by Mike Wild
“Then what are we waiting for?”
The two of them wound their way down the steps through the ruins, back to the beach where Redigor and his forces had landed. The place was a hive of activity, Sonpear and Pim and his men tinkering under Brundle’s supervision on the flutterbys, while Hetty, Pete Two-Ties and Martha DeZantez were helping the rest of their people, who had taken refuge underground, out from the access hatches, assembling them back on the surface. Kali bit her lip, looking in vain for the stretcher carrying Dolorosa, and fearing the worst when it didn’t appear. But as it happened, she shouldn’t have been looking for a stretcher at all.
“You arra the mess,” a voice criticised at the same time a bony finger prodded her in the shoulder. “We cannot take-a you anywhere.”
Kali span. “Dolorosa?”
The old woman loomed in her face, eyes narrowed, though there was a hint of humour in them. “Who elsa you theenk speaka thees way?”
“But how?” Kali said. Her gaze was drawn to Dolorosa’s wound, now nothing more than a patch of dried blood on her torn clothing with a hint of strange, gold stitching on her skin.
“If there’s one thing yer can say for me wife, it’s that she knows her ’erbs,” Brundle said from where he lay under a flutterby, bashing it with a spanner. He rose, wiping his hands with a rag. “That an’ a bit o’ the old knitting, eh?”
“Clack-clack,” Dolorosa said.
Kali smiled, patted the old woman on the shoulder, and moved towards Brundle.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“Me? It’s Brogma yer shou –”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Kali interrupted. And punched the dwarf hard in the face.
Brundle crashed onto his backside, hand over nose. Three streams of blood ran between his fingers.
“Owww! Wod de fark wad dad for?”
“The Trials,” Kali said. “You did design them, didn’t you?”
“Aye, well,” Brundle said, but was spared further defence when Kali offered him a hand up.
“Forget it,” she said. “They kept me on my toes, and I’ve a feeling I’m going to need to be kept on my toes.”
The dwarf, like Slowhand and Dolorosa before him, looked her battered and bloody body up and down. “Looks like yer made a bit of a worgle’s arse of it, to me.”
“Hey! There were complications, all right?”
The dwarf’s expression turned to one of surprising concern, knowing full well what the complications must have been. “If ah had a badge yer could have one. Bu ah don’t. Good to see yer made it, smoothskin.”
“Me, too. So what’s happening?”
Brundle pointed at the flutterbys.
“It’s taken a bit o’ tinkerin’, but these beasties should get most o’ yer people home.”
“That’s a long way. I thought they were short range flyers?”
“They are. Which is why I’ve had to cannibalise some ta handle the journey. It’ll take a week or so an’ ah can’t guarantee they’ll make it intact through the Stormwall, but they should come down within’ range o’ the peninsula’s shipping.”
Kali nodded. “Good enough. But if you’ve stripped them down, there won’t be enough room for everybody, surely?”
“No,” Brundle said, and hesitated. “But with those lost on both sides, fewer’ll have ta remain behind than yer think. Ah reckon five or six volunteers.”
“My hand’s up.”
“Ah don’t think so, lass. Yer know by now where yer should be.”
“And I know where these people should be,” Kali said, looking at the freed prisoners. “I’ll get there, Brundle, don’t you worry. Meantime, like I said – my hand’s up.”
“Fair enough,” the dwarf conceded. “An’ ah don’t think yer’ll havta look far for the rest.”
Kali jumped, suddenly aware of the forms of Slowhand, Dolorosa, Sonpear, Pim and Freel beside her. She studied the Allantian, glad to have him back with her, but aware also that his efforts to help since he’d been freed of Redigor had left him exhausted. His experience wasn’t something recovered from easily. “Jakub,” she said, calling him by his given name for the first time, “please, go with the others. We might need your strength when we get home.”
The Allantian faltered, then nodded, tromping wearily towards those who had been assembled to leave. Slowhand slapped his back as he departed.
“So the rest of us swim?” he asked Brundle. “Or do you have another plan?”
