by Danie Ware
“Now,” Phylos said, “will you jump – or do I have to push you?”
The metal bracelet itched. The Merchant Master leaned in, tapped it and said, “A little... security. I want to make sure you hit the water, and I want to watch you drown.”
Rhan shook off Phylos’s touch, walked to the very edge of the wall. Below him, there were carved faces of creatures in the stone, their teeth bared at the sea. To the north, the Swathe River roared from its gorge and the water seethed white and angry.
He turned his back on the drop and faced his accusers.
“My Lady,” his voice was solid, even in the wind. “Upon Samiel’s name, I did not take the life of the Lord Demisarr, nor inflict any harm upon yourself.”
Valicia snapped back at him, “I bear your bruises on my skin.”
“I will return when I can prove my words.” He stepped backwards into the empty air. “Look for me.”
And he fell.
Again.
The last thing he heard was Phylos’s voice, “Now we finish this. Get me the Bard.”
26: CATHEDRAL
THE MONUMENT
An image danced enticing in the brazier’s light...
Roviarath.
The Grasslands’ most populous city, the hub of the Varchinde’s ever-cycling trade. Maugrim had lived on her doorstep, he knew her strength: to the west, the waterways that brought wood and stone from Irahlau and Vanksraat, the exquisite craftsmanship of the Kartiah; to the east, the Great Cemothen River and the trade-route to the docks and spice markets of Amos, the triremes of the Archipelago.
About her fine and decorous stone skirts, the vast defenceless sprawl of the Great Fayre – now evacuated, abandoned and skeletal at the CityWarden’s back.
CityWarden Larred Jade sat mounted, waiting.
About him, his militia. He’d sent the younger ones and the ones with families to warn the farmlands, and block the trade-roads. With him waited his veteran range patrols, nine tan in all, ninety warriors, thirty of them mounted. Upon the wall, another seventy archers.
A ludicrous and pitiful number. And Maugrim knew – not one of them had ever fought anything more dangerous than a road-pirate.
They were the over-stuffed city’s only defence.
And the Monument’s creatures, fire and stone, were blazing through the grass towards them.
Come the dawn, the Fayre would burn like a Fawkes’ Night fire.
And while Jade was dealing with the aftermath, the Sical would raze Roviarath to the ground – all but the walls.
And the heart of the plains would stop beating.
* * *
Triqueta paused on the edge of an impossible garden.
Deep under the Monument’s glow, verdant, swarming and growing almost as she watched it, was a madness of crumbling stone and lushly tangled, fecund life. There were trees – insane that they should grow down here – stooped and aching under the weight of wild, strangling vines, pulling them down until their trunks splintered. There were archways leading from nowhere to nowhere, broken buildings, twisted staircases that ended in only air, their stone cracking under clawing fingers of creeper.
A spreading, thorny knot of wild bramble blanketed everything, entangling and burying it. In places, it flowered in delicate white; in others, it bore fruit that rotted uneaten. Down here, the very seasons were corrupt.
She was shaken to her core, weakened and uncomprehending.
What had Tarvi done?
Her knees hurt, her back, the joints of her fingers. Her face felt strange, tight, the stones in her cheeks somehow loose. The skin on her arms and hands was spotted with age, no longer her own. Her hair felt wrong.
She had no way to see her own reflection. And she was afraid.
Yet they’d staggered, Redlock coughing blood like an old man, down a curve of ancient, clumsily hewn tunnel and found themselves on the edge of...
...this.
This was ornamental lunacy, the Goddess herself driven loco by an overspill of naked, elemental power. Light shone from the walls, veins of crystal and spreading lichen growth, it cast harsh, angled shadows and dazzled them after the darkness of the well.
She didn’t like enclosed spaces. She liked this, this distortion of the natural wild, even less.
Her hand tightened on her bow, gripping it against a sliding sweat of nervousness.
Ecko’s rasp was subdued, “Fuck. Your hydroponics guys went on a bender, huh.”
