Fuck, too soon. Where’s Cædmon? Why isn’t he … ? Another scream, this time all too clear and audible, gave Ashbyrn the last answer he had been hoping for. He turned in its direction to see his second-in-command held fast between a group of the shades, looking anything but poker-faced. Firing into their midst, the ensign managed to obliterate two of the creatures and drive the others away, wounded and screeching, but all he had been able to do for his faithful bo’sun had been to give him a more merciful demise. Which is good, but now we’re really fucked, he thought, while darting over to Cædmon’s corpse and relieving it of the leather bottle and the pyronade before anyone else got the same idea. Using Cædmon’s weapon, he managed to save himself from imminent ambush by another shade, but the rest of them were going nowhere except nearer, and another hollow, echoing scream informed him of just how well the rest of the squad were faring. More than half of us wiped out already, including Cædmon. Only two guns, hundreds of the creepy bastards out there, no damn cover to speak of … Except maybe there.
With the forest now ghostly and unreal in his vision, he was again able to see the ruined city the squad had been making for through the grey, wispy shapes of the trees, only in an altered form. On a larger scale, it resembled the unearthly buildings they had seen or hallucinated at their first campsite. The great pyramids and palaces of the earthly city were still present, and of roughly the same size, but now of subtler and stranger make, with smoothly contoured surfaces and architectural features of such bizarre irregularity that they looked more organic than carved, but were obviously there by design. And it’s not even a hundred metres away, if distance means a thing here. A short downhill dash would bring him out of the trees and into its streets, and that offered possibilities: cover, higher ground, and maybe even more of the fire-weapons. That left only the one, dire problem of how he was to shoot a clear corridor through the encircling shades with only two weapons. With their long charge time, even if he concentrated his fire they would close the gap quicker than he could open it, and others would be moving in all the time.
Desperately, his mind ran through the available options, and the advice the Queen had given him, but found it dismally wanting. Thanks for nothing, you scab-faced, pedantic old hag. Should I start fucking praying? I’ve no elf-signs, sunlight, herbs, nor crystals to … Herbs. It was a pathetically long shot, he thought, as he fumbled for the pouch of protective salt, but upon opening it his hopes were slightly revived: the tiny crystals were glowing with the same aura of unnameable colour that the elf-sigils had displayed in the otherworld, albeit much fainter. Faint is something, though. He turned to what he judged to be the thinnest concentration of spectres that stood between him and the buildings, took a handful of the salt, and hurled it into the blank face of the nearest shade. On the negative side, the creature did not spontaneously combust, but it did let out a series of confused, insect-like squeaks and chirrups, stopped in its tracks, and twitched aimlessly. I’ll take that as an improvement, thank you.
His heart hammering so hard that it almost rivalled the pain in his stomach, Ashbyrn advanced through the foremost rank of shades, casting handfuls of salt crystals all around him. Branch-like fingers immediately began clawing for him, but any contact with the glowing powder seemed to throw the creatures into a quandary, at least buying him enough time to sneak past, incinerating a few of them for good measure. It turned out to be just as well that he had taken both the pyronades, as the salt did not last him as long as he had dared hope, but with only a thin formation of shades now between him and the dead streets, it was a simple matter for him to blast the final opening that he needed and dart through before the ghoulish ranks could close again. Once he was through, he turned and fired one last shot back to keep the corridor open for a few more seconds. Although the real world now resembled nothing so much as a badly-run watercolour painting in his eyes, there was still the possibility that some of the others might be trying to follow him, and he might as well give them what little chance he could. In any case, though two men could pilot the ship, he was not overly confident that one alone could manage it.
