The Infernal Aether Box Set: All Four Books In The Series

by Peter Oxley

  “What about going back down to land?” Joshua asked.

  Andras grinned and I shook my head. “You had to ask, didn’t you?” I muttered.

  I distracted myself from thoughts of sudden impacts by looking back at the ribbon of sparkling dust cutting across the sky, trying to distract myself from a sudden bout of vertigo. “What did you mean earlier?” I asked Byron. “About that being the remnants from all those civilisations?”

  “Almadel owes its continued existence to on-going harvests from other realms,” he said, ignoring Andras’ glare. “This realm should have died many millennia ago but they have instead prolonged its life by feeding on the energy from other worlds, the ones they conquer. Just like the steam emitted from an engine, such processes have by-products and that is what you see.”

  “It is not quite that straightforward,” said Andras.

  “You deny it?” Byron snapped.

  “No, not at all. But what you see is not just the by-products of the energy harvested from other realms. It is also the souls we have gathered and cast off, the death agonies of millions of creatures given physical form.” He shrugged as we stared at him. “I promised to tell you the truth; I didn’t tell you that it would be palatable.”

  Joshua shook his head. “Just when I thought I had seen enough barbarity…”

  “It is not barbarism,” said Andras. “Do you know how much skill goes into properly harvesting a soul, extracting the useful elements and then twisting what remains into something that is still aesthetically pleasing?” He gestured to the sparkling ribbon and I shuddered, reappraising my views of it.

  “What do you do with them? The ‘useful elements’, as you put it?” Joshua asked.

  Andras gestured around us. “They are an expedient form of energy, powering everything from lights to transportation.”

  I felt sick and lightheaded. “You mean that this carriage is being propelled thanks to the suffering of some poor creature?”

  “Everything is.”

  “I want to get out of this thing. Now.”

  Andras shook his head and sneered at me. “This is no time for squeamishness. Everything comes at a price, even in your own so-called perfect world. Are you so naive as to think that you are any more superior? Do you really think that the resources you consume in your world are untainted by the suffering of others in far-off places? It is the natural way of things, regardless of which realm you are in.”

  “Not in my world,” I said.

  He barked a short laugh. “The meat on your table: do you think the animal that it came from gave up its flesh willingly and without suffering? Or the coal that powers your engines of industry: do you think that the children down the mines do not suffer as they toil to extract it from the guts of the Earth? What about the clothes on your back, stitched together by women forced to work for a pittance? Or if we’re talking of real slavery, what about the cotton used to weave your fabrics or the sugar you use to sweeten your food? I have seen the plantations, as I know you have. I did not see too many happy volunteers there—did you? So spare me your petty carping and base hypocrisy.”

  I shook my head as I tried to think of a response, but nothing instantly came to mind.

  “He’s got a point,” muttered Pearce.

  We rode in silence for a while, looking down on streets that twisted and turned without any form of logic, a network of living worms writhing in, around, over and under each other.

  We approached a wide river and I stared open-mouthed, marvelling at how it perfectly reflected the roiling red sky. After a few moments I realised that it was no reflection; the river was a flowing mass of flame and molten lava. Bridges bisected it, unaffected by the swirling heat that we could feel even from our great height.

  Andras pointed at a building looming up on the horizon ahead of us. “That is the Citadel,” he said. We followed his finger to a large, castle-like structure with crenelated walls surrounding a tall white tower that my mind wanted to liken to the Tower of London, except that this one stretched upwards until it disappeared into the diaphanous clouds, its sides dotted with thousands of dark, forbidding windows.

  “Looks lovely,” I said drily.

  “That,” said Andras, “is where the Warlocks live and work. I suppose ‘preside over Almadel’ would be the right phrase.” He pointed over the river. “That is the Consul building, where the Leaders of Almadel reside.”

  “The Four Kings?” I asked, taking a perverse pleasure from the pent-up anger in Andras’ nod.

  The Consul building was just as large as the Citadel, but adorned with gothic arches and turrets instead of the mediaeval brutality of its cousin on the other bank. Both buildings were linked by a long, thick branch-like bridge looking like two stout arms shaking hands across the river’s fiery torrents. The buildings still seemed a couple of miles away, but even at that distance they seemed to dwarf everything else around them.

  Byron shuddered. “Are we heading over there? I would rather be as far away from that place as possible.”

  “What’s so bad about these Warlocks?” asked Pearce.

  “They are immensely powerful beings,” said Byron, “and utterly ruthless. They are sorcerers, for want of a better word, masters of magic who have dedicated their lives to learning how to do whatever they wish for the furtherance of their own twisted ends.” He turned to Andras. “Does that about cover it?”

  “I suppose it’s an economical digest, given the circumstances. Maybe less of the moral turpitude next time and don’t skimp on the hubris,” he said. “Actually, they are technically inferior to the Leaders’ caste, which is headed by the Four Kings at present. Despite that, they are the true power in Almadel. The Leaders, you see, of which I was one, are immensely powerful in our own right. We can do things that you humans may consider magical, but which are mere parlour tricks to the Warlocks. Our skills lie in strategic cunning and manipulation, while the Warlocks are the ones with the blunt power. The Leaders cannot rule without the Warlocks’ consent, you see.”

