Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  Mosk had only spotted his Proximate being readied for kingship as he crossed the battleground to meet with Rendel.

  To meet with Rendel and present my findings in Tenocht. And then to be pulled apart and fed to the maggots—the price a fallen Hiveking pays for failing his Lord . . .

  So Mosk had left. He had watched Isk finish his bath, watched the newly purpled Hiveking emerge from the enzymes shiny, wet, and regal. Mosk had then turned and walked towards the draconfly grounds, mounted the largest beast he could find, and flown away. Nobody had tried to stop him. Nobody said anything. Blackspawn did not flee, did not fear, and certainly did not ignore their Lord’s summons. Even to death.

  But I am not blackspawn. Or, I am more than blackspawn. Never has a Hiveking ruled for so many generations, overseen the end of so many Pensanden. Never has a Hiveking driven so many Hunts.

  The draconfly rumbled again, and Mosk could hear a rattle in the abdominal slits behind him. The creature was freezing.

  It isn’t cold that I feel. It’s . . . ambition. I will not be content with death from a failure impossible to avoid. No Hiveking could have foreseen the path of this rogue Pensanden. Not even the Arkángel himself could have finished this Hunt better than I.

  Mosk tilted the antennae downward and the draconfly gave a grateful hiss. It dipped its enormous head and began to descend through the milky layer of gray-white clouds beneath them. Babel was far enough behind them now, and Mosk suspected that Rendel would be more concerned with rooting the etherwalker out of his tower than he would be with dismembering a fallen Hiveking.

  By the time Rendel learns of my departure, he will have learned that the Pensanden is gone as well. The true Hiveking does not visit a suspected enemy lair without leaving some ears, some subtle tek in the walls meant just to listen for the voice of his prey. Tek that will know when that voice has left—no matter how subtly, for when a Pensanden leaves a network, that network feels the loss.

  Does Rendel not trust that my centuries on the hunt have taught me things invaluable to him? He sentenced me to death hours before I learned of the Pensanden’s escape.

  This is why he will be grateful for my escape, grateful for my disobedience. He will see that the rareness of my breeding, this ambition, is what has allowed me to understand what drives our quarry. Now it is obvious to me where the Pensanden Enoch is headed. His own ambition parallels my own, for his is going to mark a new direction for his species.

  The draconfly broke through the clouds, and Mosk could taste something familiar in the damp air. The joints at his shoulders began to itch.

  He is ambitious—dangerously so, this Pensanden Enoch. And I will kill him for it.

  Chapter 21

  “A city of lights.

  Then black, then dead.

  Now all gray,

  and so it goes.”

  —Fourth Stanza of the Lodoroi Song of the City

  The Swampmen had been following them for days.

  Well, not following, exactly. We are being herded.

  Enoch turned and caught a glimpse of one of the mud-colored figures ducking behind a tree several yards away. He didn’t know why they even tried to stay unseen anymore—Sera had called back to them this morning, asking for food or guidance or anything. There was no response.

  Enoch, Sera, Mesha, and G’Nor moved through the still waters and low, stunted trees at a steady pace. When they stopped to rest, the Swampmen stopped too. The few dangerous creatures native to this area—hairless nerwolves and giant snakes—gave the little group a wide berth, probably due to G’Nor’s size. The journey thus far had been monotonous and uneventful, but the constant presence of the armed natives behind them kept everyone on edge.

  G’Nor had enough energy to hunt every evening, in spite of a long day’s journey. The Swampmen gave him plenty of space to seek out his prey—as long as it was in a generally northward direction. It almost seemed as though their pursuers were less concerned with the Ur’lyn leaving, although G’Nor claimed he could scent three Swampmen on his trail perpetually whenever he left. He usually returned with one of the massive serpents native to this sodden land, unbelievably long creatures that wound through the waterways all around them as subtle ripples in the murky water. The creatures were muscular and splotched in intricate patterns of brown, green, and black—and they provided plenty of meat for the Ur’lyn and his lighter companions. It was stringy, and blandly flavored, but was sustenance that could be chewed on throughout their trek the following day. G’Nor claimed that the serpents were far too easy to hunt, especially once you learned to avoid the body and strike directly at the small, triangular head. When the group had departed this land, he said, he’d bring them some “true game” which “cost blood and thought” to bring down.

