Nether Light

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Nether Light Page 57

by Shaun Paul Stevens


  “You’ll be all right, Greens,” Mist said softly. She turned to Father. “What does this new formulation do, old man?”

  He sighed. “Poor Zial, he couldn’t have got it more wrong. He thought we’d exact the ultimate revenge for our brothers, that my blood would weaken Sendali Binding. But they added something to make their purebloods stronger, to enhance their damn Echelon.”

  “And what about the rest of us?” Mist asked. “Those without Echelon blood?”

  “It takes your soul, girl, as Norgod is my witness.” The words hung in the air, a poor substitute for heat or light. Father let out a sob. “What have I done? I never meant for innocents to suffer.” More red light fizzed in the sky. Faraway thunder cracked. Father coughed again. “Tell me, son, how are you here?”

  “A lot happened since you died, Father. It’s amazing how busy the lives of the living can get.”

  “He was admitted to the Devotions,” Mist said, “as a Bindcrafter. He’s hobnobbed with the best—all the Primes.”

  Father’s grip tightened. “Devere?”

  Guyen snorted. “You know him?”

  “When you were a boy, back in Krell. It was he who suggested we join forces. He arranged for our voyage here.”

  A bitter laugh escaped. “Well, he’s dead. Murdered by his own wife.”

  “What, the girl?”

  “Actually, she’s thirty now.” Guyen dismissed a pang of guilt, remembering the lust in the roof garden. A boom sounded outside. What was that? It didn’t sound like thunder.

  Mist got to her feet. “I’m confused, old man. If it wasn’t you or your countrymen designed this new concoction, who did?”

  “A Sendali,” Father grunted. “A lord.”

  “Which lord?”

  “I never caught his name. They called him the Bindcrafter.”

  She began dragging the dresser across the floor. “What did this Bindcrafter look like?”

  Father sighed. “You have to realise something, girl. These past few months have been like a dream for me. They kept me asleep most of the time, pumping me full of drugs, hooking me up to this—this monstrosity.” He waved at the copper cylinder. “I wasn’t even sure I was here most of the time. They fed me at first, then they stopped, then I was glad to sleep—it was the only escape from the hunger.” He grunted. “Funny, now I have no appetite at all.”

  Mist picked up an empty crate. “What did the Bindcrafter look like?” she repeated. “It’s a simple enough question.”

  “He had a deep voice, black curly hair. There was one thing—I remember his hands, covered in oversized rings they were.”

  Betrayal hit. Then anger. Then a thirst for revenge deep enough to drink an ocean.

  “Rialto,” Mist grunted.

  Of course, it made perfect sense. The only person with the expertise. A man with a fascination for Molina. But that meant… All this time he’s been playing you like a cat with a ball of string. Was he working with Jal? Was he Echelon? It was too much to process.

  Another boom sounded in the distance—definitely not thunder. Mist lifted the crate onto the dresser, now under the window. “What was in it for Devere?” she demanded.

  “He wanted to exploit the formulation’s side effects,” Father said.

  “What side effects?” Guyen asked.

  “Addiction. He wanted the concoction designed so those without Echelon blood would need constant infusions.”

  “Devere’s estates make all the Red Oil in Sendal,” Mist said. “It’s a base ingredient for the concoction.”

  “I know,” Guyen said patiently. “And if the whole country’s addicted, they’ll rake in the profits. Well, Jal will.”

  Mist picked up a rickety chair and scaled the precarious tower with it, balancing it atop the crate. She climbed onto it and peered through the slit window.

  BOOM. There it was again.

  She whistled. “You gotta see this.”

  46

  The Vantage Point

  A series of booms cascaded around the fort, shaking the ancient tower. “What’s happening?” Guyen called up.

  Mist perched precariously on the chair, on top of the crate, on top of the dresser, peering out through the narrow slit. They’d been following the escalating battle for a couple of hours through the high window. “Berese is still pinned down behind the trees,” she replied. “That last lot of riders, I think Cotes’ muskets got them all.”

  “In the dark?”

