God of Clocks

by Alan Campbell

  In moments, Menoa's arconite had been stripped bare. Its body formed a great dark peninsula of bone and metal upon the forest track, stinking and hissing smoke like something expelled from the heart of a volcano.

  Dill picked up his opponent's massive cleaver and shook mud loose from its blade. He then stooped and lifted the building, holding it so that its foundations rested upon that enormous blade. Rachel clung to the doorjamb for support, her hair blowing wildly about her face. More of the Rusty Saw's earthen island crumbled away and fell to the ground in dull thumps. A clamour of broken glass and shouts went up inside the main saloon as the building pitched and slid several feet across the cleaver's smooth metal surface. Rachel felt herself rising rapidly into the sky. Dill's armour-clad torso swept past her like a shower of dull green stars.

  And then they were moving again, carried north in great sweeping strides.

  Rachel stepped inside to find the woodsmen crowded around every table, while still more of them squatted around the edges of the room or sat on the staircase. Conversation was muted. They seemed content to brood darkly over recent events. Oran himself sat drinking beer at a table in one corner, with a whore perched on his knee. He saw Rachel and nodded to her. Meanwhile, Abner Hill leaned on the bar, glaring at his unwelcome customers while his young wife struggled through the throng and cleared glasses from the tables.

  Mina approached, cradling her tiny dog in her arms, and drew Rachel aside. “They're furious at Hasp,” she whispered. “They all saw how he tried to betray us.” She glanced at the men around her. “Rachel, there's even been some talk of taking matters into their own hands.”

  “Gods, we don't need this, Mina. Where's Hasp now?”

  “He's barricaded himself in the pantry,” she said. “If anything, he's even drunker than before. It's only a matter of time before one of Oran's men does something foolish.”

  Rachel sighed. “I'll speak to Oran. We need more space, more room to breathe. And we need to keep these men busy. Will you come with me?”

  Oran's eyes were glazed with drink, but he made space for the two women at his table by ordering one of his lieutenants to move. Then he pushed the whore away and told her to fetch them all a fresh jug. “Have some beer,” he said, filling two cups with frothing liquid.

  Rachel accepted the drink. Mina left hers on the table.

  Oran raised his own cup. “To Rys,” he said, “the architect of our victory.” Some of the men at nearby tables joined in the toast.

  Rachel hesitated, then took a sip. “I seem to have missed Rys's involvement in all this.”

  “The god of flowers and knives is subtle,” Oran explained. “Yet his influence is apparent in all events. It's like this sorcerous fog in the way it pervades the state of Coreollis.”

  “You grant him omnipotence, then?”

  “He speaks through me!”

  To Rachel this outburst seemed unwarranted. Oran's expression had suddenly become dark, his eyes shadowed as he leaned forward. His skin looked moist and varicose, as with a man under extreme duress, while the axe scar on his forehead appeared to throb in the dim yellow light like a hot metal plate. He bared his teeth. “This is Rys's land,” he continued more quietly, “and we are his agents here.”

  Rachel glanced at Mina. The thaumaturge was watching the man carefully.

  Oran slumped back in his chair and took another long gulp of beer. “I have doubts about our destination,” he said. “Why should we be seeking Sabor before we locate Lord Rys? I reckon we should return to Coreollis.”

  Rachel was losing patience with him. She was just about to explain that Rys had, by all reasonable accounts, died in Coreollis, but Mina preempted her.

  “Cospinol told us that Lord Rys trusted Sabor and Mirith to find a way back into Heaven,” the thaumaturge explained. “While Rys fought the Mesmerists in Pandemeria and Skirl, his brothers explored more… esoteric options. If we agree that Rys destroyed his own palace as a ruse to trick King Menoa, then it's likely he's left Coreollis entirely.” Her glass-sheathed hand now curled around her cup. “The battle has moved from the city of flowers, Oran. We'll find Rys at Sabor's castle in Herica.”

  The woodsman gave Mina an indignant look. “You think you can guess our Lord's intent?” he growled. Then he spat on the floor and moved his face very close to hers. “Listen to me, witch. Rys sent you here in answer to our prayers. The arconite carried you from his own city. Do you think that was merely coincidence? Now, why shouldn't we simply take your gold and use it to execute his will?”

