That afternoon, the Watchers mounted their Alphas for the last time. With the beavers dressed in their full body armor, the giddiness from the morning evaporated. They strapped wooden shields to their backs. Leather helmets fashioned from ant hides covered their heads. Each helmet came with a Roman-style nosepiece that bisected their faces. A vest with two wooden plates sewed into it protected the ribcage. Etched into the fabric was the Lodge City crest, a blue river pooling against a horizontal green dam. The families gathered at the entrance to the camp, cheering as each Watcher passed through the gate. The riders said goodbye to their mates by touching noses, a gentle little kiss, so out of place in this war machine.
Hildy stood at the entrance, wearing a white robe and leaning on a staff with a beaver’s fist carved into the top. She waved the staff over each of the riders while whispering a prayer. When Falkirk passed, she rapped the carved fist on each of his shoulders. “The Three watch over you,” she said. “The river flows through your blood.” Then she tapped her nose on Falkirk’s snout. She repeated the ritual for Sheba and Mort(e). The cat didn’t like it—he flicked his whiskers as if someone had dabbed a piece of dung on his face. One of the stronger beavers rode the Alpha named Seljuk, with the matriarch Nikaya wrapping her thin arms around his waist.
Several songs started at once. The humming backgrounds competed with each other until they all coalesced into one. Castor halted and raised his hand for silence. The singing stopped, but the humming continued.
“Look at me,” Castor said. “And look into the eyes of your sons and daughters, your mothers and fathers, your mates. The keepers of the Watch. I promise—I swear—we will return tomorrow morning with our people.”
The humming made a key change. More people joined in.
“The water flows. We will break this gulag. And we’ll bring you that demon’s head!”
The humming changed to a roar. The Watchers slapped their tails against their armor. Prompted by the racket, the bat dropped from his tree, spread his wings, and glided above the path in a looping pattern. An army had risen, assembled from numerous parts—some discarded, some found, some built from nothing.
Falkirk had witnessed so much in these last few days. A monster crushing its prey. A rodent leader rising from a catastrophe. The Messiah delivered by a bat. The fabled Mother riding a massive insect. He had dropped into some vortex where none of the rules he knew applied. Every time he had faced a situation like this, he failed, as his mother promised he would. It made him think that perhaps the punishment God had in store for him was merely beginning, and the true crucible still awaited him.
Or maybe, after all these years, he had finally reached the point where something would go right. He imagined Sierra beside him in their bed, whispering, “You did good.” But then Sierra became Sheba, lying on her stomach and facing him, half of her snout buried in a pillow, her body covered under a blanket. She colonized his memory. He could not swat her away. In the same tone of voice she used when she said that she dreamed of the ocean, Sheba said to him, “You did good, Falkirk. You did good.”
CHAPTER 9
The Battle of Lodge City
From the bridge of a ship, Sheba stared at the jade ocean as it slipped beneath the boat. The shimmering sea had no end, no markers to provide a location. No matter how fast the ship traveled, more breakers curled over the horizon. Until, finally, a distant wave froze in place. A new land, green and pure, offering a future for those with no past.
“Are you ready?” Mort(e) asked. Sheba snapped out of her daydream. The Old Man crouched beside her.
“I’m ready.”
They hid behind a ridge overlooking Lodge City, along with Falkirk, Castor, and a few other beavers. Behind them, the cavalry stood in formation. Gaunt waited in a nearby tree. Falkirk and Castor each held one end of a map. The light peeked through, turning the husky and the beaver into silhouettes behind the paper.
With dusk approaching, the web that coated the city glowed yellow. If she didn’t know better, Sheba would have said it formed some kind of protective shield that preserved the town, sealing it in a perfect state. But she inevitably shifted the binoculars to the stadium, where the hostages waited, wrapped in bundles. She tried to steady her hands so she could make out the spider. The legs and the segmented carapace stuck out briefly, only to vanish again among the strands of silk.
Falkirk rolled the map into a tube. “If you have anything else to say to your people, do it now,” he said to Castor. The beaver walked over to his troops. They stopped talking when he approached, some straightening their backs in attention.
