Dervla leaned forward to stare at the eye–its pupil was large and dark, unfathomable.
“Do you see what your gun sees?” she said.
“What the Tokaw sees I see also. Do you experience no fear? The monitor web tells a very different story.”
“O’ course I’ve got the fear!” she burst out, slamming her open hand against the cold inner surface. “I’m scared of being turned into whatever you are… of being joined to a festering chunk of biomech, feeling my mind being infected by it…”
The Shuskar Xra-Huld’s laugh was deep, throaty and unpleasant.
“None can become as we are! Only five of the Tokaw were ever found, and the Gun-Lords number five, as they have for many centuries. You and your companion are fated to become more than you are, to take up service to the Gun-Lords, to guard the manifest supremacy with your new lives!”
A dread suspicion crept over Dervla as she glanced at the sheet-clad acolytes.
“Never!” she cried. “I’ll never serve you!”
Laughing, Xra-Huld went over to Win’s cylinder. She was sitting on the small circular floor, clasping her knees, and drew away as the Shuskar tapped some symbols on the glassy exterior. As Dervla watched, the Shuskar then brought its gun-arm round and pressed its muzzle against the cylinder. Win was on her feet and coughing as grey vapour swirled around her. Xra-Huld glanced round at Dervla, grinning as he retracted the gun-muzzle and sauntered back across the room. He stood before her, angling the gun-arm so that the eye could see her, then glowing symbols were tapped and Dervla saw how a circular aperture opened in the glassy curve. As the gun-muzzle came up, she lunged forward to press her hands against the hole. But it was no good–grey vapour still managed to seep in, oozing between her fingers, spreading fine smoky threads through the air around her. She could smell it, taste it, a cold, vaguely coppery taint which, once savoured, did not fade.
“You will be changed,” came the Shuskar’s voice as she hunched down, trying not to sob as hot tears slid down her cheeks. “We subjugate you, we remake you then we command you. We have always done this, and always will.”
She could not answer. Terror choked her throat and strange, miniscule things like translucent glyphs were swimming across her vision, across her eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The way to Armag City led through a stretch of colossal, half-buried ruins. A humid jungle haze hung over vegetation-shrouded buildings leaning drunkenly against each other. The chitter of small creatures emanated from empty windows, and occasionally flocks of bird-things trailing odd, coiling tentacles burst out from hiding and swept across to lose themselves in leafy shadows. The ground here had swallowed the lower levels of some buildings and more than once T’Loskin Rey altered course when his pathfinders picked up instabilities on their hand scanners.
The planet, too, was named Armag and when Pyke asked if the ruins were some earlier, abandoned Armag City T’Loskin Rey laughed.
“Armag is a Gruxen word meaning haven. The Shuskar mass-relocated them to this planet when their own finally became too toxic to support life without the construction of costly habitats. The original name of these ruins and even this world is a mystery, just like the former inhabitants.”
Climbing a rocky outcrop smothered in a shiny, dark blue ivy, Pyke gazed up at the buildings with their oval windows.
“When was that? When the Gruxen got dumped here?”
“Historymen say it was not long after the Beshephis Uprising so that would be roughly 230 full-axials ago.” The resistance leader shrugged. “I don’t know how long that would be in your reckoning.” He pointed to a tilted staircase which jutted from a mass of undergrowth near their level and curved up to a higher vantage point where one huge tree had over the years grown up the side of a large, crumbling edifice, its trunk and major branches curved around and through the windows and other ruptures in the masonry.
“From there we’ll get a good view of Armag City,” he said, “and the estates of the aristarchs.”
As T’Loskin Rey’s company started up the ancient cracked steps, Pyke found himself joined by Ancil, Kref and Mojag.
“Finally got tired of loitering at the rear, eh?” he said.
Ancil gave a sly grin. “Ah, but chief, this is all too good to just hurry on through without taking a good look around. Most of these buildings have been reduced to weather-beaten shells full of collapsed floors–the only things holding up some of them are all those roots and vines…”
“We found a big room,” said Kref. “Lots of wall carvings and pictures of skinny ant-people…”
“You’re spoiling my story,” Ancil said, giving the Henkayan a look.