  Basilis growled.

  Oran started to speak again, but was interrupted by the arrival of the tavernkeeper's wife.

  Rosella Hill set a fresh jug of beer upon the table. Her golden hair had spilled out from its ribbon, and white makeup smeared her powdered forehead and the back of one wrist. Avoiding the eyes of everyone present, she began mopping up spills from the table with a cloth.

  Oran stared up at her with hot glazed eyes. “All things are sent to us by Rys,” he muttered. Then he drained the last of his cup, set it down on the table, and grabbed her wrist. “You know what I'm talking about?”

  Rosella said nothing. She wouldn't even look at him.

  The tables around them grew quiet. Rachel could sense the tension amongst Oran's men. She glanced over at the bar, where Abner was now busy scrubbing the polished counter, his full attention fixed on the task at hand.

  Oran maintained his grip on the woman's wrist. With his free hand he lifted the jug and refilled his cup. “If Rys intended that you serve me,” he said to her, “or that you sit and drink with me, how could we argue with his will?” He pulled her towards him and breathed heavily through his nose. “Stay here a while. The witch will give you her seat.”

  Rachel stiffened, but then she felt Mina's hand clutch her knee under the table—a warning gesture. The thaumaturge slipped out of her seat, and said, “Thanks for your time, Oran,” then, “Rachel, would you help me find some blankets? We should sort out bedding for all our civilian guests.”

  Oran gave them a dismissive wave.

  Rachel felt heat rise on her neck, but she followed the thaumaturge back through the crowded saloon towards the rear door. The militiamen watched them go, except Abner Hill, who was still furiously scrubbing at his bar with one white-knuckled fist.

  When they reached the back hallway, Rachel whispered, “I should just kill him.”

  “And all two hundred of his men?”

  The assassin snorted. “I know how to make it look like an accident. I could do it tonight.”

  “No.”

  “We're losing control, Mina. Oran is trying to usurp our authority, and Hasp is so fragile he could snap at any moment.” Her voice rose. “We've got two hundred men and a drunk of a god all locked up in a fucking inn.”

  Mina shushed her, opened the back door, and urged her outside. A gust of wind cooled Rachel's face, but then the stench of death filled her nostrils. It was still hours before dawn, yet Dill's stolen armour illuminated the building and its earthen island and even the surrounding forest in soft green radiance. She heard the distant thud of his footsteps crashing through the vegetation below.

  There was little space left. Two yards of compacted earth were left to form a ledge along this side of the inn, although firewood stacked under the eaves took up most of this area. Dill's fleshless fingers curled up over the edge of the mud foundations like the remains of white stone arches. The hilt of his giant cleaver extended into the night air like a battered metal bridge.

  Mina set Basilis down, and the dog padded away to urinate against the woodpile. “The remaining arconites now know where we are,” she revealed. “I can sense nine of them within the reaches of my fog: six to the south, one east, and two west of here. They're converging on us.” She looked out into the night as though she expected to see imminent evidence of their approach. “Those nearest are holding back and waiting for the others. It seems they won't challenge us singly.”

 
; Rachel felt a headache creeping up on her. The wound on the side of her head irritated her. She looked back up at Dill, at his vast and uncertain form in the mist. How could such a giant be so vulnerable?

  “But we're nearing the Flower Lakes,” Mina went on. “I can sense a large settlement just north of here, a lakeshore trading town built around a harbour. It looks like they export timber and coke. And it's well guarded, too. There's a palisade wall manned by local militia.”

  “More locals?”

  “These soldiers vastly outnumber our current friends. Recruiting new forces would dilute Oran's influence and provide us with the makings of an army.”

  “Or start a war between their two factions,” Rachel said. “Besides, where are we going to put all these people?”

  Mina smiled. “We need to steal a bigger building.”

  “Not a chance, Mina. If you intend to—”

  The thaumaturge's smile abruptly withered. She squeezed her hands against the sides of her head and let out a sudden wail of pain.

