by Andrew Post
With a screeching war cry, Rohm pushed out from Clyde’s pocket, raced up Dreck’s arm, neck, and across his cheek—and buried teeth into Dreck’s eye. It made a sound like a bursting grape as Rohm continued to push his head in, snapping and tearing and nearly entering Dreck’s skull entirely as if chasing the blood in.
Clyde fought to find Commencement while Dreck was preoccupied, but amongst all the churned snow and earth, he couldn’t.
Dreck caught Rohm in one hand, his ruined eye painting a red river down his face. His remaining peeper was full of rage as his hand squeezed around Rohm tighter and tighter.
The frisk mouse cried out . . .
Clyde spotted something flashing in the suns amongst the broken snow and ice. Grabbing it up, hoping it was a sword, he struggled when he found whatever it was to be much heavier. The magnet cannon. The chrome sphere darted out of the sword heap and slapped to the end of the barrel, ready.
He turned, trained its end on Dreck.
Dreck saw what Clyde had in his hands.
A blood-soaked Rohm, stealing the opportunity with the pirate captain’s distraction, wriggled free and leaped aside.
Clyde pulled the trigger. The cannon lurched in his hands, the ball careening toward its target.
Dreck threw out a hand to cube the magnet ball as it raced toward him. He wasn’t fast enough. The shining metal sphere smacked into his palm with a fleshy crack. Peering down at it in his pink-fingered clutch, dripping melted snow, Dreck sighed.
“May the Goddess junk me—”
A whirlwind of swords broke free of the nearby pile. A slithering, jangling river of steel plunged toward him, the magnet’s holder. The blades turned and wheeled about the others that’d reached him before, crushing inward tightly. Quickly covered, Dreck let out a scream from somewhere within as the mass clenched and clenched, every rusty blade fighting to get closer to the magnet ball than its fellows, crushing themselves in their determination.
The round heap of swords gave a small tremor, blades clinking, then went still. A few of the bent steel bristles dropped red into the snow.
The magnet cannon clattered at Clyde’s feet. He took one step forward, then another, the forgotten cold racing back in around him, harsher than before. His various cuts sang out, each breeze across them excruciating. Nausea flooded him, and he fought to keep himself standing. He picked Rohm up from the snow, finding the white frisk mouse easily by how much red he was covered with. They exchanged a look—pure exhaustion—and after thanking him, voice weak, Clyde returned him to his pocket.
He looked away from the end he’d delivered upon Dreck Javelin, noticing the insect baby had rolled from Greenspire’s clutch that now wasn’t so snug.
It ran its barbed hands over the Mouflon, ruffling the fur about his neck and face. It made small chattering coos, poking and prodding but eliciting no reaction. It managed to get him halfway rolled over in an impressive display of strength before the ancient Mouflon flumped back again. It picked up the red dice scattered about, trying to arrange them back as they had been connected. It dropped them into the gaping cavity.
Clyde approached, and before he was even three strides within Greenspire’s inert form, the crusher of men turned on him, hissing. Pincers spread, flashing several rows of small, sharp teeth.
“He was a friend,” Clyde attempted.
Whether or not it understood, it gave no indication. It dropped itself onto Greenspire, squeezing its keeper, softly weeping, still not quite ready to give up.
“Clyde?” came blaring through the icy wind. Flam. Clyde met him in the middle, hands out to keep his friend from seeing.
Nevele followed.
Flam’s gaze was locked on the sight ahead.
There was no way to hide what had happened. Clyde dropped his hands to his sides.
Flam stopped short, staring past Clyde.
“Is . . . is that . . . ?”
“He—”
Flam looked down at Clyde, lips quivering. “Is he . . . ?”
Clyde swallowed.
Flam moved around Clyde and went plodding toward Greenspire.
The hybrid child screeched at Flam when he got too close to Greenspire.
Flam grabbed the baby roughly, pinning its six arms to its side, holding it in the air and shaking it. “This is all your doing, you little shite.”
The hybrid child screamed out, writhing and twisting, half its wings still trapped.
Clyde and Nevele rushed up. “Flam!”
