The Cloven Land Trilogy
Page 29
Another portal. She should have realised. It explained what they were doing here, wherever here was. It explained the goblin. Another portal and not one going anywhere good, that was clear.
“The machine … sucked out people's souls?”
“It did. A percentage of their souls, anyway. These days we have perfected the technology. Miniaturised and fine-tuned it. Now there are billions of tiny Extraction Engines embedded in electronic devices the world over. You're in range of any number of them wherever you go. People are even good enough to carry them around, in phones and the like.”
“It's … incredible.”
“Oh, in fact, the hard part isn't the extraction, but the storage and collection. There is always a certain amount of wastage, regrettably. We have a global network of tankers and pipelines that brings all the precious Spirit here. The whole thing is miraculous, beautiful to see. If you know it's there. Such a shame we can't tell everyone about it.”
“But why?” said Cait, “Why would you do such things? I mean, how is it even possible?”
“Why? Isn't it obvious? It's the reason your magic won't work here, why you're probably feeling helpless and hopeless. We, of course, have immunity technology shielding us, but you, and nearly everyone else on the planet, are fully exposed. You are currently having a very finely calculated portion of your Spirit refracted out of you.”
“But why?” said Cait again. She was finding it hard to concentrate, let alone to form a reasoned response. Faintly, she saw her reflection in the glass in front of her. A puzzled, lost look was visible on her features, projected onto the great machine.
Ms. Sweetley glanced at her watch, frowned, then turned to leave the room, passing between the two guards who parted to let her through. “Follow. I will show you why.”
They trooped out of the control room and down another long corridor, this one smelling of floor-polish and disinfectant. It was like primary school or a hospital, drab and frightening at the same time, Cait the helpless child in a scary world. The two guards followed silently.
Ms. Sweetley strode briskly and Cait had to hurry to keep up. They clanged down a long flight of metal steps then came to another door, identical to all the others. A number and some letters were stencilled onto it in blue paint.
“Now for the greatest sight of all,” said Ms. Sweetley, holding the handle for a moment as if the door was the entranceway to some fairy-tale land. She touched the card she wore on a chain around her neck to an electronic pad, waited for the green light, then pushed the door open.
A roaring sound engulfed them. They stood on the floor of another great chamber. One end of it was a bare rock-face, the building encompassing an entire hillside. A waterfall ran off the rocks and down to the chamber floor in a billowing curtain. Droplets sprayed Cait's face even from this distance. Above the cascade, carved into the rock face, she could make out the words The Gates of Hell.
A fat pipe, surely tall enough to walk inside, travelled the full length of the room. It was fed by numerous smaller tubes emerging from the walls. It led directly through the cascade. Next to the pipe, a slow-moving conveyor-belt carried a long line of metal containers. They were the sort you saw articulated lorries hauling, all different colours, with writing in languages familiar and unknown. They, too, went into the waterfall. As they did so, they punched a square hole through the sheet of water so it looked like the cataract was opening its mouth to swallow them. The water pelted each container angrily, a great drumming sound added to the cacophony.
“Here we are,” said Ms. Sweetley, shouting above the roaring white noise. “There's the central pipeline that carries all the refined Spirit.”
“To the other world?”
“To Angere. The Spirit we produce goes a long way toward fuelling the Undying Land. We serve our masters well. It's fair to say they would find it hard to manage without us now.”
“What do they do with it all?”
“It gives them life. It sustains them. It is life-blood for the undain nobility, for the Revenant Army, for all who live in Angere. Do you see now, Cait? Do you understand the beauty of it?”
“And the containers?”
This was the woman's final secret, told with clear delight as she spoke closely in Cait's ear. “Bone. They are each of them full of human bone. Bone from the whole world over.”
“What … what for?” asked Cait.
“They use it to build. A strong and malleable material in the hands of the sorcerers of Angere. They construct their cities with it. They have very ambitious plans for expansion and a constant supply is vitally important. One day I hope to see them all: the Cathedral of the Moon, The Six Palaces, the shining towers of the White City itself.”
