iron innards.

  He lay in a heap, his flesh burned. His clothes smouldered. His hair was gone. His skin was cracked and raw.

  Worse than these pains was the agony of the ship. There was so much iron all around him. Gelven counted himself fortunate, his resistance to iron’s touch was greater than many of his fellows, but his ability to resist was compromised by his injuries, and the pain of the metal’s presence lanced through his bones. He moved weakly, trying to get his burned skin out of contact with it. Teeth bared and panting like a Lesser Tyn spent too long with the beasts of the forest, he pulled himself up onto a rumpled tarpaulin, and lay there spent.

  The door opened quietly. A nervous sailor poked his head into the hold, a glimmer lamp held in one hand, a gaff in the other.

  He shouted in fright as his lamp’s beam lit Gelven’s smoking body, before he realised what he saw, and hurried forward.

  Tyn Gelven rolled over on his back.

  “Get Captain Heffi,” wheezed Tyn Gelven through a grimace of pain. “I bring him news from the ice.”

  THE WHEELHOUSE BROODED with the tension between two men. Captain Croutier of Persin’s mercenaries leaned against the forward window, two of his men flanking him. Captain Heffi defied him.

  “You will turn this boat to the west, where we will rendezvous with the other two vessels of Persin’s expedition. Then we will return home,” said Croutier.

  Heffi stuck out his chin. “Our comrades may still be alive at the city. Your master may still be there.”

  Croutier shrugged. “Nothing could survive the collapse of that city. You saw the fire, and the explosion. We all saw into the rift in the sky. Whatever caused that might still be there. And if Persin is alive, what of it? Persin was a windbag. His venture was a failure. I never trusted that mage of his, and she is surely behind all this. Things are simpler this way. We meet with the rest of our expedition. We go home. We all get to live.”

  The way Croutier looked around the wheelhouse suggested to Heffi that as soon as there were enough of Croutier’s men on board, he would kill them all and take the Prince Alfra as a prize to ransom back to Vand. Heffi was well travelled. He had met far too many men like Croutier in the course of his life to believe anything the captain said.

  “Or I could shoot you,” said Croutier pleasantly.

  “The crew won’t like it,” said Heffi.

  Croutier smiled and looked out of the window. Icebergs drifted stately by, white on the dark sea. “You’re the captain. Tell them they have to.”

  “Allow us to turn back and we may be less damning in our reports to the authorities,” said Heffi. “If you behave like a common pirate you will be chained out at low tide to suffer the fate your kind deserve.”

  Croutier braced his hands behind his head and cracked his neck. “Ahh,” he said. He smiled a dracon’s smile. “Maybe they’ll hang me instead?”

  Heffi stared at him defiantly.

  “No? It’ll be your word against mine,” said Croutier. “We are both going home without our masters. I am a common man, you are an Ishmalan. Which judge would put any stock in our words? I’ll not be drowned. If you’re smart, we can both come out of this well.”

  “If we both go home,” said Heffi. “I don’t trust you.”

  “It’s like that is it? Very well. I don’t see you’ve much choice. There’s been violence on both sides. That is now done, but remember, captain, I am the one with the guns pointing at your men. That puts me in charge. So, adjust your course and take us west as I said. Or I will start shooting people.”

  Heffi folded his hands over his belt buckle. The soft flesh of his belly moulded itself to them. He had had a good life, and was in no hurry to leave it to face the judgment of the One.

  “Helmsman Tolpoleznaen! Take us to the west. The captain here will provide co-ordinates.”

  “As the One wishes,” said Tolpoleznaen.

  Heffi bent over a speaking tube, though he left his eyes locked with Croutier’s. “Engines, all ahead. Engage glimmer stacks one through four. Make full speed.” He adjusted the engine dial. Acknowledgement of the order ran out on several bells.

  Croutier grinned insolently. “That’s better captain.”

  Fucker, thought Heffi.

  A knock came at the wheelhouse door. The face of a sailor by the name of Fenden Hul-Skaranaz appeared in the porthole.

  “Enter!” called Heffi before Croutier could say otherwise.

  “Captain.” The sailor made the sign of the One as he entered the wheelhouse. A blast of cold air followed him. It was stifling inside, and his forehead was beaded with sweat before he’d finished his bow.

  “What is it?” said Heffi. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

  “I beg your
pardon, my captain, but you must come. There has been an accident. One of the Tyn has been badly burned.”

  Heffi turned to his sailor. That was all he needed, his iron whisperers dying on him. “Get him to the physic, then!”

  “I have, my captain, but you should come.” The sailor’s eyes flicked briefly to Croutier. “It is a grave matter. The injured Tyn is Tyn Gelven.”

  Tolpoleznaen made to speak. Heffi silenced him with a chop of his hand. “Gelven is injured?”

  “Yes captain. He is in the physic’s room.”

  “Go back to him and tell him I am coming,” said Heffi. “Keep it quiet. News like that will unsettle the crew.” Heffi directed the last part to Croutier. “Tolpoleznaen, you have the wheel and command. I will be back shortly.”

  Heffi moved toward the door. One of Croutier’s thugs blocked it. Croutier gripped Heffi’s shoulder.

  “Does a simple accident require the presence of the captain?” said Croutier.

  “This is not a simple accident,” Heffi removed Croutier’s hand firmly. “The Tyn that is injured is the chief of those left aboard, and a fine engineer.”

  “You worry that your cook will have no direction?”

  “Not so much the cook, but the iron whisperers,” said Heffi.

  “You Ishmalani and Karsans working with those things,” said Croutier, “I’d drop them in the ocean tied in sacks. They are wicked.”

  “You’re more than welcome to try,” said Heffi. “We won’t stand idly by, nor would they.”

  “You would die if you tried to stop me.”

  “We would all die without them. Without the iron whisperers’ abilities to sound out the state of the metal, maintaining this ship under arctic conditions would be impossible. Besides, it would be you who would die, because they’d stop you themselves. We Ishmalani have a saying, ancient, wise, and pertinent to the situation here.”