‘Rosanna, you know if I get out those doors, get outside, you’re not going to be able to follow me.’
‘I know that,’ she said. The weapon swung down off her shoulder and rang like an anvil on the floor.
‘I don’t want to fight you.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ she said, and with her foot kicked the end of the scy-staff into the air, spun the shaft and dug the metal into the wall and inch from Johnmal’s face. ‘So let’s finish it quickly.’
~
He took the shaft of the weapon in his right hand and spun, bringing his left elbow around, but the weapon was too long and he fell short of Rosanna’s face; it glanced off the shaft and it vibrated in his hand. Rosanna pulled back, rotated on her toes and brought the weapon up under Johnmal’s feet. He jumped and landed on the brass blade, which was pulled out instantly from underneath him.
‘You can’t really want to hurt me, Rose!’
She fell back against the wall. ‘Of course I don’t!’ she spat. ‘You’re making me do this.’
‘Cleric is making you do this,’ he said, and leapt at her, sweeping with his leg and knocking her back again. ‘Did he put you in his machine too? Breed out all the undesirable impulses and thoughts? Did he trick you into loving me, to keep me here?’
Her hand shot out like lightning and she brought it up, gripping his face. She began to squeeze … As he looked down at her he saw a tear in her eye, but the rest of her face was a visor of determination; her jaw set, teeth clenched. He choked and kicked her legs, brought his boot down, scraping the skin from her shins. Still she held tight.
‘Rose!’ he said, and he heard a tiny crack from inside his face. ‘Don’t…’
He brought his fist up under her chin, once, twice, then grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. Staggering, he fell into in a half-tackle, sending her against the wall a third time—
The room was so small, making the fight difficult, almost impossible. No room to manoeuvre, no space to think…
He thumped her hard in the stomach and, as she doubled over, slammed his elbow into her back. She fell and he dove on top of her, wrenching back her arm and gripping her skull; with tensed muscles he rammed her forehead into the floor.
He had underestimated her. He thought this as he felt her spine bend, her thighs gyrate, and saw her feet appear at each side of his field of vision. She wrapped her calves around his neck and wrenched him backward, twisting his spine. It forced him to rise from his knees and stand as she slipped out from under him and hit him in the chest with the palms of her hands.
He slammed into the wall with absurd force. He’d known Rosanna had strength, but never to that extent. He was winded and dazed by the blow, but had no time to think about it. She got her foot underneath the rod of the scy-staff and kicked it into the air, catching it in her right hand. It spun, as if alive, and the scythe end went for his throat.
‘Wait,’ a voice said, and the blade bounced off the wall instead. Rosanna turned and saw Cleric.
‘Don’t kill him; we can still use him. Bring him downstairs.’
~
Hands were holding him, dragging him … where?
Downhill. Was he outside?
He couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend what was happening … What had he been doing? Had he been asleep? Walking? Talking to the boy?
Isaac.
He’d escaped, and then … Rosanna.
She was pulling him. Downhill, but where…? Down … Down a ramp.
They were going deeper into the facility. But why? What was down there…?
The booth.
‘No,’ he tried to say, but he heard it come out as an inarticulate groan.
‘Quiet,’ hissed a voice in his ear. Rosanna’s voice.
‘I love you,’ he croaked, feeling the ground move underneath him.
Then another pair of hands, around his waist, pulling him up, making him stand … Cold metal against his back, against both his arms … He was inside the booth, hearing humming electrical equipment.
‘No,’ he whimpered, but he didn’t think anybody heard.
A sudden pain ricocheted through his body. Cleric had plunged something into his chest. It was the screw-lined horn that Rosanna wore around her neck … Why? … Fluid was slopped over it, and Cleric brandished the broken end of a live cable.
‘You broke the cables leading into the other room,’ said Cleric’s voice. ‘Now I’ve had to take a more direct approach.’
The live cable was pressed against the screwed, and Johnmal spasmed as energy surged into his flesh, his organs, something arcane and wonderful and deadly. It spattered across his nerves, blinding him with pain.
