Greyblade

by Andrew Hindle

  “You know, it’s not just the reaction of the Firstmades we need to worry about,” Gabriel said suddenly, “and not even the shitstorm that’s going to happen if we swing and miss. If this works, the Damorak Empire is going to be gunning for us.”

  “That’s our best case scenario,” Greyblade said. “The Four Realms … rearranged, but saved. Humanity pulled out of their Interdict and their dependence on soul-power, and given a chance at a clean break. Karl dead. And the Disciples and Jalah and the full might of the Brotherhood standing in front of the Damoraks, raising an eyebrow, and saying ‘hmmm?’.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “I could live with that.”

  “And Jalah will forgive us?” Galatine asked. His voice was more firm than plaintive. “Just let us go? I mean Magna and Ludi and – and Gabriel and the rest. Not me.”

  “Why not?” Greyblade spread his hands. “I don’t pretend to speak for the Firstmades, but absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

  “How far were you planning on relocating us, anyway?” Ludi asked.

  “As far as a relative field around the entire world will take us, and keeping in mind that a flatworld system like Earth’s really depends on both the physical properties of Castle space and the vacuum of the Void proper, especially if it doesn’t have something like the Eden Road to stand on anymore…” Greyblade replied, turning towards Gabriel. “It’s really more of a proof of concept than a plan at this point.”

  Gabriel barked a laugh. “One thing the enemy’s proof of concept has over ours,” he said, “if this big steaming pile of guesswork and supposition is remotely accurate–”

  “Big steaming pile of educated guesswork and supposition,” Galatine interjected. “I don’t otherwise object, but there is a chain of evidence here even if it’s pretty arcane at some points.”

  “Fine,” the Archangel conceded. “You know what their idea has over ours? They want to imprison the Pinians, and the last veil was pretty effective at that. I don’t know about Godproof, but even so. We want to kill Karl, and I still don’t see how relocating Earth is going to manage that,” he looked doubtful. “I can’t shake the idea that we’ll come crashing to a halt wherever we decide to park Earth, and Karl will dust Himself off and … well, not to detract from your earlier triumphant imagery, but … raise an eyebrow and say ‘hmmm?’.”

  “Whether it’s even possible to convert a God into harmless null-signal the way the fountains are supposed to will require more research,” Galatine warned, “because there’s more than scale involved. A God’s soul, if the concept is even applicable, is more than just a human soul with all its specs raised by an order of magnitude or three. But I think the general principle is sound.”

  “The veil is part of Mercy’s plan because the Pinians are Firstmades,” Greyblade added. “Trapping is the only effective way to take a Firstmade off the board. We have more permanent options.”

  “If we can get Galatine’s fountain to work, maybe Karl can just be vented off,” Magna suggested. “Draining Him to a point where there’s basically nothing left. Just a shadow, that we can pin down and stick a sword in.”

  Greyblade pointed at her. “You see? Finally something I understand,” they laughed. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy,” he went on seriously. “I’m not even saying it’s going to be merely difficult. It’s probably not going to be anything like we think. But–”

  Magna’s little interface gadget gave a quiet chime.

  “It’s the Drake,” she said, and tapped the device. “You’re on with all of us,” she reported. “Gabriel and Greyblade are here.”

  “Archangel,” the Drake’s hollow voice came from the interface, “Sir Knight. My friends. We are all out of time.”

  “PROOF OF CONCEPT”

  “The authorities are interested in talking to Sir Greyblade,” the Drake told the group. “It is a polite fiction they have established when in fact what they really want is to take someone into custody and then either deport or otherwise disappear them.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the sort of talk I’d enjoy,” Greyblade said. “What about the pub crawl that Ludi was planning for me? Much more my speed – although I still want to stress, the perversions for which the Burning Knights are apparently famous have all been tragically exaggerated…”

  “It is too late for that,” the Drake said. “It may have been too late from the beginning. Your arrival on Earth set off some silent alarms, Sir Knight, and I am afraid I failed to detect or predict them. I was not expecting the authorities to move so quickly – or, if they were going to move quickly, I expected them to do so more overtly.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Greyblade said. “This was probably inevitable. The point is, they’re searching for me.”