“You … suck the life out of some people and take the bones of others?” She should have felt horrified, angry. In fact there was little inside her other than a dull numbness. Incomprehension at what she was being told.
“We do. A very fine balance to strike it is, too. The more Spirit we extract, the more cruel and angry people become. So Bone yields go up. But extract too much and long-term rates decline. I studied it for my PhD. The correlation between Spirit extraction rates and Bone yields. It turns out there's a clear formula: an optimal extraction rate that sustains what we take from the herd.”
“The … herd?”
“Don't you see, Cait? We farm humanity. That's what this world is: one great farm we manage to optimise our production of Spirit and Bone. A farm you've lived in your whole life without even realising. It can be a delicate operation at times, and there are always unanticipated events to deal with. But extraction rates and gross tonnages have risen steadily for over a century now. By carefully manipulating events, managing the herd if you like, we've achieved stunning results.”
“And this visitor who's coming,” said Cait. “Who is it?”
She turned to face Ms. Sweetley. There was a look of awe on that beautiful face. There was something else too, there in her eyes, in the curve of her bright red lips. She was envious of Cait.
“Menhroth and his entourage are coming through the Portal,” said Ms. Sweetley. “Menhroth the First and Last. Menhroth the Great, Lord of all Lords, divine ruler of Angere. It is the Witch King himself who is coming. By this time tomorrow he will be here.”
Cait struggled to understand, to take it all in. “And me?” She'd guessed what the answer would be. She hoped she had it wrong.
“You, Cait Weerd, along with the Grimoire, will be our gift to him.” said Ms. Sweetley in triumph.
“And … when he returns to the other world?”
“Then he'll take you with him, of course.”
21. Screaming Machinery
Cait stood near the water once more. In her mind's eye, in her dream, she was in the hills, the lake one of those tarns that nestle unexpectedly in hidden valleys between high peaks. The water was mirror-still, the reflections of the mountain-tops appearing solid. For a moment she had the dizzying illusion of looking through a gaping hole in the ground.
She stood nearer to the water than before; she could feel the cold coming off it. Light slanting through heavy clouds painted the scene in vivid purples and yellows, illuminating clumps of heather and gorse.
Come to the water, said a voice on the wind. Come. Cait tried to move. Each step took effort. Her limbs were clumsy and the wind resisted. Come. Step by step, the waters grew nearer. But the strength required to move increased, too. It was tempting to give up the struggle. But she refused, thinking of the smile on Ms. Sweetley's face.
Suddenly, the resistance overcome, she arrived at the lake's edge. She stood panting on a soft lip of moss, the stone waters lapping at her feet. A little way out, ripples ruffled the reflected mountain peaks. Something moved below the surface.
She kneeled to touch the water, sending out small, semi-circular waves. The chill on her fingers was welcome, sharpening her senses. The coldness spread through her hand, up her arm into her body, dissolving some of her i
ndolence. She cupped her hand and drew water to sip. It tasted of ice.
The disturbance in the water increased. Cait reached with her mind, searching for the presence, trying to coax it from the depths. There were splashes as if a struggle was taking place beneath the surface. Then the witch-girl broke the surface, floating face upward, her arms and legs outstretched. Her eyes were shut, her lips blue. The rags of her clothes spread around her like a halo and her doll floated nearby, just its head visible.
I'm here, Cait tried to say, not at all sure if she was doing it properly. The girl didn't respond, although she drifted closer, carried by some current toward the shore. Cait tried to reach for her. Rocked on gentle waves, the lifeless girl bobbed nearer. Finally, leaning out so far she was sure she would fall in, Cait managed to touch her.
The girl's eyes opened wide and she gasped at the air. She splashed around desperately, searching for her doll. When she had it, she reached out a hand to Cait, who took it and hauled her into the shallows. The dead witch-girl stood, feet still in the water, droplets streaming off her as if she was part of the lake and could not leave.
