Curt’s query was met with rumbling assent from all four dragons, but only LaSalle, who had not spoken until then, made a statement. The cream and blue beasts’ great eyes narrowed as he cocked his muzzle to one side, enormous fangs bared to the sun. His voice was dangerously flat, and a vulpine leer split the length of his maw. “I am sworn to fight and protect my human compatriots. Rest assured, I will apply the whole of my memory to pull a solution from the haze of time.”
The other dragons growled; a feral sound that vibrated in the chest of every person standing nearby.
“The answer is there. And when we find it, we’ll bring the full might of our wings to bear on these abominations, and they will understand what hell on earth truly feels like.”
12
Dragons
“Here and there, the beasts of hell ran into problems. For the demons who burst out of the rift in Lake Champlain, that problem ended up killin’ damned near everything that came outta that godforsaken split in the earth. You’ve heard of folks calling lake monsters a water horse, but let me assure you, there’s nothing about Champ that’ll make you think a pony is coming up outta the water to say hello. I’ve lived on the lake my entire life, and I never saw Champ but I had my suspicions. We all did. Vermonters are practical, but we aren’t simple or stupid.
“Winters are hard on the lake. You live two lives in that part of the country; one is a time of action and excitement, and it lasts about three months. That's summer. The rest of the year, your other life, is preparing for winter or coming out of the slog of it. Damn, but you get sick of dirty heaps of snow. Then, just when you think you're out of the worst of it, an Easter storm drops two feet of heavy, wet snow on your head and it's right back to wet socks and roads that are slicker than snot for another three weeks. Then you get the mud—there's no spring, just mud and slop, and finally some green. A little bit here and there, a fresh day or two, and you get a jaunty step because you know that soon enough you can plant the garden, swat the black flies, and live outside again.
“The demons came on the first real night of spring when the peeper frogs were chatting away, and some of the old timers were down on the lake fishing for bullhead. The first wave of . . . whatever they were, some kind of spider things, but covered in scales, God they were awful. Awful. Well, they snatched a half dozen people fishing the shore before anyone knew what was happening. I know, I was there. I'd gone back up to my truck for snacks, and I heard the screams. It was the smell, you see, that first warm breeze coming up off the lake, it filled my nose with the stink of blood and I just knew. I called the sheriff and turned my truck lights on, honking and raising as much racket as I could; I thought it might distract those things, but all it did was make ‘em turn toward the noise. They sort of gathered themselves, those black eyes in a circle on top of their heads, and it was like they were sniffing. I felt my guts go to water, but I still pulled my shotgun from the truck. I was too old to run and too proud to lay down, so I figured I'd fight until those spindly legs could carry the damned things up the beach to me. Turns out, I shouldn't have worried, but we didn't know that until later, when the divers photographed the opening the creatures came through.
“When you live around wild animals, you learn some rules, and the first rule is this: never, ever mess with the babies. I don't care what it is, if it's a squirrel, a raccoon, a muskrat—I don't care. You don't get near the babies. Those demons pushed their way through a thin stone wall to burst out into the lake, alright. They did it less than fifty feet from the sleeping hollow of Champ and her young. There were six of them, plus the parents and what we think was a sort of uncle, that big, scarred fellah that was on the news for a year. The huge blue-gray male with the white lines across his muzzle? What a beast. My god, did they lay into those demons. I saw it in the lights of my truck; it looked like a chainsaw got thrown into those spiders. Legs were flying, guts ripped out in ribbons, Champ and her family flailing about on their fins, kicking rocks and water, and crunching, over and over. I saw the daddy intentionally wounding some of the demons; he'd bite one or two legs off and let the kiddies at them. Their mouths were little, but their instincts were perfect; they'd slide up under the demon and rip into the soft parts. I almost felt sorry for the creatures of hell that night. Almost. The momma and daddy kept cutting loose with this hooting roar, and then they’d go after another spider as it came out of the water, trying to get its bearings. Not one of those monsters from underneath touched dry land. Not one. The big one, Uncle Blue, was so covered in black ichor that he had to wallow like a bird to get clean before he could get back in the fight. I stayed there watching it all, took a few pictures—yeah, that was me—and then before I knew it, the sun was coming up and it was me, a bunch of people from town, and the family of Champs just staring at each other. I waved to them, sort of a thank you, and the momma snorted at me once, then nosed her kids into the water with a flip of that stubby little tail. The eggheads from SUNY called them pliosaurs, but to us, they were just ours.