“Now you’ve done it,” Mort(e) said. “They’re going to sing again.”
Right on cue, the humming started.
“Let them sing,” Sheba said.
Gaunt dropped from his perch and swooped over the soldiers. Some of the beavers flinched at the sudden movement, but kept singing nevertheless.
The bat landed in the grass. On the ground, he was merely a furry leather ball, with aviator goggles covering his eyes. His mouth hinged open, displaying what looked like hundreds of teeth.
“Are you ready, Gaunt of Thicktree?” Mort(e) asked.
The bat opened his mouth wider and released a loud shriek.
“All right, all right,” Mort(e) said. He stood. Sheba and Falkirk rose with him.
“What did you promise the bats in return for their help?” Falkirk asked.
“I told you. Peace and security.”
Mort(e) clapped his hands. The sharp noise cut through the humming until the beavers stopped and listened. “We’re moving,” he said. “You know what to do.”
Mort(e) checked his sidearm and ammunition. Sheba approached and helped him with a buckle that fastened at his hip. After she felt the clip slide into place, she tugged the vest to make sure it fit tightly.
“Be careful, Old Man.”
“If I wanted to be careful, I’d go home.”
Sheba placed her hands on Mort(e)’s shoulders. “You know what I mean. If you die . . .”
“If I die.”
“If you die . . . I’ll kill you.”
They embraced each other and laughed. “I see the gift of speech was not wasted on you,” Mort(e) said.
“Shut up, Old Man.”
“I know you’re sick of my war stories. After today, we’ll have some new ones to tell. I’ll get sick of yours this time. How’s that?”
“That sounds good,” she said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you the other day.”
“I’m sorry I gave you a reason.”
Mort(e) cleared his throat, a signal for her to let go. He stared at something over her shoulder. She turned to see Gaunt eavesdropping on their conversation, having crawled over to them. He rested on his elongated palms, his wings propped on his elbows. In a sudden movement, the bat launched from the ground. He flew over their heads, then circled around again.
“Good luck,” Mort(e) said to Sheba. “I’ll see you down there.”
“I’ll be watching you.”
A gust of wind nearly knocked her over as Gaunt snatched Mort(e) by his shoulders. The wings flapped so hard they flattened the blades of grass. Airborne, the bat and his cargo crested the ridge, dropping out of view for a second before rising again. Sheba imagined the pine trees passing below Mort(e)’s dangling feet. Her stomach sank.
Sheba climbed onto Gai Den for what she thought would be the last time. The cavalry formed a row along the spine of the mountain, like soldiers on horseback from some pointless human war. Everyone watched as Gaunt deposited Mort(e) on top of the waterwheel. The bat hung from a horizontal beam, right below him. From there, Mort(e) would see if he could take a clean shot at the spider with his elephant rifle. Maybe he could end this with one pull of the trigger.
One of the riders, the hulking beaver named Fram, watched the spider through his binoculars along
side Sheba. “No movement,” he said. Sheba watched Mort(e) assembling the sniper rifle, clicking the barrel into place. In the shaky tunnel vision of the binoculars, like peering through a keyhole, she almost expected to hear the metal, the jingle of his bullets. The rifle complete, Mort(e) knelt by the edge of the wheel and aimed at the stadium.
Sheba shifted her focus to the center of the web, searching for the spider’s narrow face. It took a few seconds for her to find the two rows of unblinking eyes, like drops of rain on a leaf. No irises, no eyelids, no movement—only convex lenses that could make out shapes. Sheba wondered what had brought the spider to this place. All the animals had a story. None were truly brave or innocent. They all believed they had an excuse for the things they did. This arachnid was no different, just another survivor. Survivors were dangerous.
Falkirk sat on his Alpha beside her. “Sheba,” he said.
“Yes?”
“If I don’t make it through this, you have to promise me you’ll at least think about what I said. The Union needs you. And maybe the al-Rihla could use an expert on Alphas.”
