Campbell, Alan - Iron Angel

by Campbell, Alan

  Rys set about her with his knife. All the time the smile never left his face.

  The god was panting when he finally finished with the witchsphere. “So far the Mesmerists have been confined to Pandemeria,” he said, “simply because they cannot survive for long without drawing power from blood. In order to remain in this world, Hell’s creatures must walk upon the red earth of battlefields or upon land already saturated by the Menoa’s bloody mists. But these arconites…” He balled his fists. “We could not kill the first one, Cospinol.”

  “And when the second one leaves Hell,” Cospinol said, “you will lose your hold on this world.”

  “We will lose our hold,” Rys said.

  But that wasn’t true. Cospinol owned none of the wealth or kingdoms his brothers possessed. He had been trapped in this rotting ship for three thousand years, wreathed in fog to hide himself from the destructive power of the sun. Only Ulcis, the eldest of all the goddess Ayen’s sons, had been similarly trapped—hidden beneath the earth while he harvested souls to join Rys’s army. But now Ulcis was dead, leaving Cospinol as the last of the gods to remain imprisoned.

  “What has become of Ulcis’s reservists?” he asked. “The hordes he harvested from Deepgate?”

  Sabor stepped forward. “Their flesh is lost,” he said. “The Mesmerists will have already used their blood for their own purposes.” Everything about the god of clocks was grey: his skin, his feathers, his hair, even his eyes. To read his shadowless expression, one required a degree of patient concentration. No wonder Sabor chose to wear black: a single item of coloured raiment might distract the viewer’s eye and doom any conversation. Sabor continued in dull, authoritative tones. “Yet their souls remain in this world.”

  Cospinol frowned. “How?”

  “Ulcis’s daughter did not spill her father’s blood. She merely displaced the essence of it.”

  “She drank the fat sod,” Rys confirmed. Cospinol could not help but notice a glint of satisfaction light in Rys’s eyes. Should the mother goddess’s sons ever reclaim Heaven, Ulcis’s death left only Cospinol in line for the throne before Rys—a thought the old sea god found suddenly unnerving.

  Hafe slammed a fist against his copper breastplate. “You bastards do nothing but talk,” he boomed. “When do we eat?”

  Cospinol’s slaves brought tray after tray to the captain’s table: corpse crabs from Gobe Bay and steamed kellut from Oxos; squid and cuttlefish and bowls of pink prawns. The god of brine and fog had chosen the very best from his larders for this occasion, but now he had no appetite. While his brothers ate and chatted, Cospinol brooded in silence.

  Ulcis was dead, his army lost, and his untimely departure had offered Menoa’s hordes a second route out of Hell. Rys’s armies had been decimated at Skirl. The survivors had retreated to Coreollis in a desperate attempt to defend that stronghold against Mesmerist attacks from the Red Road

  . Even if the god of flowers and knives could spare enough of his troops to make a difference, would they be able to travel to Deepgate in time to halt this new incursion?

  Cospinol doubted it. He began to suspect why his brothers were really here.

  Rys spat at one of the serving girls. “This food isn’t fit for a dog,” he announced. “Fetch us something edible. Bring us a bowl of the soulpearls your master hoards.”

  She bowed and hurried away, without even a glance at Cospinol.

  Mirith sniggered. “Bowls of souls,” he said. “Better than this filth. The dead can’t cook.”

  Hafe grunted in agreement without raising his face from the platter of eels he was devouring. Sabor glanced up at Rys, and then quickly back to his own plate, yet Cospinol noted the dark look of disapproval in the grey god’s eyes.

  Rys set down his fork. “Your slaves are tediously slow,” he said to Cospinol, “and your whole skyship stinks of corpses, gull shit, and brine. Tell me, brother, do you enjoy living in such squalor?”

  “I survive.”

  “But it’s hardly a life,” Rys commented. “Don’t you tire of roaming the skies like a vulture, picking up the souls we leave behind? Wouldn’t you rather sail a real ship upon a real sea? You must yearn to feel the sun on your face again, the wind in your hair. Would you not prefer to stand beside your own brothers as an equal?”

  Cospinol said nothing.