  Enoch was able to use his boyish expertise to climb into the trees around them, looking for dry tinder (or “dry-ish,” as Sera called it) to light a fire and cook their food. He used his time in the trees to scout around them as well, although he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. North? Tenocht? Both concepts were equally general and unfamiliar to him.

  Mesha, however, was thriving. She would disappear into the shadows for hours at a time, only to return with a small creature in her mouth, wet bristles in her variegated fur. Her warm, satisfied purr was a tangible comfort in this bog. She seemed to sense the direction the group was heading, often taking the lead in the procession and guiding them past unexpected sinkholes. Her reaction to the Swampmen had been curious—G’Nor signed “disloyal.” She would flit back and forth between the two groups as they traveled, and spent time at each camp during the nights. Enoch was sure that their odd pursuers were feeding her, and he noticed that all of the burs had been combed from Mesha’s fur after her latest visit. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that but figured it couldn’t hurt to have an ambassador.

  G’Nor, who had scented their pursuers not long after leaving the tunnels, was growing increasingly upset. Here was an alpha predator who had barely gotten free from his cage, and now he was being hunted again. He turned occasionally to roar at the Swampmen. They simply crouched in the moist shadows and waited for the group to move on.

  Just yesterday, at G’Nor’s impatient urging, the group had tried to scatter. Enoch had run left, and G’Nor carried Sera to the right. They didn’t get ten paces before a rain of darts peppered the trees in front of them and on either side. Enoch remembered how the bark on the tree nearest him had quickly blackened where it was struck—Garronian poisons were renowned for their lethal speed. The message was simple: except for hunting forays, the group was to stay together. And it was to move forwards.

  Well, at least we’re moving north . . . Sera is right; we could never fight that many and survive.

  Not that I haven’t been looking for a way out of this.

  Enoch wondered what these Swampmen were trying to do. It was hard to coordinate an escape when you were unsure of your captor’s motives. According to G’Nor’s signs, there were now three dozen Garronians in pursuit.

  Enoch remembered the few Swampmen traders he had seen months ago on the road heading into Babel. They had seemed odd, somehow detached from the world around them. Rictus called them “loopy zealots” and had warned Enoch about talking religion with them unless he wanted a “dart beard.” But the few Swampmen he had spotted since entering this place seemed to be of a different breed. Wilder.

  They were tall and thin, with a shock of brown hair rolled into thick fingers of mud that hung in long, rigid lines down their pale skin. The Swampmen wove leaves and pale blue feathers into their hair in a pattern that seemed both meaningful and chaotic. Scattered across their cheeks and brows was an array of tattoos in green ink—images of natural objects such as leaves, snakes, insects, and rain. Clothing of scaled leather and woven reeds accentuated their scarecrow forms, and the liberal swatches of mud over everything seemed, Enoch thought, more deliberate than accidental.

  And now there were Swampmen in front of
them, too. G’Nor nodded towards a footprint slowly filling with brackish water, and Enoch hummed in dour recognition. It was getting more and more difficult to imagine a way out of this trap.

  Sera made a frustrated sound and leaned forward—she was trying to use her eye-lenses to see into the thick afternoon horizon. “How can anybody live in this mess? You can’t see ten feet without a rotten tree getting in the way!”

  G’Nor signed a quick response, and Sera groaned.

  “I know, I know. Other senses. This is why Enoch’s people gave you that big nose. The same reason they gave me wings. So that we could be happy doing what we did best—as long as it was entertaining to them.”

  Enoch ignored the jibe and started to lift himself into the tree in front of him. “We’ve come far enough today. I’ll go get some kindling.”

  Nobody resisted Enoch’s will on this, although both Sera and G’Nor would be confused if you asked them when Enoch had become the leader of this group. There was a pervasive feeling amongst them, an unspoken sensation that Enoch was at the center of these events as they unraveled. And Enoch hadn’t noticed yet, but over the past few days his voice had taken on the commanding tones of Levi Gershom. They were tones that communicated decisiveness, will, and command. It was obvious that Sera couldn’t return to the Roost with her injuries, and so she had decided to continue on with the group. And of course, G’Nor went where she did.