“I thought you'd gone,” said Cait.
“I slept,” replied the girl. Her voice was ice and fog, sounding far away. “But now the Masters' machines have stopped. The screaming in your head that stops you from feeling.”
“But I'm trapped,” said Cait. “When I wake up, I'll still be imprisoned.”
The witch-girl shook her head. “They tried to bury us under stone. Such heavy stone, for so many years. But we escaped, didn't we? And so can you. I'll show you the way.”
“I don't have the strength,” said Cait.
“I'll show you,” repeated the girl, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Even between us, we won't be strong enough.”
The girl smiled, looking suddenly very young. “Then we'll ask them to help us.”
She nodded to the sky over Cait's shoulder. Cait turned to look. Clear above the peaks shone three moons. One was full, a perfect circle, solid and bright. One was waning, little more than a sharp-edged crescent slicing through ragged clouds. The third was waxing, gibbous, only a few days past the half-moon. Between the three of them, they lit an area of the sky brightly. But they were more than mere illumination. There was a depth to them. It was like staring into a hole in the sky.
“What are they?” asked Cait.
“They are lights to show you the way. But we have to help them.”
“I don't understand.”
“Wake up, now. Hurry.”
“But …”
The lake and the mountains faded. The girl's cold hand was still in hers. She could feel its icy touch, even as everything dissolved into fog. Then the fingers slipped through her hand and the touch was lost. Cait opened her eyes to see the blank walls of her cell once more.
She lay on her bed for a moment, disorientated. Had she simply dreamed the whole thing? Imagined it in her desperation? The glaring strip-light was still there, filling the room with its harsh light. Nothing had changed.
But, closing her eyes, reaching inside herself, she felt the touch. A cold contact with that deep pool, clear and cool. What had happened to the machines? Why were they no longer leeching her magic? Was it all some trick? Some new torment?
There was little point in trying to understand it. All she could do was seize the opportunity, try and make the most of it.
Like this, said the cold voice inside her. Walk to the lights. Without being able to see them, Cait found she was aware of the three points of illumination. They were a warm presence on the other side of a wall. But it was hard to focus on them with the fluorescent glare filling her eyes.
This time she used her magic. She could think only of smashing the glowing tubes. The guards had given her two bottles of water with last night's food. She'd drunk one, the tepid liquid tasting of plastic. The other was sealed. She put her trainers on, then crossed to pick up the other bottle. She held it before her, closed her eyes and reached down for the magic, drinking in the cold power. She let it build within her then sent it through her hand into the bottle. The stabbing pains in her chest were sharp but brief. To feel them again was almost welcome.
The water in the bottle froze, crackling in her grasp as she turned it into a solid block of ice. She tossed it from hand to hand as it stuck to her palms. Holding it by its neck, she lined up the shot, then hurled it upward at the fluorescent tube. As the bottle flew toward the light, she followed it with her mind, directing it onto the right line.
Darkness engulfed her even as she heard the shattering glass. A thousand shards of crystal tinkled to the floor. Some fell in her hair, which she shook out.
She took a deep breath in the darkness. Better. Much better.
Now. Like this, said the witch-girl's voice, urgent now. Reach out like this!
Between them they felt into the darkness, searching for the three moons, trying to draw them closer. The pain in Cait's chest mounted. There was no sharp stabbing this time but a growing hurt, as if someone was tugging on her muscles, stretching them tauter and tauter. She gritted her teeth, pushing herself on through the darkness.
She saw them. Three lights a long way off, little more than stars. Three points of illumination in the whole universe. She worked her way toward them, the pain alarming, sharp as if her body were pinned to a fixed point that she was striving to pull away from. She cried out in the darkness.
The three lights grew brighter, noticeably bigger. Now they were circles rather than points. She could sense the effort, the yearning in them as they, in turn, desperately tried to reach her. It was impossible to know who was actually moving, she or the lights.
