God of Clocks

by Alan Campbell

  “We need light. I'll go and see if Mina has something we can use to get a fire going.”

  But the Lord of the First Citadel was snoring.

  The moon had risen and it glowed dimly within its own misty halo by the time Dill stopped walking. Rachel and Mina were seated before the big potbelly stove in the main saloon, eating the remains of a stew that Rachel had made for Abner and Rosella Hill, when the swaying building became totally still. Silence crept in with the cold breeze.

  The inn began to rise quickly into the sky.

  “He's seen something.” Rachel glanced over at the thaumaturge.

  Mina sniffed the air. “Refugees,” she replied.

  The two women set their bowls down upon the floor and picked up candles and walked over to where the arconite's great grinning face looked in at them from behind the open doorway. Rachel stepped outside and Mina followed.

  Three or four yards of hardened earth surrounded the inn, as though the building had been built upon a tiny island adrift in a sea of fog. Dill's skeletal fingers curved up over the precipice, as pale as boles of dead birch. He had lifted the building close to his skull, and his eyes gazed down at them blankly, like holes in the sky itself. The inn glowed like a beacon in the night sky behind Rachel, its windows and doorway ablaze with yellow lights. The scent of the green pines mingled with the odour of hellish chemicals leaching from the arconite.

  Rachel heard a woman cry out in the distance.

  “Set us down, Dill,” she said.

  Dill did not move.

  “I need to speak to them, Dill.”

  Mina stood to one side, frowning, then she shook her head. “They're attacking our arconite's feet with axes.”

  Rachel shot her an inquiring look.

  “Not a chance of damaging him,” the thaumaturge said.

  Rachel turned back to the face in the sky. “I can handle a group of woodsmen.”

  The great skull tilted forward. Gold coins fell through his teeth. Then Dill stooped and lowered the building, and its earthen island, towards the ground.

  A flurry of arrows greeted them as the Rusty Saw descended towards the woodsmen, their shafts hissing by in the mist. Rachel spied the refugees' caravan encamped along the forest trail ahead. A line of ten or so canvas-covered wagons had been left in the middle of the road, but scores of hide-covered tents crouched amongst the trees on either side—enough to sleep two or three hundred men. Campfires flickered amongst webs of branches and green needles, throwing shadows after hurrying men, illuminating the white eyes of horses and pack mules that snorted and struggled wildly against their hobbles.

  A group of men was hacking at Dill's feet with axes—arcs of red steel in the glow of the firelight. They were as broad and fair as Rys's Northmen but wore a much simpler armour of lacquered wooden segments strapped to their torsos. Their women scattered, rushing goods and children away from the wagon train, slipping in the muddy ditches on either side of the track. Babies wailed in their arms. A horse reared against its reins tied to a running board; the wagon gave a jolt, and the animal fell in terror. Dogs barked and loped at the heels of fleeing men. Someone kicked a branch from a fire, raising a burst of sparks and embers amongst the trees.

  The assassin took a deep breath. “Stop!”

  A man came at Rachel with an axe, tails of hair flying behind him. She broke his teeth and then threw him, slamming his body to the ground. “I said stop!” The sudden exertion left her lightheaded and reeling; she struggled to disguise her frail condition.

  Mina had bitten her lip. She was backing away towards the inn doorway, muttering promises to her devilish little dog.

  “Don't do it, Mina,” Rachel cried. “Not here.”

  The thaumaturge stopped. Her eyes widened, staring beyond Rachel.

  Rachel turned and grabbed a second man's upraised arm and dragged it down so as to bury his axe in the mud. She stove her elbow into the wooden panels lashed around his guts and then tipped his unbalanced body forwards. A third and fourth attacker stormed up the banks of the earthen island still clutched in Dill's hand. Rachel raised her hands. “We're not here to fight.”

  They grinned and reached for her, then pulled back, as if teasing. The taller of the two unwound a coiled rope lasso from around his palm and elbow. The light from the inn danced on his black-lacquered armour. His companion stroked his beard down, thrust out his tongue, and then raised his knife.

  “We're here on Cospinol's orders,” Rachel said. “Here to recruit those still loyal to Rys to fight the Lord of the Maze. I need to speak to your captain.”

