Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  He had to try.

  He turned to the door, gritted his teeth, and slipped focus one last time. He gasped. The Song soared. All around, the rapidly thickening carpet of black snow sparkled, glittering with Faze like it was fairy dust. Suddenly, anything was possible. He just had to make it probable. Overhead, more red lightning flashed, supercharging the falling black flakes like burning iron filings. He relaxed into the ethereal Song, allowing it to take over, compelling it into the voice-like, crystal wind.

  And the solid world escaped like sand through his fingers.

  The room flickered, turning red as if bathed in a blood sunset. Father and Mist disappeared, replaced by vague forms of armoured men. A huge, pendulous axe, its blade the size of a cart, swung at the centre of the room, pivoting in thin air. The walls were no longer stone, but a ring of giant swords, melded, meshed, tips pointing up at an open black sky. Above, a grey vortex swirled and spun, spitting out green and blue sparks. He couldn’t be here, not in the Layer. He had to get out before it sucked him in. He reached for the door.

  The visions disappeared and the room reformed. Mist and Father stood where he’d left them, hazing and blurring. He was in the Overlay, halfway between again. This was where he needed to be.

  “What are you doing?” Mist called.

  He ignored her, focussing on the door. A shape appeared halfway down, outlined in red—the lock mechanism. He needed it open. Now. He concentrated on the spot, feeling a tug. The mechanism flickered, jumping about, a thousand versions, correlations to every configuration and position of the bolt amid bizarre, unrecognisable forms. He had to switch it for an unlocked version. There was certainly enough probability to steal from within the glittering snow.

  He grappled for a new version of the lock, but the shape was too complicated to hold on to. He tried again, using every ounce of will to discern a cohesive form amongst the melee of images. Another booming crash shook the floor. It was no use, it wasn’t working. Panic, fear and frustration combined into despair. He fought it. There had to be something he could do? But what? Hang on, could he cast Mass on it? Break it perhaps? That might work. He wouldn’t need to identify any specific version then, just call forth anything and hope for the best.

  He grasped a ghost of the lock in his mind, willing Faze into it from the snow at his feet. The mechanism glowed crimson red, and the powdery blanket of snow steamed, instantly transforming to water as the glitter evaporated. Had he used up all the probability? What now?

  He looked up at the falling snow. It was a reservoir of power. He reached for it, willing new probabilities into the lock.

  The air crackled, and a glittering cloud spread up into the sky like frost racing across a winter’s window pane. A red flash. Thunder cracked. Icy rain flooded down. The shadow creatures appeared, hissing and writhing at the edge of vision, angry at the disturbance, hungry. But he couldn’t stop yet. He manifested lock upon lock, a twister of nether light bleeding down from the sky. Reality, logic, sense hazed, failing, the Song wailing, dragging him down.

  Just you.

  Just a lock.

  The room began to flicker out of existence. He pictured Ariana beside him. He had to make it through this, if only to see her face again.

  Stone cracked around the doorjamb.

  Future echoes exploded.

  “Get down!” Guyen screamed. He dived for cover.

  The door detonated, spears of oak and daggers of stone firing in every direction. He risked a look. The air still streamed with nether light, and inches of water splashed on the floor. The way was clear. There was no time to appreciate the achievement though. He summoned Toulesh. The world solidified, jagged cobwebs streaking his vision.

  Mist and Father appeared from behind the remnants of the dresser.

  Mist laughed hysterically. “Beggars banquet, Greens, you did it!” There was another crash outside, and the tower shifted again, sending the floor to an even steeper angle. The cracks in the wall expanded. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Mist screamed. She darted for the stairs, pulling Father with her, pushing him over the gaping hole the super-heavy lock had punched through the floor. Guyen threw himself after them. The tower folded in.

  47

  The Red Rose

  Guyen picked himself up, blinking away dust. The sky flashed red. The tower was a pile of rubble. Mist was already on her feet, but Father lay trapped, his leg caught under a stone slab. This had to be as bad as things could get.

  Father groaned. “Leave me.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. A bent metal pole lay amongst the debris. Guyen picked it up and slotted it under the slab. Mist grabbed Father’s arms.

