A moment later there was frenzied activity in the skies above the ship as the Hanuman fluttered manically, unbuckling their excitement, and the Exmachina began to slow its pace and veer off-course.
Eir and Rika joined him, and gripped the railing as the ship’s motion readjusted. ‘What’s going on?’ Eir said.
Randur pointed to the huge unfalling clumps of land.
‘What is that?’ Eir whispered. She had a way of showing her apprehension by rubbing her arm above her elbow, as if she felt cold.
The wind accelerated because of the change of direction, sending his hair in tendrils across his face. ‘Whatever it is has sent Artemisia legging it, which doesn’t bode well.’
Artemisia returned with an armful of items.
‘Keep these on and you’ll be fine.’ She offered some masks of red mesh that fitted over their mouths, crafted from no material he knew of, and they dutifully secured them. Randur discovered that his breathing was just as easy.
The looming peaks sailed towards the ship, and small dark objects could be seen above and below, skittering and darting about in ragged patterns of flight.
‘What are those things?’ Randur asked, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.
‘Those vessels, they are called Giasty – literally earth cities, although little lives there. The structures you will see on them are, in fact, largely constructed of human bones, which should, I hope, give an indication of how they view your species. Human bone is valued as a building resource in our world. And those things you see flying about are called Mogilal – they are quite a menace. And, I fear, they have been waiting for us.’
‘Are they the creatures you are fighting?’ Randur asked.
‘My world is, yes.’ She unsheathed her blades with a zing, and Randur took a step back as their arc whipped past his face. If Artemisia herself was anything to go by, these other creatures would probably be violent.
‘Should we be doing anything to help?’ Randur glanced towards the girls, whose gaze was locked on the drifting island. He drew his own sword, and Eir, alert to his gesture, followed suit, but the dismissive glance from Artemisia suggested that such weapons would be of little use.
A fizz across the sky, a high-pitched whistle, and something slapped into the ship below. Artemisia hastily put on her own mask, fabricated from the same red mesh. She seemed to wait for . . .
Two deep thuds, then stillness.
Another object streaked across on an upward trajectory, visible white trails carving up the sky . . . towards the ship, above the ship, then the Hanuman clustered around it and screeched, and something exploded in a smoke-plume. Bits of flesh began to litter the deck.
Artemisia began shouting orders in some unknown language, waving her swords at the Hanuman who seemed utterly stunned by what was going on. A flock of them clustered as one mass, and waited overhead. The next projectile they dealt with better: slowing it significantly, then gently steering it away from the ship till it dropped over the side.
The warrior turned to the three humans. ‘Do not move. Do not inhale when they explode. Do not remove your masks or you will not be able to speak afterwards.’
They nodded in silent affirmation as Artemisia took several big strides towards the centre of the deck. The sun was nearly below the clouds, extending the woman’s shadow bold and long.
Time after time the Hanuman steered the projectiles away from the ship and into harmless oblivion, and occasionally there were explosions from down below, well out of sight.
Both blades drawn, Artemisia waited like a prophet as the Hanuman circled in the air above. Her hair stirred in the wind.
The land masses came close enough so that Randur could perceive settlements on them, weird esoteric homesteads and other structures that cluttered up the rockscape. They seemed too bizarre to be real.
A smaller fragment of land peeled away from this one, then drifted like a bubble towards the Exmachina. A shadowy figure stood on top of it.
Across the intervening sky. Then alongside.
The figure banked alongside the large vessel and hopped aboard with a thud as it touched the deck. As tall as Artemisia, white-skinned and gold-armoured, the thing took three steps forward and Artemisia backed away cautiously, enticing it further into the centre.
Then it happened strangely:
The combatants slowed and juddered in and out of time and location, flickered from one part of the deck to another, appearing each time in different fight poses as if racing and grappling with each other through incomprehensible zones of space, a fight spiralling through dimensions that were impossible.
The third pose: blades locked at the far end of the ship, silhouetted against the red sky.
Flicker.
The fourth: amidships, two strokes from the stranger and both connected with the deck; and Artemisia severed its arm, blood pooling all round.
Flicker, the fifth pose: now nearby, her victim screeched as she jumped and kicked out at its chest, sending it sprawling on to its spine. She marched closer and, with its other arm, the intruder raked its sword horizontally. The edge sliced through Artemisia’s thigh.
Rika gasped in concern, and Eir had to hold her back.
Artemisia buckled on one knee, dropping her blade, then the two began to grapple hand to hand. Pinning the enemy’s free arm, Artemisia brought up her remaining sword then stabbed it through the chest, the tip of the metal splintering the deck beneath.
After a moment of violent but silent juddering, the enemy fell still.
Artemisia pushed herself upright, panting, wiping blood from her brow, and gestured with her weapon at the corpse.
‘Earthlanders, come. I shall show you one of those we fight.’
Randur and the girls moved tentatively over to her side and for a moment they watched the warrior rip some material from her clothing then wrap it around her wound.
