Massey was too beat down to think straight. “Obadiah Paine was an Ultra though.”
“Right. But I’m not.”
All that and I’m still getting gasps.
I flipped the World-Breaker over again. Stared at it, at the anima inside of it. Moment of truth. Pit of No Return and here’s the floor, finally.
All that and here we are.
Remember the beginning?
Remember how sure I was?
Remember all my plans?
Remember how they went to shit?
Remember the Eureka sunset?
Remember the Purifier? Terrifying in her glory?
Felt Val’s hand on my back. “Are you sure about this?” she whispered, guessing what I was about to do like she often managed.
“Trust me?” I whispered back.
“Of course,” she said. “I’d even kiss you right now if all these old men weren’t watching.”
“Future’s gonna be different, ain’t it?”
“Always should be, or you end up like this lot, run over and left in the dust.”
“I love you, ya know?”
Val’s hand spread out on my back, fearful or supportive . . . maybe both. “I love you too.”
“The only reason I didn’t join the Guild,” I finally spoke up enough to be heard, addressing the assembled again, “well . . . the skullcaps too, but mostly it comes down to a conversation I had with Massey here. Had it as a Hep at the Asylum. Was about Anima Madness. See, my Mom died of it. Wilder. Intra. Corpusmancer. Who gives a shit about them, right? But that’s another fight for later, I suppose. This one, this one’s just about Anima Madness.
“I asked Massey here if anyone in the Guild had ever tried to make an artifact that could cure it. He told me they hadn’t and never would. Explained the Cleansing Sphere to me. Ran right over me, started talking about upholding product lines and shit, expanding into China and what that could mean for a person who might invent their own artifacts, stuff Massey always said. Eventually I got it across to him about really wanting to research Anima Madness and he just couldn’t understand why. Why waste time on those that had fallen? No product in it, is there? Couldn’t charge for a cure to Anima Madness, could you imagine the fallout?”
I stared at him some more. Hate in my dirt eyes. Different kind of hate than I reserve for the Divines or for Paine, but it’s still there. Might always be there. No matter how many times Val tells me she loves me, it might always be there. Might die with those dirt eyes staring with hatred at whoever manages to off me.
“That’s how he lost me. That’s why I’ve been on my own. All you had to do was say ‘go for it, King Henry’ and I would’ve joined. Would’ve hated the rules and wouldn’t have ever worn a skullcap, maybe not a robe either, but . . . I’d have been one of you. Brother in Artifice.
“It’s still my goal. So much my goal that on killing Obadiah Paine and also since I know where his hideout is, that I just made a deal with the Learning Council to build and found a new research center dedicated to solving Anima Madness, funding it with all artifacts and design documents found at said hideout. Now, of course, if I’m researching, then I can’t actually make any of those artifact product lines, so . . . that’s why the deal I made includes three partners. Me, the Learning Council, and you. The Guild.”
All those eyes looking down at me.
All those faces.
Seeing the out in our troubled relationship.
“There’s more. See, a lot of what I did to steal from your Vault, a lot of what I did to kill the Curator, what I did to be in Eureka and then here with all of you . . . painted a big target on my back. So this ain’t just about reunion and reconciliation, although fuck have I had a lot of those this week . . . it’s about me surviving. What I’ve done, scares you, but it scares our enemies more. Some of you don’t know what I’m alluding to, that’s okay. Be blissful for awhile. It’s nice there. But if you do know . . . they’ll come for me. Maybe in a month, maybe in a year . . . the only way I survive it, the only way we keep it from maybe never happening, is if you stand up for me.”
I walked over and sat down by Massey. “Why should you? I’m not a Brother in Artifice, right? Even with this deal, made it obvious I’m still not going to be inside the Guild, just working with you. So why should you?”
Flipped the World-Breaker again. “Thing is . . . I ain’t just special because of this glowing dildo here. See, Massey didn’t just miss out on landing a really talented Artificer. What Massey fucked up, the person he let not join the Guild, the person he just put up for censure in his Artificial Court . . . is the Glassbreaker.”