  “He’s firing blanketing volleys, and they lit themselves up with torches.”

  It sounded unforgiveable. “Why would Berese sacrifice his best cavalrymen like that?” Guyen said. “Is he an idiot?”

  Mist grimaced. “I suppose he’s trying to find a way in. How’s your old man?”

  Father sat on the bed, back against the wall, feet dangling over the edge. Despite his weakened condition, he was putting on a brave face. “I’m all right,” he grunted.

  “You’re looking better, Father.” Well, that was stretching things. The gaunt, trembling man was a shadow of his former self, and had all the symptoms of the chills. They’d sparked two discarded torches into life using Mist’s flint and some kindling from the empty hearth, but they could really do with a proper fire. Guyen went to the door again. There was no sign of the guards. There hadn’t been for an hour. “You think they’ll move us soon?” he asked.

  “We’d better be ready,” Mist said. “I don’t fancy the General’s chances.”

  Guyen pulled at the door again. He may as well have tried lifting a horse. “Is there no way you can get this thing open?”

  “Not without my picks.” She paused. “What about your Talent? Can’t you do something with that?”

  “I don’t think so.” No matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t slip focus properly up here, the clamour static and unchanging. For whatever reason, Faze was scant. He paced for several minutes as the sounds of shouting and moving weaponry echoed up the staircase. He shivered. “It’s so damn cold.”

  “We could try burning some furniture,” Mist suggested. She jumped down and started inspecting the room’s contents again.

  Guyen switched places and looked out through the slit. The tower provided a superior view of the escalating battle below. The shadowy forms of Cotes’ musketeers lined up behind the walls, at least a hundred men, and in the wood beyond no man’s land, First Battalion’s flaming torches twinkled yellow amidst the foliage.

  A gust of wind whipped up a cheek-stinging flurry of sleet as a dozen red streaks, bright in the dark night, rose from the fort’s battlements. Faze signatures—the other kind—future echoes of cannon fire. Somehow, they broke through to consciousness despite the disconnection to the Layer. Guyen’s breath caught. The light was brilliant crimson, beautiful, but this gift to see it was a curse when it foretold men’s deaths.

  The predicted volley erupted from the fort’s guns, and glowing projectiles lit by their real-time Faze signatures traced the red lines in the sky, erasing them as they flew. Metal and gunpowder slammed into the trees. It was grim—the continual barrages must have killed dozens of their would-be rescuers by now. If Rossi was down there, the luck sprites had better have his back.

  Guyen climbed down from the vantage point. Father had moved onto the other chair to let Mist dismantle the bed for firewood. She had it on its side, jumping on the legs, trying to snap them off. She succeeded with one and turned her attention to the next.

  Guyen went to the door and shouted through the bars. “Hey, anyone there? How about letting us out?” No reply.

  This was hopeless. They had to be able to improve their chances. If only they could get a message out, tell someone where they were. The dirty sheet on the floor might work. He gathered it.

  Mist looked up. “What are you doing? I was going to start the fire with that.”

  “I thought we could fly it out the window. Let Berese know we’re up here?”

  She grunted. “Anything’s worth a try, I suppose.
Go on, I’ll make do.”

  He coiled the linen around his arm. Who was he kidding? Even if anyone saw it, would they care? Still, at least it was doing something. He climbed up onto the makeshift platform and tied one end of the sheet to the back of the chair, pushing the rest through the opening. The linen fluttered in the icy gusts. A Red Talon screeched high above. The bird had been circling for some time.

  Down below, more wagons were readied. One set off in a wide turning-circle and disappeared from view, presumably heading to the jetty. Suddenly, a searing red Faze signature arced up from the woods, touching down in the middle of the congested parade ground. That was new—the future echo, the brightest so far, was headed this way for a change. The red line hung in the sky. Boom. A fiery munition shot up from the trees, tracing the prophetic arc, fizzing with nether light. It raced to its apex, then dived.