Then: blessed darkness. He was being pulled toward unconsciousness. He’d felt this before, he realised, but never remembered it afterwards. This was where Cleric—
‘Johnmal,’ said the boss’ voice. ‘Listen to me.’
The thought occurred to him that he should fight it, try to block it, but he could not. It was absurdly powerful.
‘Listen. You are my son. You are my warrior. You will help me, and you will help Rose. Rose loves you. Won’t you help her? She can’t go out. She is afraid to go outside. But you: you can. You can find the boy. You’ve told him a little too much. You have to find him and kill him…
‘And the other one,’ Cleric’s voice said, becoming like a kind of drill, a screw burying into his mind, blocking out all other thoughts and noises. ‘The other one you are helping, who you told the boy to meet. His mother, you said. Find his mother and kill her too.’
‘Sarai,’ Johnmal muttered, feeling his eyes roll back into his head and his tongue loll from his mouth like it was trying to crawl away, ashamed.
‘Yes, Sarai. Find her, and her son, and kill them both.’
*
Twenty-Eight
BURIED IN MUD
Gabel was slumped amongst the dully-coloured forest flowers, blood-caked and confused. Nausea washed over him again, making him gag, and he leaned forward for a second to let it come, tired of fighting it. He vomited into the soft fern between his legs, splattering his already wet clothes and boots. His trousers were plastered to his legs with hot blood, and he could feel his feet getting cold from the dampness that seeped in through his boots.
Rowan was crying hysterically, the magus holding her but staring unblinkingly at Gabel, hat low over his face. The hunter could see a glint in his eye, a shine that he was sure no-one else could see. It wasn’t a glint of happiness, but the shine of a half-formed teardrop.
Sarai and Colan seemed to have been in a state of shock, but were now moving. They clustered around Caeles, whose skin was white like marble. Gabel could see, even from this distance, how his eyes were wide and the pupils dilated, and how his pale lips were murmuring something.
Gabel tried to speak but couldn’t. He tasted blood in his mouth, the nasty tang of iron on his tongue. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened?
He attempted to stand and succeeded only in slumping from a sitting position to kneeling. He looked upward at the great green canopy above him, felt the odd tiny droplet of moisture fall and glance off his skin.
He was sick again, soaking the foliage. He coughed violently, felt a numbing pain shoot from all his limbs and permeate his bones. He struggled against a sudden weakness throughout his body. He was defeated.
~
Sarai saw the hunter fall, but only glanced at him. She suggested to Colan that he watch him, in case he tried to move any further.
‘Caeles,’ she said, kneeling and taking the man’s hands. They were slippery and cold. His eyes were wide and itinerant inside his sockets. ‘Caeles,’ she said again.
‘Hey,’ he croaked.
She leaned a little closer. ‘Do you know what happened?’
His head slumped to the side, chest heaving. His insides were out, and the barrel of his torso had been torn violently open. Thick metal twisted outward, stiff and sharp as broken glass. He sighed.
‘You changed your hair again,’ he said quietly, and reached up to stroke a strand of it. ‘So dark…’
Sarai only nodded, trying to keep hold of his hands, but they kept slipping from between her palms. They had a bloody sheen to them. His clothes were black with it.
‘You—’
He coughed tremulously and his breathing became stertorous. More blood appeared suddenly on his white lips. His voice was just a cracked whisper, still fractured as if there were two voices speaking.
‘Listen,’ Sarai said, voice quiet and desperate, ‘listen, what happened? What did he do?’
‘Gabel,’ Caeles growled suddenly, rising and grabbing her shoulders, pulling at her clothing, ‘is a fucking monster.’
He fell back.
She looked over at the hunter, who seemed to be awake but breathing hard, lying on his side. The knight squatted nearby, keeping watch. He looked like a great horned dog, crouched by a kill and waiting for its master.
‘You know,’ said Caeles, ‘you’ve been gone for so long.’