  “Sorry if this hurts,” she rasped.

  Guyen levered, and she pulled him clear to cries of pain. They dragged him into the shadows, taking cover behind a pallet, as rankers ran up.

  The fallen tower had taken part of the warehouse roof with it. Where stonework had fallen onto the pallets, glistening concoction leaked from the shattered glass. Pikemen, musketeers and porters wheeling kegs of gunpowder hurried past. Further along the warehouse, men loaded a wagon. Vale and Yannick appeared, exchanging words with Cotes’ men. They poked around the rubble for a moment, then headed back outside. Guyen took a relieved breath. Hopefully, they’d think them dead.

  He turned to Father. His britches were wet with blood. The big man tried to straighten his leg, and his face contorted. Guyen tore open the material around the affected limb. Even in the dim light, it looked bad—jagged, white bone protruding through the skin. Mist shook her head.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Father growled. “Destroy the concoction.”

  “Don’t tell me what to worry about, Father.” Blinking away a tear, Guyen tore a strip off the ripped britches, fashioning a tourniquet, and tied it around the top of the macerated leg.

  “Not tight enough,” Mist hissed. She picked up a stick. “Here, let me.” She slipped it through the material, twisting it to increase the pressure.

  Father passed out.

  “We’ll have to splint it,” Mist said.

  How could this be happening? He’d only just returned from the dead. He couldn’t be lost now. They improvised the splint, some discarded twine and a stake, but there was no way to do a good job in the half-light—he’d need a surgeon at the first opportunity. Guyen tied the cord tight, easing the bone back into place, then slumped against the wall, exhausted.

  Mist reached up to the pallet, taking down a box. She pulled out a vial. “We need to destroy this.”

  “First, we get him out of here,” Guyen said, no energy left for negotiation.

  “Maybe we kill two birds,” she said, uncorking the vial. She took a sniff. “You think this shit burns? Fire’s a decent distraction for a prison break, right?”

  Guyen massaged his leg. He hurt all over. “How did this happen, Mist? We were supposed to be leaving with my brother.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him too, but first we need to survive tonight.” She passed the vial. The liquid smelled like chem—unusual, the concoction was generally odourless. Perhaps she was right—a fire might give Cotes’ men something else to think about other than chasing them.

  “You got that flint?” he asked.

  She dumped it in his hand. He tipped the vial’s contents onto the floor. The viscous liquid pooled, oily colours catching in the flame of a nearby sconce. He sent a spark into it. The solution flared cyan.

  He jumped up, stamping it out. The stuff burned like tuber sap. Had anyone spotted that? “Fuck,” he muttered. “Concoction shouldn’t do that.”

  “All the better,” Mist said. “Wait here, I’ll get the bag.” She disappeared into the gloom.

  Father coughed, conscious again. “What’s happening, son?”

  “We’re getting you out of here,” Guyen said, trying to sound upbeat. Not feeling it.

  “You deserved better, son. Someone who could protect their own.”


  “Don’t talk, Father. Save your strength.”

  The big man moaned, a sudden wave of pain hitting. “I let you down, son. I let you all down. Kiani should be here, living her life, not rotting in the ground.”

  Guyen bit his lip. He couldn’t afford emotions right now. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said flatly. “It’s not your fault we lost her.” She’d been so young, had so little chance at things. Life could be cruel. Surely it could get no worse?

  “Leave me here,” Father said.

  “I will not.”

  “Do what I say, boy.”

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  A shadow appeared over them. Guyen tensed. A ranker stood there with a pike. Damn! Why weren’t you paying attention?

  “Who’s that?” the man demanded, pointing his shaft at Father’s head.

  “Pulled him from the tower,” Guyen said dumbly.

  The ranker peered harder. “Why are you hiding back here? Who’s your senior officer?”

  Panic swelled, thoughts too slow. Could he guess at a name? “Lieutenant Barley,” he mumbled.

  “Barley? There’s no Barley in the Fifth. Get up!”

  He’d have to fight, overpower the bastard before he raised the alarm. Heart beating out of his chest, he readied to spring.

  A timid, ladylike cough sounded. The ranker spun, and Mist bumped lazily into him, twisting his pike away. She stepped back, waving it blunt end first.