Kref shrugged. “Just left out the boring bits.”
“Context isn’t boring,” said Ancil. “Facts don’t exist in a void, unconnected to other knowledge. This place has a history just waiting to be uncovered–I wonder if anyone’s ever made a study of all these worlds.”
“It strikes me that only the Shuskar and their minions have the means to do that,” Pyke said. “But what do they do instead? Strongarm all these worlds to send armies to compete in their death and destruction league. Looks like they’d rather blow up or poison the past than examine it.”
T’Loskin Rey had been listening to the exchange. “There are a few scholars among the upper ranks of the eminent,” he said. “And I’ve heard rumours of a group of nomad sages who wander from world to world by mysterious means. But you are correct, Captain–this is the Warcage and war is all we know.”
The resistance leader shrugged and turned away as he continued to lead the way on through. Pyke, despite his habitual outward cynicism, had been quite enjoying all the talk of historical mysteries and felt a certain deflation creeping in, mirroring the frown Ancil now wore. Not until they reached a bushy ridge between two cliff-like, creeper-swathed buildings did his spirits rise again. From this vantage they could see clear along a green, cultivated valley to a blue and white city whose clusters of domes and towers rose in stages to cling to a steep mountainside at the valley’s end. The highest structure was a stepped, four-spired tower that flashed like crystal in the sun.
“Armag City,” said T’Loskin Rey. “A beautiful sight, at this distance. And laid out before it like a carpet of rotting greed, the estates of the aristarchs.”
The valley was perhaps two kiloms across, and was divided into a regular pattern of triangular parcels of land. Each estate was centred on a large structure, some blocky and functional, others rising up several levels with towers and spires flying crest-adorned banners. T’Loskin Rey pointed out the different crops, orchards and paddocks, the processing and packing sheds, the tanneries, brewhouses and wineries.
“What about the labourers?” Pyke said. “Do they travel here from outer villages or reside in dorms or the like?”
T’Loskin Rey gave him a considering look. “The aristarchs enjoy using their power, Captain, even though it derives from the Lord-Governor and his garrison. All their workers live on the estates and sleep underground, and many of them seldom see the sun since they also work underground.” He surveyed Pyke and the others. “Maybe now you begin to see, and to understand. For every warrior that takes the field, another eight or ten or twelve must labour in chains or the dark to support his participation in the battle-games that please our rulers so. Millions must sweat in servitude so that a pointless slaughter can continue unhindered. Across the worlds of the Warcage, Chainer insurrectioners rebel against the Shuskar because of their cruelties–slight or monstrous, they are beyond counting but few are as cruel as condemning powerless people to live out their lives underground, like worms in the dark! The Shuskar and the loathsome Gun-Lords must die, every last one of them!”
By the end of his tirade, T’Loskin Rey was quivering with emotion. It had transformed him, adding a cold glitter to eyes that stared while a faint sheen of perspiration covered his features and his fists clenched and unclenched. With a visible effort he calmed himself, rela
xed his hands and wiped one across his face.
“We must move on,” he said, voice low. “Too exposed here. Local Chainer contacts will be waiting for us at the edge of these ruins and they’ll guide us to the staging point. Let’s go.”
As the Chainer rebels followed their leader down the other side of the overgrown ridge, Pyke and Ancil exchanged a look.
“As we used to say back on Cruachan,” Pyke said, “the man’s been grinding his axe that long ye could slice fog with it.”
“Wouldn’t like to see that temper cut loose,” said Ancil. “Maybe explains what happened to G’Brozen Mav–perhaps he wasn’t keen on the kill-’em-all policy.”
Pyke shrugged. “Further in we get, the more we’ll learn. Get the others–we better keep together.”
From the ridge a foot-worn path led down the creeper-smothered slope. Steps made from odd-sized stone blocks descended to a dank tunnel through compacted rubble. A few handheld torches lit the passage, revealing the protruding masonry chunks and broken pipes that needed avoiding. Pyke felt a certain resentment gnawing at his thoughts. Ever since rescuing G’Brozen Mav and his band, nearly every stage of their journey had been undertaken to fulfil the aims of someone else, and usually with only the sketchiest of explanation. But now they were getting close to the focus of the action, or at least their part in it, and if Pyke was going to have to lead the others into combat he would need real detail and lots of it. Because the reason for all this remained unwaveringly stark–Dervla and Win would die if they failed.