‘Not that long,’ Sarai said.
‘Through the war, I never … I liked the blue, best. The pink was nice, but the blue … was…’
‘Caeles,’ she said, seeing his eyes close. She shook him and he started, as if woken mid-dream.
‘I wish it had been born,’ he said quietly. He ran a hand over his blood-spattered face, and she saw the star, dark against the back of his pale hand. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. It’s fine, Caeles.’
‘No, sorry. It was … Can you…?’ He stopped, brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly. ‘Are they roses I smell? Or is it,’ he said, trying to reach up but unable to, ‘your skin again? I remember you liked to…’
‘Caeles,’ Sarai said. Her green eyes swam with tears. ‘Rest,’ she said, putting his hands flat. He kept trying to lift them. ‘Just rest.’
‘Oh God.’ He spasmed sharply, grabbed her hand and nearly crushed it. He coughed violently and blood hit her in the chest. ‘Oh God, it’s not right, you can’t tell her…’
‘I won’t,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Just—’
‘No, listen to me. Don’t tell Rowan.’
From over near the caravans, Rowan looked up. The magus held her, but she pushed against his chest, and walked slowly over.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sarai said. She saw Rowan just behind her, who stood unsteadily for a moment, then knelt, taking his hands.
‘What is it?’ Rowan asked, and Caeles looked over at her in the same way he had been looking at Sarai. His ruined chest, a hollowed drum, rose and fell arrhythmically, and his eyes were bloodshot. The colour seemed to have drained from his irises and his lashes dripped blood.
He said, ‘Don’t tell her. About what’s wrong with her. She can’t know.’
Eyes closed, lips parted. The strength in his hands turned to water, and they fell to his lap.
‘What?’ Rowan asked, holding his cheek in her hand, putting the other on his damp arm. ‘What?’ she asked again, with tears. ‘What?’
‘She’s not ill,’ he barely whispered. ‘She’s just … shutting down. She’s … like me. Different. Cyborg.’
Rowan froze for only a second, then shivered ferociously as she shook him. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Wait—’
The magus appeared next to her. He put his hands under her arms and pulled her slowly back, and she stammered as he lifted her to her feet.
Caeles groaned, twitching his fingers. Sarai moved over to touch his lips, and he leaned into her. The water dripping from the canopy above steadily increased, loud and omnipresent.
‘Claire,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I trust you, love. Keep my secrets safe.’
The body went limp. Sarai was too weak to hold it up, and she moved awat. The corpse slipped from the tree trunk and settled, half-curled, in the darkened grass. The patter of falling raindrops made the whole rainforest seem too vast, too hollow to be real. Plasticised organs and shards of coiled metal lay like wreckage about the body.
Sarai stood quickly, feeling the wetness on her knees and stomach, where she had been cradling the dying Caeles.
‘He…’ she said quietly. No-one heard.
‘What did he mean?’ Rowan cried tearfully. ‘What was meant by that?’
The magus, beside her, stood in pained silence as she stared at him.
‘No, it can’t be true,’ she said. ‘It can’t!’
‘Please,’ said Colan, his metallic bulk towering over her. A gauntleted hand reached out to comfort her, and she knocked it back.
‘Get away!’ she yelled.
She pulled away from the magus and began to run into the forest, the others unable to stop her, but she stumbled across Gabel’s folded form and froze, eyes wide. She gasped, reversing then, running back toward the caravan and disappeared into a small wagon. She quickly tied the canvas behind her.
~
Her head was spinning and it was making her feel sick. She clutched her stomach and tried to put together what she had seen just a few minutes ago: a dark winged figure gliding across the clearing to Caeles’ caravan and pulling him out, dragging him helplessly across the wet ground, then flinging him like nothing against a tree, right across the clearing. The demon had flown across to him, and with clawed hands rammed his skull into the trunk, torn open his chest and stomach, slicing through thick metal as if it were water, pulling out pink organs and splattering blood for metres around.
