The Land You Never Leave

by Angus Watson

  Erik looked around the Plains Sprinter, nodding as he counted. The exact numbers weren’t really the point, but Sassa slightly adored him for doing it.

  “Seventeen!” he called triumphantly at the end.

  “You left out Calnian.”

  “Calnian? Who the Hel is Calnian?”

  “Ayanna’s baby.”

  “Oh. Yes. Eighteen.”

  And Sassa liked Erik just a little less again. Men really did not give a flying fuck about babies.

  “Still,” Erik continued, “we cannot kill children. Try it, and you’ll be fighting me as well.”

  “Me, too!” called Wulf.

  Sofi sighed. “Hold for now, Sitsi. But if the pigeons lose so much as a pace in height, five of those children are dead.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Maybe Finnbogi will be able to hold control against one. Otherwise Paloma will be able to run at it and take it out.”

  “I will?” Paloma asked.

  “You will.”

  Sofi Tornado turned to survey the Plains Sprinter, eyes harder than Wulf’s hammer. She was a compassion-free, battle-forged warrior to whom death and killing were as normal as breakfast.

  Those warrior’s eyes met Sassa’s. Sassa tried to look like a warrior herself. She was ready to fight. She wasn’t a paranoid pregnant woman terrified that her baby had died inside her. Sofi switched her glare to Ayanna and her child. Then she looked straight back at Sassa.

  She knew. She knew she’d thought about murdering the empress.

  Sofi walked towards Sassa, strong yet lithe, solid yet vital, every muscle and sinew shouting out that here was as fine a fighter as alchemy and a lifetime’s training could produce. She was undeniably the most impressive looking human that Sassa had ever seen.

  The wonderful warrior stood in front of her. Sassa flinched. Sofi placed a hand on her shoulder. Sassa guessed she was about to rip her head off and tried to brace her neck, but instead Sofi leant in so that her mouth was a finger’s breadth from the Wootah woman’s ear. She smelled strong.

  “Your baby,” she whispered, “is alive, healthy and growing exactly as it should be. The moment that changes I will let you know, but it won’t. Growing babies are a lot tougher than you’d think.”

  Sofi returned to the back rail.

  Sassa blinked. She placed a hand on her stomach. Could she feel the heartbeat? She rather thought she could. She smiled as tears pricked the edges of her eyes.

  She looked across at Ayanna, nursing her son. Suddenly she felt lighter. She was looking at a mother, nursing a baby. Maybe Ayanna had ordered their deaths, but she hadn’t known them … still. But if all Sassa’s transgressions east of the Water Mother were forgiven, then, she reasoned, she should probably extend the same courtesy to Ayanna.

  Finnbogi the Boggy was no longer Finnbogi the Boggy. He was a crowd pigeon. Not even Finnbogi the Pigeon. Just a pigeon.

  He considered soaring, maybe diving, perhaps dipping a little. But, no, it wasn’t about that. It was about being with them all, about beating his wings and flying with all of them, finally part of something! They flew as one, they were together, they were one. He could fly, and flying was okay, but it was nothing compared to the joy of being one little member of a massive community. And that community was going to get bigger, much bigger! Up ahead, to the west, was an unimaginably large flock. They just had to fly on and—

  “Left, Finn, left!” a voice he recognised rang out. It was a voice of authority and he knew he should—they all should—do what it said. He agreed, they all agreed, so they all dipped a wing and turned leftwards.

  “Well done!” said the voice. Finnbogi was pleased that he’d pleased it. They were all pleased. Turning had helped. They were closer to the others now, and getting ever closer.

  “Can you speed up?” asked the authoritative voice.

  We probably can, can’t we, thought Finnbogi and all of them. They beat their wings a little harder and then …

  No! What was this?

  We want to turn! said the others.

  We do? No, no no. The others are west, cooed Finnbogi. We have to go south first, then turn west.

  But he could feel the rest of them turning the wrong way. It was no surprise that he hadn’t convinced them. He was no leader. He wanted to turn now, even though he knew it was wrong. Or was it wrong? It wasn’t wrong if everyone else thought it was right.