With a scream through her locked teeth she threw all her strength into the effort. The pain of it filled her. The lights swam forward, moving around her until she stood, finally, among them. Her body rang with agony. But between the lights, a pathway led into the darkness, like a series of stepping stones across a shadowed river. Only a film of the thinnest material lay between her and them.
She reached out a hand and, with her long fingernails, sliced through, three cuts like a cat's claw on skin.
There was a crack of something breaking, a hard stab of pain in her chest, then pressure on her ears as the air roared around her. The forced slammed her backward onto the floor. Someone screamed. It might have been her. She lay stunned for a moment, not knowing what to do.
Then she heard laughter. Gleeful laughter. We did it! We did it! We did it! The witch-girl was singing.
Cait looked for the lights. They were gone; everything was utterly dark again. The floor was cold beneath her. She held her arms around her pained body and tried to work out what had happened. It was no use; it was too dark to see anything. Yet she was sure the pathway had opened, the sense of release had been quite clear. She waited for a moment, panting heavily, while the pain subsided a little and her thudding heart slowed.
The seeing stone. She felt it cold against her skin. Perhaps it, too, would work now. She held it to her eye. At first, there was nothing. But then, as she grew accustomed to peering through it the right way, her surroundings appeared in dim colours.
A circle of deeper blackness was on the wall opposite her, large enough to walk through at a stoop. A grey pathway led through the circle into impenetrable darkness. She had done it. They, whoever they were, had done it.
There was someone coming down the pathway. Surely it would be her mother, or her gran come to save her? Her rescuer stood on the threshold for a moment, wary, peering into the room. Then they stepped lightly in, crunching shards of glass underfoot. At that moment, an alarm sounded, wailing loudly. Cait jumped, letting go of the stone. The alarm shut off abruptly, but red emergency lights came on in the room, revealing the other person in scarlet and blood.
It wasn't her mum or her gran, but a man she'd never seen before. He looked fierce, stripped to the waist and powerfully built. Dark tattoos covered his whole body, wi
nding in sinewy lines around his muscles, suggesting the lines of magnetic force she'd failed to learn about in physics. His hair was long and bound in a pony-tail. He carried a sheath-knife in his hand, blade at the ready.
At first she thought he must be something to do with Angere. Apart from his alarming appearance, he had no aura she could detect. Was he some sort of human machine like the riders and the guards? His expression was fixed, like steel.
He spoke to her with clear urgency in his voice. A single word, pronounced oddly, as though he'd just been taught it. “Go!” He indicated the grey pathway through which he'd stepped. “Go!” he said again, as if it was the only word he knew.
He turned from her and walked toward the locked door of the room. He moved with a feline grace, like a padding tiger, capable of bursting into violence at any moment. He stopped and waited, knife poised to face whoever came through the door.
He was guarding her escape route. Another alarm sounded, close by. Once again, it was cut off. She heard slamming doors, running feet. The tattooed man didn't flinch, standing with his back to her.
Cait ran to the dark circle, hesitated for a moment, then leaped into the void. Behind her, even as she stepped into it, she heard the door being opened. Then shouts and a single scream.
She ran. The pathway was indistinct, a forest trail in the moonlight. All around was limitless dark. If she stepped off the path, she knew instinctively, she'd be lost for ever. The important thing was not to stop. She kept running, eyes fixed ahead of her. It wasn't far. She could do this.
The ground beneath her feet suddenly vanished. She pitched forward and sprawled on her hands and knees. But it was wet grass she'd landed on. She was outside, the air cool and fresh. The oppression of the walls was gone.
She looked around. She sat in a circle of three figures, as still as standing stones, each lost in deep concentration as they worked their magic. Between them, they held open the pathway down which she'd run. One was her mother, her face fully lit, a frown furrowing her forehead. Next was her gran, most of her face in shadow, just the curve of her cheek visible. The third was a girl, surely not much older than Cait was, someone she didn't know. Yet who also looked familiar. Some cousin, perhaps, her mum and gran had called upon?