It then stepped back, as Caeles slipped to the ground, and put its hands to its head as she screamed, and suddenly, in a coil of black smoke and mothscales, the monster was suddenly Joseph, standing there bloody and alone, over the body.
Of course his monstrous secret made sense: the red gleam to his eyes whenever his emotions got the better of him. The way he had identified the thrum of the Luxers’ distant horses before any of them had heard a thing. How he’d seen Hînio Colan through the heavy mist of the Resting Place before Caeles.
Caeles who, in his dying state, had said that Rowan wasn’t dying but shutting down; an ancient machine that had finally run out of power. Could it be true? Her memories before twenty months ago were non-existent; she couldn’t remember her childhood, her old family … All she recalled was the Father of Niu Correntia, finding her dazed and confused in the forest. She recalled how he’d taken her back to the church and looked after her, even after she had begun to deteriorate; when her skin became more and more pallid, her strength spiralling away as if made of steam.
‘No,’ she stammered, feeling the nausea again. It wasn’t true. How could it be?
She felt fiery rage toward Caeles, who had kept it secret. She picked up a large obsidian chest, which must have weighed a hundred pounds, and crushed it to splinters in her hands, cutting the flesh.
What was she? Another ancient relic from the war? A secret weapon? Why make her so human, so real…? Caeles didn’t need food, or water, or sleep. He could go on for days and days, and then only need to rest his eyes for a few hours to recharge. But she ate! She slept! She bled!
But, she thought wearily, tiredly, she had survived this long, and her illness was indefinable, and she could crush obsidian chests with her bare hands…
‘Irenia,’ she wept, putting her cut palms to her face in prayer. ‘Irenia help me, please. Please…’
~
The nomads of the camp were very superstitious. They demanded that Caeles’ body be taken away and buried, lest the angry spirit that previously occupied it linger for too long. They were also displeased at having what they called a metalman in their camp, and admonished a numb Gabel for bringing it to their homes. They were glad it was dead.
They were, however, troubled. In their folklore, metalmen were indestructible, like gods. The strength of such a man was unequalled by any except another metalman, and finding one torn open like a paper bag made them uneasy. A group of three men, entirely shaven including their eyebrows, gathered around a small fire and chanted, wringing c
hains of small beads in their hands, and drawing pictures in the dried mud. Though their language was a derivation of the travellers’, some words were similar, and the word monster could be heard repeatedly. Colan believed the three men to be shamen.
The magus had asked that the knight and the ninja bury the body. Gabel had disappeared, having wandered away in the night. The old man had assured them that he would be back, and would be safe, and that for now the nomads would have to be appeased.
Colan managed to pull the body upright, and Sarai had the strength to lift his legs. They carried him for five minutes into the deep forest. They found a place where the foliage was light and the earth soft, and began to dig with shovels provided them by a nomad farmer.
For most of the morning they dug, making a grave at least six feet deep, their work confounded by the steady rain that turned the soil to mud, which slipped back down into the hole. They kept digging, even when the grave was just a muddy slush, and the shovels picked at nothing but water.
Eventually the grave looked deep enough. Just as they finished it they heard the peal of thunder, and the rain intensified. Quickly, together, they pulled Caeles’ body across the mud and slid it into the hole. It landed on its back, the arms pushed up because the grave wasn’t wide enough. Water bubbled up from around it, squeezed out from little pockets of trapped air underneath. The mud continued to wash in, refilling the hole without the toil of shovels. The bloodless face was enveloped by liquid earth, until the grave appeared quite empty again.
Colan and Sarai looked at each other, soaked by rain. With silent agreement they began pushing in the last of the dirt, filling the hole completely, and putting Caeles’ to rest. Sarai knelt and prayed, though she was not a pious woman, and the armoured knight stood behind her, a black metallic sentinel in the darkness of the flooding rainforest, with his clawed hands on her shoulders.
~
Colan and Sarai had been gone for about five or six hours when the man appeared at the magus’s wagon. Rain beat against its curved roof. The magus had been sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, waiting for the visitor.
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