No gasps at that, but many a breath was inhaled.
Massey looked like he just shit his robes too.
Good for him you couldn’t tell on the basis of them being brown.
“You’re all so focused on being Artificers!” I yelled once more. “You forget that we’re also geomancers! You forget we are of the Earth above all else! We are steel! We are stone! Sand! Gems! Any metal that a forge can melt and many they can’t! I might not be your Brother in Artifice, but I am your Brother of the Earth.”
I stood, still with my voice loud as I could. Dirt eyes defiant of anyone or anything that might try to stop me. Here came that floor. Here was my chance. “I ask your aid! I ask your hand in saving all mancers from madness! I ask your protection and will give you mine in turn when the day comes!” The Jinshin Ken rose above my head. “This is mine. I wield a World-Breaker, but without you, without others, it won’t be enough. I’ve tried to be one man and no matter how strong the Mancy has made me, it’s too much.
“Brothers and Sisters, I stand before you and I say this: My name is King Henry Price! I am the Glassbreaker! My name is King Henry Price and I declare myself the Maximus of the Earth!”
.
.
.
Did I just do that?
For almost a minute I stood alone.
If you ignore that intruding, no-good, lovely pyromancer in the room.
A whole minute.
Just sit there in silence.
A whole minute.
Wasn’t silent in the rotunda.
A minute of grown men weeping.
Plutarch stood first.
Never seen that much pride in a single eye.
He glanced about at the others, like they had offended him. He didn’t say a word, but the expression said it for him: get off your asses!
Up they rose, one by one.
My Brothers.
My Sisters.
Of the Earth.
For their Maximus.
Again Plutarch led them. For the Guild. For his pupil. For the Mancy and a world without madness I hoped. “My name is Paul Nixon!” he called out. “Though only Ultra, I stand witness! Long live the Glassbreaker!”
“LONG LIVE THE GLASSBREAKER!!!” they all answered.
“LONG LIVE THE GLASSBREAKER!!!”
“LONG LIVE THE GLASSBREAKER!!!”
And down that Pit of No Return we keep on going.
Found the bottom and broke on through.
Yes I did.
One of these times . . . I’m gonna go splat.
But this time?
This time . . . smells like victory.
This time . . . long live the Glassbreaker.
Long live the Dirt King.
GINGER
SNAP
ATTACK!
Sneak Peek: Gush
Hey, Foul Mouths! While King Henry Price remains the biggest pain in the ass of my writing life, I do on occasion like to take a break from his antics. The latest book I’ve been cheating with is GUSH. Still in the works, I plan to give some serious attention its way and have it published by the end of 2017. Contrary to what the King Henry diehards who want to duct-tape me to a computer chair might think, working on side projects is a great way to keep an author fresh and to help them continue to grow in their craft. I’m very excited by GUSH and hope you’ll t
ake another journey with me, into a different land, a different world, and with a new cast of characters to explore. Enjoy!
EVERY YEAR, THE KINGDOM OF BERST
CALLS FORTH BOTH THE GREATEST WARRIORS
OF THE LAND AND THOSE FROM BEYOND IT
WHAT WAS ONCE A RELIGIOUS CEREMONY
FOR AN ANCIENT CIVILIZATION IS NOW
A SPECTACLE OF BLOOD AND ACCLAIM
THOUSANDS FLOCK TO THE GREAT COURSE
IN THEIR TEAMS OF RACERS TWO, YEAR AFTER YEAR
TO FILL THE NEEDS OF AN ADORING PUBLIC
DEATH WAITS FOR FALLEN CHAMPIONS
BUT FAME AWAITS THOSE WHO FINISH THE COURSE
STORY SPREAD TO EVERY WAITING EAR AND EYE
THIS IS THE STORY OF ONE OF THOSE TEAMS
ULLIE JOR NABENNE AND MERR, NOBLE AND COMMONER,
TWO WOMEN WITH A UNIQUE PLAN . . .