“Me scuttlebarge, o’ course,” Brundle said. He made an obvious point of staring at Kali’s behind and then added, “She’ll be a little low in the water, but we’ll make it.”
“Hey!” Kali protested.
“Hey yerself,” the dwarf replied. “Now let’s get these people on the move.”
Brundle moved among the flutterbys, starting up their engines, and the beach was filled with the sound of their insect-like drones. The choice of pilots was left to Kali, and she chose those whose determination she knew would get them home – Martha, Hetty, Abra and Freel himself among them. Civilians were led to the flutterbys in small groups, settled in, and then with a series of complex hand gestures that Kali was sure were more to do with showing off than actually necessary, Brundle walked from machine to machine, signalling each pilot that they were ready for take off.
“Good luck to all of you,” Martha DeZantez said.
“You, too,” Kali replied.
“See you at home, Kalee!”
“The gods be with you, girly, lady, madam, missus-woman.”
One by one, their noses dipping slightly, the flutterbys rose from the beach and headed out to sea. They skimmed the waves at first but then began to rise until they were silhouetted against the coming sunset, which was already starting to paint the waters. A few minutes later they were dots, and then they were gone.
“They’ll be fine,” Slowhand said, sensing Kali’s concern.
“I hope so.”
Kali studied the archer. He hadn’t turned as he’d spoken, but continued to stare out to sea. No, Kali thought, not out to sea but across it, doubtless seeing the distant shoreline of the peninsula in his mind’s eye. A peninsula that had one less thing to offer him when he returned.
“What about you? Will you be fine?”
Slowhand straightened, drawing in a deep breath through his nose.
“I guess I’ve finally realised what my destiny is.”
“Which is?”
“Today, to have been right there on that clifftop, where I could save your life,” Slowhand said. “And tomorrow... tomorrow, well, somewhere else where the shit hits the fan.”
Kali smiled. “I’ll try not to keep you too busy.”
The archer turned at last. “So then – it’s business as usual.”
“Not quite usual,” Kali said, regarding Slowhand’s altered appearance disapprovingly. If he intended to remain by her side, there’d have to be changes. “Poul, can you do something about this?”
The mage approached, circling Slowhand and inspecting his features with darting, close cocks of the head that made the archer scowl and pull warily away.
“I think so,” Sonpear said. “Presuming Mister Slowhand doesn’t want me to rebreak all of his bones, returning his physiognomy to what it was should require only a minor incantation.”
“Then would you please do it?” Kali asked.
“Hey, hey!” Slowhand objected. “I’m here too, remember. Do I get a say in this?”
“Not really,” Brundle interjected. “Unless, that is, you actually want to spend the rest of your life looking like an orc’s knob found its way into yer mammy’s panties.”
“Listen, shortarse...”
“Slowhand, shut up!” Kali said. “I mean, what’s the problem here?”
“The problem? The fact that it farking hurts is the problem.”
“Don’t be such a baby.”
“You weren’t there, Hooper. I’m telling you, those few minutes I spent on the Big
Top floor felt like an eternity and... ow,” Slowhand concluded. “OW. OWW!”
Sonpear smiled, his hands already weaving the threads, and as he did the coarser elements of Slowhand’s features began to dwindle, reforming themselves into the more familiar lines he had once possessed. Kali nodded approvingly as she witnessed the return of the lantern jaw, the cute, concave nose, the mouth whose edges splayed laughter lines, though they had clearly been challenged of late. Even his hair returned to its natural colour and length, which the archer wasted no time tossing manfully in the wind.
“What about the scar?” Kali said, frowning at the ‘x’. “The scar’s still there.”
“It is?” Slowhand responded, running his hand over his cheek.
“It shouldn’t be,” Sonpear said slowly. “But it won’t seem to go away.”
“Dammit!” Slowhand cursed.
Kali stroked and then playfully slapped Slowhand’s cheek. “Never mind, pretty boy. I’ve had worse scars and it kind of suits you in a an ugly kind of way.”
“Oh, it’s all right for you,” Slowhand protested. “Your scars recover because of that... regeneration thing you have going on...”
