Construct

by Luke Matthews

  Mane waved Pare over. “I need you to think of the waterfall cave.”

  “What?” Pare asked.

  “You’ve been there hundreds of times,” Mane said. “Quickly! Every step on the way, everything between us and that cave. Think hard and bring it to your mind.”

  Pare closed his eyes. “Okay, now wha—”

  Mane placed the heels of his hands on Pare’s and Jacob’s foreheads. There was a sound like a cracking branch, and Jacob staggered backward, blinking his eyes and shaking his head.

  “Can you get there now?” Mane asked.

  “How did you—” Jacob began.

  Mane cut him off. “Can you?”

  “I think so, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Be sure,” Mane snapped. “You didn’t risk yourself to come all the way out here only to give up.”

  Jacob set his jaw and gave a single nod.

  Mane turned to Eriane. “You and Pare are going to take Samuel to Kelef.” He looked up at Pare as he said the words, then back to Eriane. “You need to help him find out who he is, and why he’s being followed.”

  “Wait…” Eriane said, refusing to cry even though a tear had broken free. “What about you?”

  Mane stood. “I’ll be along,” he said, stepping back and waving Samuel over. Samuel moved to Jacob’s side and Pare stepped forward to Eriane.

  “No!” Eriane screamed. “What are you doing?” Pare put his hands on her shoulders and she shook him off, flinging her arms around Mane. Mane ran his hand down her hair, then nodded to Pare, who had to pull Eriane free and hold her back. “NO!”

  “When you get there, look for a woman named Jo Tellis,” Mane said, his face grave. “I…knew her once, a long time ago.”

  Jacob placed his hands on Pare’s and Samuel’s shoulders. Mane nodded. Jacob took a deep breath, and a dark burst of energy ripped everything away from Samuel’s vision.

  Samuel felt as though he was being dropped from a great height, tumbling through nothingness as his sight and hearing were obscured. There was no sense he was traveling with others, at which point he became frightened he’d been separated from the group. His fear seemed to stop time, and in a panic he wondered if he’d ever come out the other side.

  Reality rushed back in a cacophony of light and sound. The world around him blared and he hit something solid at an odd angle, rolling out onto the hard ground facedown. As his sense adjusted to their new surroundings, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his fingers digging into moss-covered stone. A rough circle of light, softened at the edges by mist, undulated before him. A roar filled his hearing, and the waterfall outside the cave mouth finally crystallized in his sight.

  The others were all around him in varying states of composure. Eriane sat with her back against the wall near the spot where she had recently vomited, crying. Pare sat on his knees, clutching at his side, taking labored breaths. Jacob was on his hands and knees, shaking his head and muttering something to himself Samuel could not understand.

  “Is everyone okay?” Pare said, his voice strained. No one responded, and Pare did not ask the question again. The boy worked his way to his feet, grimacing in pain in the process. Samuel and Jacob followed suit but Jacob swooned, collapsing to the stone floor. Pare seemed not to take notice, moving toward the cave mouth. Samuel knelt and saw a trickle of blood from Jacob’s nose, but his breathing was steady.

  “Pare?” He asked behind the boy, who didn’t listen, exiting the cave and stepping out of sight. Samuel followed.

  The narrow path wound up the cliff and out from behind the sheet of water tumbling from the river above. The footing was slippery, but Pare navigated it without any trouble, following a switchback that led to the top of the waterfall. Samuel followed, wanting to know where Pare was going in such a hurry. Jacob was unconscious, Eriane was in shock, and Samuel was no caretaker.

  Samuel could no longer see Pare on the trail, so he moved along as fast as the footing allowed, emerging in a clear spot at the top of a tall cliff, along the bank of the river. Pare stood at the edge, looking out over the forest below. Samuel approached him with caution.

  “Pare?”

  “Do you see it, construct?” Pare asked.

  “See what?” Samuel asked.

  “The cabin.” Pare still looked out toward the forest, which sprawled before them. “You probably can’t.” Their vantage point stood at twice the height of the trees below, and the landscape sloped downward away from them. Pare raised a finger. “Just there, below that rise.” Samuel followed Pare’s instruction, looking to the forest at the base of a tree-covered hill. “If there were a fire burning, you’d see the smoke,” Pare said. “I’ve always been able to see the smoke.”

  “Pare, I…” Samuel stopped, unsure of what to say, instead taking a place a few steps back from the boy and looking out onto the forest. They stood, listening to the waterfall and watching the trees, as the first snowflakes began to fall around them.

  “Can you imagine, construct,” Pare continued, “what must be happening down there right now?” Samuel could, but he didn’t want to. Pare’s refusal to address him by name had become unnerving.