  The serving girl returned with a small bowl full of soulpearls. The tiny glass beads glimmered faintly in the gloom, while the whorls and loops etched into their surface seemed to writhe like threads of darkness. Cospinol tried to hide his dismay—he could not afford to squander so much of his hard-won power. Yet he dared not oppose Rys.

  “Some real sustenance at last,” Rys said. He scooped up a handful of the priceless beads and tipped them into his mouth before handing the bowl to Hafe. The fat god took most of the remainder for himself, then slid the container across the table to Sabor.

  The god of clocks said, “No, thank you.”

  “You refuse power?” Hafe asked.

  “It is not your power to offer,” Sabor replied.

  Rys snorted. “Sabor’s quaint sense of honour will be the end of him one day. His own swordsmen slay wounded Mesmerists on the battlefield, rather than leave them to the slow suffering they deserve.” He nodded at Hafe. “Cospinol can always fashion more pearls. Give the dregs to Mirith.”

  Mirith lifted the bowl with both hands and upended it into his mouth. Then he giggled and shook his lopsided wings to make his bells chime. “Even these souls taste like brine.”

  “Enough!” Cospinol rose from his seat and glared down at Rys. “I am the master of this vessel,” he hissed, “and while you are aboard you will treat me with respect.” His thin chest heaved beneath his shell breastplate. “You speak of arconites and fallen gods, and a new threat to your forces from the west. Do you take me for a fool? You wouldn’t have come here unless you needed my help. Yet you evade the question and continue to mock me at my own table.”

  Rys scraped his seat back and stood up. He slapped Cospinol hard across the face.

  The old god recoiled, his cheek burning with the blow. The slaves stopped what they were doing, and the ringing in Cospinol’s ears diminished to a profound silence. Everyone was staring at him.

  “Get out,” Rys said to the slaves.

  They left.

  The god of flowers and knives strolled over to the cabin windows and gazed out at the fog. “I will forgive your outburst,” he said. “I realize life has been hard for you here, Cospinol…trapped aboard this skyship, denied the freedom we four have won for ourselves.” He almost managed to sound magnanimous. “But I am prepared to help you change all that. We would like for you to join us as an equal—to have the honour of standing with us, shoulder to shoulder, against Hell’s armies.”

  How generous of you. Cospinol’s cheek smarted. He felt bile rise in his throat, but he said nothing.

  Rys went on, “Only after we have defeated this Mesmerist threat to our lands here on earth will we be able to storm the gates of Heaven and reclaim our rightful inheritance.” He smiled. “But you must prove yourself worthy first. This war with Hell threatens everything we have achieved thus far. Since our mother Ayen crushed our uprising in Heaven we have struggled back from the brink of oblivion. Our father Iril was shattered, the pieces of him scattered throughout the Maze. Do you think he can help us?” Rys shook his head. “Iril’s dissolution gave this upstart King Menoa the opportunity to claim the title of Lord of the Maze for himself.”

  He sifted through a platter of shells, then wrinkled his brow in disgust. “And now there is no more room in Hell. The Mesmerists must extend their bloody Maze into this world.” He gave a deep sigh. “If his creatures win, mankind faces the same oblivion Ayen sought to bestow upon us.”

  “And if you win,” Cospinol said, “mankind faces slavery.”

  “A kinder prospect, surely?”

  Cospinol ground his teeth.

  Rys stared at him for a while, then finally shr
ugged. “After our victory, you can take as many slaves as you like. Keep them alive for all I care. Just don’t breed with them—don’t make the same mistake as Ulcis. One demigod loose in our world is quite enough.”

  “It was never our world,” Cospinol said.

  Rys ignored this. “Take your skyship to Deepgate,” he said. “And seal this new portal before the Mesmerists can gain a foothold there. While our enemy’s attention is focused on the chained city, the flow of demons into Pandemeria will cease. This will be the best chance we’ve ever had to attack the Mesmerists and drive them back into Hell.”

  Cospinol gave a grunt of derision. “You make it sound so simple, Rys. Yet you expect me to risk my life to secure your freedom when I remain imprisoned? What do you have to offer? A vague promise of solidarity between us? You’ll betray me as soon as the Mesmerists are defeated.”