Since both of his weapons now needed time to charge, he turned away from the dense, circular crowd of shades and ran into the midst of the bizarre buildings. He was now almost doubled over from the cramp in his guts, but he pushed his pace as hard as he could. Although the enemy were not so numerous here, still there were small clusters of them, and isolated spectres roaming the streets with their loping gait, and they were not ignoring him. But for the pain, he might have dared to simply give them the run-around until dawn, but this was not a reaslistic option. He could barely outpace them now, and he would need to risk taking even more of the drug to keep his perception ‘dark-shifted’ all night, which his stomach was unlikely to thank him for. Like as not, I’ll be crawling through a pool of my own vomit long before sunup, so unless the shades were of clumsy enough footing to start slipping in it, there was little hope of escaping them that way. I need shelter, something more defensible … Something like that. A pulsing, sickly light of unearthly colour, like some underworld beacon, had drawn his gaze to the summit of a tall, steep pyramid, and he immediately began staggering towards the narrow stairway that led up its front face. Unless the creatures had inhuman climbing abilities, they would have to come at him one at a time if he was up there, and with any luck they might even be forced back by the falling corpses of their comrades. It was a gamble, as he would cut himself off from any possible escape route – the sloped sides of the pyramid were too steep to permit any hope that he could slide down them without at least acquiring some impressive injuries – but even a hope with reservations was better than none at all.
The climb itself was a stiff challenge, each step exacerbating the stabbing pains in his stomach, but he gritted his teeth, persisted, occasionally turned back to burn a pursuing shade, and by agonising degrees achieved the summit. As his eyes passed the level of the flat summit, he saw the source of the eerie light: a narrow, tapering pedestal, about waist-high, surrounded by two circles deeply incised in the solid material of the building, with curious symbols etched in the space between them, intricate and flowing. Elf-signs? he thought, hopefully. He had seen the like of this pedestal before, having placed the first of the Queen’s crystals upon such an altar, but the circle was new to him. The aura was much weaker, however, than that of the signs they themselves had drawn, and he had grave doubts it would be enough protection to rely upon, even assuming these were the correct sigils. Just a notion, anyway. Probably not even necessary, he hoped, clenching his abdominal muscles against another spasm of pain, as he turned back to check on his pursuers. Shouldn’t be too hard to fend them off up here if they come at me one at a … Thalassa save me.
The shades, evidently, were exceptionally good climbers, and judging from the hideous mass of crawling, spider-like shapes that were already halfway up the pyramid slopes, the plan of fighting them off on a single, narrow front was a total non-starter. That left only the magic circle, for whatever good that was. Well, it’s good enough to give me false hope for however many seconds I’ve got left to live, he thought, shedding some deeply resentful tears as he staggered painfully to the pedestal. If I’d only held back a little with the salt. It might at least have made those sigils more effective. Unless … He reached into his belt pouch and took out the Queen’s second crystal: the tiny, multifaceted green orb of ydrillite that was the exact twin of the one he had placed on the other pyramid. Part of him badly wanted to grind the thing under the heel of his iron-nailed boot and pretend it was Gloriana’s face, but most of him would have preferred to survive for the chance to do that to the real thing rather than an effigy. Especially when said effigy might just have a better use. More than likely not, but if this isn’t the definition of having nothing to lose, I never want to learn it, he thought, and placed the ydrillite sphere into the small, dimpled crevice on the top of the pedestal.
The sickly light flared up as brightly as a magnes
ium flare, and a silent but powerful blast knocked Ashbyrn off his feet, and took all the wind out of his body. Oddly, there was no pain, but this was small recompense for leaving him paralysed at such a crucial moment. Blown myself up, too. That was clever, he thought, with a tinge of bitter amusement, but it was some small relief to feel his senses fogging and his consciousness slipping away. At least he would be dead before the shades could claim him for one of their own. Better luck next time, boys. With his lingering vision, he could see a few of their black, cadaverous heads poking over the edge of the platform, but they seemed not to be advancing any further. That’s curious. Did it actually do some good? That would sure be fucking iron–
A strong, chilly breeze wafted over his face, and he opened his eyes. Blinding light caused him to screw them shut again almost instantly, but it was a hot light, yellowish-white, completely unlikely the cold light of nameless colour that the strange beacon had emitted. Also, the surface beneath him was now rough, not at all like the smooth, almost glass-like surface of the otherworldly buildings. He turned his head away from the light source, and tentatively opened his eyes again. Blue sky, old grey stone. Dragging himself to his feet, and surprised at how little pain was involved in achieving this – no more than a light headache – he discovered that he was still on the platform of the pyramid, but now as it truly was: a great mass of ancient, lichen-encrusted granite, partially occupied by the crumbling husk of a temple, bedecked with weathered carvings of skulls and serpent-heads. In front of this grisly structure stood the pedestal, but not the narrow, regularly-shaped altar of the otherworld: simply a crude, heavy block of uncut stone, with horribly suggestive red stains all over its upper surface. Of the magic circle, the strange aura, and the ydrillite sphere, there was no sign at all. Nor, thankfully, was there any sign of the shades, but since it was full sunlight anyway, Ashbyrn would not have expected them.
