Road Brothers

by Mark Lawrence

  In my moment of hesitation Hakon, or his remains, took hold of the stand. I tugged at it but his grip had no give.

  “This one nearly succeeded,” he said. Or rather it was the ghost’s voice, but firmer, and sounding from the box in his chest. “He can support me, but his brain degenerates under fine control and the degree of putrefaction about the implants is too great to be sustained in the longer term.”

  “And I was to be your next ... steed?” I tugged at the stand again.

  “You still will be,” Kalla said, her voice coming distractingly from both the ghost and the box in Hakon’s chest. “The last faults have been analysed. This time it will succeed. Nor will your life be forfeit. Even this one isn’t dead - not truly.” Hakon slipped from the table and stood before me, both hands tight about the stand. “Carry me for long enough to complete three alternate hosts and I’ll send you on your way with nothing but a few stitches.”

  “Why me?” I glanced around, looking for the way out. “Get some new bodies to play with.”

  “You’ve broken my last sedation units.”

  “Mend them-” I lunged forward and tore one of the vials free.

  Releasing the stand, I stepped away, holding the vial overhead, ready to smash it.

  “Don’t-”

  “Who was the other one? The ghost who put on the skull-and-bones show for us, tried to scare us off?”

  “A colleague at this facility, also copied and stored as a data echo. She ... disapproves of my work here. We’re isolated in this network. Security they called it.” She made a bitter noise. “Our research too classified to risk a leak. And so until I find a way to have our data physically carried to another portal we’re cut off from the deep-nets. Just us two ... arguing ... for a thousand years. I have the upper hand now though, especially in here. The outer part of the station collapsed long ago and our projection units are outside. She lacks the power to interfere for long.”

  I spotted a door and backed rapidly toward it. The ghost winked out but Hakon followed me, carrying the stand like a quarterstaff, a touch awkward in his gait. I wondered if he was still in there, fighting her, or were the important parts of his brain floating in some jar on a high shelf?

  “Where’s Katherine?” I asked it to keep Kalla occupied, though perhaps when a machine does your thinking for you distraction is impossible. Maybe all my parameters were already calculated within the Builders’ engines, wheels turning through each possibility like the mathmagicians of Afrique, the odds sewn tight against me.

  “So you did have help?” A flicker of annoyance in the voice, though Hakon’s face revealed no emotion. “It was a subtle thing, detected only after analysis. A manipulation at sub-instrumental levels. Sleep psionics of advanced degree...”

  I found the door and tugged at it. Hakon took three quick steps and I set both hands to the vial, making to twist the top. “Do it and I’ll open Pandora’s Box here and we’ll see what ills emerge.”

  “If you leave I am finished,” Kalla said, flexing Hakon’s hands.

  “Not at all.” I hooked the door open with my bare foot and retreated through it. “If I break this, you’re finished. If I leave you still have a chance. Use Hakon, steal another subject. Some chance is better than no chance.”

  “You don’t seem to accept that logic yourself.” Kalla kept pace with me as I backed down the long corridor.

  I smelled fresh air but didn’t risk a glance back as I retreated. “I’m not afraid to die, ghost.” I spoke the truth. “You’ve spent a thousand years cheating death. That kind of dedication is built on fear. I’ve spent much of sixteen years hunting it. We’re very different, you and I.”

  I passed a great and twisted door, propped against the corridor wall. The remains of needle-bugs told me I’d reached the point where they first took me. A breeze played against my neck, back, thighs, reminding me of my nakedness. My hand hurt, almost as much as when I first ripped it free – the feeling in it perhaps woken by the scent of the green world outside.

  I saw my sword, still lying there in the dust by the broken door, as if it held no value. I’d no time to pick it up and little good it would do me in my left hand. Even so it pained me to leave it as I carried on down the corridor.

  Hakon held back, allowing the yard between us to grow into two, three. “Take a look, Jorg.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The cavern opened out behind me ... onto a sea of tangled green, deeper than a man is tall. Small red flowers peppered the curls and hoops of the briar.