  “Turn back, Finn! You can do it!” said the voice. But, no, the voice wasn’t a pigeon. The pigeons wanted to turn and Finnbogi was a pigeon and the pigeons were him. Turning back was what it was all about now and the idea of it made his pigeon chest swell all the more.

  He joined in the new communal chant. Turn back! Turn back to the north! Turn back!

  “Sitsi, take out five Empty Children,” Sofi gave the order reluctantly, knowing Erik would object. She didn’t give a crap about the weird kids, she was worried only about the people she was leading out of the Badlands. The Empty Children were overriding Finnbogi and the vehicle was veering north, back towards the Badlands massif. By the way Finnbogi was turning northwards himself, arms outstretched, they were in his mind, too.

  “You will not shoot them!” Erik yelled, running back from the prow. He might have sounded more commanding had the pitch of the vehicle not made him zigzag like the superbly drunk man Sofi had once seen trying to run across the Plaza of Innowak.

  “Hey, Sofi,” called Gunnhild Kristlover from her place on the right-hand rail. Sofi ignored her. One Wootah’s disagreement was quite enough for her. She had no need to listen to whatever dreary platitudes old Mrs. Deadweight had to spout.

  “It must be done, Erik.”

  Erik hefted his war club.

  Wulf left his place at the rail to stand next to Erik, the hammer Thunderbolt in his hand.

  “I’m not going to falter,” explained Sofi, “I’ll knock both of you out if needs be. Sitsi, shoot them.”

  “Sofi, listen!” shouted Gunnhild.

  Sofi looked at her. “What.”

  “How about shooting the bighorn sheep, and not the children? We all eat meat, don’t we, Erik, so you can hardly disagree with the idea of killing animals to save our lives?”

  Brilliant. “Sitsi, shoot the sheep,” Sofi barked.

  Moments later five sheep were down and their mounts were tumbling.

  Sofi nodded thanks at Gunnhild. Why hadn’t she thought of shooting the sheep?

  One Empty Child rode on among the naked, sprinting Owsla men, oblivious to its siblings sprawling on the plain behind.

  Annoyingly, while the buffalo road turned towards the west and the Black Mountains, the Sprinter’s course carried on bending around to the north, so it seemed that the single Empty Child still had the upper hand over Finnbogi. Sofi would give the young Wootah man a few moments to wrestle back control, then send Paloma to take out the remaining sheep. The Badland Owsla, as if guessing her intention, clustered round the running bighorn.

  “West!” Erik shouted to Finnbogi as he ran back up the Sprinter. “We have to turn west!”

  North, north, we’re all turning to the north. Finnbogi liked flapping, flapping was wonderful, but this stretch and turn manoeuvre was even better. The best thing about it was that they were all doing it because they all wanted to do it. He vaguely remembered not wanting to turn. What an idiot he’d been. There were so many of them, all moving together!

  West! He heard a voice shout.

  Hang on. That was why he hadn’t wanted to turn! This would be even better with even more or them, and more of them, many many more, were to the west, not the north. They’d gone past whatever obstacle had forced them to go south, and now they could focus on going west, towards the mega-flock. Come on everyone, this is wrong! We have to turn west!

  A weighty body whumped into him from above, forcing him down. Another one struck, and he was out of the flock! He fought to stay airborne. He had to get back, in among his siblings. Two more pigeons were coming at h
im, one each side. He slowed and dodged the first, then accelerated to avoid the second, but the tether around his ankle jerked him back and a claw flashed across his face.

  He fell. His wings clipped the grass but this time the tether helped, jerking him backwards and upwards. He strained to gain altitude, to get back into the warm body of the flock. Why had they attacked him? He had to get back into the flock!

  No, you don’t. You don’t belong in the flock. You disagree. You don’t want to turn north. You are bad for the flock. Dash yourself on that rock up ahead. Kill yourself.

  Righty-ho then, he thought, readjusting his course for the rock. Time to die.

  As he dived towards his death alone, loneliness struck him and he remembered the flock, and he remembered the greater flock to the west. He had to unite them.

  I will not kill myself! He flapped upwards.

  A pigeon was on him, its talons dug into the leading edge of his left wing. He flapped his right madly, but another pigeon dived in and there were talons in his right wing, too.

