by Simon Kewin
Off to one side, a small gathering of dishevelled people watched her warily. They were little more than skeletons wearing rags. The stench of their filthy bodies almost made her retch. At first she thought they were some sort of undain, like zombies from a film. But the wariness in their eyes told her they were human: half-starved, broken people. They stood before a pair of carts with spoked iron wheels, clutching thick ropes. Of course; this was a slave society. Creatures like these would do the hauling, the lifting, all the backbreaking work. When a container came through they'd move it to a new building site. They'd work until they were nothing but skin and bone. And then, here was the beauty of it, when they died they'd be resurrected as undain slaves to labour away for the rest of eternity. Or else their bones would be used to extend the city where they fell. Such a marvellous system. They could do with something similar back home. She made a mental note to herself.
She turned to see the portal from this side. It was a huge, square frame, like a cinema screen with no film showing. It was formed from femurs and skulls, interwoven with ribs and phalanges and bones she didn't recognize. A huge skull crowned it, the size of an elephant or larger. The skull was pointed and snouted: the head of a predator, with rows and rows of sharp teeth. Were there really such creatures here? A fossil of some dinosaur perhaps. The Spirit pipe led directly into it, the skull sealed up, air-tight. Two red gems glinted from its eye sockets. The horns on its head had been extended into wide, branching tubes like antlers, all fashioned from gold metal. Smaller pipes fanned around the frame, subdividing into ten, a hundred, a thousand smaller ducts. These sprawled like the roots of a tree to distribute the Spirit around the city.
At that moment, the boy flopped from the portal to land in a heap on the ground. He squinted at her and made a little animal whimpering sound. She ignored him. The slaves dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. Good to see they'd remembered their manners. Except that wasn't it; they weren't looking at her. Someone behind her. She turned to see three figures striding toward her.
She'd encountered several undain during her time as Nox's underling, and she'd heard much more about them. The forms they adopted. Their inhuman powers. Still, she wasn't prepared for what she saw.
Two of the undain were giants, twice as tall as she was. Their bodies were mountainous, broad and powerful. They had no skin. Or, if they did, it was transparent. Light shone from within them as if they were hulking machines. But they were clearly flesh and blood; she could see their muscles bunching and flexing as they moved. Where their skin should have been, black lines wound about them in whorls and spirals, something like tattoos. Whether they were like this out of choice or as some sort of punishment she couldn't tell. The patterns twisting about their bodies were beautiful. Each of the giants bore a sword: a snaking blade a metre long.
A normal-sized man stood between them. He was ancient, his hair grey and his skin wrinkled and blotchy. A large iron key hung around his neck on a chain. He stooped forward, as if the weight of the key pulled him down. His face was expressionless, his eyes white. Yet he could clearly see her; he worked his way directly to her.
Ms. Sweetley stood her ground. She wished she'd worn taller heels.
“You are the human?” The old man's voice quavered. It was a ridiculous question to ask, although she chose not to say so.
“I am. And you are?”
“Lord Charis, Holder of the Keys, Guardian of the Aether, Prince of the Holy Court of Menhroth the Undying.”
She struggled not to show any shock. She knew all about Lord Charis. Why he chose to adopt the form of this ancient wretch she had no idea, but he was one of the original undain, converted by Menhroth himself five hundred years ago. He had the strength of a hundred men. A necromancer, too, if Nox was to be believed. Was that why he adopted this deathly appearance? No one and nothing passed through the portal without his consent. He was the King's most trusted courtier.
“You speak English well,” she said.
Charis's blank eyes bored into her, as if he was studying her. “Yes. Obviously. This surprises you?”
“No. No, not really.”
“And that is the witch-kin?”
For a moment his words puzzled her. He had to mean the boy. He was on his knees now, staring up at Charis and panting heavily.
“Yes,” she said. “This is the one we captured before Nox helped the others flee.”
Charis's eyes narrowed for a moment as he considered her words. Of course, Nox didn't really have much to do with the renegades' escape. But the undain didn't know that. Did they?
“Very well,” said Charis eventually. “We will take him now.”
One of the giant guards stepped forward. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She'd imagined the look of appreciation on Menhroth's face as she handed the boy over.
She moved aside. “Of course, Lord Charis.”
The hulking undain picked up the boy with one arm, dangling him in the air like a sack of something unpleasant. When the undain turned and walked away, she could see the suggestion of a creature in the black lines of its skin. A winged creature. What it meant she had no idea. Something else to discover. The boy struggled and shouted muffled cries through his gag as the undain carried him across the square. She put him out of her mind. He didn't matter. She would never see him again.
“Now you will follow me,” said Charis. “I shall escort you to the Capitol to meet the King.”
“Thank you,” said Ms. Sweetley, trying to sound calm. “I'm very much looking forward to it.”
Charis seemed surprised at her words. Then he shuffled off. The remaining guard waited for her. Clara shrugged and followed the stooped old man.