  The explosion almost blinded them both. A brilliant multicolored flash tore through the forest at the base of the rise where they looked, where they both knew the cabin to stand. A gout of blue energy expanded from the center of the flash. Even from a mile away the devastation was plain. Pare sank to his knees as the flash and cloud expanded, and the rumbling report of the blast reached their ears. Samuel felt himself falling, blackness enveloping his world.

  • • • • •

  The first one who entered the cabin didn’t live long enough to regret the decision. As his body struck the ground, another entered, and another, stepping around their comrade’s lifeless form and piles of fallen books, splitting into two groups. Only two approach him, while Mane must now deal with three. The two rush him and he blocks their blows with little effort, striking them both with force enough to ensure they will no longer be a threat. By the time he finishes, Mane’s opponents have been dispatched. The old man’s nose is bleeding, either from injury or exertion.

  The second wave comes on fast and with more precision. Objects strike from all sides, energy crackles in bolts and waves, and defensive shields absorb blows. A deafening report rocks the cabin. He looks to Mane. Blood spills from between the fingers of a hand clutched to his breast. The old man loses balance and sinks to the floor. A tall, bald-headed mercenary strides in from the doorway, smoke drifting from barrel of his pistol.

  The remaining attackers approach with caution, leaving their former target to bleed on the floor, two of them drawing mafi-sticks. The first of them makes the mistake of coming close enough to reach, and he caves in the side of the thug’s skull with an easy blow. A mafi-stick strikes his opposing side with enough force to stagger him. As he drops low, he strikes downward into one of the thug's legs, the back of its knee slamming into the floor.

  Another mafi-stick blow drives him fully to the floor, and the thugs subdue him with several more blows before a voice calls them off. They back away toward the door of the cabin, toward the new voice. “I’d rather he be aware for this part.”

  The blows of the mafi-stick have sapped him of most of his fight. Even through his hazy vision, he can see their leader’s piercing silver eyes scan the cabin.

  A white flash draws his attention to the side of the room, where the bald-headed man is kneeling over Mane’s lifeless form. “The old man is dead.” The mercenary says as he stands, wiping blood from a short-bladed knife. The murderer walks calmly over to where he kneels, bending over to talk to him. “I’m going to enjoy watching this,” the man says, tapping his chest. He knows what he must do.

  He has just enough strength left to deliver a rocking blow to the thug’s sternum, launching him across the room and into another mercenary, who slams into the doorjamb and crumples, unconscious. The bald man rocks to his knees and struggles for br
eath. He raises his head and growls through gritted teeth, then turns and draws a pistol from his fallen friend’s belt. Silver Eyes has just enough time to scream an obscenity before everything goes black. He never hears the shot.

  • • • • •

  “Master?” he calls as he rounds the corner, moving into the long hallway leading toward the kitchen from the front of the house. There is no response, save for a wet noise that repeats with a light slap, like someone coring a pumpkin and throwing the seeds aside. He’s halfway down the hallway when the noise ceases, replaced by a quiet scraping and grunts of effort, someone lifting something heavy. He pushes the kitchen door open and freezes, unable at first to process the scene before him.

  Blood splatters the walls and cabinets, dripping off the edges of countertops and doorhandles. The tile floor is obscured by an expanding pool of viscous red liquid that fills each grouted seam as it creeps toward him. Streaks break the surface of the red, intersecting small piles of pink matter steeping in the crimson morass. His gaze follows the trail and stops at two bare feet as they slide through the pool toward the back of the room.

  Delicate legs lead his gaze to a woman’s body, still gushing blood from a belly-level opening too large to be called a wound. Entrails snake out of the evisceration and drag on the floor beside her. A spasm draws him upward to her face, her eyes open and somehow still alert, pleading with him for help behind tears that streak down her face. Her shoulders are held in her murderer’s grasp. His face is hidden behind long, dark hair that hangs heavy, soaked in blood. One of his hands moves from under the dying woman and draws a small knife across her throat, opening veins that spew upward and add to the carnage.

  The killer’s head rises. White eyes shine bright against the dark gore surrounding them. He knows he should run, leave this place as fast as he can. The killer drops his victim as she bleeds to death on the kitchen floor. He turns to run, bolting down the hallway toward the front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  Something sharp dug into Colton’s cheek. Forest air tinged with an acrid odor drifted into his nose. Opening his eyes was a chore. Dirt and ash filled his view. His right side throbbed with a dull ache, and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. His right hip screamed and his joints moved as though filled with sand. The brightness surprised him until he was able to fully open his eyes, and see that where he sat was no longer deep forest but open to a wide, white sky.

  “Hm. You finally woke up,” Bales said. He sat against the shattered remains of a large pine, putting the finishing touches on a ragged bandage around his right thigh. “Wasn’t sure you would.”

