King Tides Curse

by C J Timms

  Red paused. ‘Did you just make a funny?’

  Rust was already moving ahead, and Red had to run to catch up. ‘How has this prison stayed hidden so long?’

  ‘They say that humans tend to not look up, in Celesta Firma no one ever looks down. They have always remained aloft through every conflict, even the Redox. No matter the need of those beneath them, Celesta Firma takes care of itself.’

  Though they would say it was ‘non-interference’ Rust thought and spat to the side. It was challenging to do through a helmet, but some things were worth mastering.

  Red snorted, eyeing a long row of cells. ‘When you’re done pontificating, there’s work to be done, ay Rusty?’

  Rust’s armour shrieked in protest, and he made a fist.‘Do not call me that.’

  Redfoam smiled, ‘You never follow through on your threats, and you’re such a…flake.’

  Rust’s hand twitched towards his blade. ‘Try to be useful and go bleed on something,’ he said.

  Don’t rise to Redfoam [ ]

  A long corridor of prison cells stretched ahead of them. The stench of decay hit them first, the raw odour of human waste and stagnation. The cells were mostly constructed of bamboo, but some of the cell bars and the locks were steel. There was no light in the cell hallway, so Rust relaxed his focus and viewed the world, through the Vibe.

  They passed rickety cells, the structure swaying faintly with their movement. Within the cells, Scaled sat in chains or hooked to intravenous drips. Many of the prisoners had the burns and jagged outlines of attempted surgery. Their Scripts were charred messes, pieces cut out and salt falling from the edges. Rust paused in front of one wretch whose Script was nothing more than a black husk.

  This prisoner was a komodo covered in silvery black scale. Most of the prisoners were Scaled, either human or Paramourans, this was the only komodo. Normally blue and brown scales were now black and grey. Its eyes were crusted over with scale, blinded by the growths. Its tongue hissed out and scented the air, and then the komodo bared its fangs.

  Rust grinned. ‘Ah, you remember me, don’t you Dagon? It has been such a long time between drinks.’

  ‘We don’t need them, keep to the mission.’ Red called.

  Rust ignored her and stepped through the bars of the cell. They warped away from him, twisting into awkward, tortured shapes to avoid his touch. Rust bent over the chained komodo, and put a hand on Dagon’s shoulder. Dagon pulled back his lips in a snarl but scaled growths twisted his mouth as moved it. Dagon slumped back into the wall, motionless, defeated.

  ‘All things turn to rust. They tried to fix you, to put you back in a normal little box. But you aren’t evil. You are the natural evolution.’

  ‘They aren’t family Rust, stop dicking around, and let's get what we came for.’ Redfoam said.

  The komodo cracked one eye, through a mass of scale, a hint of yellow watched Rust.

  ‘Now, now, Red. Indeed, they are not family, but they are hungry. Hungry for vengeance, hungry for the end, hungry for a glorious final battle.’ Rust said, raising his voice.

  Red nodded, ‘Feed the hungry then…go on.’

  Red turned to the rest of the cells and pulled out a blood-red trident. Red began to stroll down the partitions, whistling a tune and letting the trident lazily clang against each bar. Red tides seeped out and eroded the bars of the prisoners cells. A red blur with a fin passed out of the Red’s shadow, and something bit through the remaining cell locks.

  Rust looked at Dagon, hunched in front of him.

  ‘All things come to an end, but a man should get to choose his ending.’

  The Rust Knight touched the chains, and they corrupted, falling apart. Dagon’s great yellow eye looked at his freed hands and then back to Rust. A low growl emanated deep within him, trembling the bamboo around him.

  ‘Now visualise your goals, what is it you want Dagon? A glorious conclusion or fade to nothing with a whimper.

  Choose.’

  The Scaled surged up through the bowels of the cloud city. Like a bilious vomit, they brought the acrid stink of decay, of a truth buried in the depths that had fermented for years. They broke through the bamboo prison and into rock passageways, charging ever upwards. The Paramourans were caught flatfooted, shocked as their secret fortress was routed. Too late, alarm bells tolled, and soldiers struggled to posts.