  “You prefer oblivion?”

  “If I am doomed to die aboard this ship, at least I’ll die knowing that you have failed.”

  The knives in Rys’s belt glittered. “But we intend to offer you the means to free yourself.”

  Cospinol shifted his gaze between his brothers, looking from Rys’s hard stare to Mirith’s drooling grin; from Hafe’s sweat-crumpled brow to Sabor’s darkly serious frown. How could he trust any of them? “Explain.”

  Now Sabor rose from the table. “Ulcis had feasted for three thousand years,” the god of clocks explained. “He had harvested enough power to leave his abyss, yet he was murdered before he could realize his escape. The souls in his veins have now passed to his daughter, Carnival. Her blood would provide you with enough power to leave the shelter of the Rotsward.”

  Cospinol felt his heartbeat quicken. Three millennia of souls for the taking? If Sabor was speaking the truth, and Cospinol could capture this girl and harvest her blood, then he would be free of his prison at last. He would feel the sun on his face again.

  “The witchsphere is capable of guiding you towards her,” Rys said. “It is my gift to you.”

  Mirith sniggered. “Beware of lies, Cospinol.”

  Rys wheeled on the crippled god, a silver knife already in his fist. “Don’t test me, Mirith. You rely too much on your fool’s face to shield you.”

  The crippled god jerked away from the blade. His chair fell back, striking the floor, and Mirith rolled backwards out of it wings over heels. He squawked and came to rest on his rear.

  Hafe boomed a laugh.

  Rys turned back to Cospinol. “Why should we betray each other when mutual cooperation benefits us all?” he growled. “Seal the portal under Deepgate while we fight the enemy in Pandemeria. Kill the girl and use her power to shed this rotting carapace. Then join us as an equal.”

  An equal? Like poor Mirith?

  The sea god realized now how much his younger brother needed him. Rys’s armies could not withstand an assault from a second arconite; he had no choice but to offer Cospinol the demigod’s power in payment for his aid. “The daughter…Carnival,” he said. “She’s already murdered one god, and she’ll be vastly stronger now.”

  “She’s savage and untrained,” Rys said. “No match for your slave…” He gestured at the floor. “What do you call him? The barbarian who drags this ship?”

  “Anchor.” Cospinol barely noticed Hafe’s guffaw in response to this. “You suggest I use my slave as an assassin?”

  “He is already an assassin,” Rys replied. “How many has he killed for you now? A hundred thousand? Half a million?”

  “More.”

  Hafe chuckled. “Half a million souls!” The god of dirt and poison thumped one fist against his huge copper breastplate. “And you call me greedy? Goat’s balls, that human slave has eaten more souls than the Maze.”

  “Indeed,” Rys agreed. “While we fostered legions to break free of Ayen’s bonds and win our own kingdoms on this world, our brother has invested the bulk of his power in one single mortal.” His eyes narrowed on Cospinol. “And yet he himself remains weak, trapped here aboard his own airboat. It seems he has been feeding the choicest morsels to his pet.”

  Cospinol’s shoulders slumped. “It’s the weight,” he explained. “The corpses…I take their souls, but the dead refuse to leave my ship. They cling to the rigging, masts, and yards; they wander the decks and haunt my steps. I hack them off the gunwales, send them screaming to the ground below, but they always return. Each new cadaver slows the Rotsward further, and so my giant needs greater and greater strength to pull the ship behind him. I must give him his share of souls or else remain grounded and helpless.” He sighed. “Ayen was clever in her choice of prison.”

  “Our mother’s cunning was evident in the design of all our gaols.” Rys flashed his teeth. “Yet we escaped ours long ago, while you remain here and starve.”

  “I do not starve,” Cospinol snarled.

  “But you are a prisoner.” The god of flowers and knives leaned closer. “A slave.”

  Cospinol’s heart filled with despair. Rys was right: he was a slave, as pathetic as the hook-fingered boy who clambered through the rotting spaces of his skyship’s belly. This floating wreck offered him no future. Yet with the Mesmerist witchsphere to guide him, he might find the power to be free of his skyship…

  “I’ll do it,” he said at last. “I’ll travel to Deepgate and seal the portal. I’ll kill the girl and return to Coreollis.”