  “You know thorns, Jorg: that much was written on you when you came. Perhaps it was this variety that marked you so? The hook-briar?”

  I looked down at my chest, arms... “Gone?” The scars had vanished. I’d borne them so long but it took until now to notice they had gone. I felt more naked than ever. The scars had been an armour of sorts. An account of my personal history set down in blood and permanence. The scars were to be with me forever - taken to the grave. The loss unsettled me more than eyeballs in frozen jelly or the reanimated corpse of a friend. Those I’d seen before. “How?”

  “This is a medical facility, Jorg. Look in the skin-flask.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s on your back. Depress the third, seventh, and sixth button.”

  I took the cylinder from my shoulder and set it down before me by its strap. I knelt and pressed the numbered bumps as directed, glancing down only briefly, expecting to be rushed. I leapt back as the lid began to unscrew along a previously unseen seam. The top fell away with a hiss and I leaned forward to peer at the contents.

  “Pink slime.” For some reason my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in ... well, a very long time. “Does it taste as bad as it looks?”

  “Nu-skin.” Touch it to your hand. Hakon turned his head, the ugly array of rods emerging from his eyes now pointing at my injury.

  I didn’t trust Kalla but knowledge can be power and my half-flayed hand hurt badly enough to stop me concentrating. With my good hand I dipped a fingertip into the muck and felt it writhe, the sensation similar to holding a slug. I touched the slightest smear of it to the raw flesh of my other hand, still tight around the plague vial. The effect came within seconds, the livid pinkness of the slime flowing into something more skin-coloured, spreading, thinning, the feeling of insects crawling ... and finally, a patch of new skin little wider than a fingerprint.

  “If you help me you can walk away with many such treasures. Wonders of the old world. I could explain them to you. A man with that kind of magic on his side could rule-”

  “I already have a kingdom, ghost.” I sealed the cylinder and set it over my shoulder again.

  “Is it enough?” she asked, Hakon immobile, her voice rising from his chest. The sweet smell of rot hung about him. A fly buzzed about his head, settling by the corner of an eye.

  “Nothing is ever enough.” Habit led my fingers to the old burns across the left side of my face, still rough and puckered. “You didn’t want me pretty? Or doesn’t your gloop heal burns?”

  “It was made for burns. Burns are its speciality. But that injury is curiously resistant. There’s an exotic energy signature... If our physics laboratory were operational then...”

  I backed toward the mouth of the cave and the green riot of hook-briar. The drone of bees reached me now, the call of birds. High summer outside, the seasons had turned whilst I slept.

  “There’s no escape that way, Jorg.” Kalla followed. “Hook-briar was one of our works.”

  “Yours?”

  “Well, not mine. But from this facility. This was a big place once. Three hundred people worked here. Chamber upon chamber, waiting now for a man with enough vision to excavate them. Hook-briar - a cheaper, self-renewing razor wire. Highly effective engineering. For warmer climes than this of course if you want all-year protection. They never did get a strain that wouldn’t die back in the winter.”

  “And your ... ‘projector’ is out there?” I tilted my head
toward the midst of the thorns. “You’re not worried I might call on you in person?” I gave her my dangerous smile. I hadn’t felt like smiling since I woke but now the edge of an idea sliced through the fading fog of Kalla’s drugs.

  Hakon nodded. “It’s safe enough from you even if you wore armour and carried shears. Naked and without weapons you pose no threat. I tell you this to show you how hopeless your situation is. Work with me and power beyond your dreams could be-”

  “I’ve dreamed enough, ghost,” I said. “Time to die. Goodbye, Brother Hakon.”

  His lips twitched, a snarl of effort, and words stuttered out. “B-b-beauty. S-s-sacrifice.” His own voice, free of Kalla’s control. The mutterings of a broken mind. Or perhaps his memory of our joking in Vyene about the price we’d pay to see our enemies burn.

  I set my strength to untwisting the top of the vial.

  “No!” Hakon started forward, Kalla shouting from his chest unit.