“You and the Lulomba—you turned him crazy down there, down in the Meech-damned depths, making him believe all this garbage about prophecies and pilgrimages and equilibrium and—”
“Flam, stop,” Clyde shouted. “He didn’t do anything.”
The green infant broke free, flitting over the junk heaps. Clyde couldn’t be sure if he heard bawling or if it was just the wind as the hybrid child crookedly fluttered away.
Crunching down beside his uncle, Flam pulled the slumping Mouflon to his chest. Flam howled, pawing over him as if it’d all be okay if he could just get him to sit up. Flam continued just as the hybrid child had done a moment ago. The cubes that’d been dropped back into him tumbled out, and Flam did the same in attempting to collect them, scooping the half-frozen dice and pushing them back into the perfectly square, no-longer-bleeding wound.
“Flam, I’m sorry,” Nevele tried, “but we need to get out of this cold.”
“Give him a moment,” Clyde said, guiding her aside. He was unsure what to do to comfort Flam—if anything could be done.
One of Greenspire’s belt pouches had come free, some pieces of rough parchment growing dark wicking up melted snow. Each held what was obviously writing in a blind man’s hand. Clyde said nothing of them for the time being, merely stuck them inside his jacket to dry.
CHAPTER 29
Good-byes Are Hard
They laid Greenspire on the floor inside the Odium’s silent base. Clyde took off his cloak and draped it over Greenspire, covering him to the neck. While unclasping it from himself, he heard the pages crunch in his pocket. He delicately handed them to Flam. “These fell out of his pocket.”
Flam quickly skimmed the pages. He frowned at some lines, smiled a little at others, and brought a hand to his mouth when he crossed a particular passage.
“What’d he say?” Clyde said.
Flam lowered the parchment. “Usually, when a Mouflon meets the morning suns and writes to someone, it’s to a deceased family member. But these are all to me. But, really, when you read Meech’s book of ways, it says any family member you’ve lost touch with, not necessarily dead, as most folks assume . . . I never thought he cared we’d lost touch or didn’t see eye to eye on his whole pilgrim thing or . . .”
Nevele put a hand on Flam’s wrist.
“I’m okay. It’s just . . . surprising is all. Especially this one, with the ink still wet. He must’ve written it only a couple of hours ago, while hitching a ride up here.” He chuckled at the insanity of Greenspire’s bold move.
While searching the remainder of the base, they came across more of the dead pirates lying in groups, black blood splattering the floor about them, the worms that’d managed to break free of their hosts scattered in inert black ropes about them. Clyde and the others gave the bodies a wide berth when passing.
Reaching a large open gate in one of the lower levels, since there were few other places remaining to explore, they took the elevator down.
The underground hangar had only a few lights on, and the deposit was partly illuminated, making it seem much larger than it probably was. Standing six of Flam high and what Clyde estimated to easily be an entire city block wide and deep, the deposit was impossible to miss. It took up so much of the hangar’s floor space that all the remaining parked starships nearly touched the distant walls to allow it space. The hybrid child, who’d apparently found his way back in, sat atop it, not looking their way even as they walked up. He just continued staring off into space, his s
mall sobs echoing. Losing Greenspire must’ve inspired it to find the next closest thing resembling home—the wendal deposit.
“How are you, little guy?” Flam asked, the corners of his lips tightening with visible regret.
While Flam stood below the hybrid child, talking up to it in soothing tones, Clyde took a look about the area surrounding the deposit. There’d been a glass tank of some kind, now reduced to shards and puddles of water going glassy with creeping ice. Next to it, on the side of the deposit, one section looked shinier than the others, the surface less craggy. It’d been chipped at, as evidenced by the broken set of jackhammers cast aside on the floor, the chiseling tips of both crushed to useless nubs.
Circling to the other side, he found Nevele eyeing another section that looked similar but chipped deeper into the deposit. Apparently not with efficient digging tools but what looked like one patient scrape after another with rudimentary handmade implements. It formed a sort of shallow hole, where inside was a makeshift tent fitted snugly with a wooden frame and canvas walls, padded with fur blankets. Comforts one would never need in the warmth of the Geyser tunnels’ depths but would if, say, the deposit were hauled somewhere like one of the planet’s ice caps.