“You’ll make it,” she said. “And then you can keep guilt-tripping me yourself.”
Jomo stirred. Falkirk tugged on the reins to still her again.
“Son of a whorefucker!” Fram shouted, startling everyone.
“What is it?” Falkirk asked.
“The bat!”
The Alphas shuffled as the beavers craned their stumpy necks. Through her binoculars, Sheba tracked Gaunt as he flew away from the wheel.
It was too soon. The bat should have airlifted Mort(e) out of there. The Old Man saw something at the base of the waterwheel. He aimed his rifle and fired. A second later, the pop reached the observers on the ridge.
“Look!” Falkirk said.
Four spiderlings, each big enough to wrap its legs around Mort(e), slinked up the wooden spokes of the wheel, as if the beavers had designed the structure for this very purpose. The translucent creatures, freshly hatched, resembled moving crystal chandeliers.
“I told you those bats would betray us!” Fram said.
“We don’t know that,” Sheba said. “Mort(e) may have told him to fly away.”
Castor fumbled with the map. “There’s not supposed to be an egg there!”
“Well, it’s there,” Falkirk said. “They missed it.”
“The bat probably put it there!” Fram said.
Another shot splattered a spiderling. A third ripped a chunk from one of the beams, sending one of the creatures tumbling away in a shower of woodchips. The last arachnid made it to Mort(e)’s feet. He jammed the barrel into its face and fired. The crystalline monster burst apart, the legs shooting out in several directions.
“She’s moving!” Falkirk said.
At the stadium, Gulaga lumbered from her perch, her exoskeleton a cream color marbled with brown. Her fangs dripped a milky venom. With each step, the strands of the web echoed with metallic noises, a hopelessly out-of-tune instrument.
The binoculars slowly dropped from Sheba’s eyes. “We’re charging now. Everyone get into your groups. You know where the eggs are.”
“Mort(e) said to wait for the explosives,” Castor said.
“No. We have to kill this thing without them.”
“Come on,” Falkirk said to the Watchers. “Do you want to sit here and watch two strangers die for your city?”
“Fine,” Castor said, jerking the reins of his mount. “We’ll all die for this city. But let’s take that bitch with us.”
And then, in a rumbling stampede, the Alphas swept down the hill. To Sheba’s right, Castor bounced in his saddle as he held onto the reins. To her left, Falkirk’s blue eyes caught hers for a moment. Then he faced forward, into the heart of the gulag.
Two more shots fired from Mort(e)’s elephant gun. A third round sparked off the arachnid’s hide and whistled over their heads.
“He’s shooting at us!” one of the beavers said.
“No!” Sheba said. “He’s . . .”
She saw it now. The spider’s white coloring was no camouflage. She had coated herself with the web, making her exoskeleton impervious to bullets.
Mort(e) fired again. Sheba heard the bullet skim off the spider’s armor. Getting closer, Gulaga stepped from one shrouded rooftop to the next.
As the cavalry entered the outskirts of town, the buildings blocked Sheba’s view of Mort(e). The group separated. Castor’s team broke off from the pack, heading for the closest egg, in the northern corner of town. Fram led five more riders over the bridge, to the farthest egg, hidden among the support beams. Falkirk joined Sheba and two others as they charged to the stadium. By this point, the Old Man had expected to either shoot the spider or plant the explosives. Both had failed. Maybe they could at least rescue the hostages. But even then, someone would have to serve as bait for the spider. For now, it was Mort(e).
The first layer of web sealed off the street, with long cable-like strands sloping from the rooftops to the ground. Sheba offered to go first. Like the spider, the ants balanced themselves on tiny claws, thereby reducing their contact with the web and allowing them to walk over it. At least, that was what Sheba hoped.
Her Alpha hesitated, testing the web with her foot. Impatient, Sheba jammed her knees into the ant’s sides to nudge her along. Gai Den placed her front claws onto the web and hoisted herself onto it. The angle was so steep that Sheba nearly tumbled out of her saddle. A moment later, Sheba was floating above the street on the silky canopy, with the other riders following behind her. The web made creaking noises like a rusty suspension bridge. Once she got high enough, she looked for the waterwheel. She couldn’t see Mort(e). Maybe he found a hiding place. Or maybe—
Gulaga changed directions. She was headed right for them.