  The lid came free and I flung the container over his head, back along the corridor. Kalla had said it held death, a plague that might scour mankind from the world. I’d called it Pandora’s Box. I turned and ran, shrugging Hakon’s reaching fingers from my shoulder. I built up speed, bare foot across the stony cavern floor.

  I’d released Pandora’s ills and back along the corridor a klaxon sounded, wailing like a thousand banshees. Angling toward the extreme left of the cave mouth, I reached the impenetrable wall of thorns, and leapt, high as I might, diving forward.

  “Purging. Repeat - level 0 viral breach - Repeat. Full Purge!”

  Pandora’s Box held all the world’s troubles ... but at the bottom of it, last to emerge, trapped among nightmares, lay Hope.

  The hook-briar gave before my weight, thorns snagging at my skin, slipping in, tearing, slicing, deeper, holding, until at last they arrested my advance and I hung among them. Trapped as I’d been trapped years before, pierced by the same sharp and sudden pain, but this time by my own volition.

  I heard rather than saw the hot white tongue of fire that roared from the cave mouth, a spear of incendiary rage surrounded by billowing flame that spilled to either side, spreading, engulfing.

  The klaxon felt silent, leaving only the roar of flames, the crackle of burning, and my screaming as the margins of the inferno reached me, naked amongst the thorns.

  Unconsciousness is a blessing in such times, but horrifically late in coming. I felt my skin crisp, saw my hair shrivel and burn as the hot breath of the fire blew around me. I saw the skin melting from my hands before the heat took my sight.

  Unconsciousness is a blessing, but only a temporary one.

  I found myself amid a forest of blackened coils, thorn-toothed, stark against blueness of the sky.

  Rolling my bald and weeping head, I saw with blurred eyes a corridor cut through the midst of the hook-briar where only fine white ash remained. The silver-steel of the cylinder lay beneath me, scorched but unharmed. I jabbed at the buttons with sticky fingers, some welded together with molten skin, clumsy in a pain that admits no description.

  Three times I tried the numbers. I would have wept but I’d gone past tears. At last, infinitely slow, the lid rotated off and I dipped my hands into the nu-skin. I daubed the slime across each finger. As the stuff writhed across them I held each digit wide, despite the pain. I smeared slime across my face, into my mouth, into each eye, down across my body as far as the remaining thorns would let me.

  Whatever science or enchantment the nu-skin held it proved to be powerful. The unguent worked different wonders depending on where it found itself, repairing my sight, flowing down my windpipe and healing my lungs to the point where I could scream once more, building new skin across my arms while the dead stuff sloughed away.

  I tore free of the thorns, only to snare myself on new ones, but allowing the application of my dwindling stock of slime to new areas, groin, legs, back. The skin’s work drew on my own strength, an exhaustion rising through me that dragged me into a torpor despite the crawling agony of it all.

  At last a light rain woke me. I stood, caught amid the skeletal remains of the briar, impaled on black thorns, smeared with ash, but unburned, clad in a new hide.

  Even burned and brittle the hook-briar took its toll on me as I struggled through. By the time I reached the corridor of ash I ran with blood from a hundred wounds, the last of the nu-skin exhausted early in the escape. The rain came heavy now, but warm, sluicing down across my body in a crimson wash. I stood in the mud and ash and let it clean me.

  I returned to the cave, still hot, the stone ticking as it cooled, no trace of Hakon save a stain around the blackened stand. Wincing at the heat beneath my bare and bleeding feet I made my way along the dark corridor and found my sword. And thus dressed I left the bunker.

  At last, before my strength failed once more, I picked my way around ancient remnants of razor wire and came to where the top of a sunken pillar of Builder-stone emerged from the mud. The stone had been cracked by the fire’s heat and a little less than a foot of it lay exposed. Despite the weathering and corrosion it took more effort that I thought remained in me to slide the top to one side. The hollow interior stretched down beyond sight, the inner surface crowded with myriad crystalline growths, all interconnected with a forest of silver wires, some thick, some finer than spider silk. Many of the crystals lay dark, but here and there one glowed with a faint light, visible only in the shadow.

  “Found you.”

  “Don’t.” Kalla’s voice, weak and pulsing from the interior.