  Heat, thunder and light exploded at the centre of the fort. Purple fire erupted. For a moment, there was only inferno, then men’s screams arrived, a demonic frenzy of fiery silhouettes flailing in the flames. Desperate shouts for water and sand rang out as Cotes’ men dragged injured comrades away, beating them with brushes to extinguish burning uniforms.

  Cold, detached shock descended, mixed with hope.

  “What was that?” Father stammered.

  “Something exploded inside the walls,” Guyen called down. “Looks like Berese has brought a bigger gun.”

  “About time!” Mist exclaimed. She snapped off another bed leg. “What munitions?”

  “Purple fire.”

  She whistled. “Damor Flame. We could do with some of that in here.”

  “I’m not sure that would be advisable,” Guyen said. Damor Flame was well known in foundry work, a mix of tuber sap and gunpowder, it was excellent for super-heating metals, and seemingly for blanketing your enemy with sticky fire. As the flames died away, pistol shots rang out, rankers putting injured horses out of their thrashing misery. The smell of gunpowder and seared flesh visited on the wind—the grim scent of war. “They’re leaving men to burn,” he muttered. It was a dire sight, even when said men were supposedly your enemy.

  “Good,” Mist said, “they won’t be firing any more muskets then.” She snapped a bed slat in half.

  He fixed her with an unseen, measuring look. “None of them chose to be here. Where’s the humanity in all this?”

  She shrugged. “War’s ugly. Those men you’re feeling sorry for are probably the ones that would have lined up in a couple of hours as our firing squad.”

  “There’s still plenty more of the bastards for that.” She wasn’t cold-hearted, just pragmatic, and in this case, on the money. The girl had many lessons to teach.

  The fort cannons rattled the tower again, showering them with dust. Chaos reigned outside, wagons and horse teams hurrying out of the open. Another future echo of red Faze streaked up from Berese’s position, a monotone rainbow, its pot of gold death. But the parade ground was empty where the shell would land. Casualties would be light. A few seconds later, the flaming munition materialised, following its predicted path like a tight-fitting glove. Fire exploded in the empty clearing, an abandoned wagon lighting up.

  Fort cannon replied, piling explosive munitions into the trees. Fire erupted in thunderous cracks. Something exploded, red and purple sparks shooting up into the air, and the treetops lit up like fiery frosting on a devilish cake. They must have hit a powder keg. The flames consumed trees and men with no preference—human torches fleeing, falling, dying.

  For several minutes, nothing happened, then a swarm of riders emerged from the trees, crossing no man’s land fast. More mounted scouts? May the gods be with you, Guyen thought, even as he waited for the inevitable. Their torches dipped out of sight beyond the walls. Musket shots rang out. Silence fell. Was that it? Had Cotes killed them all?

  “Is Berese any good at this sort of thing?” Guyen asked dubiously.

  Mist knelt next to a pyramid of splintered wood in the grate. “He ran campaigns in Althuisa and Krell before he was Prime Wield,” she said. “He is… highly regarded.” She paused. “On tonight’s evidence though, well.” The fire caught. She turned to Father. “How are you holding up?”

  He grunted. “I think I could walk.” He struggled to his feet, trying to keep balance, but collapsed back in the chair. A new despair took hold—there was no strength left in him, the Sendalis had seen to that.

  Mist sighed. “You just need a bit of heat. Come on, let’s move you next to the fire.” She offered her arm for support. He took it and hobbled towards the hearth’s weak warmth, panting at the exertion. She pushed the chair under him. He collapsed into it.

  Guyen turned his attention back to the battle. Despite the lull in the action, plenty of shouting still came from around the fort. The sound of muskets rang out again, and several flaming torches crossed back over no man’s land, disappearing into the trees. Cotes hadn’t slain all of Berese’s men then.

  Suddenly, a series of explosions shattered the relative quiet as tall flames shot up around the main gate.

  “What was that?” Mist demanded.

  It was a good question. “Berese’s cavalry set explosives, I think,” Guyen said.

  She banged impatiently on the dresser. “Come on, it’s my turn to look.” He climbed down and she clambered up in his place, craning her neck to see. Another series of booms vibrated the stonework, more cannon fire erupting from the fort.

