God of Clocks

by Alan Campbell

  Those men immediately under the shadow of his heel broke and fled, before Dill slammed his foot into the ground with hideous force. Even up here, Rachel felt the jarring blow in her bones. Her head throbbed. She watched as Dill raised his foot again, revealing nothing but a muddy crater below. No one had been injured.

  “Good,” she shouted. “Now on to the lake.”

  Cradling the tavern and the enormous stolen blade against his chest, he set off down the slope towards the lakeshore. Scores of Oran's woodsmen had appeared at the Rusty Saw's windows to watch these unexpected events unfold. The tavern's back door burst open and their leader himself emerged. With three of his men he ventured out to the very edge of the building's foundations and from there gazed down into the streets. Oran was far too absorbed by the scene below to look up.

  Rachel could still hear the defenders yelling orders and curses behind them, but the streets below were now deserted. All around clustered two-and three-tiered timber houses with diamond-paned windows under the canopied eaves of their bark-shingle roofs. In a dozen steps Dill reached the lake, where low wharfs crowded the shoreline amongst timber warehouses and boatsheds. Huge, three-beamed stanchions overhung the water, supporting ropes, chains, and pulleys for hoisting cargo.

  All of the larger vessels had been maneuvered out into deeper waters, but a number of smaller craft still occupied the shallow moorings. Dill crouched by the waterside, leaning closer to examine one.

  Rachel experienced a sudden rush of vertigo as the arconite stooped and the whole of his skull tilted forward. She pressed her hands against the cold enamel of his teeth as the wooden skiffs rushed closer. But then the alarming motion stopped. She heard a creaking sound.

  Dill picked up a boat with his free hand, then swung round to face the streets again.

  Some two thousand men of the town militia were marching down the main thoroughfare towards them. They were armed with poles, bows, or spears, but now many also carried flaming brands. Wisps of orange tar fire jigged between the leaning buildings on either side, while a pall of grey smoke followed the vanguard, trailing over the helmets of those behind.

  A horn sounded.

  Rachel shot a glance at Mina. “Arconites?”

  “No, that's local,” the thaumaturge replied. “A rallying call. We still have time.”

  Dill threw the boat at the advancing forces.

  The vessel was barely twenty feet long, so he could have thrown it right into the midst of the defenders—or half a league beyond the settlement—if he had chosen to. It spun mast over hull and hit the main street well short of the town militia, bursting into planks. The soldiers cheered and quickened their pace towards the arconite.

  Dill roared again. The engines inside his breastplate thundered and blew gouts of hot black fumes out through the joints in his armour. He backed into the lake, smashing one jetty and three more boats to driftwood. In another three steps he had retreated up to his shins in the water. He reached down to pick up another vessel…and froze.

  For a long moment he remained quite motionless, crouched over the harbour as though his joints had seized. He then shuddered and let out a mighty groan.

  Slowly, he sank to his knees in the harbour so that a great wave surged right across the docks, lifting boats and depositing them on the ground beyond. Water burst against the shorefront warehouses, washing barrels and bales of goods aside, before slowly draining back into the lake. With agonizing slowness the huge automaton slumped forward onto his elbows, holding the tavern balanced on its huge blade out before him like a wounded man trying to save a child—or like an offering of penance to the advancing horde. He bowed his neck, lowering his head until his jaw settled in the mud of the shorefront street.

  “Now that,” Mina said, “was bad acting.”

  “Give it a chance,” Rachel muttered.

  Many of the town defenders hesitated, apparently suspecting a trap. Their giant enemy had shut itself down for no apparent reason. But others cheered and rushed towards the fallen arconite. Oran's woodsmen remained trapped in the upheld building, still fifty feet above the ground. She hoped they would have the sense to stay there.

  “You do it,” Rachel said to Mina.

  She snorted. “No way. It was my idea. You do it.”

  “I'm not going to scream.”

  “Well, neither am I.”