  Rust strolled up through the citadel in the wake of the prisoners. Red had darted ahead to take care of her hungers. Grand tapestries and shining portraits of light covered the walls. Rust stopped to examine one and slashed his blade through a portrait of Rid, the first Skyburnt. He found a picture of Zasterix kneeling to the Paramouran king and growled, ripping it from the wall.

  A group of soldiers raised a cry and charged him. Their blades bounced off his armour and broke apart. Rust backhanded one of them, sending him flying into a wall. The man’s armour crumbled from Rust’s touch.

  Rust rumbled a low laugh, visualise your goals, and nothing can stop you.

  Rust threw the throne room doors wide open. Garvish, the Lord of this cloud haven, sat his throne of shifting white cloud-rock sideways, two legs draped over the edge. The cloud-rock was harvested from deep in the island. Garvish held a great sword in front of him with one hand, the tip resting on the floor. Garvish’s skin was brown, and his eyes were piercing blue. His hair was impeccable, and his beard long. His honour guard drew golden blades, clad in golden armour, with golden capes. It was on brand, he supposed, but did seem a bit much, even for Paramourans.

  A device floated behind the throne that made Rust' heart swell. It was here. He'd been right.

  Scaled flooded the throne room, improvised weapons at their sides. They hurled themselves with snaps and grunts upon the honour guard. Swords with golden sigils cleaved through them and yet the tide of prisoners kept coming. The gold of their swords flickered with magic, made hard as steel, not malleable like standard gold. The Scaled, to the last, desperately clawed at their captors. Rust nodded and stood back, all things to their natural end.

  The last Scaled was the komodo Rust had freed, Dagon. Dagon roared defiance and bit into the shoulder of an honour guard as he was cut down. Then the honour guard advanced on Rust.

  Rust’s low laughter came from his helmet, undercut by whispers of tortured metal. None could hurt him, not through the rust-hide, he had a crystal clear focus, a visualised goal.

  One of their blades pierced his armour. A glancing blow cut his arm shallowly. Leaping backwards, Rust grabbed his arm with a gauntleted hand. He narrowed his eyes at the golden sword, marked with his blood and waited for it to crumble.

  The sword held strong.

  Rust updated his to-do list.

  Break every last weapon of Noble Metal [ ]

  Rust let out a feral shriek and charged the group, swinging his blade two-handed. His blade knocked back a guard into a wall from the force of it, but the man’s armour did not flake or corrode. The honour guard advanced on him, Garvish grinned and took a drink from his cup.

  Rust exploded into a swarm of metal flakes that darted behind the honour guard and reformed. Rust grabbed a guard from behind and corroded the floor beneath him, sinking the man half through. He flashed around the honour guard, torches blown out by his motion, reforming for just long enough to cut them down. The Rust blade was everywhere, he couldn’t corrode their armour, but there were gaps in the plate just like any other. Rust cut down the last honour guard and stood panting, his blood pounding in his ears, his face contorted.

  It had been so long since someone had cut him. Not since the traitor had torn him down.

  A slow clap rang out across the throne room. Garvish swung his legs off the throne and came to standing. Garvish tossed aside his sword and instead held out his hand, summoning a golden flail. The wicked spiked metal ball was attached to chains of gold, and it hit the ground with a booming clang.

  Rust’s hand touched the cut on his arm and sealed it over with his magic. Rough scar
tissue. ‘Where did you get such armour and weapons?’

  Garvish’s shoulder rolled back, and he started to swing the flail slowly. A needless waste of energy, the smug bastard. Garvish still thought he was going to win with ease.

  ‘We keep the old ways.’ Garvish said, stepping forwards with the flail slowly looping by his side. The clang of the moving chain echoed through the room.

  ‘Our armour is old.’ Golden metal plates formed on Garvish’s chest, his arms and legs.

  ‘Our pride is old,’ Garvish strode forward, a golden helmet formed over his head.

  ‘We keep the old ways. We fell from the heights and still landed higher than you.’

  Rust rushed him and swung out overhanded. He ducked inside the reach of the flail, a stupidly clumsy weapon and brought his blade down on the armour. He summoned his full powers, visualised his goals and willed Garvish’s stupid gold-tinted plate to corrode.

  The gold held firm.