  Offering Father an encouraging pat on the back, Guyen returned to the door. The tower was deathly quiet, their guards presumably tasked with defending the walls. He called out onto the landing again. No reply. Summoning Toulesh, the simulacrum offered no new information either, so he loosed him again, planting a frustrated kick on the unmovable door as the apparition disappeared through it. If only flesh and bone could come and go so easily.

  Another crash shook the tower to its heart, this one on a different scale. Mist fell from her precarious perch, landing awkwardly on the floor.

  Guyen rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

  She rubbed her wrist, wincing.

  He helped her up. “What was that?”

  “A bigger cannon,” she said. “A much bigger cannon.”

  “If Cotes doesn’t deal with that, he might not have much left to defend,” Guyen said. His voice caught, growing panic colouring it.

  Mist squeezed his hand. “We can only hope.” It wasn’t like her, this touchy-feely stuff. Globes! She was scared too. How had it come to this?

  Yet again, fort cannon returned fire, vibrating the tower. More dust rained.

  Guyen counted twenty.

  BOOM—BOOM—BOOM

  Answering cannon from the woods. Berese had at least three large guns operational now. Another massive crash shook the tower. The building shifted to the sound of grinding masonry and a staggered crack appeared in the wall.

  Father moaned. “I’m sorry, son, we’re doomed.”

  “They’ve come to rescue us, Father.”

  Mist huffed. “Looks more like they’re targeting us.”

  “What, the tower?”

  “Either that or Berese’s cannoneers are lame shots.”

  “I doubt that,” Guyen said, “they’re Talents. Why would they want to destroy the tower?”

  “Who knows?” Mist said. “Easy-to-range target? Maybe they think it’s a lookout. I don’t think the General’s here to rescue us though.” That was a solid assessment. Berese was likely more interested in the renegade Cotes.

  A horn sounded in the distance: two short, three long bursts. Guyen scrambled up to the window to risk another look. It snowed heavily now, the night a dark blanket. Shadows moved across no man’s land. Unless he was imagining them? It was impossible to make anything out.

  Barked orders echoed up from the battlements. ‘Take aim. Fire!’

  Shots rang out. Guyen’s skin pricked as if the musket balls were for him. Maybe that would be fairer. He couldn’t help the feeling he was re
sponsible for all this somehow.

  Down below, a squad of horsemen gathered inside the main gate. As another volley of fire erupted from the battlements, Cotes’ men raised the portcullis and the cavalry streamed out, disappearing from sight. As soon as the last rider was through, the gate slammed back into position.

  “You ever feel forgotten about, Greens?” Mist said.

  Guyen looked down. “I know what you mean.” He fixed Father with a dark stare. The once-big man turned away. Well he might. If he’d thought more about how his actions would affect others, perhaps none of them would be here.

  Faze patterns suddenly distorted, a whistling noise intensifying.

  Another part of Guyen’s brain—a sharper, leaner muscle—took over. He jumped for the floor.

  A torrent of stone chips and flaming debris erupted through the slit window as the ceiling exploded, raining down tiles, plaster and wood. Mist screamed. Something gave way. The floor shifted several degrees.

  Dust. Confusion. Cold.

  Dazed and covered in wreckage, Guyen risked a look upwards. The roof was gone, the room open to the sky. Swirling snow covered them, but not the regular kind. This was inky black, a freezing, solid version of the black rain which plagued the Feyrlands these days.

  “Greens!” Mist knelt over him. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. Father?”

  “I’m all right, son,” Father wheezed.

  The weak fire fizzled out in the hearth. Mist offered a hand. “We have to get that door open,” she panted. She was hysterical. Things must have hit a new low. “Do something,” she rasped. “Please, you got us into this.”

  Guyen looked between them—the desperate girl, the shadow of a man propped up by the now useless fire. What could he do? He’d already tried to use his powers. The tower creaked. The angle of the floor was all wrong. The structure would soon collapse, and when it did, the ancient stone would crush and entomb them.

 

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