  “There have not been any further raids,” the Drake reported, “and the official line is that you are still in Adelbairn’s alien quarter. Naturally their team’s failure under Vanning is an embarrassment they wish to downplay.”

  “But they do secretly suspect I’m out here.”

  “Perhaps. There is no public arrest warrant in your name, just a quietly intensive data-sifting and communication that I have not seen before. The current condition is not a search, as such, but … if I had to hazard a guess, Sir Knight, I would say that they are hoping you will find out about their interest, turn yourself in and explain everything. That is very much how it seems at this point.”

  Greyblade considered this. It wasn’t entirely illogical. He was a Burning Knight, and even without his ship and his army he was a daunting asset to have on the loose. And technically he was an enemy combatant, albeit a surrendered, withdrawn and retired one.

  Of course all those security checks would have served some purpose. He’d been noted, no matter how bored and unimpressed the humans had seemed. Like Ludi had said, that information was bound to filter through to someone who was paying attention eventually. He’d vanished into Dumblertown like he lived there, and had made a beeline for the secret heart of the place. A heart Greyblade was having an increasingly hard time believing nobody outside Adelbairn knew about.

  And of course they wanted him to turn himself in and reassure them it was all fine, and that he wasn’t about to settle some old war debts. It was probably the only outcome the authorities were psychologically equipped to consider.

  “Alright,” he said, looking around the table in mounting frustration. There was a monumental, truly preposterous amount of work to do, before they had even the rudiments of a plan. Gabriel was right about that. He couldn’t leave these humans – and the Ogres – alone here with a proof of concept and list of vague instructions while he … what? Fled Earth? Headed off on some ridiculous … quest?

  Or surrendered to the Hathal Moga’threta authorities, and either wound up imprisoned, sent home, or quietly stricken from the record and fed to the next living gun that turned up in need of a new cell. The one belonging to the hapless commander he’d clobbered in the Drake’s tunnel, perhaps.

  He wondered if Burning Knight soul made a better weapon than Vampire.

  “Alright,” he said again. “I return to Adelbairn and hope the authorities are feeling magnanimous and really do just want a chat. I cooperate and behave myself, and get my shiny butt deported,” he nodded at Magna. “You knew my first visit would be brief. I was sort of hoping it would last longer than one night, but oh well.”

  “And then what?” Gabriel asked. “You go on your quest to find ten sisters who can help us get this done?”

  “Stands to reason,” Greyblade said. “Judging by – no offence – the sparse nature of true priests down here, Sister Bazinard is unlikely to have nine colleagues who will be able to band together and take down Karl the Bloody-Handed. It occurred to me that the ten sisters might refer to the ten Angels that the Treaty permits on Earth at any one time. But from what you’re saying, they’re pretty useless.”

  “Right,” Gabriel growled. “And what are we doing in the meantime?”

>   “Gazmouth works on his fountain prototype,” Greyblade suggested. “Gabriel, you see if you can’t find nine good Angels to move down here, if that’s all the Treaty will allow. The rest of you see if you can confirm Mercy has returned. Find this veil project if he’s started it back up. Sabotage it or delay it if you can. Oh, and figure out a way to evacuate the Eden Road. We need everybody off the staircase if we’re going to sever it.”

  “You say that like it’s going to prevent casualties,” Gabriel remarked.

  “Well, obviously we won’t be able to prevent casualties entirely–”

  “The Milkies are not going to move off the stairs,” Magna said disdainfully.

  “They will if we send the boys to clear them out,” Gabriel muttered.

  “If they don’t move, they’ll probably die,” Greyblade was unable to summon up much regret about that. “Earth will take the atmoplane between Heaven and Hell with it when it goes.”

  “Sir Knight,” the Drake said.