“You can see the big flat stone right where the demons come out each killing moon. Town put it there as a sort of memorial, but it turned into something a lot more useful, and mannerly, too, if you ask me. Fisherman put their best pike, trout, whatever they catch that's good, leave ‘em on that rock for Champ and her family. I've seen whole hogs, dressed and stuffed, but not as often. Champs like the fish. They come out without any fanfare, just sort of amble up, eat, hoot once at us, and back into the water. They're not tame, but they seem to understand that we want to help them, if we can. Everyone's real respectful too; we don't allow outsiders to come with cameras and nonsense that might upset the family. The navy sank a permanent camera near the rift, just to keep an eye on things, and it turns out that there's gonna be another litter of baby Champs real soon. We're thinking about putting another rock down by the water just to hold all the fish. Folks are pretty excited about the new additions, but the demons don't know what they're about to step into. Two angry mommas just might kick their spindly asses all the way back to hell itself, and that's okay by us."—Kevin Denslow, Colchester, Vermont
—Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.
13
Underneath: The Last Day
They stood mute, letting the enormity of the scene envelope their senses. Neither French nor Saavin moved, frozen with a paralytic sense of wonderment. It was a city of temples, bathed in the languid gold of the new lichens that grew with enthusiasm to the limits of the cavern roof. Some were damaged beyond recognition, their shapes little more than slumping heaps that suggested a cataclysm in the dim past; when Saavin pointed to the long descending wedge of earth, that cause became grotesquely apparent.
“Earthquake,” French said, waving one hand across the horizon at an angle. Miles of earth subsided in a low plane to crowd against the ruins of the city. At the farthest edge of the main avenue, the points of earth and sky met in a jackstraw tumble of gigantic proportions. Three identical pyramids were crushed, their bases seeming to hold and then lift the oppressive land that had ended the magnificent city in single blow.
“Like the shoulders of Atlas, but the ceiling rises, or does the city slide even deeper into the fault?” Saavin was uncertain. At this distance, it could be either or both. The space above the bricked streets peeled away into the golden gloom until it was nearly invisible directly overhead. The entire cityscape was miles, not yards across, and crowded with buildings in various states ranging from fair to excellent. Down the slope to their direct left stood a series of small pyramids arranged in a perfect line, the condition so perfect that it seemed people should be milling about, doing the business of their lives.
“Who were they?” Saavin asked to the space around her. Curiosity saturated her voice as French knelt to consider the tableau before them. He’d expected something unusual, but this city of ghosts defied his sight. He shook his head lightly and resumed a careful search, even though he was certain that life had fled this place long ago
.
“I don’t know, but we have a lot to learn from them.” Shouldering his pack, French began to step down the slope, pausing to look back at Saavin with the first unfiltered smile he’d worn in some time.
“From this place? We could learn to build, or rebuild, but. . .” Saavin pointed at the abandoned streets. “I think it’s just bones, French. Can bones speak?”
He nodded, still smiling. “They can, but we don’t need their bones. We have this city. This beautiful, whole, unmarked city. Trust me, there’s much to learn, even if we can’t see it yet.”
Their descent left them harried but in awe when they touched the outskirts of the main boulevard. It was wide, even, and paved with hexagonal stones of rocks that were fat with cochineal fossils. At eye level it seemed that the ocean bottom ran unimpeded from one end of the city to the other. The layout was simplistic and organized around whatever religion the unknown people held; each minor street was a tributary connecting other major temples to the central nexus; residential buildings were low stone affairs of two stories with small courtyards and gardens. Order suffused the scene, with the lingering hints of wisdom visible at each logical intersection of road and temple.