  Sera climbed off of her steed’s warm back, looking for a dry place to rest. She found a suitable spot between a small grove of twisted saproot trees, and began to clear away the brush. Enoch could tell that her wings were still bothering her, but she was trying to hide it. Everyone was tired, and everyone was nervous due to the constant presence of their pursuers. She looked up at him and gave a sad smile.

  Wow, my heart still stops when she does that.

  Enoch didn’t know what it meant to have this sort of fascination with a girl. Their difference in ages didn’t bother him—he didn’t really have a mental destination for what it meant to feel this way. He knew that he felt kind of confused and a little clumsy when she was around, but he also knew that he didn’t want to be apart from her.

  Sure, he’d heard the kids at Rewn’s Fork talking about girlfriends and boyfriends. He’d even seen a young couple kissing once—Master Gershom had caught him staring at them and had reprimanded him for “nosing around where a boy shouldn’t nose.” Enoch supposed there was something secret going on. It certainly wasn’t a topic that his master would talk about. Growing up on a farm, Enoch had seen enough to know how sheep made other sheep. But that seemed entirely unrelated to kissing, and had nothing at all to do with what he felt when Sera smiled at him.

  Sera had turned back to clearing their campsite for the night, and Enoch climbed higher up in the tree. He bent the branches as he went, testing them for dryness.

  Or dry-ishness.

  An entire limb of the tree had died some time ago, so Enoch busied himself collecting an armful of wood. This was a good sign—there was enough here to cook food and provide warmth through the night. Last night’s dry wood had run out not too soon after darkness fell, and Enoch had woken up damp and shivering this morning. His bones ached, and he felt like he may be catching a cold.

  And this persistent coat of mud provides surprisingly little insulation.

  G’Nor had already lumbered off into the darkening woods ahead, and Enoch found himself hoping that the Ur’lyn would find something other than snake for dinner tonight. It had been the same thing for the last few days now, and Sera claimed that she was growing scales.

  At the top of the tree, he took a moment to lean back against a branch and scan the horizon. The landscape was a drab green—hazy and unremarkable. Patches of complex trees were scattered across the murk, with roots and branches cobwebbing at top and bottom into an olive mist of leaves, moss, and unending water. Even the sun seemed touched with a hint of beryl, but Enoch was unsure whether that was due to the moisture in the air or the constant stench of rot, which, he was convinced, had condensed over his eyes in a grimy film.

  Arms full, he dropped down to the ground and made his way towards the clearing. Sera was using one of her metal feathers to dig a pit in the soil, scraping away the damp, mossy earth to provide a shallow home for the night’s fire. She pulled back as Enoch approached and gave him another smile, raising the feather triumphantly.

  “This is a pretty good spot, all things considered—the hole isn’t filling with water.”

  Enoch couldn’t help but laugh as he crouched down and started arranging the kindling. “We’ll appreciate even the smallest victory, I guess.”

  Mesha had returned from her most recent foray with the Swampmen carrying a fish. The fish had been cleaned and deboned. Enoch called the shadowcat over and, with some struggle, took the fish from her mouth. He lifted it and admired the fine, pink flesh.

  “This has gotten insulting.”

  Sera looked over and laughed. “Hey,” she said, “I have no problem with our pursuers treating Mesha like royalty—as long as she is willing to share the spoils.”

  Mesha growled.

  “My dear,” Enoch said, “you shall get first choice of the snake G’Nor brings back tonight. This fish, however, is going to be enjoyed by your rescuer—” here he indicated himself, then looked over at Sera, “—and his friend. No more complaints.”

  Sera laughed again, that clear, wonderful sound that electrified Enoch and seemed to wash this entire swamp away in a few sweet tones. He gave the fish to her and returned to arranging the fire.

  “Can an angel eat enemy fish delivered by a disloyal shadowcat?”

  “Thanks, Shepherd Boy,” she said, carefully removing a few specks of dirt from the fish. “It will be nice to eat something that started out smaller than me.”