  “What about the sun?” Ludi asked. “It’s pretty important to us, but as far as I’m aware it doesn’t add much to Hell. Hell and Cursèd are basically uninhabited anyway. Can the seared realms survive without the sun? How do we even take it with us? Do we leave it behind and build a new one when we arrive at wherever we’re going?”

  “I remember reading something about how the sun’s heat and motion holds the flatworld stable as well as creating seasonal variances in Earth and Hell,” Magna said.

  “I have full megastructural theory and system schematics I can share with the Drake,” Greyblade said, then rolled his shoulders with a clank when everyone stared at him. “Like I said to Gabriel earlier,” he continued, “under different circumstances I would have been the guy helping take this world apart. Let’s see if we can get a better outcome–”

  “Sir Greyblade,” the Drake said more firmly.

  “Sorry. Yes?”

  “I am afraid that being vaguely cooperative and hoping the humans are magnanimous will not be enough,” the Drake said. “You will be detained, and even if you are not executed somewhere behind the scenes, you will be deported and permanently banned from returning to the Hathal Moga’threta. There will be an inter-realm inquest and official censure for your intrusion here. The authorities in Heaven will be informed and this will come to the attention of whoever is helping the Pinians demolish worlds these days, now that you are retired.”

  “She’s right,” Gabriel bared his big yellow teeth. “We should have seen this coming. That raid was too immediate, and too well-coordinated. They’re not going to just quietly thank you for your visit and invite you to come again any time.”

  “Then what do we do?” Greyblade said, already beginning to assemble action plans in order of preference and likelihood of success.

  “I have an idea,” the Drake said, “but you are not going to like it.”

  HOMESTEAD

  Morning was climbing towards midday and the heat was considerable, baking up from the hard yellow ground and down from the blazing sun.

  “This is it,” Greyblade said, looking around at the featureless near-desert. “These are the coordinates.”

  Ludi nodded, and glanced back with palpable regret at the battered old vehicle they’d driven out here and parked an unfortunately-necessary distance away. The car would be swiftly turning into a large mobile oven, but it must have seemed tantalising to someone for whom sweating was the only means of cooling down.

  “Yep,” she said unnecessarily. “They didn’t leave much of the old Bahere Homestead standing, did they?”

  “Well, according to the Drake this was always just an outlying section,” Greyblade said, “but now that you mention it, no. They didn’t leave a whole Hell of a lot.”

  Gabriel had stayed at the warehouse. The landat this edge of the Vanning city limits was still technically sanctified, but there was some variation, some uncertainty to it. Greyblade suspected the Archangel just didn’t like going outside at all during the day. And so Greyblade had said farewell to the Ogres, and to Magna and the Gunsmith, and had nodded to Gabriel, and driven out to this heat-blasted stretch of sandy nothingness.

  Ludi’s vehicle, which she’d said had once carried Colossal Colossal Pete although it had needed its roof replaced, had managed admirably even though its mechanisms had made strange gurgling noises. The water invector pile, Ludi had assured him, and Greyblade had taken her word for it. The car itself seemed to run on a converter taken from some larger vehicle, and he’d felt irrationally unclean after realising the energy probably wasn’t that much more blameless than the living guns. Soul power was primarily a weapon down here but it was working its way into everything, supplanting the other sources humanity had at their disposal. Galatine Gazmouth, with his combination of shame and technical expertise, was keeping the TrollCagers as clean as he could. But tech required power. It was a fact. Even Greyblade needed fuel sometimes.

  If they succeeded in moving Earth, he reflected as the cutter warmed up, the Power Plant and the Destarion would have to take up that load again. He was not going to leave Earth and its denizens to devour themselves.

  The sort of energy Earth was now enjoying was a wonderful gift, as long as you didn’t think about it too much. It was a box that would be difficult to close. A dream, as Ludi’s famous sister had once said, that might prove impossible to un-have.

  The cutter, already warping the air above its vents into heat-shimmers, gave a quiet chime. Greyblade planted his feet, trying to ignore the similarities between the directed heat beam and Galatine’s horrible soul-fountain, and turned the muzzle towards the already-baked ground.