The tunnel opened out at a steep slope of old, bush-entwined debris. A pathway curved down past tall charcoal-black trees fluted with strange bright green channels, down to where a rough bridge crossed a thin stream. And on the other side T’Loskin Rey called a halt then took two of his Chainer fighters and went off to scout the immediate vicinity. Ten minutes later they were back, accompanied by a skinny elderly native in baggy green garments. Rey brought him straight over to talk with Pyke.
“Captain, there is a problem,” T’Loskin Rey said. “This is Vralko–he was sent by the Gruxen Chainers running the hop-on part of the operation. The plan was to get you and your crew into a tunnel that passes through the lower massif which forms the southern flank of the Great Valley. A supply convoy from the camp farms runs through it every day and it’s not far from Armag City’s main roadway entrance…”
“Let me guess,” Pyke said. “Once the convoy reached a certain point in the tunnel your people would engineer a temporary obstruction, allowing us to hitch a lift.”
The elderly Vralko spoke up. “The hauliers have their own guards, heh, so–always some risk but we usually get our berth. But today? Today, they have units from the Stonehead garrison along for the ride.” Vralko spat on the ground. “Too much risk with those crawlers.”
Pyke regarded the Chainer leader. “Looks like we need a backup plan–if ye have one.”
T’Loskin Rey said nothing for a moment, just stared off into the middle distance, eyes grim beneath a dark frown. Then nostrils flared and he inhaled and exhaled noisily.
“Yes, Captain, there is another way, secret crawlways that shadow the power network’s service tunnels. That’s one way of getting you into the city.”
Vralko grunted. “It also means getting down into the under-districts and finding a way through the Iron Theatre.”
T’Loskin Rey faced the older man. “Gyr-Matu must die but time and chance are against us–if you can lend us any help we’ll take it and gladly. Otherwise…”
The elderly Gruxen gave a sly smile and nodded. “I know people in the Favassy underfactory. They might be able to get your skulkers to the crawlways.”
“Are there any evasion ditches left in that area?” said T’Loskin Rey.
“Enough to get us into Favassy and right up to a hidden access tunnel I’ve used in the past.”
“Are you sure, now?” Pyke said, casting a meaningful glance in Kref’s direction. “Some of us aren’t quite built for the narrow places of the world. No offence, Kref.”
“No offence taken, chief. Was wondering about it, m’self.”
Vralko gave a dismissive gesture. “Not a problem–I’ve smuggled things you wouldn’t believe in and out of Armag City before now.”
Pyke looked at the Chainer leader. “Right, so… we have a plan, then.”
T’Loskin Rey remained serious. “Then it’s agreed. I won’t be going with you–I have to be elsewhere to make sure the insurgency’s first phase goes smoothly just after dusk. I’ll send three of my best fighters with you but first let us get you into clothes more suited to the netherstreets of the under-districts.”
Garment bundles were dug up out of some supplies cache secreted within the nearby overgrown ruins. After a hectic sorting for low-grade labour coats, cloaks and breeches, T’Loskin Rey guided the party downslope and to the edge of the forested hillside.
“You’ll be in Vralko’s hands now,” he said. “Despite his age he has a reputation for getting the job done so heed his words—”
“And my gestures,” interjected Vralko. “Not all of which will be polite.”
T’Loskin Rey gave a wry smile. “My scouts will be with you up to the edge of the Favassy estate–after that, may the Infinite light your path.” He paused. “Oh, and Khorr was adamant that I remind you of your goal–Gyr-Matu must die. Without that, the insurgency will most likely fail.”
Pyke’s own smile was bleak. “We know, Rey, we know–not something that’s likely to slip our minds.”
The Chainer leader nodded, as if in understanding, then turned and retraced his steps back up the hill. Pyke and the others shared dark, grim looks, then followed Vralko along the valley.