  They forced him down.

  Lower and lower they went, further and further from the other birds. The sense of loss on leaving the flock was far more powerful that the pain of talons dug into his wings.

  They veered towards a pinnacle of rock, then dived at it.

  He struggled but they held his wings. He tried to do something with his legs, but they were short and useless. His attackers were clear of his pecking range. He cooed with rage, but that didn’t help at all.

  He called the others. They didn’t respond. He knew why; he could feel it, too. The desire to fly north was immense, it was almost all-encompassing, but only almost. He knew they had to head west. They had to find the other flock. Numbers, numbers, the more the better!

  You are wrong. You must die. Kill yourself.

  There were a million pigeon voices, all shouting at him, and, do you know what, they were right. How could his path be the right one, when they were a million and he was one? One had no value. And when one disagreed with the flock it was worse than worthless. It was a danger to all. They were right, he had to kill himself. It was for the good of his flock.

  Let go of my wings, friends, he told them. Return to the flock and waste no more effort on me. Thank you for showing me the way.

  Well done, they told him. You went astray but your last act is a noble one.

  The birds released their grip.

  Finnbogi folded his wings and dived headfirst towards the rock. Pigeon skulls were thin. It shouldn’t be too painful.

  Why did he know about pigeon skulls? How did he know he was a pigeon? Something popped in his head. No! He was right, the flock had to go west. Diving headfirst into a rock was the very last thing he wanted to do.

  The ground hurtled up at him. He spread his wings, desperate to stop. It was far too late. He was going to hit the rock, hard.

  Go west, all of you, all of us! he cooed as he fell, hoping to put the flock right before he died. That’s where the numbers are!

  The rock rushed towards him. Finnbogi flapped frantically. He was going to hit, there was no doubt about that.

  He managed to turn, so that his claws were foremost, and whump! he crashed.

  He was winded, he’d lost feathers, but nothing was broken. A couple of restorative bobs of the head and he was ready to go. Above him the flock flew on, thousands upon thousand of them, still turning to the north. He’d change that.

  Cooo! Die, flock deceiver! Cooo! A single pigeon was diving directly at him, beak first. He was coming in fast, sure of his target.

  But Finnbogi had learned to dodge.

  He flapped aside at the last moment. There was a crunching splat as the other bird demonstrated that pigeon skulls were thin indeed.

  Brothers, sisters, Finnbogi called as he flew back up to the flock. Westwards! We will find numbers there! They will welcome us in! So vast our flock will be, that the majority of us will rarely see land or sky as we fly. We won’t know whether it is day or night because there will be nothing but pigeon after pigeon after pigeon after pigeon all around us.

  You’re right, said the collective mind of the flock with gleeful relief. Come in, come among us, let us turn to the west. The west!

  “Paloma,” said Sofi, “you’re going to have to take out that last Empty Child.”

  Sofi pointed at the bighorn sheep and its rider, galloping along in the middle of all the sprinting Badlander Owsla. As if she’d shot an arrow from her finger, the child fell from his mount. The bighorn ran on. The Empty Child lay prone on the prairie.

  The Plains Strider creaked as the draught pigeons shifted their course back to westward.

  “When did you learn that?” asked Paloma.

  Chapter 3

  Naked Men and the Death of an Owsla

  Sitsi Kestrel searched the Plains Sprinter for projectile weapons. She found none, other than the structure of the craft itself, which they could break up and hurl at attackers if it came to that. Not that a few chunks of wood would do much good against the Badlander Owsla, let alone the thunder lizards.

  They’d changed course so that they were heading west and a little north. Sitsi was fairly certain it was the right direction.

  She knew that the Black Mountains were around seventy miles west of the Badlands. She’d learned that the Green tribe inhabited the Black Mountains, that they were enemies of the Badlanders, and that the Badlanders didn’t dare enter the forests of the Black Mountains.

  However, her information might have been out of date or simply wrong; it wouldn’t have been the first time the geographers had made mistakes after believing a mendacious traveller. The Badlanders might have killed or enslaved the Green tribe, or even become their allies. Or maybe the Greens were worse than the Badlanders and even greater horrors awaited the Calnians and the Wootah? Maybe that was why the Badlanders never went into the Green Mountains?