  “Do we have to do this?” Ludi asked sadly.

  “It was the Drake’s idea,” Greyblade reminded her, although this felt like a lie. Yes, the Drake had been the one to suggest it – but Greyblade had already placed the approach high on his preference-list. With a marker discounting it, yes, as it had seemed an idea unlikely to be viewed in friendly terms by the others, but nevertheless high on the list. “She’ll be fine.”

  Ludi bit her lip. “Still…”

  “If it’s any consolation, my preferred alternative was to turn one of you TrollCagers in,” Greyblade told her. “Or reveal the warehouse itself. Of course, there’s too much sensitive material there to make it a sensible bargaining chip. Not to mention the fact that the Ogres live in it. Terrible bargaining chips, Ogres.”

  Ludi didn’t look consoled, let alone amused. Greyblade had to admit it had been a long shot. “But this–”

  “It will be fine,” he reiterated firmly. “There is nothing to connect the Drake’s trove–”

  “This is how it’s going to be,” Ludi interrupted with sudden anger, “isn’t it? I don’t need insight to see that. You’ve recruited us, and now we’re not just allies, not just soldiers – we’re tools.”

  “I prefer ‘assets’,” Greyblade made a final attempt at light-heartedness, “but yes. You should go,” he went on, nodding towards the car. “If they find you up here…”

  “They’re not that close,” Ludi protested.

  “I also can’t promise this won’t get too hot for you to survive,” he added gently, nodding at the vibrating cutter in his hands. “I’m going to be vaporising rock.”

  Ludi looked as though she wanted to argue with him, but she began to back away.

  “Don’t you forget,” she warned him. “Don’t you leave us down here and forget. You’re not retired anymore, no matter what they try to tell you. You have a mission, and you’ve made us part of that mission, and we’re risking everything–”

  Greyblade activated the cutter. Ludi grimaced, shouted a few more words that his treacherous sensors picked out of the ferocious roar of the machine – you’d better be worth it, you big gold prick – and then retreated to the car as the ground and the air began to boil.

  It wasn’t far to the tunnel-segment the Drake had mentioned. Eighteen metres of packed sandstone and Dragon-metamorphosed rock
, and he felt the cutter’s beam change harmonic as it hit air on the far end. He switched off the machine, set it carefully on the ruddy glass lip of the hole he’d carved, and jumped feet-first and arms-by-sides into the chute without a backward glance at Ludi. Without needing a backward glance.

  360° vision was a bitch sometimes.

  It was a straight drop, earning him only a slight scraping as he plummeted, and he landed easily on the familiar clinkers of Dragon-cave. The crash of his landing echoed up and down a short curve of long-abandoned tunnel.

  Waiting for a short time to ensure Ludi had opportunity to make good her escape, he sent a quick location signal to the Adelbairn alien quarter regulatory and security department. It was a simple acknowledgement without details, revealing that he had noted their interest in his location and was now at liberty to reveal it and intended to cooperate. Once it was received, he closed himself off from further attempts to locate or communicate, and walked into the sweltering-hot darkness.

  The floor curved away to the left and arched downwards, so by the time the beam of light from his hole was gone and he was operating on echo-ambients, he was also practically sliding down the steep curve. The tunnel finally went vertical and then looped underneath itself in a fat corkscrew, and Greyblade dropped with another echoing crash to the next stretch. This one remained flat, and extended for some hundreds of metres with the temperature climbing still further before opening out in a wide, kiln-hot chamber similar to the Drake’s technology-trove.

  This space was smaller, and heaped with more traditional gemstones, artworks and precious metals. They were dusty and looked rather shabby to his admittedly uneducated scans, not to mention a bit heat-damaged by recent careless tunnelling, but even without the additional prestige of being Dragon treasure, it was probably still worth a lot to the right collector. He estimated that it was a mere fraction of Bahere’s old hoard, and a fraction of a fraction of the value of the Drake’s.