In front of her, he was as dark as a nightmare, as sharp as a blade. As he moved, the harsh shadows of the crazed canopy slipped over his cloak and the colours in it stirred and shifted as though the leaves blew in an unfelt wind.
Triq missed the breeze, the open sky.
She listened, straining to hear – something, anything. The stillness disturbed her – there were no creatures, no birds or sunlight. She could hear only her own heartbeat, the pounding of her pulse in her ears.
Redlock coughed again, wiped blood from his lip. The claw slice in his cheek was swelling to an angry scarlet.
“I’m guessing we can pick up the char trail pretty quick. Ecko, what d’you see?”
“Green shit,” Ecko told him. “More green shit than an Amsterdam biolab. Hang on...”
Flicking his cowl over his shifting mottle-skin, he tilted his head as though listening. Triq counted one, two, three – and he was gone, dissolved into the chaos. Not a leaf shook, she didn’t hear him leave.
Summoning her courage, she touched a hand to Redlock’s muscled shoulder.
“What happened to me?” The kiss haunted her.
The axeman turned to her, his face troubled.
“My fault,” he said. “I trusted the wrong person – let familiarity govern judgement. Won’t happen again.” He dropped one axe though its belt-ring and ran callused fingers over her cheek. “You may not believe this,” he smiled at her, “but I think it suits you.”
“What suits me? No, don’t mess me about, damn you. Just tell me. What did she do?”
His hand paused. “You’re older, maybe... ten returns.” His thumb brushed her lips. “And still beautiful. Perhaps more so.”
Older.
She turned into his hand, kissed him as she had done in the ribbon-town tavern, a hundred returns ago.
“From anyone but you, that’d be the worst line...”
No, not a hundred. Ten.
That explained the aches, the stiffness, the thinness of her face and the length of her hair. Explained why the stones in her cheeks hurt – they were attuned to her skin, her bones and her growth, an old desert tradition whose truth was long forgotten – they hadn’t had time to adjust.
And neither had she.
Redlock’s hand hadn’t moved. “It’s only ten returns or so, Triq.” He grinned. “I still have a couple on you.”
She found she was biting her lip, trying to stop her face from crumpling. She swallowed twice before she could speak.
“You don’t understand.” Her voice was a whisper. “My sire – was desert-born. We grab at life because we don’t have enough of it. My returns don’t measure as yours do. I –”
“Enough.” His mouth was on hers, gentle. She returned his embrace – wilfully banishing the yammering memory of Tarvi’s death kiss, her heat and softness and hunger.
“Oh for chrissakes.” Ecko’s rasp made them jump apart like guilty ’prentices. “Good thing there are no beasties down here, you guys’d be dinner. Will you quit snogging already and come and look at this?”
* * *
Amethea was aware of the darkness.
It was over her, it was closing on her vision. It was writhing down from the sinuously twisting, sliding knot of stalactites above her. It was falling, droplets of black water that kissed her hot skin.
She was aware of the brazier, though dimly. She could hear the rising celebration of the Sical, its delight in her blood, its need to be free. She almost felt sorry for it – Maugrim had no business trapping it like that.
She was aware of Maugrim himself, his presence still stung her flesh. He was watching the descending writhe of the pillar, eager for the union that would fuse cathedral to Monument, belly to throat, and loose the elemental at last.
She couldn’t stop him.
The thought was surreal: she was dying. After everything. Down here in this forgotten place – and no one would ever know what had happened.
Apothecary, heal yourself.
Then Maugrim was turning from the brazier’s visions, his heavy tread ringing hard on the stone floor. She heard him, as if from a hollow distance.
He spat one word, shock, disbelief, a sudden arrowhead spiking the side of his scheming...
“Redlock.”
And the word sank through the darkness in her head, sending ripples like waves of hope. Redlock. Feren’s warrior cousin, beyond all ken, all reason.
He was here.
The Sical shrieked, flapped its wings like a trapped bird. Sparks flew. As she struggled onto her elbows, the blood ran anew from the wound in her belly – why was there still no pain? – and she realised the fire-creature was bigger.
A lot bigger.
Oh dear Goddess.