  However, she’d told the others that the Green Mountains would be safe and they’d taken her at her word. It was something of a worry.

  A far more pressing worry was the Badlander Owsla, twenty paces behind and galloping closer with every stride. Eight of them were more or less identical; fit young men, naked and unarmed, running at the same pace, showing no signs of tiring. One was different. He was about the same size, but he had bighorn sheep horns. By the bright red skin and the pus oozing around the horn’s edges, they appeared to have been grafted onto his head, not entirely successfully. Sitsi wondered how useful the horns would be in a fight. She was going to find out soon.

  The change in course meant that the lizard kings were out of sight, for now at least. They still heard the odd screaming roar, but the beasts didn’t seem any closer. Which was lucky, because Sitsi could only see one plan.

  “We’re going to have to stop and deal with their Owsla, aren’t we?” she asked Sofi.

  “No. I don’t want to stop.” Sofi looked troubled. It was not a common look for her and Sitsi did not like it.

  “What are you worrying about?” Wulf the Fat was walking down the craft towards them, legs wide to keep his balance.

  “Can we go any faster, Erik?” shouted Sofi.

  “I don’t think so,” he called back.

  “So.” Sofi addressed Wulf. “The Badlander Owsla will catch us up within the next couple of miles. If they’ve got any brains, which they probably have, they’ll disable the wolves carrying the back of the Sprinter. We’ll grind to a halt. We might defeat the Badlanders—or maybe not, they are alchemically powered too and they outnumber us—but if they disable the Sprinter the lizard kings will catch up and then we’re fucked.”

  “Could we hide from the lizard kings?”

  “Possibly, but that would give the dagger-cat cavalry time to reach us and they’ll sniff us out. We have to get to the Black Mountains today, and the only way for all of us to do that is to keep the Plains Sprinter running.”

  Wulf nodded. Sitsi knew that he knew that the Calnians could desert the Woota
h and run to safety. She hoped he appreciated their sacrifice, and hoped that it wouldn’t come to any of the Owsla actually sacrificing themselves.

  “So what do we do?” asked Wulf.

  “Chogolisa, Paloma, Sitsi, Luby and I will jump out and take on the Badlanders. Finnbogi will slow the craft so that we can catch up when we’re done.”

  “I will come with you. So will Keef, Erik and Thyri.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t mean to be a dick about it, Sofi, but the Hird would sooner die than sit back while others fight for them.”

  “Erik’s needed on board to tell Finnbogi what to do.”

  “Sassa can do that,” called Erik from the front. “He’ll listen to her. Sassa! Come up here and whisper in Finnbogi’s ear to go a little to the left and then a little to the right.”

  She did it, and it worked.

  “I don’t like the way he’s grinning when I tell him what to do,” Sassa wrinkled her nose.

  “Don’t worry. He’s a pigeon at the moment, enjoying pigeon thoughts.” Erik walked towards the stern. “I’m coming with you.”

  Sofi sighed. “All right. Chogolisa and the Wootah, get ready on the north rail. Luby, Paloma, Sitsi, with me. Sassa, get Finnbogi to slow a little. Everyone jump when I say.”

  Sitsi jogged over to Sassa to borrow her knife again then joined the others. Wulf was telling the Wootah and Chogolisa the formation he wanted—a triangle with the giant woman at the front.

  Sofi was silent. There would be no formation on her side. Owsla fought alone.

  Sitsi climbed onto the rail.

  The Badlanders saw what they were doing, grinned and beckoned to them. They were fit, they were young, they were alchemically enhanced. Chances were their confidence was not misplaced.

  Was this the best idea, she wondered?

  “Go!” Sofi shouted.

  Sitsi Kestrel landed with Sofi Tornado on one side and Luby Zephyr and Paloma Pronghorn on the other. In a fight, that was about the best place one could be.

  The Badlander Owsla slowed to a walk and split into two. Four of them came at Sitsi’s group. The other five, including the bighorn guy, headed for the Wootah and Chogolisa.