  The assassin looked at her. “Mina, I don't want to argue with you. It'll sound more convincing coming from you. I'm not used to—”

  The thaumaturge raised her hands and walked back towards the crawl space in the rear of the jaw. She stooped to pick up Rachel's sword from the rug. “I'll be in his skull,” she said, “doing murderous things with an assassin's blade. I'll see you in a moment.” Basilis barked and ran after her.

  Rachel peered out between the gaps in Dill's teeth. She could see the town defenders gathering on the opposite side of the flooded street, edging forward with their weapons ready. “Gods damn you, Mina,” she muttered.

  She swallowed, and then cried out for help.

  It wasn't the dramatic scream Mina had insisted on. Rachel couldn't even be sure that she sounded like someone in distress. But it was enough to give the town defenders pause.

  Lying prostrate on the shore of the lake with the inn still raised before him and his chin resting upon the muddy ground, Dill must have looked defeated. Or so Rachel hoped. The defenders were bound to be suspicious. All Rachel had to do now was allay their doubts.

  “In here,” she called.

  She saw boots and mud-spattered breeches moving about outside the jaw, the flashing steel of spear tips and blades. She heard hoarse cries and barked orders coming from amongst the men. A face appeared between two of the arconite's teeth—a young man looking in at her along the blade of a short knife.

  “Help me out,” she said. “Please.”

  “Who are you?” the young soldier asked.

  “A prisoner,” Rachel replied. “Please get us out before Menoa's men regain control of this monster. We can't keep the arconite disabled for long.”

  He frowned at her. “How many of you are in there?”

  “Two of us. Mina is in the back.” She tried to sound pathetic. It helped that she felt pathetic. “The men in that tavern forced us in here. They've been guiding Menoa's arconites since the battle at Coreollis. They even have Rys's brother hostage.”

  “Did you say Rys?”

  A deep voice behind the soldier intervened. “Who is it?”

  “A woman,” he replied. “She's trapped in there.”

  The young man moved to one side, and an older soldier peered through in his place. This man wore a beard and a metal skullcap over braided hair. “How the hell did you get in there?” he said. “What's happened to this golem?”

  Rachel took a deep breath and repeated her story. The old warrior listened, but continued to eye her with obvious suspicion.

  He waited until she had finished before asking, “Mercenaries? You mean the woodsmen trapped up there inside that building?”

  “King Menoa paid them in gold.” She picked up a handful of the coins strewn everywhere and shoveled them through the gap. “There are whole caskets of it in here.”

  The man glanced at the coins but left them where they had fallen. “He paid them to lead this brute here?”

  “Eleven more are on the way,” she said. “But we know how to stop them. Please get us out; we don't have much time.”

  He moved away. A third face peered in, a man of age with the first soldier. His eyes opened in surprise, and then he, too, withdrew. Rachel spied movement outside, torches flickering. She heard the first two men conversing in hushed tones. Finally the old soldier returned to the gap. He was holding a long pole. “Get back,” he said. “We're going to have to force it apart.”

  She watched as the man inserted the pole between Dill's teeth and pushed down at one end. On cue, Dill opened his jaw.

  “Thank you.” Rachel started to climb out.

&
nbsp; “Hold it there,” the old soldier said. “There's not one thing about you I trust yet. Get back from its mouth.” He waited until she had retreated, and then he climbed into the jaw beside her.

  He was a short, stout man with powerful shoulders and arms, and eyes as brown as his bulky leather armour. His nose had been broken at some point in the past and reset crookedly. Framed by his steel cap, it looked unnaturally large and ugly. In the scabbard at his belt he carried a short sword, and on a loop around his shoulders hung an enormous hammer. He peered around the gloomy bone chamber for a long moment before returning his attention to her. “More of these are coming, you say?”

  She nodded.

  “We spotted two of them near Harwood a short while ago.” His gaze traveled the length of the dim chamber, pausing on the piles of caskets and the scattered coins. “And we've heard no word today from the watchtowers on Wycke Road and Boulder. No birds sent, nothing. Now you'd better explain to me why Menoa's giants are heading this way. Those woodsmen and their women in the tavern are crying out for assistance, too. They claim they're the prisoners.”

  “Lies,” Rachel said. “The arconite has been protecting them all the way from Coreollis.”