  “What's wrong?” Rachel reached over to comfort the other woman, but Mina shook her away.

  “Didn't you feel that?” she said.

  “Feel what?”

  “There was a…an earthquake? Gods, I don't know what it was! Like a crack appearing in the fog, a crevasse that ran from one side of the world to the other. Everything jolted. Every-thing—”

  A sudden uproar came from the inn. Rachel heard the sounds of smashing glass and heavy objects being thrown to the floor, men shouting and cursing—and, above it all, Hasp roaring, “Cowards!”

  “Oh, god,” she said, turning back to the inn. “Stay here, Mina.”

  There had been a scuffle inside. Tables and chairs were overturned. One of Oran's men lay unmoving on the floor, blood seeping out from his gut. Two more were rising to their feet not far away, while most of the remaining warriors huddled back against the walls. The Lord of the First Citadel had discarded his robe and stood stark naked in the center of the saloon. Blood pulsed through the transparent etched scales and metameric plates across his body, and stumps of muscle and bone visible under glass protrusions on his shoulders indicated where the Mesmerists had removed his wings. In one fist he gripped an axe.

  Hasp wheeled and staggered sideways. He lifted the axe and swiped at the air. A few of Oran's men laughed. The warriors who had risen from the floor circled around the glass-armoured god to flank him. One of them carried an iron-banded club, while the other gripped a long knife.

  Oran remained seated at his corner table, with one thick arm around the innkeeper's wife standing beside him. Rosella Hill looked flushed and disheveled, her skirts lifted around her thighs. She suddenly pulled away from her captor and Oran let her go.

  Rachel drew her own sword. The Coreollis steel was heavier than the layered Spine weapons she was used to, but it was sharp enough to open throats. “What's going on here?” she demanded.

  Oran's gaze fell upon her naked weapon, then he eyed her without apparent interest. “This abomination killed one of my men,” he said.

  “You provoked him?”

  The woodsman picked up his blade from the floor and rose from his seat. In that dark smoke-filled corner of the saloon he looked as filthy and feral as a wild man. Mud spattered his banded leather armour and clotted his wild grey hair. His eyes smouldered with a feverish light. The scar on his forehead seemed to throb. “Rys sent Hasp to Hell for a good reason,” he said. “He should have had the decency to remain there.”

  Hasp's full attention was now focused on Oran. The god was grinning like an imbecile, ignoring the two men now edging towards him from either side.

  Oran made a subtle gesture with his head.

  As Rachel heard a simultaneous intake of breath from Oran's two soldiers, she focused…

  … and the world around her stopped.

  A dead silence encompassed the saloon. Candle flames and oil lanterns abruptly ceased to flicker. The light dimmed and yet intensified, becoming simultaneously tarry and harsh. Black particles of smoke waited, perfectly motionless, in the air. On either side of Hasp the two approaching woodsmen were just preparing to lunge. Rachel detected the tiny motions that evinced the coming changes in the stance of each: the slow curl of the lips, the tightening of tendons in their necks as their shoulder muscles began the process of lifting their weapons.

  She considered Oran. The militia leader, too, was primed for violence, and his stance suggested that he might throw the heavy blade he wielded. There were plenty of other weapons around him to replace it.

  Three targets. Forty paces between them. Rachel didn't know if she could move that far while focusing. Any exertions she made now would leave her collapsed and vulnerable afterwards, at the mercy of every able-bodied fighter in the saloon.

  The assassin had little choice.

  She moved. Ten careful paces towards the first attacker. As Rachel walked, she kept her body as fluid as possible, considering every muscle, the position of her arms and shoulders relative to the stance she wanted to achieve. At this speed, abrupt motions might injure her, while halting was dangerous. Her target had not yet fully raised his club. He was powerful, heavy, burdened by layers of banded armour. She pressed her shin beside his leg and took hold of his club and turned, lifting the weapon gently while easing her body into his bulky shoulder.

  He began to topple.

  Rachel let go of the club. She could not hope to wield it at this speed. His fingers released their grip on the weapon. Now the heavy baton crept upwards through the air. Rachel nudged it twice with the back of her hand, altering its trajectory so that it would crush his skull when he finally hit the ground.