They crossed the wide white square toward a distant gateway flanked by two towers. The scale of the place confused her; she found it hard to judge distances and sizes. How tall were those towers? She didn't appear to be getting any nearer. Back at the portal the slaves had resumed their work. They were already hauling another container of bones onto their cart. Such inefficiency. She made another mental note. Perhaps she could earn some favour by persuading the undain to adopt modern technologies. Did they even have electricity?
The towers loomed above her as they approached, the arch easily a hundred feet tall. Why did it need to be so large? A single black bird, stark against the gleaming white, stood atop a gargoyle's head carved into the wall. Some sort of rook with tattered feathers and ragged wings. It watched her with one eye, head cocked, as she passed underneath.
Beyond the arch lay another vast expanse of white, flanked by more spires and domes and towers. The White City was endless. There were many more of the rooks here. They really were a mess. Why did the undain tolerate them? They marred the pristine whiteness of the walls. Some clearly had broken wings and legs, and one or two even lacked a head. None of it appeared to trouble them. They perched about the walls, framed by gothic arches or atop finials. Always watching. Or, if they had no eyes, listening.
One tall tower, in particular, was thick with them. Hundreds of tiny entrances had been built around its peak, and a constant stream of birds flapped in and out. Many carried small metal cylinders on bands around their necks. She thought she knew, then, what this was. The sorcerous crows were a communication system, carrying messages from across Angere. It was incredible. The place was medieval. They really needed her to come in and sort everything out. First things she'd arrange were some phone masts. Then they'd thank her. This witchcraft was no match for technology.
Something in Charis's empty eyes expressed disapproval. Was it possible he could read her thoughts? She hadn't heard they could do that. She hadn't heard they couldn't, either.
“You haven't been to An before, have you?” asked the undain.
The question puzzled her. This was Angere. Was that the same thing? “I'm sorry. I don't know where An is.”
“Here. This is An. The Cloven Land.”
“I thought this was Angere?”
“Yes.
An, West-of-the-river.”
“So Andar…?”
“Is An, East-of-the-river. You do not know this?”
She couldn't afford to appear ignorant. It was all about impressions. “It's familiar now you mention it. Once the land was called An. Before it was … cloven.” It was a stab in the dark. Fortunately she appeared to get it right. Charis nodded. He led her toward a broad sweep of steps that climbed to some higher level of the city.
The flight of stairs was at least fifty metres wide and maybe a hundred high, the whole thing crafted from thousands of interlocking bones. Each step was steep, and she soon felt the effort of it in her calves and thighs. Charis didn't slow at all, didn't even run short of breath. She longed to stop for a rest, the muscles in her legs burning, but she forced herself to press on. They passed a line of slaves, scrubbing the stairs with something like toothbrushes, carefully cleaning and polishing the bone an inch at a time. They paid her no attention. She wondered how long the creatures had been there, labouring away on their knees. Decades and decades by the look of them. At least the tang of the soap they were using masked their reek. Were they still alive or were they undain? It was hard to tell.
Placing her foot deliberately onto a patch that had already been cleaned by one of them, she climbed onward. At the top, another wide plaza opened. An ornate palace stood directly before her, all twisting towers and carved figures, like some gothic cathedral from back home that had melted and dripped slightly. The Capitol. More of the giant guards, twelve of them, stood before the doors, swords held forward.
She paused for a moment to calm her breathing, steel herself for the meeting. She covered it by turning to admire the view of the city. The year was more advanced here. Nox had mentioned that to her. The low sun suggested it was autumn, although there were no trees visible by which she could properly tell. Away over the steps, beyond the tops of the walls, lay a vast expanse of water: the An, presumably. It sparkled in the cold white light. They called it a river, but that seemed wrong. She could see no far shore. It looked more like a lake or a sea.
Between her and the river stood a flat expanse of land, curving along the edge of the water. Something like an old pier had been built a short way upstream, striding out into the river to end abruptly after a hundred yards. She'd never seen the point of piers. They were like bridges to nowhere.
Black dots stood upon the bank around it. Many, many of them, all arranged into regular squares. What were they? Trees? Stone pillars? Again, the scale was hard to discern. Then she saw movement. Another square marched into place. People. It was an army standing there, unmoving in its massed ranks. A vast, silent army. The sun glinted off rows of weapons.
“Come. The King will see you now.” Charis stood behind her. The impatience in his voice was clear. She wanted to ask him about the figures near the river but dared not.
They walked toward the grand gateway. The carvings around the doors – life-sized figures engaged in some battle – were exquisite. They were warriors, knights in armour, all rendered in delicately carved bone. Some rode horses, others dragons. The twelve guards with their transparent black-veined skin stood as still as the carvings, serpentine swords held at the ready. She knew they would stop at nothing to protect their King. Long ago in their history there had been some betrayal, some failure of security according to Nox. It would never be allowed to happen again. She had to admire the way Menhroth had everything set up. He was their father as well as their king and their god. He'd created all the other undain – directly or indirectly – and in doing so had tied their existence to his own. That way he ensured their absolute loyalty. If he died, so did they. It was a beautiful thing.
“You will enter King Menhroth's audience chamber now,” said Charis.