“Move!” Sheba said.
The web dipped and shuddered under their weight as they raced over each street. The cavalry approached the first egg, fastened with silk to the corner of a rooftop. Falkirk and the two beavers leveled their guns at the pod and fired. Bits of the shell sprayed into the air. A clear fluid gushed from the holes, followed by a thicker substance that resembled tar. When the shooting stopped, Sheba plunged her sword into the egg to make sure. As she jimmied the blade out, an explosion thudded, somewhere near the bridge. A fireball ascended over the water. Fram had detonated another pod. Gulaga stopped in place. Then, perhaps realizing that the egg was gone, the spider continued crawling toward Sheba’s unit.
“Go get your friends,” Sheba said to the beavers. “We’ll hold her off.”
The beavers continued on to the stadium. Falkirk let go of his reins and aimed the rifle. “I hope they write a good song about us,” he said.
Another explosion sent ripples through the web. Castor and his team must have destroyed another egg. A part of the canopy collapsed as one of the anchors gave way.
Gulaga ignored the distraction, focusing instead on the two defiant intruders in her sights. Sheba readied her machine gun. The reins were wrapped around her shooting hand in case she needed to pull Gai Den away from a quick strike. Falkirk fired, but the bullet embedded in the armor. Gulaga shuddered and kept moving. The creature got close enough for Sheba to see her belly, unprotected by the armor.
With her gun in one hand, Sheba waved her sword with the other. A sliver of reflected sunlight brushed across Gulaga’s face just as Sheba pulled the trigger. The flashes from the muzzle lit up the creature’s belly. The empty shells caught in the web and hung there. A clear liquid dripped from the spider’s wounds onto the canopy.
Falkirk, positioned to her right, opened fire. The spider lunged at the husky, toppling his ant into the web. Pinned beneath her, entwined in the silk, the dog kept shooting. Falkirk yelled something that Sheba could not make out. But then she recognized it. Falkirk was barking like a guard dog.
The spider
snatched Jomo in her jaws, ripping her from where she had fallen and leaving a frayed hole in the web. Falkirk, caught in the silk, was pulled along with her. Propped on her rear legs, Gulaga sprayed web from her abdomen and spun both ant and husky into the silk. A final patch of web sealed Falkirk’s gaping mouth. The barking stopped.
Sheba forced Gai Den closer until she stood within reach of Gulaga’s leg. She swung her sword at the knobby joint. The blade bit deep into the shell.
The spider swung around, dropping the cocoon that encased Falkirk. While Gulaga’s fangs slashed at her, Sheba managed to rip her sword from the leg and swing it across her body. The metal dug into the spider’s jaw, leaving a gash. Gulaga lunged again. This time, Sheba yanked the reins and forced Gai Den to rise onto her hind legs. While the spider and the ant locked jaws, Sheba stabbed Gulaga right at the hinge of her mandible. But she merely hit bone and sinew, nothing vital. As she struggled to slide the blade out, Gulaga lurched forward, overpowering the ant until both Gai Den and Sheba tumbled over. Sheba sank into the web. Gai Den’s weight came down on top of her. The ant struggled, her legs flipping madly. The spider’s mouth, with the bloody hilt of the sword still protruding, wrapped around Gai Den’s thorax. When Sheba reached for her machine gun, she found it suspended in the silk, as if frozen in a cloudy block of ice.
Like some kind of ghoulish machine, Gulaga spun Gai Den in a web, wrapping her tighter until she could no longer wriggle. Each revolution added a new layer until the blackish red of the ant’s armor became coated in silk. Sheba freed her left arm and tried to rip the gun free. She wasn’t sure what she’d do once she got it loose. Maybe take one last shot, or maybe put the barrel to her temple so she wouldn’t be alive when the beast began to feed.
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