TO RUN THE RIVER GUSH
Starting Line- The Dove and the Crow
Ullie’s feet itched to be away, but the thick line of pennants blocked any hope of getting an early start on the Great Course.
She was bottled up; bottled up with hundreds of trained killers all better trained than Ullie could ever hope to be. Better than even Merr could hope to be.
Ullie’s partner in the race was her usual self at Ullie’s back: tall, intimidating, armed with more throwing knives than anyone could ever hope to use in a week, but Merr was still planning to give it a try.
Ullie felt smaller than usual mixed in with all those killers. Killers who would soon be trying to kill her, once the thick line of pennants moved away and the Royal Timekeeper gave the signal for the Starters to let loose on the gongs with the traditional Beat to Race.
Ullie and Merr’s pennant was up there among the multitude of silk. The five locked facing doves of House Nabenne and at their center Merr’s common crow. Merr had no noble house, but she had her murder of throwing knives to keep her safe just the same.
Safer than House Nabenne will keep me in the next hour, Ullie thought ruefully.
Unlike Merr, Ullie was loaded with survivalist supplies. Firestarter sticks, silken ropes, a compass and map of the Great Course, their food supplies . . . and a few surprises no one will be expecting.
The added weight didn’t make her feel like a dove . . . it made her feel like a turkey.
“Don’t stop, keep running. Even if I fall behind,” Merr reminded aloud, drawing snickers from the other racers.
Merr left unsaid a more ominous note: even if they kill me.
Which suddenly seemed more likely than Ullie had ever expected. So many . . . big, hulking men and women. With swords and clubs and bows and more lethality than a legion of the king’s army could properly wield. Here I am in the middle of it. My glory. What I wanted. What I’ve worked for.
Merr twisted Ullie’s shoulders to force the girl to meet Merr’s dark eyes. “Be fast, little dove; remember you’re an Academy-trained Reservist and be fast.”
Some of the snickering stopped.
A good number of the racers were Reservists, but few of them were school taught and even fewer were Academy-trained. Though she usually felt pride at the achievement—perhaps the only achievement in her short seventeen-year-life that she did feel pride in—the idea of being a standout held no joy for Ullie in the moment. “You just put a target on my back,” she accused Merr.
The big woman smirked, not at all ashamed about what she had done. “Best stop worrying then and best be fast when those gongs sound, wouldn’t you say?”
Ullie glanced about; at the other racers in their multitude of styles, at the stands with their waving nobles and rich merchants, at the pennants still on display, but now being moved away from the great arch that marked the starting line.
There were three arches and three starting areas on the Great Course. The King Gate for the king, the clergy, and his favored. The Noble Gate for the attending nobles and merchants who could afford the box prices. Last, the Common Gate for the common men and women of Berst.
Ullie and Merr had a ranking on the betting scales that should have placed them among the Common Gate with the rest of the riffraff. It was a very disorganized melee at the Common Gate year after year. The people loved the show. But the nobles and the king enjoyed their shows as well . . . so some of the riffraff were seeded among the better racing couples.
At least we didn’t end up at the King Gate . . . we’d never make it five feet there. Still . . . Ullie picked out faces among the racers that she recognized. Veteran faces who had survived the Great Course year after year. Men and women who had pamphlets of their races crafted and sold at a dime for extra profit over their cash prize and patronage payments.
Lifers.
The Trappers of the Vales, Yuriel and Groshin, who were old now, sinewy and hard and past their primes, but in twenty-six years on the Great Course had hundreds of marks in their Kill Book.
Heburr and Kort, up and comers who had survived four years now. Some were betting on them to make it in the top ten, even if the odds were long.
Ithena and Alean, one of the few married couples in the field, First Timers but with enough patrons to have years of training under their belts. If they survived, they could expect to have a bestselling pamphlet this year.
Ullie Jor Nabenne and Merr . . . just Merr, never needed more . . .
The pennant holders finished removing themselves from under the Noble Gate. Be fast, Ullie thought, be very fast.