  I pried a rock from the muck about me. A heavy chunk of what might once have been poured stone. Grunting with effort I lifted it to the lip of the column. It would fit down the inside with an inch or two to spare.

  “I can’t end. Not like-”

  “A thousand years is too long to live.” And I let the rock fall. It dropped with a prolonged and continuous sound of shattering, ricocheting from one wall to the other, tearing away the guts that had let Kalla echo for so long within the last works of the Builders.

  I looked at my hands, torn and empty. A great weariness washed through me, a desire to lie myself down in the mud and let sleep claim me. All that stopped me was the memory of a kiss, the hint of her scent.

  “No. I’ve slept long enough.”

  A kiss had woken me and I’d found, as we so often do, that the world had moved on without me. And that’s the riddle of existence for you. When to move and when to stay. Dwell too long and we become the prisoner of our dreams, or someone else’s. Move too fast, live without pause, and you’ll miss it all, your whole life a blur of doing. Good lives are built of moments - of times when we step back and truly see. The dream and the dreamer. There’s the rub. Does the dream ever let go? Aren’t we all only sleepwalking into old age, just waiting, waiting, waiting for that kiss?

  Bleeding, smeared with muck and ash, I staggered down the hill, all that survived the purge of Bunker 17. I might be counted one more ill to be visited upon the world, for I could hardly be called its hope. But, hope or horror, I had endured. I had been delivered from the thorns in fire and pain and set free.

  I ran a hand across the baldness of my scalp and felt my mouth twist in its old smile, a bitter one to be sure - but not only bitter.

  “Sleeping beauty, woken by the princess’s kiss,” I said.

  And so I set off to find her.

  Footnote – This was the first Broken Empire short story I wrote, prompted by a reader daring me to do a Jorg / fairy tale mash-up. It’s framed around Sleeping Beauty but has a nod to Goldilocks and even Rapunzel! Chronologically it takes place between the two threads in Emperor of Thorns, before the Wedding Day thread in King of Thorns, on Jorg’s return to Ancrath from his first visit to Vyene. Hakon is a character seen in The Red Queen’s War trilogy.

  Did Katherine wake Jorg using her dream-magic, or was it just a failure of the aging machinery? That’s for the reader to decide.

  Bad Seed

  At the age of ei
ght Alann Oak took a rock and smashed it into Darin Reed’s forehead. Two other boys, both around ten years old, had tried to hold him against the fence post while Darin beat him. They got up from the dirt track, first to their hands and knees, one spitting blood, the other dripping crimson from where Alann’s teeth found his ear, then unsteadily to their feet. Darin Reed lay where he had fallen, staring at the blue sky with wide blue eyes.

  “Killer,” they called the child after that. Some called, “kennt” at his back and the word followed him through the years as some words will hunt a man down across the storm of his days. Kennt, the old name for a man who does murder with his hands. An ancient term in the tongue that lingered in the villages west of the Tranweir, spoken only among the grey heads and like to die out with them leaving only a scatter of words and phrases that fitted too well in the mouth to be abandoned.

  “You forgive me, Darin, don’t you?” Alann asked it of the older boy a year later. They sat at the ford, watching the water, white about the stepping-stones. Alann threw his pebble, clattering it against the most distant of the nine steps. “I told Father Abram I repented the sin of anger. They washed me in the blood of the lamb. Father Abram told me I was part of the flock once more.” Another stone, another hit. He had repented anger, but there hadn’t been anger, just the thrill of it, the red joy in a challenge answered.

  Darin stood, still taller than Alann but not by so much. “I don’t forgive you, but I wronged you. I was a bully. Now we’re brothers. Brothers don’t need to forgive, only to accept. If I forgave the blow you might forget me.”

  “Father Abram told me...” Alann struggled for the words. “He said, men don’t stand alone. We’re farmers. We’re of the flock, the herd. God’s own. We follow. To stray is to be cast out. Strays die alone. Unmourned.” He threw again, hit again. “But... I feel... alone here, right among the herd. I don’t fit. People are scared of me.”