  Enoch smiled and stood, holding out his hand.

  “Your lens, Milady?”

  Sera sighed and reached up to remove the thick glass lens from one of her eye-rings. The lenses, and their thin brass framework, were usually folded up against her forehead when not in use. It made Enoch think of some crystalline tiara, and he liked how a lock of her blue hair hung over it like a slice of sky.

  Sera held out her lower lip and blew the offending hair out of the way, then snapped the lens from the mount hidden in her eyebrow. “Here you go—just make sure you don’t get fingerprints on it. It was never meant for such crude, stubby fingers.”

  Enoch sighed dramatically while taking the lens, then crouched over the damp fire pit to start the fire. Angling the lens to bring a bright point of sunlight down onto what, he hoped, was the driest portion of the kindling. He tried to respond casually with a matching taunt.

  “Yeah, well . . . I’ll make sure ‘my people’ create more useful Alaphim next time.”

  He chuckled at his own response, then leaned over to blow softly on the thin stream of gray smoke that began to curl from the wood. A pale flame flickered to life, and he gently took the burning stick and placed it in the space he’d arranged under the rest of the kindling. The flame grew and spread to the surrounding wood. He turned to give Sera her lens.

  “We should find some herbs to season that fish—”

  Sera was frowning, staring down into the flame. Her brows were furrowed, and she had made her hands into fists—trembling fists held so tightly that her knuckles grew white. Enoch’s heart dropped.

  “Sera? Sera, what’s wrong?”

  Sera turned away from him, brushing against his chest with her wing feathers.

  “Sera?”

  “Why did you say that?” she said.

  “What? About the fish? I was joking about—”

  “No, no. What you just said,” she turned back to him, and her eyes were cold. “You said I wasn’t complete.”

  Enoch thought back. “No, I didn’t—I was joking about how useful your fragile lenses were in our situation. I didn’t mean to say that you were—”

  Sera interrupted him
sharply. “I’m not finished, Enoch. None of the angels are. Lamech told me. Your people didn’t finish us.”

  She raised an accusing finger at Enoch and scowled. “Tell me I’m wrong! I can see it in your eyes whenever you give me that ‘Pensanden look.’ You don’t think I’m done. You don’t think I’m right!”

  Enoch didn’t know what to do. She was telling the truth. The artistry of her form was missing something—Enoch couldn’t tell exactly what, but he’d lately noticed an absence in her design that seemed at once subtle and obvious. Like a picture missing a frame. And it seemed deliberate. That is what had him so confused. He felt bad that she had noticed.

  So soon out of Babel and already I am forgetting my Ferrocara?

  “Sera, I . . .”

  He was confused, and his face felt numb. Enoch didn’t know if he should frown or scowl. He had hurt someone that he cared about when he had only meant to make her smile. And he didn’t know how to talk with an angry girl.

  It was obvious now that Sera had noticed his discomfiture, and she was struggling to regain her composure. She seemed embarrassed about her anger.

  And probably for having been criticized by a “shepherd boy.”

  Enoch felt a flush of warmth rise up his face. He twisted around and stalked away from the fire, splashing swamp water over the little fire he’d just started.

  * * * *

  Enoch had no idea that a desert sat at the center of the swamps. A desert. It hadn’t happened all at once, but the effect was surprising nonetheless—the stagnant ponds simply got shallower and then disappeared entirely. The thick greenery became sparse and stunted and then turned into a dry, thatched landscape where the swamp life struggled to survive. Then the thatch gave way to sand. A gray, drifting sand that glistened like glass and shadow.

  Hadn’t Master Gershom mentioned something about Garron—about the Gray Wastes? I can’t remember, but he decided not to go. There was something valuable there . . . and something dangerous.

  It appeared that the Swampmen had been guiding them towards this desert the entire time. They stopped at the edge, where the last trees stood, and began to sing. The sound was surprising after so many weeks of silent pursuit, and Enoch halted the group to listen. Mournful and lilting, it was singing that wove voices into the soft hiss of drifting sand. G’Nor perked up his ears and made a sign.