  Whatever happened now, Cospinol had joined his fate to that of mankind: if he failed, he faced oblivion at the hands of the Mesmerists; success would only bring him slavery under Rys’s rule. To be truly free, he would have to defeat both his enemies and his own brothers.

  Rys must have seen something in Cospinol’s expression for he said, “Do not think about betraying me, brother.”

  Cospinol placed a hand against his stinging cheek. The decaying skyship creaked and shuddered around him. He sensed the impossible weight of the great vessel, the legions of dead clinging to its greasy timbers, and he envisioned his slave striding across the ground so far below, dragging it all behind him. If Cospinol could leave the Rotsward, then Anchor would also be free.

  “Your barbarian is strong,” Rys said. “But even he would be crushed under the tide of our combined armies.”

  Cospinol allowed himself an inward smile.

  You haven’t seen the bastard fight.

  PART ONE

  THE DEADSANDS

  1

  MINA GREENE’S CIRCUS OF HORRORS

  FROM THE WINDOW of their tavern room, Rachel Hael watched a small flotilla of fishing skiffs jostle past a barge at the bend in the river. Gulls swooped around the clutter of boats, their cries like harsh laughter, or perched on yards and basked in the late-afternoon sun. The larger vessel carried sandstone from the quarry at Shale, twenty leagues further up the Coyle. The skiffs were local and manned by louts with robbery in mind.

  She had watched them use the same tactic on a Dalamoor palace barge yesterday morning. The Dalamooran captain and his men had been so busy yelling from the stern at the apparently hapless sailors responsible for the river jam that they’d failed to notice a small boy climb out of the water and steal inside the pilot’s tent.

  Now Rachel was watching a replay of yesterday’s events. Amidst all the raucous confusion, the shouts and curses and steering poles knocking against hulls, nobody saw the young swimmer drag himself up and over the barge’s stern bulwark. Once aboard, the boy moved quickly. He darted into the wheelhouse and emerged a moment later, stuffing a roll of paper into a waxed tube as he hurried back to the edge of the deck.

  The captain’s mercantile license, Rachel knew. The thieves would ransom it back to him shortly after his vessel docked. And the captain would be forced to pay whatever fee they demanded or risk facing the Avulsior’s justice on the killing stage—for the Spine had brought martial law to Sandport.

  Faced with this new and rigidly enforced system of order, the local thieves and cutthroats had added blackmail and extortion to their list of crim
es. Sandporters, after all, looked for profit in any situation.

  The presence of so many temple assassins in the town made Rachel uneasy. She had abandoned her own leather armour for a gabardine and wood-soled sandals, even weaving beads into her hair in the local fashion, but her pale complexion and striking green eyes still drew inquisitive gazes from the men who inhabited this desert settlement. She was clearly an outsider here. Despite all her efforts, she still looked like a Spine assassin, the image of the very people who now hunted her.

  Of course Dill could not leave the room at all, nor even show himself at the window. Rachel had been fortunate enough to smuggle him unnoticed into the heart of Sandport in the first place, but she could not risk exposing him now. She glanced back to the bed where her friend was still sleeping. He was lying on his stomach, his wings furled against his back like a thick feather cape, still wearing the tattered chain-mail vest that had once cost him his life. His sword lay on the floor beside the bed, the gold guard gleaming in the morning sunshine.

  Down on the river, the barge was approaching one of the deepwater pontoons where two Spine Officiators waited to check its cargo. The captain gave the men a cheerful halloo. The temple assassins stood perfectly still in their black leathers and did not respond.

  Behind the harbor, the town of Sandport rose in tiers of brown adobe dwellings, like an amphitheater built around a bend in the river Coyle. Over the cluttered houses and streets hung a thin pall of dung smoke, the smell of which almost masked the odor of boiled fish and crab from the harbor broth shops. A unit of Spine moved through the market crowds on Hack Hill, ignoring eager calls from the costermongers’ stalls. Rachel took an involuntarily step back from the window, before she stopped herself. The assassins were too far away to identify her.