*
By the time they reached the boundary of the Favassy estate it was dusk. The fence was a barrier of criss-crossed wooden piles across which barbed wire was strung. The foot of the rocky valley side levelled out quite close to the fence in places, some of which was masked by clumps of bushes and creeper-wound clusters of boulders that looked like they’d rolled down from above. It was not long before dusk darkened into night, at which point Vralko led them to a bare grassy spot near the fence, between two bushes. He poked and kicked at several small rocks before pouncing on one in particular, and when he pulled it Pyke could see that it was attached to a cable feeding down into the dirt. And a couple of feet away a section of ground hinged down like a trapdoor, making a faint thud. Vralko grinned over his shoulder at the rest, then scuttled forward and dived into the hole.
“Now what?” whispered Ancil.
Pyke was about to say something devastatingly witty when another couple of grassy patches flapped down, widening the gap in the ground. A skinny hand poked up and beckoned frantically. Chuckling, Pyke said, “Okay Kref, you first.”
The Henkayan led the way, performing an incongruous crawl across to the hole into which his bulky form toppled out of sight, accompanied by a muffled wooden crack and a curse. Pyke sighed and waved Ancil on next, then Mojag, with Pyke bringing up the rear. Drawing near to the hole, Mojag–who had seemed much calmer since arriving on Armag–half turned to speak in a hoarse whisper.
“Captain–we need to talk!”
Pyke stared at him. “You couldn’t pick a worse time–get in there before I give ye a helping push!”
Down hastily stacked crates they descended into earthy gloom, which became an inky darkness after Vralko resealed the entrance. A moment later a bright narrow beam winked on, a torch held by Vralko, resembling some kind of wooden handle in which a small lensed emitter had been embedded. It revealed shored walls and a packed dirt floor strewn with rubbish, smashed debris of a wooden crate, a mud-caked unidentifiable garment, and a couple of bent, worn shoes. The elderly Gruxen rebel snorted and shook his head.
“Luck has been with us so far,” he said. “The outer boundary is usually closely watched but I do know from past glories just where the weak points are, like back there where four estate boundary fences meet
. Some of these petty Lords are diligent and jealously guard every square trul of their holdings, but fortunately the noble Favassy family is as lazy as they are rich and have cut back on the guard patrols.”
“Their folly is our luck,” said Pyke.
“Just so,” said Vralko. “But from here on we must act as if heavily armed Stonehands are waiting around every corner. One mistake is all that’s needed to bring calamity down on our heads.”
For the next hour or more they sneaked from one evasion trench to another in a route that wound halfway across the Favassy estate. The Favassy dynasty, according to Vralko, supplied garments to most of Armag City’s mid-caste, officials, techs and other vocationals. So the Favassy estate was nearly full of sheds for weaving, treating, cutting and stitching, and staggered shifts of workers were moving in and out hourly. They witnessed just such a changeover just after reaching a deeper trench; from an under-shed hatch propped open a finger’s width, Pyke saw scores of shadowy figures stumbling and shuffling wearily into view, some falling to their knees, some so exhausted they had to be carried to the small, angled huts where stairs led underground.
Suddenly the view was cut off as Vralko pulled the hatch shut, barring and sealing it.
“There is more for you to see,” he told Pyke and the others. “Much more. Come–this way.”
After a dozen paces several misshapen stone steps led down, turning left into a short stretch that ended at what looked like a circular, grate-covered pipe.
“Gets a bit hazardous from here,” said Vralko. “This pipe leads down to an unused service passage for a sewage treatment tank that was never built. The Favassy stampers don’t patrol there but a locked door still links it to the main underground accessway. What it does have is a hidden entrance to the Favassy netherstreets, where workers and their families live… after a fashion.”
The elderly Chainer rebel then reached behind the pipe’s grate cover, grunted as he twisted something, then did the same at another two points around the cover. Dusting off his hands, he then grabbed the grating and hauled on it but to no avail. He paused to give the others a meaningful look, and Pyke and Ancil leaped forward to join in. The three of them pulled in unison, and there was a soft cracking sound and a grinding as the grating swung open.
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