  The flail caught Rust on the side and knocked him across the room into a wall. He felt pain crack down his back and his rust-hide armour bend. Rust fell from the wall to one knee. His helmet dislodged, he brought a hand up and coughed blood into it. His chest was tight, and he struggled to draw breath.

  ‘Noble does not rust.’ Garvish said as he strolled forwards. The chains of his flail looping through the air. His thick biceps manoeuvred the bulky weapon through spirals in the air.

  Rust growled deep in his throat and exploded into a metallic storm of parts. He surged around Garvish and reformed at his back, lunging out with the Rustblade.

  Fire erupted from Garvish’s back, hurling Rust across the room again, this time smashing into the throne. Rust dropped to the floor on his hands and knees at the base of the throne. The fire had burned his airways, his throat. He took a deep breath, and everything cried out in pain. The prideful bastard had held this back while his men died.

  Golden loops of chain pulled around Rusts throat, and he was hauled to his feet. Choking, unable to breathe, a terrible weight pressing down on his chest, Rust looked up at Garvish.

  ‘Your crusade ends here. You have fought well, now fall with pride.’ Garvish raised the flail to bring it down on Rust’s head.

  A crimson trident erupted from Garvish’s chest. He looked down in shock, and his golden armour began to break away.

  ‘I am not so proud as to fight you on one.’ Rust said ripping the gold chains from his throat.

  The crimson trident pulled back, and Garvish fell to the floor. Redfoam stood over Garvish then kicked him across his throne room.

  ‘If you had fought with your men, you might have won. But their pride wouldn’t allow it, would it?’ Rust said. ‘Now fall with pride.’

  He turned to Red, ‘Where the bleeding heck have you been?’

  Red licked their lips. ‘Feeding the hungry.’

  Rust moved back towards the throne and towards the glass case that towered behind it. Within the glass case stood an ancient-looking canister, strange markings around its surface. Rust smiled and pulled out his to-do list.

  Gather the nine relics [ ]

  ‘One down, eight to go.’

  Red stood over Garvish and reached down. Red ripped a set of bone-white coral dog tags from around the mans neck. Then Red moved to bring the trident up for a final blow. A young girl, no more than fourteen, jumped out from behind a pillar. Shaking, she held up a bread knife in defence.

  ‘Leave my father alone.’ The girl shrieked. She balled up her other fist and lashed out with the cutlery. Red didn’t bother to dodge. It bounced harmlessly off the shell armour with a clang.

  ‘You defend your family to the death?’ Red said, towering over the trembling child. She looked down at Garvish blood pooling beneath him and back at the child.

  ‘He is dying. It will be a good death. Make your peace.’ Then Red moved towards the altar where Rust examined the canister.

  The girl dropped the breadknife and bent over her father. Her father coughed blood and took her hands in his.

  ‘Run Diedrik,’ Garvish rattled out.

  ‘No father, I will get help, you will live.’ Diedrik said as tears ran down her face.

  ‘Run you fool,’ his eyes darted to the Rust Knight approaching the canister. ‘This place will burn. Always remember…always remember the family words.’ He stopped, spluttered and his eyes lost focus for a moment. A final spark rose, and he gripped her hands tight.

  ‘Burn the sky, as the sky burns you,’ Garvish said.

  ‘We fall with pride, but fall with a view.’ Diedrik replied.

  ‘Now run.’ Garvish said, flinging her hand away and Diedrik fled into the night.

  ‘Garvish you bastard,’ Rust roared.

  Rust’s hands grasped at the canister, and they passed through it like smoke. The canister was an illusion.

  ‘Give it another go Rusty, its a can-nister not a can’t-ister.’ Red said.

  Rust punched through the throne, splitting it down the middle. The gold only a thin sheen coating it, the inside just base steel. Rust turned to glare at Garvish.

  ‘It is not here, bringer of rust. Did you really think that the proud Pararmourans would keep their relic in a secret fortress? We keep the old ways, our pride is old, and we are too proud to hide it away.’ He spat out a clod of blood.

  Rust rushed over and brought his sword down onto Garvish’s neck. Rust heaved heavy breaths as he brought the blade down, again and again, shattering what remained of the golden armour. Finally, he threw his weapon aside and sat on the broken throne. From outside smoke and flame began to enter the throne room. The cries of Brazenbound’s people broke the night air.