  “What a long pole you have,” she exclaimed.

  He stared. “What the hell? I didn’t know we had women in the battalion.”

  “I’m a special recruit, sergeant.” He grabbed for it. Mist jabbed him in the throat. “Sorry, bit clumsy today.” Her tone bore a deadly lilt.

  He snarled. “I’ll fucking rape you, stupid bitch!” A bad choice of words.

  “Maybe I’ll rape you,” she said, and jabbed him again. He lunged. She sidestepped, pirouetted, and brought the pike round in an arc, clouting him on the back of the head. His tricorne fell off, revealing a skull as bald as an egg. He came again, and smoothly, almost in slow motion, Mist brought the pole round and buried the point in his neck. He gasped, sinking to his knees.

  “Pig,” she muttered, and yanked the pole back out. He slumped on the floor, dead as mutton. Another layer of darkness clouded Guyen’s soul. There’d been too much death today. She threw the pike away and frisked the dead man’s body, gaining a knife for her troubles. She threw an old canvas over him. Hardly the dignified end. “Time to go,” she said, all business-like. That settled it, the girl was a psychopath. Badge. Certificate. Straightjacket. But that was all right when she was on your side. She picked up her pack, retrieving a grenade.

  “What you doing with that?” Guyen asked, not sure he wanted to know.

  “Making salad,” she said sarcastically. “What do you think? We’re gonna blow this place, get things toasty.” She grinned. “Maybe they’ll have marshmallows, eh?”

  Boom. A shell landed outside. Bits of roof crashed down. Fort cannon returned fire. What now? A long stretch of warehouse stood between them and freedom, and despite being malnourished, Father was still big. Too heavy to carry that far? What choice was there?

  “Come on,” Guyen said. “Let’s get out of here.” He heaved Father onto his shoulders. Father cried out in pain. The Song rose again, unbidden, cruel laughter ringing within the discordant harmonics. Guyen pulled Toulesh in tighter, forcing it away.

  Father moaned. “Damn it, boy, leave me here.”

  “Shut up, Father. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

  Mist turned back. “Coast’s clear,” she hissed. “Let’s go.”

  Guyen set off, half-running, half-stumbling along the edge of the warehouse, as Mist bounded over to a sconce. She pulled down the torch and threw it and a grenade under a pallet. Father was heavy, the exhaustion telling, but there was nothing to do other than lope on, an imagined point in the distance stretching infinitely ahead, pallets passing by at a snail’s pace. He’d never make it. Mist appeared briefly again, sending another torch under a tower of vials, kicking a box to release some blue accelerant. How many fires was she lighting? He couldn’t worry about that. He had to keep moving. Another row, another pallet, the distance never ending, muscles tiring, stitch burning…

  A ranker stepped out. Guyen staggered to a halt. An officer—smart hair, trim beard, sword and pistol at his waist. “What’s this?” he barked.

  “Man needs a medic,” Guyen sputtered. A fizzing sound vied for attention, the end pallets catching light.

  “Nearest medic’s the other way,” the man rasped. “Do I know you?” A shout sounded near the remains of the tower. “Fire! Treachery!” He drew his sword. “Put him down, nice and slow.”

  Where was Mist? Damn girl, never there when you need her. “He’s injured, sir.”

  The officer raised his weapon. “Put him down, now. That’s an order!”

  Guyen banished Toulesh. The warehouse flickered, the Song rising, anger, hate and desperation its singers. He turned towards the nearest pallet, let Father down beside it, and grabbed a lump of wood.

  He whirled round. “Come on then. Kill me if you can.”

  Even as the words rolled out, they sounded like the worst melodrama. But they dripped with poison, the venom of overdue vengeance. This man could be a stand-in for every redcoat who’d ever hurt them. He’d wrap the wood around the bastard’s head. He’d crush his skull.

  A red arc streaked through the air, and the man lunged as predicted. It was enough time. Just. Guyen sidestepped, slamming the wood down on his arm. His sword clattered. Father picked it up. The officer reached for his pistol. Guyen swung again, driving every pound of weight into the hit.

  Wood connected with jaw bone, spinning the man. He crumpled.