  “Captain's busy,” said the shorter man. His wooden armour clicked as he lunged for her with his knife. At the same moment his companion threw his rope, aiming a loop at Rachel's head. Rachel caught the rope and wrapped her arm around it and yanked hard as she sidestepped the clumsy knife blow. She kicked the smaller man off balance and pulled his companion closer. “You're wasting my time,” she said. “We're not your enemies.”

  The tall man looked uncertain now.

  But then a great murderous roar came from the door of the inn. Hasp stood there, naked but for his hellish blood-filled armour. He was blind drunk and brandishing a whisky bottle. In his other fist he clutched the same axe that Rosella Hill had swung at Rachel. He took a long slug of whisky and bellowed, “Fucking traitorous cowards! Too scared to fight with us at Larnaig!” He tottered forward down the stoop and almost fell. And then he lurched three steps sideways and looked at Rachel's opponent and lifted the axe again. “I am Hasp of the First Citadel and I'll murder every one of you bastards.”

  Rachel glared at Mina. The thaumaturge merely shook her head in warning. Clearly, Mina didn't think it wise to interfere with him.

  The man at the end of Rachel's rope backed away from the god, his eyes wide with horror. She dropped the rope, letting him go, and turned to Hasp.

  Hasp swung his axe at nothing and then staggered forward again.

  “Hasp,” Rachel shouted, “get inside before you kill someone and ruin any hope we've got.”

  “Murder them all,” Hasp growled. “Bastard wood-chopping cowards.” His bleary eyes focused on her. “You've hurt your head. I should protect you from these… foes, young lady.”

  “Protect yourself, you idiot. You're stinking drunk.”

  Hasp gave her a lopsided grin that seemed to clash with the bitterness in his tone. “I have numbed the insect,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Drank it into submission. The king's Mesmerists have no power over me here.”

  “These are not Mesmerists, Hasp. They're Rys's men.”

  “Rys?” He staggered sideways, then caught himself and looked at the fire-lit chaos all around him. “They should have fought with us at Larnaig.” He sat down on the ground and stared at the axe in his hand.

  Four woodsmen had now scrambled up onto the ground surrounding the inn. They wore interwoven wooden plates over banded leather and carried either iron bludgeons or strips of steel, flat-hammered and honed into rude hacking blades. They began running towards the seated god. One cried out, “I speak for Lord Rys, you fucking demon.”

  Rachel rushed forward to defend Hasp. “He is Rys's brother,” she yelled. “Lord of the First Citadel and Menoa's only enemy in Hell for three thousand years. What are your intentions, woodsmen? If you mean him harm, then you are a traitor to Coreollis and I will fight you here.”

  The four hesitated.

  “He's got a foul fucking mouth, girl.”

  “That doesn't change who he is.”

  The man who had claimed to speak for Rys now grunted. He was taller and broader than most of his comrades, yet as dark as a Heshette. His armour had been finely carved and painted with deep green lacquer. On his forehead ran a wide red scar, perhaps caused by the brim of a smashed helmet. He had narrow eyes, deep set on either side of a doubly crooked nose, and lines of corded black hair that fell upon his shoulders like the tails of a whip. He studied Hasp for a long time, then looked at R
achel.

  “Why doesn't the arconite attack?” he said.

  “Menoa doesn't control him.”

  The woodsman raised a hand and shouted out above the din to the men attacking Dill, “Hold off! Ricks, Nine-inch, Pace, just stop your fucking racket so I can speak.”

  The sound of clashing weapons subsided as the woodsmen ceased their attack and gathered around the Rusty Saw.

  The man with the scar said, “My name is Oran, and this caravan is under my protection. Who the fuck are you people?”

  The woodsmen had come from a bustling town called Ferris, four leagues to the south, Oran explained. Earlier today they had passed through Westroad, the very settlement from where Dill had plucked the Rusty Saw. Now his men were much amused to find themselves in the same damn tavern once more.