“He knew what they were going to do,” Nevele said, backing her head out of the small hiding place. “But how? We barely knew before it was too late.”
As Clyde was about to shrug, Flam came around the far end of the deposit. The hybrid baby tottered behind at a cautious but curious distance. “Greenspire said the Lulomba had a seer,” Flam said. “Thought it was a bunch of crap, myself, but . . .” He reached one hand to his belt pouches and delicately removed the still-wet parchment pages. “Some of these go back a few years, but I’ll be damned if he wasn’t nearly on the nose each time.”
“On the nose with what?” Clyde said.
Flam flipped open the pages with care. “The Hidden Pale One will return.” He eyed Clyde. “Wonder who he means there, huh?”
Clyde swallowed. “What else?”
Flam read on, “The spout city will get sacked. The corrupt king will flee and become corrupted further. The cyclopean man will give a sacrifice.”
“Aksel,” Rohm said.
“The queen will breathe new life into the sleeping things.”
Nevele took one of the pages and skimmed it. “Might’ve been good to have seen these earlier.”
Flam said, “Greenspire wrote here, in one, that he tried telling people, but no one would listen. And here he says he considered bringing the prophecies to us but doubted we’d believe him.”
Clyde sighed. “Sadly, that’s probably accurate.”
“Anything about what comes next, Mr. Flam?” Rohm said.
“Pretty much ends with that, about Geyser.”
From the irising door high above, Nigel brought the starship into the hangar, carefully setting it down alongside the deposit; a tight fit among the remaining Odium ships.
“Anything about you in there?” Nevele asked Flam over the engine noise.
“Actually, yeah,” Flam said and noticed the crusher of men peeking around the deposit at them. “Come here, little fella.”
Wringing his hands, compound eyes uncertain, he slowly approached. Flam took a knee and apologized for earlier. Whether or not the green child understood, Clyde couldn’t say, but it seemed he comprehended Flam’s sincere tone.
“Well, cut the suspense, then,” Nevele said. “What’d Greenspire say?”
“The unbeliever nephew,” Flam said, adopting the tone of a sage, “is to take over for the patron pilgrim, whereupon he will become the believer nephew, the new patron pilgrim.”
Nigel rolled down the ramp of his ship and scooted their way, followed by the Lulomba and Blatta—who crawled atop the deposit, running their hands over the familiar granular drawings, exchanging smiles and reassuring hugs. They seemed comforted to have this piece of home—even if it was thousands of miles away from where it used to be. A small thing.
“I suppose,” Flam continued, “it means Greenspire knew he was going to . . . well, not make it.” After a moment of him grinding his teeth, he stiffened his lip. “And he wanted me to take over.” Unable to accurately paraphrase any further, Flam flapped the stack of papers open again with a flick of his wrist, making the coiled page snap open.
“Dear Flam, I know you probably think I’ve lost my mind. Most people do when someone takes on a rather new way of life that doesn’t really agree with the person they used to be or the normal trend of things—believing odd things. And if you don’t wish to take this burden upon yourself, I’d understand. But I do wish, since I know my end is coming, that you will find someone to take your place. Hand off the divinations, give them to someone who will follow them. I’m sure by now you’ve read a few and seen how accurate the seer has been. The Odium will take the wendal stone somewhere, and you must guard it once it’s safe. Undoubtedly, where it’s brought will be more secure than below Geyser. And if any of your friends has perished in the city’s razing, I’m sorry. I know I will be lost, and I hope you forgive me for that. I hope to rewrite my destiny, if such a thing is possible, and if so you will never read this, so it won’t matter.
“But I believe things will work as the seer has said, and I’ve already come to accept the divinations as they detail my life, the echoes whispered from ahead to our seer. I feel confident that when this deposit sets down wherever the Odium mean to take it, I will get to fight by your side. The child, prophesied as the crusher of men, will live on. He has much more to do in this grand scheme yet, and I hope you take care of Rogeff. Yes, I named him Rogeff. After my brother, your father. Do not take offense. I named him that only because your father Rogeff Flam was a great Mouflon. Anyone named after him takes him on as an example to live by, someone who was loving, understanding, and caring. And hopefully you, if you agree to be the new patron pilgrim and guardian of the stone, will be the source by which little Rogeff will receive his lessons on how to be a great man. I love you, Tiddle. Take care.”