  “So you say,” he muttered with a complete lack of conviction. His brown eyes stared at her intently. “Some of those woodsmen are familiar to us. Oran Garstone is well known to me. You're still alive only because I know exactly what sort of a man he is.” He paused. “But don't think that makes us friends. You aren't yet known to me at all, and I'm too good at smelling a lie to believe much of what you've already told me.”

  “We're from Deepgate,” she said. “Ulcis's city. Cospinol brought us here to fight with Rys at Coreollis. We slaughtered the Mesmerists, but then Menoa released his arconites. Rys ordered us—”

  “Your friend is inside now?”

  “She's back through there.” Rachel pointed to the crawl space at the rear of the jaw. “We found a way to disable the arconite. Let me show you.” She beckoned him towards the crawl space.

  The soldier grunted. “If I climb through there, am I going to find her with a blade poised at this giant's brain?”

  Rachel said nothing. That was eerily close to what he would find. Mina would be standing over some critical link in the machinery, apparently ready to strike down the evil arconite if it failed to obey her commands. “What's your name?” Rachel asked.

  “The men call me Iron Head.”

  “You run this town?”

  “Burntwater, it's called. I captain the town militia here.”

  “Rachel,” she offered. “The woman in the back with the knife is Mina.”

  A sudden verbal row broke out between the Burntwater militia and two of Oran's men trapped in the uplifted tavern. Insults flew both ways. Oran's men kicked clods of soil down upon the soldiers below. One of Iron Head's men laughed derisively.

  The captain yelled for order and then turned back. “So what's the truth, Miss Hael? Why did you kill two of my lookouts and yet allow the third lad to escape? Why come to Burntwater at all? What was the reason for that ridiculous boat-throwing charade? And how did you come to be traveling with my brother in the first place?”

  “Your brother?”

  “Oran is my brother.”

  Rachel sighed. If Iron Head was willing to listen, she saw no reason now to continue the charade. “Can I get out of here now?”

  He offered her his hand, and helped her out.

  She told him everything: their plan to reach Sabor's castle; the decision to recruit an army of men along the way; Dill's fight with the arconite in the forest, and its subsequent effect on Hasp. She admitted that she had killed two of Oran's men in the Rusty Saw's saloon in order to protect the glass-skinned god. And, after a moment's hesitation, she even told the truth about the watchtower Dill had destroyed.

  “You have made a lot of mistakes,” Iron Head said.

  “This is only my second war. I'm learning.”

  The old soldier scratched his beard. “I have good reason to believe that Sabor escaped Coreollis unharmed,” he said. “We'll take you to his castle at once.”

  “How far is it?”

  “The Obscura? No more than an hour by boat and another two hours' march,” he told her. “The realm of Herica lies directly across this lake. My family came from there originally.” He nodded privately to himself as though deciding upon the elements of a plan forming in his mind. “The vast majority of them still work for Sabor—and have for decades now.”

  “Sounds like a large family.”

  “You could say that.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Thanks to Sabor, I'm fortunate enough to have the largest family in the history of the world.” He grunted. “Of all my brothers it's a shame you met Oran first.”

  He peered into the back of Dill's massive jaw. “Might I see the giant's workings for myself?”

  “You'd better let me warn Mina.”

  But the thaumaturge yelled from within: “I heard it all, Rachel. My ears might be covered in glass, but I'm not deaf. Hold on, I'm coming out.”

  She crawled out of the low passageway, holding, as always, her demonic dog. Iron Head's brows rose when he saw her, but he made no comment. He stepped on past the thaumaturge, and peered into the crawl space. “Please wait here,” he said. And then he got on his hands and knees and shuffled into the narrow passage, the shaft of his hammer knocking against the roof.

  Mina watched him disappear. “I'm going to charge him a copper double when he comes back out,” she said. “This is too creepy. It reminds me so much of my freak show days.”

  “You will not charge him.”