  “We thought we'd drunk this place dry,” Oran explained. “And now we find it mysteriously restocked. That bastard Hill was hiding booze somewhere.” He sat at a table opposite Rachel and Mina, staring thoughtfully at his glass while a score of his woodsmen roared and laughed and slammed down drinks over at the bar. Orange light from the stove lit his darkly stubbled face and scarred forehead.

  “What are your intentions?”

  Oran glanced at his men, then back at Rachel. “How much are you prepared to pay?”

  “Enough to keep your people from starving,” Rachel replied, “and to keep you on the right side of the war. The human side, I mean. Menoa might offer you more gold, but he'll expect your souls in return.”

  His brow creased as he mulled this over, his scar forming new contours. “Two hundred and sixty men won't be enough to keep those things off your back,” he said. “I doubt ten thousand men could do it. Nobody has ever killed an arconite.”

  She nodded.

  “Then we're of no use to you.”

  “We'll pay you anyway. Better to have allies against the unforeseen than to suffer enemies we needn't have.”

  He continued to frown. “Two hundred and sixty men won't be enough to keep those things off your back,” he said again. “I doubt ten thousand men…”

  Rachel felt an odd prickling sensation at the back of her neck, as if an unseen hand had brushed her.

  “… ever killed an arconite,” Oran finished.

  Rachel bit her lip, and stared at him for a moment. Was he just drunk, or being deliberately difficult? “You just repeated yourself, Oran.”

  His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

  “I said we'll pay you anyway. Everyone needs to eat.”

  He shrugged. “Your charity does us an injustice,” he said, “but I won't refuse it.” He reached a hand across the table.

  Rachel hesitated. Was she reading too much into his apparent repetition? After a moment, she sighed, and leant forward to accept his hand.

  As their palms clasped, the woodsman added, “We also require payment for our horses and mules. The animals won't follow this monster, nor any creature that stinks of the Maze. They'll need to be turned loose or taken to the stockyards at Himmish to await our return.”

  “Or butchered?”

  “My men will resist that. The mules… that's fine, but not the horses.”

  She nodded. “We'll buy the horses from you. Do with them what you wish.”

  “And the wagons?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don't push me, Oran.”

  “These wagons are all some of us have left. You can't expect families to abandon them without some recompense.”

  “Those who wish to stay with their wagons are welcome to do so if they think Menoa's arconites might offer them a better deal. The rest will come with us to the foot of the Temple Mountains.”

  Oran looked doubtful. “We're Rys's men,” he said. “And Sabor will not look kindly upon us crossing the border into Herica. These two gods have respected each other's sovereignty for hundreds of years. Sabor might regard an intrusion now as an act of war. After all, you are luring Menoa's Twelve into his realm.”

  “The Twelve would get to Herica eventually,” Rachel said. “We're going there to beg for Sabor's help while we still have a chance to achieve something. The god of clocks has been Rys's ally against the Mesmerist incursion. If he still lives, I don't believe he will view our presence in Herica in such an”—she chose her words carefully so as not to offend the woodsmen leader—“inflexible manner.”

  Oran did not seem to be entirely convinced. Nevertheless, he accepted her proposal.

  “We can't delay here any longer,” Rachel said. “Get everyone, and everything you can carry, into this inn.” She turned to the thaumaturge. “How much time do we have?”

  Mina closed her eyes and inhaled. She frowned, exhaled, and then took another breath, her eyes moving rapidly under their lids like those of someone dreaming. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Get the people aboard now. Leave everything else behind except the weapons.” Her eyes snapped open. “One of the Twelve has picked up our trail.”

  With the women and children taken into account, the refugees numbered almost four hundred. Despite Oran's shouted orders, they were not prepared to leave their possessions behind in the wagons. Men grabbed up tents and bundles of clothes or coils of rope and crates of woodcutter's equipment: axes, saws, and chisels. Young boys unhobbled the mounts and smacked their rumps and yelled at them to scram, while old women shouldered past with sacks of flour and meal, barrels and baskets full of salted meat or vegetables. A group of younger women stood out by virtue of their frilled lace frocks, rouged cheeks, and powdered faces, and by their apparent disdain for lifting anything heavier than makeup and jewellery boxes.

  “Whores?” Rachel said.

  Mina followed the assassin's gaze. “Pandemerian whores. They came here with the railroad to service the workers in Rys's logging camps.”