  He continued to fall. The club was still rising, turning end over end. Its bulky iron tip swung through a layer of smoke and began to descend towards the warrior's head.

  Rachel's heart gave a long slow beat. She had not stopped moving. Her body flowed on beyond her defeated foe and then past Hasp. The Lord of the First Citadel stood frozen in the center of the saloon, his black eyes fixed on Oran. Cracked lips framed his yellow teeth. Rachel noted the tiny glass veins within the breastplate of his hideous armour, the stubble on his naked jaw. She took another two steps and reached her second target.

  This warrior was leaner and quicker than the first, and his eyes simmered with rage. He had already lifted his knife to the height of his shoulder, bunching his muscles to cut down diagonally. The steel shone white-yellow behind his fist. A thread of saliva extended from his jowls, and his lunge had already gathered significant momentum. Rachel could not steer his body from its course without considerable risk to herself.

  She broke his arm instead.

  A chop to his wrist shattered the carpal bones there. The assassin then gripped the man's knife between her thumb and forefinger, and pulled it back in the opposite direction of the intended swing. She sensed his tendons and muscles rip. The agony would not hit him for another few moments, not until after he realized that the blow had missed.

  The assassin felt her heart beat again, and again, and then suddenly quicken to a crescendo.

  Oran still posed a threat, but for Rachel time had run out. Her heightened perception returned to normality with a crash. She lost control of her limbs and collapsed. A barrage of sound assaulted her, disjointed cries and groans and the pounding of boots. Oran yelled for order. Somewhere a woman screamed.

  Rachel lay on the floor, her nostrils full of the smell of wood and dirt. Saliva dribbled from her slack lips. From here she could see the woodsman whom she'd first disarmed. The heavy club had landed precisely where she'd intended, crushing his skull. Now he lay in a pool of expanding blood.

  She felt hands upon her.

  A woman's voice cried, “Leave her alone!”

  Mina? I told you to stay outside.

  Rachel felt herself being turned roughly onto her back. A savage visage loomed over her, its cheeks and neck clad in bloody glass, its eyes as black as the abyss. Hasp bared his t
eeth, and his whisky breath spilled over her. His expression was one of rage and desperation and misery. “I don't want your fucking help,” he growled. And then he drove a fist hard into her stomach.

  The assassin doubled up in pain, gasping as she felt the wind rammed out of her. Mina was yelling somewhere nearby; men were laughing and shouting. Hasp snarled. He punched her in the guts again, and again, then raised his glass fist above her face, piling all the strength of his upper body behind the coming blow.

  Rachel closed her eyes.

  “We are not killers for hire,” Anchor said.

  Mr. D's strange wheeled box rolled back a few inches along the aisle, and knocked against one of the cabinets packed with bottled souls. Glass clinked together. The box's occupant spoke through its dark mouth slit: “I think you should let your friend decide that. After all, she is the would-be purchaser.”

  Anchor could see Harper's mind working. Worry creased her brow; her eyes frantically searched the floor as if an answer to her dilemma might appear there. She was actually considering Mr. D's indecent offer: one of his bottled souls in exchange for the murder of two strangers.

  “For my own security the contract must be signed in blood,” said Mr. D. “I find that purchasers are much less likely to renege on the deal when such a document remains in the hands of a thaumaturge. The threat of vengeful blood magic tends to keep people focused on their side of the bargain.”

  Harper said, “Gods help me… I'll do it.”

  Anchor was shocked to see her fall apart so quickly. This woman was no murderer. She didn't even yet know whom Mr. D expected her to kill.

  He recognized desperation when he saw it.

  “Excellent!” said Mr. D.

  “Hell, no,” Anchor said. “I won't let you bully her.”

  “She has agreed, sir.”

  Anchor faced Harper. “Whose soul do you want to buy?” he asked. “Is it family? A lover?” He saw from her pained reaction that he had struck upon the truth. “A husband, eh?” He turned to the nearest cabinet, flung open the doors, and dragged out two fistfuls of soul bottles.