The body looked inglorious in its wreckage: yet this was something once noble, with a slender face almost human in its features, and something almost deer-like about its bodily form. A muscular white body was encased in golden armour, into which was carved all sorts of intricate designs, making it look too precious for use in combat.
‘It is one of the Pithicus – using your mythological term – who with others make up the nations of the Akhaioí. Another race invented by your early ancestors. These people command a wealth of forces, including the race which has breached into your world, their expendable foot soldiers – the Cirrips. Though no doubt your people would have given it another name by now. These Akhaioí deem themselves superior to other species, and I am surprised to find that they have come through already. Normally the Cirrips do all their fighting in the early stages.’
‘This creature seems so elegant,’ Randur remarked. ‘Clearly these things were wrought to look good.’
‘Do not be deceived by their beauty. These are people who, if granted victory, would see you wiped out in order to repopulate with their own kind. I have seen so many of their like, and fought . . . thousands of them. Be warned, the human and rumel races will come to an end if the Akhaioí lay siege to your dimension, like they do to our last city. Our people are becoming too few to protect you all.’
‘What do they want here?’ Rika enquired.
‘The same as we all do. To survive. Is that not what species seek? We may appear vastly esoteric to people of your culture, but I can assure you of this: when faced with the end of our existence, we are desperate and humble. The difference between ourselves and our enemy is that they wish to clear the land totally first, and then to use your bones as material to build their habitations. We simply wish to live alongside you, or quietly on our own in some distant corner. I repeat, this is why I have been sent to find you.’
‘How the hell can one woman achieve anything? I mean to say, you’re pretty sharp with a sword, but against whole armies?’
Artemisia seemed unconcerned by this query. ‘I may be able to disconnect their sentience – which
is how they, your new enemy, communicate. The doorway through which they entered is a massive chain of communication utilizing various primitive signals transmitted through the air. Without this link, they become significantly less skilled as fighters. The rest, admittedly, may be up to your own armies. I am not a god, but I can still utilize this ship’s science.’
Randur began, ‘We have cultists—’
‘Your cultists’, Artemisia interrupted, ‘are constantly flapping about the Archipelago as if they actually know something. I can tell you this much: they know nothing.’
FORTY-THREE
Under pressure from the soon-expected sea landing, the meeting of the cultists with the commander was brisk and volatile, with an explosion of demands and requests for help.
As they discussed detail, Beami watched him, the albino, brooding over every statement in agonizing slowness, his elegant fingers tapping on the table as if to deepen any silences. She wished she possessed a relic for freezing time in order to get things done more quickly in real time. Commander Lathraea was proving unhelpful, as she had expected. The army were to have total control. The army would dictate everything.
The army this. The army that.
The other cultists in this emergency unit were seven men and one other woman. Originally congregated from various minor orders, two of which she’d never even heard of, they were all keen if not completely proficient.
Two of the men were middle-aged, one with grey hair and the other with none, and she felt immediately that they were powerful, despite their seeming unwillingness to take the threat of war all that seriously. They gave their names – well, one of them did: Abaris and Ramon.
Ramon had a look of psychopathic intensity about him, the kind of glint in his bright eyes that suggested he could be friendly one moment, but would have no trouble in slitting your throat the next. Stocky, with perspiration glistening on his bald head, he stank of stale sex and bad magic. His colleague, Abaris, chubby and moustached, was the only one of the pair who would ever speak. Only in the silences did she notice how Ramon had one blue eye, one brown.
Abaris made a minimal yet bold claim. ‘We might’, he said, ‘be able to do things with the dead.’
He marched his fingers across the tabletop as if to suggest their intentions.
Necromancy . . . Is that what they do?
And how exactly would that be of any help? Beami had never heard of these people, but the more macabre cultists did tend to isolate themselves.
‘Which is fine,’ she replied to the weirdly light-hearted figure of Abaris, ‘but what about making the enemy dead in the first place?’
‘Lass, we’ll require a measure of time before we can go into action. And then . . .’
Ramon did nothing but grin, yet she noticed the creases in his face, evidence of years of almost blissful anguish. The two of them frightened her with their deep serenity. They possessed a kind of confidence that overwhelmed her.
The conversation lurched back and forth between the commander and the cultists. She did not want her kind to be treated merely as weapons. They were people who thought and reacted carefully and could use relics to a devastating effect – if they were allowed a little freedom.
Messengers frequently interrupted them with updates on the invasion fleet heading towards the city. Every new one of them left the room feeling darker, as if a death in the family had been announced. And how many thousands of those would there soon be? The increasing stress was obvious on the albino’s face. Frequently he would rise from his chair and circle the room as if no one else was present, and occasionally he’d catch the eye of Ramon, who would smile back at him in a macabre fashion.
As Beami peered out of the window trying to see where the enemy were currently, her vision drifted over the docks and the front line of fortifications, the makeshift barricades and the archers stationed in windows and other vantage points. Would they really be enough?
*
An idea came to mind and Beami announced it to the room.