She mentally checked her Basin, verifying to see everything was in place for the race. If it wasn’t, she would never survive the next few days. You’ve checked every hour, every fifteen minutes since you woke up this morning. Merr’s right, you’re an Academy-trained Reservist, magic isn’t what will fail you.
The Timekeeper singled one more minute until the Starters attacked the gongs.
Ullie let out a breath and all her nerves went with it. Around her the other racers checked their weapons and eyed each other double, sizing up easy pickings. Everyone made space around Yuriel and Groshin, out of respect for the old timers. And out of worry they might get hit by Groshin’s bolas the second the race starts.
Behind Ullie, Merr fingered her throwing knives.
Around them, the other racers edged inwards like hungry sharks.
Easy pickings. A good action bit at the start of your pamphlet. Get a bump in sales for a bloody start, wouldn’t you? That’s common sense!
Ullie mentally inventoried her Basin. She was an Academy-trained Reservist. She knew how to do this. A gifted Reservist. Top of my year. Graduated with honors. A wonderful life of prestige ahead of me, married into a house even nobler than my father’s for a Bride Price in the tens of thousands. Not a boy, boys either inherited the land or served it. Not the firstborn daughter, the firstborn daughter married firstborn sons, the firstborn sealed alliance with another house. No, she was three of seven. She was sold. Sold into the same luxury upon which a lady of my upbringing is accustomed, but sold nonetheless.
Yet here Ullie was.
About to be knifed or clubbed or maimed in even more creative ways.
Standing at the Noble Gate.
A racer on the Great Course of Berst.
With Merr beside her as her partner.
If they finished, they would be wealthy enough to never worry about another person’s opinions. Especially Father’s or Mother’s. If they won . . .
Finish, we just have to finish.
Ten seconds the Timekeeper signaled with all of his fingers.
The crowd of nobles, usually so reserved, counted aloud as his fingers ticked away.
Ullie felt calm now.
Just like her tests at the Academy. Mastered in hours, a bundle of agony the morning before, then calm once it was upon her.
Ullie balanced her body, her weight and the weight of the supplies she carried. She knew the exact amount it all added up to and with her Reservism she took three-fourths of it and placed it in her Basin. Immediately she beca
me light, with little mass. Inside her head, her Basin filled, drop by drop as the weight took up space with all the rest of her Reserved tricks.
Low mass, but the same muscle strength Merr forced into me over the last six months with all her evil exercises.
Fast?
She could be fast!
She watched the Timekeeper’s fingers.
Five.
Many of those surrounding her pulled their weapons from their sheaths—swords, knives, hammers, one large fellow even had a spiked ball on the end of a chain.
Four.
The crowd at her back cheered for blood. Her blood. It was an even trade. Blood for fame. She wasn’t a slave. She hadn’t been forced into it. She hadn’t been sold into it. She had chosen this life, just like all the other killers.
Three.
Ullie pulled a small explosive canister from a satchel hanging at her side. A few of the men edging towards them reversed themselves at the sight of the object. It was impossible to miss the Barmerry Arms phoenix on the side of the canister, with its bright yellow and orange colors.
Two.
Merr did her knife trick, throwing blades ready between each finger except for her index and thumb.
One.
Ullie pulled the pin out of the canister.
The Timekeeper signaled.
The gongs sounded.
The Great Course of Berst, Year 263, was open.
Come ye, all brave adventures.
Earn glory and fame.
Give for us your bodies and we shall give to you our acclaim.
Join the hallowed halls of champions.
Blood.
Sweat.
Tears.
Gunpowder? Ullie thought before throwing the canister at her feet.
***
If there is one rule a novice Reservist quickly learns, it is that only one drop is needed to overflow a Basin.
The gunpowder in the canister was miniscule, with only enough force to break open the two halves of the canister, fluids mixing inside to suddenly create a thick, unpleasant gas of lavender tint.
Completely harmless despite forcing a cough on whoever breathed it in, it was more importantly impossible to pierce with your eyes. The cloud puffed out, expanding in the wind, engulfing both Ullie and Merr. Around them the noises of combat started in: clanging steel, the thud of body on body, even the first screams of the race.
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 87