French snapped his fingers as if remembering a lost secret. “Cahokia. This looks like Cahokia mounds, but larger, and all in stone. They built near here at least 1000 years ago, but this is much older. See how each doorframe has an animal totem? It’s—that’s not entirely right, but it reminds me of Cahokia, as if the Inca built it from a diagram. There’s some translation present. These people were mature.” They wandered slowly, carefully. They didn’t enter any buildings, but stood close to the middle of each lane in order to avoid the deep shadowed places. The silence was total, save their breathing. There was no life to be seen at all, not even lichen grew within the confines of the city. The stone surfaces were clean, if dusty, but free of the degradations brought about by plant life of any kind. Nor was erosion associated with wind or water on any of the structures. The earthquake’s coffin lid held tight, even after millennia.
“Those faces aren’t Inca, and they’re certainly not like anything from this part of the world. The features are too sharp, almost Asian or North African.” Saavin stood before the bust of a handsome woman looking beatifically at a series of ovens set into an open marketplace. “This was a bakery.” Her voice was soft from the vision of what must have once been. French could feel it too; the space had once been bustling.
“We don’t have the proper time to explore, but—” French stopped and drew back into the nearest alcove with a hiss. “In here.” Putting a finger to his lips, he cocked his head, eyes half lidded in concentration.
There. French bobbed his head lightly, digesting the faint sounds that registered at the lowest limits of his hearing. He pointed slowly to the farthest reaches of the city, where the ceiling and streets met. Quirking a brow, he waited until Saavin’s face lit up with cognition.
I hear it, she mouthed. They stood in utter stillness, letting the distant sounds come to them. A deep, chorded hooting tickled at the periphery of their senses. Soft but present, they let the mellow tones wash over them for a full minute, digesting the pitch and frequency before turning to each other by unspoken cue.
“It’s natural,” Saavin said with complete certainty. There was a shivering bass quality to the notes. It was inorganic, but disturbing. When French motioned that they could continue, she stepped from the sliver of darkness the alcove provided into the relative glare of the street. “And from what I know of humanity, if we want to know anything about these people, we need to go there.” She pointed to the grandest pyramid of them all, a squat, hulking presence that occupied the entire eastern quadrant of the ruins. Even at this distance, they could see seven levels and obelisks sprouting from regular points along each approach, culminating in a long, low structure that reminded Saavin of an Old Stater chicken house on a large farm. “Shall we?”
The central promenade was actually three lanes divided by low intermittent stones that separated the expanse, a fact that was unknown until Saavin pointed out the obvious tracks of wheels in the far left section of road. “Commerce. Wagons, or whatever they used. They kept them apart from people on foot. Did they have horses?” She scratched her chin thoughtfully, looking around at the wide undulation of oceanic fossils they walked over. “What are the other lanes for?”
French was kneeling in the center lane, scratching delicately at something with his knife. He teased an object from the gap between two hexagons and held it out to Saavin, his smile composed of awe tinged with respect. “I don’t think they rode horses.” He deposited a fractured claw in her palm, the edge still dangerously sharp and burred slightly on the inner curve. It was black with hints of emerald, and it filled her palm with ease. She uttered a truncated gasp at the touch of the magnificent talon, then closed her eyes, extracting a memory from somewhere in the recesses of her mind’s eye.
“It isn’t earthborn.” Saavin looked at the claw with recognition.
“Yes, but why the surprise? We expected nothing less down here,” he asked, quizzically.
“I’ve seen one of these, but much larger.” She turned the claw over lovingly, frank admiration on her face. “We pulled it out of Orontes’ body after I dragged him into Trinity.”