This was not some tiny, trapped being: this was the cathedral’s corrupted heart, an Element manifest, the pure and naked wrath of the Soul of Fire. It was too hot, it shone brighter than the sun and it stood taller even as she watched it. It was rising above Maugrim, its light searing the walls.
It was Maugrim’s heat and lust given form – and it was craving release.
Feed, I. Soon.
Maugrim was swearing, words harsh and unfamiliar.
“All I fucking need is some goddamned self-professed hero – arrived in the nick of time to rescue the bloody girl.” He jabbed a ringed finger at Amethea. “Don’t go away, little lady, seems you’ve got a friend wanting to join you.”
She stared in a wonder of realisation – a comprehension of something amazing.
He was afraid.
Apothecary, heal yourself!
Feren had survived. How could she do any less? Breathing steadily against her suddenly rising heart rate, she lay back down, feigning the edge of unconsciousness. She had no intention of being a hostage.
But what could she do? Think!
The Sical screamed, hissed. As its wings flapped, it threw blasts of heat and sparks. Feed, I! Now! Free!
“Soon.” Maugrim promised it. Amethea heard a heavy, metallic jangling. “You’re mine – you’ll do as you’re told. If you wait –” she heard him shudder, anticipation, excitement “– if you wait, you’ll have more fuel, better fuel. And you’ll be free.”
Loose, I! Its hiss dissolved into the crackle of the fire.
Barely daring to breathe, Amethea heard Maugrim’s boots cross the cathedral floor.
* * *
The garden was as still as a corpse.
It was claustrophobic, stagnant, hot and heavy. The weight of it pressed down on Ecko’s shoulders. Too much green stuff, too much life – it was freaking him right the fuck out.
He watched everywhere, oculars flicking through multiple channels. His adrenals were still down – his starter motor coughed, but wouldn’t turn over.
Damn you, bitch! He wasn’t sure if he meant Tarvi – the name stung like a ripped scab – or Eliza.
The axeman and the girl – girl no longer – were behind him, feet soft on the overgrown gravel path. Together, they crossed what must once have been a stream, now a rank, crusted gully, and came to the edge of the undergrowth.
Ecko pointed, shards of light on his mottle-dark skin.
They had reached the lair of the Big Bad Boss.
Over him, over the garden, the cathedral was a bombed ruin, a nightmare hollow of blackened stone. The huge window was shattered, fragments of coloured glass hanging twisted from the web-work frame. Walls stood headless, jagged and crumbling, as though the cavern’s teeth had bitten them clean through and had spat back the bits to crash among the plant life. He didn’t need his heatseeker to tell him what lurked within.
Okay, so I got here. Now what?
They faced a broken doorway, rotted wood hanging crazily from ancient hinges. Between them, a red-lighted throat like the fucking Gates of Hell.
How he would love to just bring this whole thing down. How easy it would be...
Overhead, he could see the underside of the shining black stone – the capacitor they’d come past – now shot through with energy like storm lightning. On either side of the doorway, a gargoyle crouched in an alcove.
Redlock crept past him, gesturing at them to keep pace. “Keep together,” he mouthed. “Watch your backs.”
No fucking shit.
Warily, they slipped from the protection of the crazed tree canopy. Ecko scanned the wall tops, aware of his vulnerability – he felt insect small, sniper fodder. A rat at the bottom of a fucking fractal maze.
Closer still – until the gargoyles could be seen clearly.
One was a stone figure, female, naked, her long hair streaming back from her carved face, holding her head to the wall. Her stone eyes looked straight out over the garden, unblinking.
Redlock’s hand tightened to white-knuckled tension at the sight of her, but Triqueta was staring, narrow eyed, at the other figure.
Male, long hair intricately woven, elaborate scarring like some serious fucking body art. His face was narrow chinned, oddly triangular, one long, delicate hand was half outstretched.
“He’s alive,” Triq said softly. She moved to look up at him, peer into his face. Like the woman, his eyes stared at nothing and the stone had closed over his mouth and nose.