“Why,” Sonpear mused, “won’t it go away?”
“What?” Slowhand said.
Something flared in their midst, and the archer let out a cry far surpassing those when Sonpear had begun his work. Maybe even surpassing those when Fitch had begun his work. It was only after a few seconds that Kali realised the flare had come from him.
Slowhand dropped to his knees, groaning in pain, hand clutching his scar. Kali bent to help but faltered. She hesitated because between the cracks of Slowhand’s fingers, light was leaking. A light that was starting to grow so bright it was shining through his flesh.
Rays of it began to punch between his fingers.
“What the hells?” Kali said. “Sonpear?”
“Mister Slowhand,” he said cautiously. “I want you to remove your hand. And I want you to do it very, very slowly.”
Slowhand nodded, but clearly had difficulty. His teeth clenched, the rumble of what would become a roar filtering through them, his hand seemed adhered to his flesh, pulling glue like strands of light with it. Then at last it broke away, revealing what lay beneath.
The ‘x’ shaped scar was pulsing a brilliant white.
“What... the... fark... is... happening?” Slowhand rumbled.
“Haven’t a clue,” Kali said honestly.
Dolorosa worked her way through the group about the kneeling archer, saw the scar and drew in a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“This looka familiar,” she said. “A horribly familiar...”
“Familiar?”
“Yessa,” Dolorosa insisted. “Do you notta see?”
Kali realised she had been paying far too much attention to the glow than to the detail of the scar, and as she studied it saw that around the weal of raised flesh, another tracery of light was slowly appearing. Having started beneath the scar it was working its way up left and right, like a burning fuse on Slowhand’s flesh, enclosing the ‘x’ in a perfect circle. Then, as its two paths joined, it flared as brightly as the rest of the scar.
“Did I notta tell you, Kali Hooper? That’s –”
“Oh gods,” Kali finished. “The symbol of the Final Faith.”
“The what?” Slowhand said. “The what?”
Kali stared at the crossed circle, burning now as brightly as a white-hot furnace. Then she felt Sonpear’s hand on her shoulder, easing her away.
“There’s nothing that can be done,” he said. “Stand back. Everybody stand back.”
“Stand back?” Slowhand repeated, panicked. “What – am I going to explode?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite?” The archer responded, having become quite high-pitched. “What the fark do you mean, not quite?”
He doubled over once more, wanting but resisting the need to slap his hand back over the pulsating scar. For the crossed circle of the Faith lifted away from his skin, becoming something quite independent of him, floating in the air. Gasping in both shock and relief, Slowhand scrambled back as the glowing emblem began to grow, its diameter widening.
It stopped then burst into flame. The four arms of the ‘x’ burned away into the surrounding circle. And in the space that was left, the face of Querilous Fitch appeared. He smiled like some visiting deity, but a smile did not sit easily on the psychic manipulator’s emaciated features and the last thing anything felt was that their visitor was here to do good.
“Fitch,” Slowhand said, “what the hells is going on?”
“Ah, the archer,” Fitch said. “I should like to thank you for acting on my behalf. Through you, I have been able to witness the emergence of that I have waited so long to see.”
“What the hells are you talking about?”
“Your scar was a spell called a Roving Eye,” Sonpear determined. “Not to be confused with an Eye of the Lord, it is a magical thing. An observer – a conduit, if you like – between here and the mainland. Or wherever it is Fitch currently lurks.”
“Poul Sonpear,” Fitch said. “It has been a long time since last we met.”
“You two know each other?” Kali asked.
“Once upon a time, Querilous was a student of mine. I’m sorry to say I taught him many things he should never have known. Including the Roving Eye.”
“Teachings long since surpassed, Poul. But I thank you for the human perspective on the power of the threads.”
“What do you mean, human perspective?” Kali asked, suspiciously.
Fitch smiled. “Of all the things you should have learned from Slowhand, Redigor and your own recent discoveries about yourself, it is that few things are what they seem,” the psychic manipulator said. Then his features began to change, seemingly to melt, his flesh becoming waxier, greyer and moister as it did. This unexpected physiognomy took on a number of new features, including a lipless mouth, enlarged eyes, and a pair of glowing, bulbous nodules that hung from the side of his head, swaying slightly, as if caught in a gentle stream.