“What? You’re certain?” French’s eyes rounded with interest. “This is the same kind of animal, if not exactly? You’re positive?”
She shook her head with emphasis. “I’m sure of it. Same color, that scimitar curve. Other than being slightly smaller, this came from the same animal. I’d stake my dragon’s next catch on it.” She nodded again with conviction. The talon’s marbling was identical; there was no doubt in her mind whatsoever, and that ignited a series of questions that she couldn’t begin to answer. After a deep, contemplative breath, Saavin waved the claw toward the roadway that stretched into the distance. “If there were demons here, why isn’t the city in ruins? Everything still has an orderly feel to it; like it was abandoned, but not plundered.”
French rose to his feet from a squat, his knees snapping lightly in protest. Being young and muscular had done nothing to protect him from the rigors of their descent, and his grimace told the story of a stiff, battered frame. Their bouncing fall down the Chandeliers hadn’t helped, but the simple punishment of days on the march without proper rest began to take a serious toll. He pointed to a series of open doors, the silent gaps black as midnight against the sullen glow of the city.
“We can begin finding out right here.” He waved easily at the closest door, extending a single finger to point accusingly at the long structure that preceded the enormous pyramid crowning the promenade. “Although . . . I think that we’ll learn more from that building. It doesn’t have an air of ornamentation. Whatever that place might be, it has a look of functionality.”
Saavin nodded in agreement. “Lead on. Being among all these ghosts is making me wish for some sunshine.” She suppressed a shudder and focused on French’s back as he moved ahead.
Their route was simple. They looked inside open spaces and avoided closed areas that could be ambush sites. Even with that limitation, there was a virtually limitless supply of buildings to explore. They found a tannery, its long racks still standing where hides or wares had been displayed for passersby. An accretion of dust under the turned wooden displays was all that remained of the inventory, now decayed into linear piles. What must have been, they both thought. Large amphorae were held in cleverly-angled stones, their open mouths dusty and cracked. Saavin took an experimental sniff, nodding to herself in confirmation.
“Urine?” French asked
“You can still smell it. After who knows how long,” Saavin replied. The ammoniac tang lingered, confirming that they did stand in a place where hides were cured. A bent bronze knife was the only tool left behind, its rock hard wooden handle furrowed with age and use. Finding nothing to keep their interest, they moved on from store to store, confirming that the
promenade, at least on this end, was a place for commerce. There were granaries, a bakery with wall ovens made of slate, and something that may have been both apothecary and bird dealer. The remains of thin, elegant cages had fallen to shatter on the floor, their residual feathers and detritus coating the area behind a low counter space. There were multiple potters’ filled with an array of crockery that synthesized no less than six Mesoamerican cultural styles in one unique expression. It was here that French sat down to examine a decorative clay wall hanging, his eyes darting along the length of the skillful embossing.
“What is it?” Saavin asked, turning a small bowl over in her hands. The sense of antiquity radiating from the humble vessel was overpowering. It was unadorned, save an intricate knurled edge that had been painted a deep, cochineal blue. She brushed one long finger against the flared lip with a reverent touch.
“It’s a story. I think.” French stared at the arm-length piece of baked clay with an intensity that was trancelike. He stood suddenly, stepping out into the open street, still holding the ancient artwork in his hand. Holding his arms out, he framed the clay piece against the terminus of the avenue, comparing the etched reliefs in his hands to the scene near the collapse of the cavern. With a gentle, decisive motion, he placed the artwork against the wall of the shop and waved to Saavin. Carefully, he opened his pack, withdrew the notebook, and began to sketch the images in bold lines. It was the third instance of recording she’d seen since their descent, and the act of watching him draw had lost none of its fascination. French closed the notebook with a crisp flip and stood, placing it in his pack. “I think we need to get to that building as soon as possible.” He pointed at the low, obscure structure that connected to the front of the grand pyramid. “If I’m right, then I know why this city survived for so long. And I know why it died, too.”
Banshee Page 22