Abaris clapped his hands. ‘Lass, that’s proper genius, that is. Me and Ramon will wait for you to finish up, before we can make our immediate contribution.’ Ramon’s head began to rock back and forth, his eyes firmly closed as if he was contacting someone outside the room via some ethereal means. Abaris adjusted his tweed robe and leaned in to await a further reaction from the room.
A murmur of approval rippled towards her.
The albino slumped forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hands, and he stared at her. He didn’t seem particularly unenlightened in his attitude towards her, but did he really believe she was capable, this mere woman? She had been used to receiving that response throughout her life, and had learned to suppress her frustrations. Brynd said, ‘We could defend the docks with our forces stationed on the quayside to prevent the enemy getting into the city.’
‘Let them just come ashore, then I can rid you of many more than your army could ever hope to do in one attack.’ Beami couldn’t wait any longer. If she was going to aid his defence of the city she had to do it immediately. ‘Leave it to me, please. I only need half an hour. Send the order to call the soldiers back from the front line and make them stand two streets away from the waterfront instead. They’ll be safe there, and meanwhile I can focus on the—’
‘One hour and the invasion fleet will be arriving here by that very same entry point into the city,’ Brynd snapped.
‘Exactly,’ she smiled. ‘So trust me.’
With a rush of emotions she fled the room, hearing him say, ‘You have just one chance to earn that trust, do you hear me?’
*
She burst out through the fog, this cultist on a lively mare, heading out through the back of the Citadel. Gathered civilian foot soldiers looked up half astonished at her thundering through their mass.
Out into the city, her route took her the long way round, due to the military blockades and the thousands of troops readied for engagement. Under the shadow of the Onyx Wings, along the fringe of Althing, the Shanties, and straight towards Port Nostalgia, with a bag of modified Brenna-based relics slung across one shoulder, and suddenly Lupus was riding behind her, on a muscular black mare, still in his Night Guard uniform, a bow strapped across his back.
‘Why’re you following me?’ she shouted.
‘Commander’s orders. He doesn’t quite trust you, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, he should,’ she replied.
‘Beami, wait a moment.’
She sought to curb her horse and was surprised at how quick its response was. ‘What?’
‘Have you ever killed anyone before?’
She shook her head. Only then did she realize what she was taking on.
‘You want to prove things to a world of men, I know,’ Lupus said, his voice carefully controlled. He was on army time now. ‘But listen, when you kill, your heart will start to beat incredibly fast and you’ll feel a rush of emotions like you’ve never felt before. Your throat might seize. Take deep breaths to calm yourself and take control of your body else your muscles might seize. Think only of the relics, that might help.’
They galloped through deserted streets, abandoned neighbourhoods, rubble and detritus. Hooves reverberated loudly on cobbles. The mood of the place seemed to foreshadow a forthcoming apocalypse, but only a few streets away life flared: files of men and women lined up behind stout barricades, with their cheap weapons, and charged by a hope laced with fear.
Eventually Beami slowed down, and she moved the bag of relics in front of her.
Lupus pulled in alongside her. ‘Where are we heading exactly?’
‘Western side of Port Nostalgia,’ she replied, ‘and then we’re moving through to the east, and at some point we’ll need to cut a line back to the front of the Citadel. We won’t have long so please, Lupus, you’ll have to hold back because of the sheer scale of this experiment.’
She undid her necklace, the silver tribal symbol he’d given her all those years ago.
‘Look after this for the moment.’
Without emotion, he took it and placed it safely in his pocket. He made a silent but important gesture, edging his horse slightly behind hers once again. Drawing his bow over his shoulder, he glanced from side to side. ‘At least let me cover your back.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Beami primed the relics and stared up as the snow began falling, bold flakes that saturated the grey sky. She nudged her horse forward into the open Port Nostalgia district – surprised at how this unfamiliar mount seemed to react as if it already knew her thoughts. Now to the harbour front itself, where four ships of the invading fleet had already breached the harbour walls and were parting the vessel-crowded port with ease.
Fishing boats capitulated in their path, buckling under the impact, a series of tiny wooden explosions.
‘You’d better hurry,’ Lupus advised her.
Beami observed the terrace of coloured buildings, noting their vacant facades. Thankfully there was no one stationed in the windows, no sword points or arrow tips sticking out from behind the barricades.
The commander had done what she asked.
She dismounted and hauled out the first of the amplified Digr-Brenna relics. She had modified several of them so they could sit on spikes, and with a small mallet pounded one into a gap between the cobbles.
Lupus loitered close by, watching intently.
‘Please, Lupus, keep clear. I’ll be all right on my own. It’ll get dangerous very soon. Please, go now – and take my horse with you.’
His understanding was instant, and nothing seemed to demonstrate his respect for her more than when he silently turned his horse away.
‘I’ll be at the east end of the harbour, waiting.’ A smile and he was gone.
No time for emotion, not now. Deep breaths.
She wedged another device in a gap, where it leant at an angle, but remained upright. Another twenty paces, another relic, and so on; all the time she had to endure the fearsome racket of the enemy ships crunching their way towards the shore.
City Of Ruin Page 38