Kali’s mind whirled. A flashback of a face from long ago, in the floodwaters of Martak. Of a shadowy shape in Gransk harbour. And of a fleetingly sighted rescuer on the other side of a sealed hatch on the Black Ship.
“You,” she said. “All the time.”
“Me,” Querilous Fitch responded. “All the time.”
“Er, you want to tell me what’s going on?” Slowhand prompted Kali. Like most people on the peninsula, he had never seen such a creature before.
“Fitch is one of them. A fish.”
Slowhand paused.
“The slippery bastard.”
“Was it you at Scholten, too?” Kali asked Fitch. “My liberator from the Deep Cells?”
“Of course. I could hardly leave you at the mercy of the elf, now, could I?”
“Somehow I never pictured you as my knight in shining armour.”
Fitch smiled, though in his new form it was less of a smile and more the slow, crescent shaped gaping of a freshly slashed throat.
“I had no interest in protecting you, girl. Only that which you carry.”
“The dra’gohn magic?” Kali gasped.
“Do you realise how long I have waited for you to manifest its power? To even realise you possessed such power?”
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I suppose you want it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, guess what – you’re not having it.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
Fitch’s face began to move towards Kali, and in doing so the whole of his form physically followed it through the Roving Eye. Slowhand noticed that it was no longer in the strange wheelchair he had seen but walking independently – if walking was the word. The psychic manipulator still retained the semblance of human legs but seemed to glide rather than walk towards them, slime trailing behind him, making his approach all
the more threatening. The archer and everyone else backed away. Only Sonpear made any kind of move, his hands weaving what may have been the beginnings of a spell, but none of them would find out which because a second later the mage from the Three Towers was dead. Very, very dead. Fitch simply raised his hand and Sonpear was struck all over his body by what seemed like a hundred invisible sledgehammers, each of them pummelling him so hard his robes billowed beneath the impact, disregarded the flesh beneath, and shrouded the mage in explosive puffs of dust from his own, obliterated bones. Sonpear jerked and spasmed and then the floppy remains of what he had been fell onto the beach on what remained of his face.
Kali refused to be weakened by what had happened. She wouldn’t let Fitch see that.
“Why, you bastard? What do you want from the magic?”
“What do you think I want? Its power! With it, all can be made as it should be. A world of water. One vast ocean in which my kind can flourish undisturbed, can thrive.”
Kali laughed out loud. “You want to play god? Use the power of the Pantheon to remake Twilight?”
“Why not? Without the interference of the Four, the last of the Pantheon will destroy each other, consume themselves, and in the process you landwalkers will be gone.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you but the Four might have something to say about that. Or at least one of them.”
“Which,” Fitch said, “is that?”
His hand moved again and, behind him, the still fiery circle of the Final Faith started to unravel until it became an open-ended strand of fire, like a glowing whip. It flexed and snapped in the air and then straightened, less whip than spear, one end pointed directly at Kali. She swallowed, knowing, somewhow, that she had only a second left.
“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why the Faith? Why involve yourself with them?”
Fitch smiled. “Where better to hide yourself than amongst the blind?”
The spear of fire shot forward, straight into Kali’s chest and out through her back, and then twisted in the air to return to Fitch. It penetrated him in the same way it had her but, this time, did not re-emerge. The psychic manipulator – the fish – took a deep, satisfied breath.
“At last,” he said.
Kali slumped to the beach as heavily as Sonpear had, landing in an almost foetal position. Unlike Sonpear, she still lived, though it hardly seemed so. What Fitch had done – stripped her of the dra’gohn magic – had hurt more than when Redigor had tried to take her soul in the Chapel of Screams, but there was a worse pain. An emptiness. Everything she had fought for – the true nature of which she had only just discovered – had been taken from her the moment it mattered most. And the worst of it was, it had left her too weak to do anything about it.