  “Why don’t the Warlocks just take over and rule without the Leaders?” I asked.

  “Because there are many aspects of leading and ruling in which they are not in the least bit interested. They prefer to content themselves with their studies and experimentation and let the Leaders get on with the business of ruling, gaining power, raping and pillaging and all that good stuff. As long as the Leaders leave them alone and undisturbed, of course.”

  “So it is a form of uneasy truce?” I said.

  “Yes. As long as everyone sticks to their own roles, all is fine. The Leaders lead, the Warlocks do their sorcery, the Warriors fight, the Workers work and the Slaves… well, they do what they do.”

  “Like suffer and die,” said Byron coldly.

  “In a sense. But sometimes useful stuff before that. I don’t know, it is the Workers who deal with the Slaves; I never really had any cause to engage with them. The point is, our society is strictly organised and finely balanced, and it works perfectly well as long as everyone sticks to their appointed roles.”

  I frowned. “Where do the Mages fit into all of this?”

  Andras shuddered. “The Mages are a creation of the Warlocks, the product of one of their past experiments, along with the Berserkers and certain other creatures.”

  “Wait, the Berserkers, those things we keep fighting all the time?” asked Pearce. “Big aggressive demons? Aren’t they the Warriors you just spoke of?”

  “No. The Warriors are trueborn Almadites and form the leadership and specialised areas of our armies: analogous to your own officers, ruling elite and the like. The Berserkers are the expendable foot soldiers that we send ahead of the Warriors to soften up the enemy. The Mages are similarly unfortunate.”

  “And they’re created by the Warlocks?”

  “Yes. I had the misfortune to witness their Birthing Chambers once; an experience I have not been in a hurry to repeat. The Warlocks see the Mages as their supreme creations, a way of
bestowing great honour on conquered creatures. They take other races and then turn them into—”

  “So you don’t bestow this ‘great honour’ on your own people?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “No. Not even the Warlocks are that twisted. At least, not as far as I know. You see, they take someone—usually it’s either a Slave or a prisoner—and they set about deconstructing that creature. A complex set of rituals is undertaken to ensure that the subject is not killed in the process. Then a Wraith is sent into the creature, via the eyes, to scorch their essence from the inside-out.”

  “Their essence?” I felt sick, almost as though I were witnessing something vile but which I could not help but keep watching in spite of my innate revulsion.

  “Yes. Memories, personality, values, belief—all that kind of thing. It all combines to give them their own free will. That’s the main prize, you see: stripping away the free will so they are totally and unquestioningly subservient to their masters. The best ones are those with the most to lose, the ones who care the most about family, friends, community, ties. The ones with all of that good stuff usually have it exposed and on the surface so it can be scraped easily away.”

  “Those who don’t?” I asked. “Who don’t care and don’t have ‘good stuff exposed on the surface,’ as you say?”

  “Most of them are driven mad,” he said. “They become the Berserkers: intent on doing nothing except fighting and killing, taking revenge for all the pain they’ve felt at the hands of their Wraith.”

  “They feel everything?” Joshua asked.

  “Oh yes: right up to the point when they finally give in and the Wraith steals their soul. Then they’re a Mage.”

  “Sounds truly delightful, the volunteers must come flocking in droves,” I muttered. We lapsed into an uneasy silence, staring down at the landscape that passed beneath us and trying not to think too hard about the twin edifices looming up ahead.

  “But what about the rest?” I asked, turning back to Andras. “You said that most victims are driven mad; what happens to those who aren’t?”

  “Oh, there are always exceptions to a rule. Some people have a natural propensity to fight the particular pain that the Wraiths inflict. People who are used to locking away their feelings: those that experienced a tough childhood, traumatic upbringing, unimaginable horror and so on. It’s difficult to tear someone apart with their feelings and memories if they’ve spent a lifetime doing that sort of thing to themselves. Those ones… well, it’s interesting: I asked the exact same question of the Head Warlock once and clearly hit a raw nerve. From what I could understand, they usually are able to spot them; the Wraith’s influence affects the host’s body as well as their insides, and most people can’t put up a show of pretending not to react to such a shock when they first see what they’ve become.”

  I nodded, remembering the Mage I had encountered a few months ago, the one that Andras had killed at the Battle of St Albans. It had seemed almost skeletal and spectral. “So the host takes on the appearance of the parasite?” I asked. “The Wraith?”

  “Correct. If the host, as you put it, doesn’t fully surrender to the Wraith, then they are mortally shocked by what they find themselves turned into. The Warlocks then pick up on that reaction and…” He ran a finger across his throat.

  “This is all very fascinating in a hideously terrifying sort of way,” said Byron, gesturing toward the huge bulks of the Citadel and Consul buildings, which now filled almost the whole vista outside our windows. “But is there a reason why we are approaching those buildings?”

  “Yes there is,” said Andras. “If Kate was taken anywhere, it would be here. And I know someone who might help us.” He banged on the roof of the carriage.