  Rust felt the scar tissue on his arm from the cut. He’d underestimated them, but there were no more surprises. They'd been the last dregs at the end of an empty cup. No more Skyburnt to fight him.

  Red twirled their trident, a red shadow darted into the throne room and flitted back underneath the red armour. Red cocked their head as if listening. ‘It's not in Brazenbound, if not here, then where?’

  ‘They’re Paramourans. There is only one place they would put it. Frak.’ Rust spat on the golden throne. He pulled out his to-do list.

  ‘We can’t get my relic yet,’ Rust chewed on the words.

  Red leaned forward, ‘Are you saying what I think you are.’

  Rust scribbled a new goal on his to-do list, there were nine relics after all, his could wait.

  Enrol in University [ ]

  Gale - The Lighhouse

  We have fought the fathomless for half a millennia and yet I am reminded of the old axiom ‘know your enemy’. Perhaps labelling them unfathomable was a mistake.

  The journal of Grimace the Heretic.

  The Lighthouse was a handyman’s dream.

  Grim basalt fashioned a squat, ugly square base to the tower then gave way grudgingly to octagonal stone and timber levels. The stone was broken up by murder holes and barred windows. Near the top was a series of nine circular metallic levels, each a different colour. A golden flame capped the tower in front of a vast mirror of polished silver. The mirror projected light around the University, forming a barrier reef of interlocking light. A miniature reefwall, similar to the one around Ionhome.

  The Lighthouse had layers of disuse. Real respectable disuse, the kind of disuse that took generations to acquire. Practically the nobility of dilapidation.

  First, there was the entrance door that had stubbornly refused to move without a key. The door had stood by its principles of durability, sturdiness and safety. At least until Swan had kicked it down, then there was the dust so thick it could be used as a cushion. It coated everything, the old creaking timbers which formed the stairs and the doors, the faded fabrics which lined the windows and even bunged up the plumbing. Finally was the only thing not coated by dust, the fresh rat droppings.

  Truly the home of heroes.

  ‘Constant and never-ending improvement, that's how we’ve got to think about this place.�
�� Gale said, holding up his Tony Robbins book.

  ‘Give it a rest Gale.’ Swan said. She put down her moving boxes, sat for a moment and wiped the sweat from her brow. They’d cracked every window, and the sea breeze fought the summer heat for a tolerable climate, but it was losing the battle. The crunch of moving crates and the rip of plastic packaging filled the air. The common room had become a graveyard for cardboard and bubble wrap.

  Gale sprayed aloe vera onto his burning arms again. Sunburn covered every inch of him. It hurt to move and lying down was a penance. The aloe vera helped a bit, but this was worse than just a light sunburn. Pushing his Script to its limits had been a terrible risk.

  He’d nearly burnt out just trying to get in.

  Swan put the final screws into an armour rack and smirked at him. ‘Geez Knott, I’ve seen some bad burns in my time, but you take the cake. Script light burns same as any other…gotta remember that.’ She paused and grinned. ‘Is….every part of you sore?’

  Gale winced and placed another cushion under his butt.

  ‘But what a guy! Blindly hurling us into the heart of battle. You, Gale Knott, are a top bloke.’ ’ Titus said and slapped Gale heartily on the back. His very sunburnt back. Gale let out a whimper.

  ‘You, my friend, have earnt yourself a pie.’ Titus said and offered Gale a lukewarm meat pie from his pocket. Gale took it, studied the slightly squashed pastry and Titus’s earnest expression. What the hell, he thought and bit in.

  Not bad and well salted.

  He threw Titus a bottle of Ironchurch’s conditioner in exchange. Swan and Yip had already turned it down.

  Swan banged on the fireplace with a wrench eliciting a puff of ash from the chimney. She pushed open the door to the kitchen, and it collapsed off its hinges. Cockroaches scuttled away into the darkness.‘I could be getting a massage at House Solvent right now.’

  Gale put on his team leader smile and stood atop the kitchen table. ‘Swan, the profession of the lighthouse keeper is a proud and ancient one. This Lighthouse protects the island from incursion by the Deep. In the dark wilds of the ocean, this my friends…Is a House of Light.’