What he had fully expected was to be dead: if not killed by the shades or the strange ‘explosion,’ then poisoned by a stomach-full of rancid hallucinogenic toxin. However, his cramps had gone and the only discomfort he felt in his innards was a raging hunger. All he could presently do for that was to munch on some rock-hard ship’s biscuits he had stowed in his belt pouch, although they tasted surprisingly wholesome and satisfying, even if he could probably have chewed more easily on one of his own boots. Still, the experience of gnawing his way through stale hardtack was not something he was likely to dream of nor, he imagined, something he was likely to do much of in the afterlife. He was almost beyond a doubt still in the world of the living, and that was something to be grateful for.
However, as he trudged down the steep steps of the pyramid that led to the weed-choked, rubble-strewn streets of the dead city, he gloomily conceded that perhaps gratitude might be a little hasty. For one thing, even from this high vantage point he could see no sign of any of the other mariners. Either they had legged it in another direction and were now stumbling about the jungle, or … He shuddered, not from the cold, and quickened his pace. A plan of sorts was essential, and soon. Surviving last night would mean nothing unless he could find some meaningful protection for the next. He had used up all of his salt crystals, and the Queen’s instructions were still back at the abandoned campsite with poor Cædmon … who’s got the other bag of salt on him, you idiot, he reproached himself, but fairly jovially, and he took the remaining steps at a bounding pace, impressed at his own agility. I’ll be less impressed if I break my neck, no doubt, but I can think of worse ways to go. He soon made ground level, regained his bearings, and headed back in the direction of the forest. Searching around at the edges of the paved area, he quickly located his own tracks, and followed them back beneath the trees. He discovered that he had taken a much less direct, more zigzag route than he had believed last night – hardly surprising, given the state of his brain cells at the time – but he had at least been considerate enough to leave himself a heavy and distinctive, if chaotic trail of prints to follow, and he soon found his way back to the glade.
The urge to vomit reared its ugly head again as he entered the clearing, the smell of the carnage actually being even worse to endure than the sight of it. They’re hardly even ripe, for Thalassa’s sake. I suppose they go quicker in this hot, wet climate though. The burned and mutilated remains of Cædmon, Kynric, and Rothgar still lay where they had fallen, as did the somewhat more picturesque corpse of Eadwulf, with Cædmon’s seax still jammed in its ribcage. Of the others, there was no sign. Ashbyrn could only hope they had taken what little opportunity he had bought them to flee, more than likely in the direction of the landing site. Of course, if they had started back there, there was always the slim risk the knarr would be on its way home before he could get back to the coast, but he did not much fear that. Perhaps it was just the heady rush of his unexpected survival, but he had rarely felt so vigorous in all his life, and did not think he would have much difficulty overtaking any other panicked survivors.
Still, first things first, he reminded himself, rather reluctantly. Holding his breath, he knelt down and searched through Cædmon’s singed and bloodstained effects, until he found the spare pouch of protective salt. It was half full, sufficient to last him one more night, at least. That gave him a fighting chance, as long as he made the quickest possible time back to the ship. Sorry, but no time to bury you, old shipmate, he thought, with regret, but he was glad at least to have spared Cædmon from the full attentions of the shades. That was no end for a true son of Brythenedd. If I make it back, his family are damn well getting ennobled, if I have to gouge out that wretched woman’s false eye and make her eat it. That thought, unfortunately, drew his vision back in the direction of Rothgar’s hideously mangled, eyeless face, quickly restoring his sense of urgency. Clenching his stomach again, Ashbyrn swiftly gathered up the pouch and the papers he needed, filled a pack with what provisions he could scavenge, added a crossbow and a seax to his arsenal, and put the gruesome scene behind him as he set off back east.