Tears in his eyes, Flam lowered the sheet.
Clyde said, “That’s quite the charge he’s put upon you.”
After clearing the shimmer in his eyes with a thumb, Flam said, “Guys, I think I’m going to do it. I mean, in a backwards sort of way, Greenspire made me give my word. And you know what that means to Mouflons.”
Clyde nodded.
“So,” Flam said, hiking in a deep breath and letting it out, “I think I’m going to stay here. Maybe tidy it up a bit, carry out some of the dead bodies, find a place to put Uncle . . . you know, in a final resting place . . . and . . . well, start along with my new job. No one knows about this place. Where better to hide the deposit?” Flam put a weighty, warm palm on Clyde’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pasty.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels like I’m giving up, not coming with you guys to find this Nimbelle Winter person.”
“Flam, you’re doing anything but giving up. You’re needed here.”
Nigel cuffed Flam on the side. “It’s not like ye’ll be alone. Can’t be expected to keep yer eyes open all hours.” The Lulomba, atop their Blatta, came around, gathering among the stone’s new guardians as they turned to Nevele and Clyde. He had to admit, they made an intimidating sight.
“It’s not the end, Pasty. You can visit anytime, and we’ll certainly help when we can.”
“Aye,” Nigel said. He saluted, adding, “Consider us your reserves.”
After gathering the pirates and gray bone worms into heaps and setting them ablaze—no one was sure whether or not burying them would be a swell idea—they laid Greenspire and Aksel to rest.
In the fields of ice, a quiet patch past the statue of the Mechanized Goddess—which Flam said would be the first thing he’d remodel—the icy ground gave their shovels difficulty. The work warmed them, aided by the suns filtering from the fissure above. It was still horribly cold, but no one complained. This was for their friends.
A spike of crooked steel for Aksel, his name impressively etched in by Nigel’s deft laser pick. Onto it, Clyde hooked Aksel’s eye patch, the elastic hoop and black plastic dish tossing in the cold wind. Another for Miss Petunia Selby, for whom they needn’t dig a grave, but the marker stood alongside their other friends just as proud.
Flam said some words from the teachings of Meech, and for the first time Clyde heard Flam use the Mouflon tongue, a language composed of mostly hacking and snarling.
With Rogeff on his shoulder, Flam sang two songs. The first was upbeat, a rousing ululating that built and built, something befitting warriors. The second was a dirge. Clyde’s eyes burned, his throat knotting. Nevele took Clyde’s hand, their fingers warming, so tightly clenched.
The final few notes were sent ringing up through the hollow glacier, out over the white plains, the first chorus in Mouflonian, the second in Common.
“With us always, with us always.”
While Nigel programmed the autopilot for Clyde, Nevele, and Rohm with a course set for Adeshka, Flam—mostly kidding—tried to ask them to stay. Whoever this Nimbelle Winter person was, like all bad folk, she would eventually make herself known.
Clyde, as hard as it was to do, politely declined Flam’s invitation. Producing it from his pocket, Clyde showed him the hotel room key, room six, saying he, too, had made a promise. They’d set up a base of operations in Adeshka and begin looking for Nimbelle Winter there.
Nevele was quiet, Flam easily seeing she was working something through. She buckled herself in and stared out the window, looking lost.
Clyde extended a hand. Flam took it.
“I made for a rather shite knight.”
Clyde stepped forward, turning the handshake into a hug. “Anything but. You fought for your city, Sir Flam. That’s all I ever asked.”
The starship, piloting itself, lifted off through the hangar doors above and through the split in the glacier, vanishing into the blizzard. Flam turned back to Nigel, the Lulomba, and Rogeff, surrounding the deposit. When he was a treasure hunter, he would’ve done just about anything to say this thing was his. And now he would do just about anything to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.