  “I ought to,” Mina replied. “Why on earth would he want to look inside there? That's provincial types for you, Rachel.” She walked over to Dill's open jaw and peered out at the Burntwater militia. “What's the matter with you lot?” she yelled. “Haven't you seen a skinless Mesmerist witch before?”

  They looked like they were about to flee, but then the young man whom Rachel had first seen broke through their ranks. “Where's the captain?”

  She jabbed her thumb behind her.

  The soldier ducked his head between the giant teeth. “Trouble, Captain,” he shouted. “The rest of these big bastards have just arrived.”

  Carnival did not know why she flew after the shape-shifting boy. She felt nothing for him, and nothing for the boy's father. No hunger troubled her here in Hell. Neither did she dwell on John Anchor's reasons for casting the strangely persistent weapon far across the subterranean river. She just didn't care.

  Nevertheless, of all the paths she could have taken, her instincts drove her to follow one that would bring her to the boy.

  The boy who called himself Maybe John was guised in human form again, sitting alone on one of the fleshy banks separating the waterways, his elbows supported on his knees. The shins of his breeches were drenched in blood. He looked up as Carnival drew near.

  She landed ten yards away in ankle-deep shallows, still uncomfortable to be in his presence and altogether unsure of her reasons for seeking him out. For a long moment she just stared at him. Perhaps she had come here out of simple curiosity? After all, she had never seen anything like him. Or perhaps the darker part of her heart had an altogether different motive?

  “I can't remember what I used to look like,” he said suddenly. “That's maybe why he didn't recognize me.” He held up one finger before his face and watched as the flesh turned into a thin metal spike. The spike then curled around itself like a child's doodle. “And don't say I should just have told him. No point in doing that until I know for sure he's my old man.”

  Carnival said nothing.

  “I can't remember much before the Icarates got me,” he went on. “The Mesmerists work like that. They persuade you that you're something else, and you believe them.” He lowered his hand and stared into the waters. “I'm not really a shiftblade. They just convinced me I was.” He paused. “Did you have to kill Monk?”


  The scarred angel made no reply.

  “He only tried to loosen the bolts,” the shape-shifter continued. “We was all hungry on that ship, but you didn't have to kill him.” He looked up at her. “Are you going to kill me, too, now?”

  Still she said nothing.

  “Or did you want a sword? Most people want a sword. You learn that pretty quick. The Mesmerists gave me to a nobleman on Cog, but his wife died of Early Cough and he killed himself on the edge of my blade. I made myself really sharp for him, like he asked me to.”

  All of the boy's fingers suddenly became knives. They glittered in the uncertain light. “Good swords are difficult,” he said. “Hammers are easier, but it hurts more when they use you. If you need a weapon down here, you need me.”

  “No,” she said at last. It was the truth. Down here the dark moon didn't pluck at her nerves. Whatever vengeance her heart had demanded had been satisfied. She felt no further desire to kill. She gazed up across the vast reaches of the Maze, at the millions of souls trapped together, and she felt suddenly cold. The red river seemed to tug insistently at her ankles. She bent down and scooped some up in her hand, lifting it to her lips.

  It tasted dead.

  The boy watched grimly as she emptied her hand. “I don't think that was a good idea,” he said. “It won't like that at all.”

  The river?

  She felt it suddenly in her throat, a strange sensation of pressure as the liquid she'd sipped crawled back up towards the back of her mouth. She coughed and tried to spit, but the fluid seemed to have a mind of its own. It flooded the passages behind her nose and then burst out of her nostrils in guttering spasms.

  Carnival gasped.

  The boy stood up. “They're coming now,” he said quickly. “Take me away from here. I can be useful to you.”

  The angel drew in a breath. She spied movement at the edge of her vision, and turned.

  Something strange was happening. The waters bubbled and frothed.

  “Please carry me out of here,” the shape-shifter pleaded. “You have to leave now, before it's too late. Take me with you.”

  From the myriad waterways all around rose an army of red warriors, hundreds of them, all clad in glutinous armour and clutching dripping weapons. Carnival wheeled, watching as more and more of them emerged above the surface of the river. Their faces looked roughly human, but like rude sculptures, without detail. Yet their weapons looked sharp enough.