“No shit.” Ecko had kicked his heatseeker – he could see the warm contours of colour, writhing manically beneath the blue stone exterior. Impossibly, the man was struggling, noiselessly, frantically. On some level beyond the physical, he was completely conscious and fighting to be free. “Happen to have a chisel on you? A road drill?”
“How does he do this?” Triq’s voice was pale with horror. “Men onto horses, flesh into stone. Carved metal cara– Oh by the Gods.”
The heat signature had fluctuated, flickered at the sound of her voice.
“He’s Kartian,” Triq said, almost a whisper. “The scarring shows his craft-rank and family.”
“So...?”
Triq stepped back. “Kartians of rank are metalworkers, craftmasters.” Her expression was set. She tipped a single washer into her hand. “Looks like you’re staying there, sunshine. Give you some time to think. All the time in the world, in fact...”
Metalworkers. Carved-metal carapace.
“Best place for him,” Redlock said.
“He’s gonna get real fucking bored,” Ecko said, grinning. “Shame.”
The colours screamed at them – desperate, doomed. They were walking away from him and he knew it.
“All of this,” Triq said, “is really starting to piss me off. Everything’s twisted... forced, corrupted. Life, the cycles of the elements, the seasons – it’s distorted, the air stinks.” Ecko noticed the age lines that carved through her face, they gave her mouth a bitter downturn. “People fight, that’s fine – but you can’t live by abominating flesh – or by stealing time.”
Redlock said, “Triq – easy. I know you’ve –”
“Stuff it, Red. Enough horseshit.”
She moved swiftly, slamming the rotted door to the ground. She stared grimly into the cathedral, past rows of silent, stone figures to the blaze of power at the centre.
“Did you hear me?” It was a challenge. “Come out, you damned coward! I’m done gaming – come out!”
It rebounded from the walls like the Banned’s war cry, like the harsh sound of the blade in Tarvi’s back.
“Impulsive wench,” Redlock muttered, chuckling. “Can’t say I blame her. You with me, Ecko? Let’s go mess this bastard up.”
“I hear that.”
Ecko wrapped a hand round the hard edges of
Lugan’s lighter and they entered the cathedral together.
* * *
A blazing pillar, a conduit of flame.
Even from as far away as the huge building’s centre, it seared his face like an incinerator, blinded his heatseeker to an almost-white magnesium flare. His anti-daz kicked, he checked, left and right. The ranks of rotted stone statues were all too familiar and he so knew they’d come lumbering to life. There was a faint, sullen glow to their eyes, to the lines of their grey stone – as if they drew strength from the fire ahead of them.
The bastard had an army, mustered in ranks and waiting for the call to action.
Great.
Odds of getting outta this alive? Right now, about 00.0-fucking-2%
“Was this the point?” Ecko’s soft rasp was aimed at the flatscreen he couldn’t see, his watchers, his judges.
Ahead of him, Triqueta was a shadow against the firelight.
“Face the Big Bad Boss with no kit, no weapons, no adrenaline? In London, I could take this out in three minutes flat. And you fucking know it!”
He raised his voice, added his challenge to hers.
“Show us whatcha got, Maugie. I’m the last person in the world you’re gonna scare with fireworks.”
There was no response. The statues didn’t move.
Ecko snorted. Ahead of him, the massive blaze seemed to shift with a life of its own. Its light danced from the walls.
And it was beautiful.
Fire raining from the sky.
His attention compelled, he found himself addressing his questions towards it.
“What’re you teachin’ me here – teamwork, humility, resource?” His voice scraped like a handful of pebbles. “Do I triumph over Evil with wit and sticky tape – ?”
“Who’re you talking to?” Triq dropped back beside him.
“Keep moving.” Redlock muffled a cough with the back of his hand.
They walked forwards, the blaze on their faces, the ranks of silent, stone soldiers to either side.
Triqueta muttered, “We’re going to get jumped any second...”
But Ecko barely heard her. The pillar of flame was still growing – reaching almost to the cavern roof. This close, it was too hot to look at, yet it pulled his oculars as hard as it pulled the compass in his pouch.