She tried to order her thoughts. “Tell me. How should I address the King?”
“You shouldn't.”
“No, I mean what do I call him? What is the protocol here?”
Charis peered at her, as if he were examining some interesting insect crawling on the floor. There was disquiet on his face, as if he thought her audience wouldn't go well. “There is no protocol. You do not call him anything. You do not speak. You nod your head to indicate you have understood your instructions.”
“I see.”
“You may walk as far as the third arch. Thereafter you crawl on your hands and knees into his presence. Do you understand?”
“I do.” She did. She understood very well.
“So be it,” said Charis. “If you are returning to your own world I shall meet you here.”
He shuffled off toward the steps. Ahead of her, the line of guards parted. She walked forward, heart hammering once more. She strode into the audience chamber of the Witch King, wondering what Charis had meant by if she was returning.
A cavernous hall stretched in front of her. In the distance she could see its far end, maybe half a mile or more away. A series of archways processed down the hall, four or five of them. Light slanted from high windows, illuminating the carved splendour of the interior. It was bone, all bone. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling looked impossibly distant, higher than the sky. The whole thing was incredible. It was meant to awe, of course. It was damn well working.
Her steps echoed as she marched forward. It was going to be a long walk. She was glad she hadn't worn high heels after all. She studied the statues that lined the sides of the hall. Hundreds and hundreds of figures, each different, each in a warlike pose. Who were they? They couldn't be former kings; Menhroth had been on the throne for five hundred years. Most looked like normal soldiers. It was as if someone had carved bone statues of the entire undain army.
After ten minutes she reached the third archway. She paused for as long as she dared, then got to her hands and knees. The other end of the hall was still some distance. She crawled. The bone floor was smooth to her touch but sharp on her knees. Her tights would be laddered in no time. It was a good thing no one at Genera could see her. Was this what Nox had done whenever he came here? Another detail he'd neglected to mention.
She crawled on, studying the polished whiteness of the floor. The way each individual bone had its own grain, its own unique beauty. She'd never noticed that before. Occasionally she glanced up. A raised platform stood ahead of her. She didn't dare look high enough to see who or what was there.
Finally she reached a step. She stopped and kneeled, head bowed. Her bruised knees burned. She didn't move, awaiting instruction. Instruction from another man. It was like Nox all over again. It was the same everywhere, wasn't it? She waited, filled with a mixture of terror at where she was and rage at what she'd been made to do. Who the hell did they think they were? Well, she would play the game for now. But one day she'd turn the tables. One day she would sit up there while people crawled into her presence. She'd make damned sure of it.
“Clara Sweetley.”
She raised her head to the Witch King. She expected another desiccated old man like Charis but Menhroth was beautiful. Young, tall, strong, he sat upon his throne gazing at her with a look of benign amusement. His long blond hair flowed down his shoulders. She could do with a few underlings like him at her beck and call. Only his solid black eyes, shiny as polished obsidian, gave away his true nature. He wore clothes of the purest white, inlaid with gold thread. On his head was the crown of Angere, crafted, so Nox had said, from the finger bones of ancient enemies. Two golden tubes snaked out of the throne directly into his neck. She knew how precious even a drop of Spirit was to the undain, but Menhroth was mainlining a constant supply. She could only wonder what godlike powers it gave him.
She nodded, acknowledging her name, remembering not to speak.
“And you are to replace Nox?”
She nodded again. Perhaps it would be as easy as that. She wondered how well-informed this King really was, sitting there all day being told what he wanted to hear, far removed from events. Perhaps there would be ways to manipulate him. Subtly, of course.
“And you have
made a good start,” he continued. “Artificially increasing the supplies of Bone and Spirit by a few percent in order to demonstrate your worth. Doing your best to ensure Nox gets the blame for the recent setbacks.”
His words hammered through her. Did Menhroth know everything she'd done? But if he was aware she'd helped the schoolgirl escape, surely Clara wouldn't be there now? She'd be either dead or in some long, drawn-out process of dying. She had to be careful. Very careful. Masking her alarm as best she could she nodded once more.
Menhroth held her gaze for a moment, assessing her. When he finally unleashed his smile on her it felt like a light being switched on. “You have only done what any sensible person would. I will allow you your little deceptions since you have had no direct orders. But from now on, I will give you my instructions, and you will carry them out immediately and to the letter. If you do not, you will be replaced. Do you understand me, Clara Sweetley?”
She nodded her assent at Menhroth's words.
“Excellent,” said the King. “Firstly there are some wicca – witches – in your world that I require you to locate. One was held by you but managed to escape. Bringing them to me is your most important task. You will succeed in this. Do you understand?”
Another nod. The request was ridiculous, of course. How could a few new-age nutters who thought they could do magic pose any threat to all this? She'd seen it before: individuals so rich and powerful they'd lost sight of reality and became obsessed with some nonsense. Well, so be it. She could use that to her advantage. This so-called witch, Cait Weerd, was just an unremarkable schoolgirl. Once they found her, they'd hand her straight to Menhroth, a gift a thousand times more valuable than the boy.