  Hate and satisfaction surged. Revenge could be sweet after all. Guyen turned back to Father. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The old man groaned. “I’m sorry, son. I love you.” He held the castoff sword to his chest.

  Confusion blossomed. “Put that down, Father.”

  “Look after your mother,” he said, and threw himself on the blade.

  The world broke.

  Mist approached in slow motion, rankers closing from the opposite direction. The air filled with streaming nether light, the Song a lamentable, soaring chorus, and raging despair burst like a dam. The warehouse disappeared.

  A provincial playhouse, a spotlight on a stage, Father laid out on it. The sword protruded from his chest—a death scene to surpass any in a thousand auditoria. Shimmering likenesses broke free from him, floating up like lost souls. Was this how dying looked in the Layer? Guyen pushed towards the stage, scrambling over seats, feet treacle, gravity tenfold. If only he could take the sword, defeat death, but hard as he tried, he could get no closer, new rows appearing with every one he clambered over. The Layer was tormenting him. He screamed, desperate for it to stop, but this was a play over which he had no direction. Cruel laughter rose up, a malicious, muttering audience. Then the seats were suddenly full of the hideous shadow creatures, dressed to the nines, jeering beneath their powdered wigs, spitting pitiless laughter through thick, bloody makeup. Despair crushed him.

  He screamed at the stage, unleashing his will. YOU WILL NOT LEAVE! But the ghosts obeyed a deeper truth.

  With a resolve to shake mountains, he willed the blade be gone, but the steel shimmered stronger, a million versions, all spiteful, determined to stay. Loss bit, corroding hope, and rage took over. The stage shook, but still Father’s probable selves flowed away like a mountain stream.

  A voice spoke. This is meant. You will not fight me.

  The words were inevitable. It was decided.

  It came again, sterner yet kind. This thing is set, my boy.

  Grief crashed down like a wave, drowning will and strength, as one by one, the last, most misshapen of father’s forms floated away, and with them joy. And then, just a solitary
red rose remained, the sword skewering it through its heart.

  The chair in front shimmered, its back a misty grey mirror. Guyen reached for it, and the warehouse blossomed into existence around him. Three redcoats charged, future echoes betraying their intentions. Bloody vengeance took hold, and he blocked a strike, smashing the wood into another assailant’s head in the same motion. Then Mist was on them like a tongue of flame, movements swift, surgical. Two men fell, her dagger cutting both necks in a spiralling arc. Guyen caught the tumbling sword and buried it in the last man’s chest. To kill was to live.

  “Down!” Mist shouted.

  He fell on instinct, and her knife flew, burying itself in the neck of an unseen man behind him. He took a breath. One more, and another. He didn’t want to look, but got to his feet. Father’s eye was still open. He closed it for him. The big man would need a long sleep now.

  Mist looked between them. “We really have to go,” she rasped. She pointed towards the far end of the warehouse. Concoction flared, vials popping, flagstones engulfed in flaming cyan. It was only a matter of time before those grenades blew. Two riders stared across the lake of flame, horses refusing to cross. The Cloaks. They turned their mounts around.

  A voice sprang from the Song. You are loved, my boy. Now we must part.

  Foreboding nether light coalesced. Something was coming. Something bad. Grief turned to fear.

  “Run!” Guyen screamed.

  They set off at a sprint, fizzing, cracking sounds growing behind them, and crashed through a side door into the sleety night. Chaos reigned outside now—half the buildings rubble, fires everywhere, bodies piled up as the cannon boomed and muskets rang out. They made it to Smoker. The horse pulled at her rope, whinnying in distress, a renegade survivor amongst a line of dead mounts. Mist cut her free, and Guyen vaulted into the saddle.

  Mist climbed up behind him. “Go!” she shrieked.

  He planted a kick, and the mare lurched forwards. A section of wall had collapsed, a company of pikemen reinforcing it. It was as good a target as any. He yanked the reins rightwards, kicking, urging, and Smoker broke into a gallop. Sleet thrashed his face, stinging eyes, and the line approached, Smoker’s pounding hooves quickening. And then they were upon them, scattering soldiers like skittles, thundering past into no man’s land.