He soon had even more cause to regret that his sense of smell was unusually acute today. For he had not gone far before the air became quite spectacularly nauseating, and his boot impacted with something hollow and wet. Do I want to look? Not really, but … Oh, for fuck’s sake. It was Colgrim’s head, thoroughly smeared with dried blood and quite thickly populated with flies, but still wearing an eloquent expression of abject terror and pain. Readying his weapons just in case, Ashbyrn advanced cautiously, but after a short, stealthy walk he found evidence enough that all of the action, although it had clearly been bloody enough, was long over. Two corpses lay in close proximity, one of them spread-eagled across a tree-stump, decapitated and eviscerated. Hello Colgrim, you insufferable whoreson. Would you believe me if I told you that you got off lightly? Probably not. The other body was no doubt the victim of Colgrim’s hasty, fateful shot, to judge from the massive burn trauma all over its torso. A direct cannon-shot could not have caused more damage.
This unfortunate being was the first native that Ashbyrn had seen close-up, and the ensign took good note of his clothes, weapons, and equipment. Simple gear, but well-made. Not such savages after all … though they certainly do like to make a meal out of a simple execution, if Colgrim’s any judge. Why is that man’s face so familiar, though? It was hard for Ashbyrn to pin down, but there was something about the dead man’s visage he knew that he should have recognised instantly. It was certainly distinctive: not exactly unhandsome, but the cheeks were perhaps just a little too narrow, the eyes just a little too wide, and they were brighter than any corpse’s eyes had a right to be. Almost sparkling, crystalline. The complexion was also strange, not merely darker than Ashbyrn was used to seeing – he had expected that – but all too clear and spotless, as perfect as a porcelain doll’s. No-one looks like that, not even a newborn baby, except … It couldn’t be, he thought, but gingerly reached out with the tip of his seax and pushed back the long, dark hair of the dead body.
Well blow me, it is. But h
ow? To the ensign’s amazement, the native’s ears tapered to a subtle but unmistakable point. That settled it beyond any doubt: the dead man was an Alvere, but that fact completely defied everything Ashbyrn had ever heard of the Alvere. The few of them that remained were all supposed to be concentrated in Alvenheim, or scattered as migrants throughout Lucinia’s cities. There were certainly no records of any having founded colonies in Drægland, never mind whole civilisations. And yet here we all are. Oh well, looks as if Queen Ironface has some competition in this part of the world, he thought, with total unconcern, and resumed his brisk march, grateful to be removing himself from the cloying stench of death. The heart bleeds. Can’t say as it’s my problem, though. If I can just get back over the Brimiric, and she pays me my due rewards – which she damn well will be doing unless she wants the right half of her face to go the way of the left – then I’ll be happy to never even see another Alvere as long as I live.
Ashbyrn’s good mood lasted for about half an hour, at which point he came upon a small brook and took the natural but somewhat tragic decision to stop for a quick drink and a wash. One look at his reflection – followed by some pretty intensive cursing and howling – and he realised that he was definitely never going to have his wish granted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – THE SWORD AND THE RING
“She wants to transition everybody?” asked Maradith, incredulously. “You mean, like, the whole of Lucinia?”
“No,” replied Kasimir, patiently. “I, or rather she means the whole of Lucinia, the whole of Daevastan, Seraquin, Axuma … you get the picture. She does not use the term ‘everybody’ in its loose sense. Give the lady credit for having a scientific mind.”
“I give her credit for having a deranged one, if she thinks that is possible,” said Saskia, derisively, but Maradith thought she detected a faint undertone of fear in her voice. “As well that it is not. That would be blasphemy even by her standards, to bestow our most sacred privilege upon millions of worthless sinners.”
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