  “Don't the woodsmen's wives object?”

  “Rys sent those wives to brothels in Coreollis and Cog. That way the Pandemerian Railroad made twice the profit on their services.”

  Rachel was aghast. “These men let Rys do that?”

  Mina shrugged. “Men follow gods as blindly as dogs follow men. The god of flowers and knives drowned this entire land once, and they didn't object. Hasp ranted for a full hour about the situation while you were unconscious. I don't think he approves.”

  The older women carried hides, water skins, and pots and pans, loading them all onto the ring of open ground around the Rusty Saw, before heading down to the road for more. The whores clambered up onto the earthen island, stumbling and shrieking and chatting amongst themselves. All of the children were already inside the building and most of these were howling in distress.

  “How long now, Mina?”

  “Minutes only.”

  Rachel grabbed Oran's arm. “We're leaving now, with or without your people.”

  The big woodsman leapt down the bank of earth and then stepped from the arconite's hand onto the forest track below it. He grabbed an old woman who was heading away from the inn, swung her round, and yelled at her to go back the way she had come. He then shouted, “Everyone who wants to live, get into that fucking inn. We're going now.” He moved amongst them, grabbing at the men and women who tried to return to the wagons, knocking packs of goods aside and shoving people back up towards the inn. A group of young boys took it upon themselves to assist him in this task, until Oran slapped one and bellowed at them all to get inside.

  Rachel and Mina exchanged a look, then followed him down into the mob of people. They helped carry anything that could not be left behind, dragging baskets of desiccated beef and skins of water back up the slope between them.

  As they reached the level part of the earth island surrounding the Rusty Saw, Mina shot a worried glance back down the road. “It's gaining,” she warned.

  “Can you do anything to slow it?”

  “I don't know. Basilis has the real power. I just channel it. I'll need to confer with him.” She pushed her way into the crowd. “Assuming these woodsmen haven't already eaten him.�
�

  “Be quick.”

  Oran joined the last of his people outside the Rusty Saw. There was now barely room to move amidst the jostling crowds surrounding the old building. He shouted at those near the edge to get inside, but the inn was already stuffed full of people and goods. From the upper floor issued a barrage of curses and protests, a voice that Rachel recognized.

  “Abner Hill,” she informed Oran.

  Oran grunted. “I'll deal with that bastard later. I don't suppose he's happy you commandeered his building?”

  “My concern for his feelings diminished considerably after he shot me in the face.”

  The woodsman laughed.

  Rachel couldn't see any stragglers down on the forest track so she called out, “Get us out of here, Dill.”

  And the huge bone-and-metal automaton raised his hands and bore skywards the lone building upon its great clod of earth. A chorus of shrieks and startled cries went up from the frightened passengers. Several unsecured sacks slipped over the edge of the arconite's palm and fell to the ground below, but by the time the women ran to save them, the goods were already lost.

  They were now moving, fast.

  The Rusty Saw pitched like a raft caught in a sudden swell as it rose further up into the night sky. An ocean of dark forest rushed below the building's foundations. Cold mist broke around her wooden facade. Her joints all creaked, and her shutters slapped against their frames. A windowpane snapped in two with a sound like a musket shot. To Rachel it seemed that the heavens themselves lolled around them. The crescent moon loped through misty darkness like a swinging lantern.

  Upon that cramped island it was too early yet for the conflict and arguments that must inevitably break out amongst such a crowd of people. Woodsmen positioned at the inn door herded those who would be herded inside, but the saloon floorboards were already protesting under the weight of hundreds: warriors in handcarved armour, honing blades or waxing bowstrings; greybeards singing of past glories and clinking glasses; gamblers already at their dice and bones; spinsters and shy young women with babes in swaddle, and whores slapping and nudging and laughing with the men; young boys crowd-weaving with beakers of whisky for their fathers and older brothers, or sitting listening under tables and peering up at the girls; children running up and down the stairs and shrieking loudly on the landing, and banging doors and then running from their grandmothers' curses. The stoves had been well fed and stoked, all the candles lit and lanterns burning till the windows blazed like openings in a furnace.