  Landing was not quite as terrifying as taking to the air, although I suspected that part of that was because we were braced for something much worse than the lurch to the surface we in fact endured. We stepped down to the ground and headed away from the Citadel building, something I noted with relief.

  As we walked we seemed to turn back on ourselves so many times that we should have arrived where we started, but we never did. It was as though the fabric of the world itself was playing with us, a living organism that was shifting and moving beneath and around us. I had a sudden memory from childhood of playing with a money spider that had found its way onto my palm, moving it from hand to hand and finger to finger and watching as it scuttled along, unaware that it was no further forwards than when it had landed on me. My head spun as I wondered if that was what was happening to us.

  We paused on a bridge, peering round gargoyles shaped from things beyond our worst nightmares as we looked down on the scene below. A mass of beings shuffled to and fro in a large square, subserviently following upright Almadites or being shouted at or beaten by them for their ineptitude.

  Andras darted down the steps at the side of the bridge and we ran to keep up with him. When we were among the creatures he stopped and looked around, then moved towards the centre of the square. Those surrounding us were little less than cattle, their eyes devoid of any curiosity or intelligence. They shuffled to the side to let us pass, their eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. Unlike the other areas of the city we had seen, where the Almadites were identifiably from the same race, each one of these here was different, as though this was a zoo encapsulating the dregs of every civilisation that had ever existed.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “A slave market,” said Byron. He shot desperate eyes around as we walked.

  Andras came to a halt in front of a tall creature, not unlike an Almadite but with the same dull eyes and downcast demeanour of her fellows around her. He held her shoulders and glared at her. When she refused to meet his gaze he gripped her face in his hands and turned it this way and that, clearly looking for something in her features and eyes.

  “Hey,” came a shout. “You want to buy?”

  Andras ignored him, peering at the poor creature, forcing her to raise her head.

  “You want to buy?” The burly Almadite slave master was now standing next to Andras. When there was no reply he put a hand on his shoulder.

  Andras turned and snarled before releasing the slave and marching away. We left the market with backward glances and plenty of relief.

  We walked in silence for a while, each locked in our own thoughts of what we had seen, what could have happened to those creatures to make them so devoid of any spark of sentience. What fears I had had of being in the centre of Almadel were intensified; if we were captured, surely we would join the ranks of those poor creatures? Furthermore, if the Almadites did finally manage to invade Earth, then I had a horrible feeling that we had just glimpsed the fate of all humanity: reduced to cowed, shuffling husks.

  Chapter Eight

  Half an hour later we sat in a corner of a tavern, trying not to look at the gold coin that Andras had placed on the far corner of our table. He had been in a filthy mood ever since the incident in the market and his demeanour grew worse the longer we sat there, his arms folded and refusing to speak to us. He had wanted to visit this taproom on his own but we would not let him out of our sight. He had—not very graciously—given in after some heated debate.

  I looked round the tavern over the rim of my mug of ale. It was a dark and sparsely furnished place, with a long table at the far side serving as a bar. Demons were scattered around the room, as well as a few other creatures that I did not recognise. “You know, this is not too bad,” I muttered, swallowing another mouthful of ale.

  “You really should not be drinking that,” said Byron. “For all we know, Almadite drinks could be poisonous to humans.”

  “I’m half-demon,” I said, “and I feel fine.” I took another swig to spite him.

  A server came over to collect our glasses and we looked down, avoiding eye contact just as we had been ordered. When she had gone, we looked up to see a scrap of paper wedged under the coin. Andras casually placed his mug on top of paper and coi
n and swept both towards him, depositing them in his lap. Pearce, Joshua and I leaned forwards in mock discussion, obscuring Andras and Byron from the rest of the room while they examined the paper.

  “What is it?” I asked eventually.

  “Instructions,” said Andras. “We’ll stay here for another hour or so and then we go for a walk.”

  “And then what?” asked Pearce.

  “They’ll come and find us.”

  We approached the run-down building separately so as not to raise any suspicions. I had insisted on staying with Andras, much to his inexhaustible disgust, and we reached the door within seconds of each other. He tried to slam it in my face as he entered but I grabbed it before it could swing shut. “Good way to stay inconspicuous,” I muttered.

  “Shut up,” he growled back.

  We were faced with a steep and rickety set of stairs that led up to a mezzanine level overlooking a main warehouse floor. I did not like the look of the building; there were too many places for demons to hide and too many avenues for attackers to come at us from. We were sitting ducks up on that over-sized balcony.

  “Where are they?” I asked, looking around the empty, echoing space.

  “Maybe this is another one of their convoluted tasks,” Andras said with barely disguised contempt. We had spent the past couple of hours following clues from one building to another, only to be met with yet more notes and further instructions. We had hoped that we had finally reached the end of the road, our optimism buoyed up by the name of this latest supposed rendezvous point.

  “Is this really called Cato Street, or is that just my altered perceptions playing with me?” I asked.

  “We demons do love a nice bit of irony,” said Andras. “But maybe you are just imagining me saying that as well.”

  I glared at him. “I only ask because the Cato Street Conspiracy hardly ended well for the plotters. As omens go this isn’t the best, even if my brain is just mistranslating whatever the real word is in your language.”