  “How are we not dead?” Colton asked around the dry cotton wad of his tongue.

  “Bump field,” Bales replied. “Managed to get it up, but not as fast as I would have liked. Did the job, though.”

  Colton maneuvered to his feet, brushing the dirt and ash off his clothing as well as possible. The blast crater was a hundred feet across and intersected the hillside they saw on their way in. Falling snow mixed with blowing ash from trees incinerated by the fireless heat of the explosion.

  “How many do we have left?” Colton asked.

  “Five,” Bales replied. “Surprisingly intact, save for one broken arm.”

  Colton nodded. Nothing remained of the cabin or its inhabitants. He moved into the space where the structure once stood, but not even a splinter of wood or a shard of glass betrayed there was once a dwelling there. He found his target, a man lying face down under a growing blanket of ash, and worked his boot under the man’s side to flip him onto his back. The bald-headed mercenary lay motionless, the flesh on the side of his head blistered and one arm twisted in an unnatural way. Colton spat on his face.

  “Dumb son of a bitch.” He turned back to Bales. “I told you guns were a bad idea.”

  Bales’s head was leaned back against the tree, his eyes closed. The other mercenaries sat in a cluster some distance behind him, amongst the still-standing trees. “Seemed to do a number on the old man. Not a total loss.”

  Colton couldn’t argue that point. “Then perhaps we should have brought men with enough brains to know not to shoot at a construct.”

  “You’re just pissed because you didn’t get to do your thing with this one,” Bales said.

  “No, I’m angry I was almost killed by stupidity, and in this destruction we won’t even be able to find out how they got out before we showed up.” Colton winced as he took a breath, then tried stretching out some of the pain with limited success. “I don’t suppose you know how they got out?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Bales said. “I didn’t even go in.” He leaned his head back against the broken stump and waved a hand lazily about. “Is there some sort of escape tunnel like back in Winston?”

  There was nothing, but he looked around anyway. The crater floor was smooth all around, unbroken by any structures or tunnels. “Nothing.” Colton buried his frustration. “Is there anything left?”

  Bales shot him an incredulous look, but said nothing. Instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a few moments of deep breathing and tilting his head, he opened them. “Nothing. I broke it all. I didn’t leave—” Bales turned his head and went rigid, like a bird dog in a point. “Wait…” Bales snapped to his feet, limping past Colton and into the crater. He raised his hand over his head, feeling.

  “What is it?” Colton asked.

  “I…I don’t…” Bales opened his eyes, reaching a hand into the air above him as though he stroked something very delicate. “Yes…right here. Colton, give me one of your vials.”

  Colton knew better than to hesitate when Bales got like this, and immediately handed him a small vial filled with the iridescent fog of gathered khet. Bales felt for the spot in the air again and, once satisfied, held the vial up and uncorked it. The contents rose, swirling into the snowy air. Both men watched, transfixed, as the vapor curled upward. Like smoke drawn through a keyhole, the vapor pulled into an empty spot in the air between them and vanished. A darkness descended into Bales’s visage. “They have a slip.”

  “Which means they can’t be very far.” Colton said.

  “But they could be anywhere,” Bales replied. “We don’t even know where they’re headed. They probably don’t know where they’re headed.”

  “They can’t go back to Morrelton,” Colton said. “And, if this canner is what we think it is, then there’s only one place left for them to go.”

  “Kelef.” Bales turned on his heels, waving at his thugs to follow.

  “Not right this second,” Colton said. “We’ll camp for the night and leave in the morning.”

  Bales scoffed. “You can stay here as long as you want. I’m going after them.”

  “No, you’re not. You’ll wait, because you know better,” Colton said. “None of us are in any condition for another fight without some rest. We’ll catch up to them tomorrow, and put an end to this cat and mouse. We’ll head back to the clearing. I don’t want to stay here.” Colton gestured to the mercenaries, who began pulling themselves to their feet.

  Bales ground his teeth and stepped up close to Colton. “If they get away from me? I’ll put you down and go after them myself. Accidents happen all the time on the road.”

  “Duly noted,” Colton replied.

  • • • • •

  “You’re a slip,” Pare said, hovering between a question and a statement.

  “I can translocate, yes,” Jacob replied. “But if you call me a slip again, I’ll let you choose which arm to keep.”

  The two of them had been hovering at the edge of a full-blown argument since Pare returned to the cave. Eriane half-listened to their bantering, the numbness from Pare’s news still filtering through her limbs, her chest aching from crying.

  “How have you evaded the Interdictors?” Pare asked.

  “Simple, I’m not stupid,” Jacob said, looking around the cave. “Where did you say Samuel was ag
ain?”

  Pare looked away. “Still above.”

  “He’s been up there a while,” Jacob said. “We should go get him so we can be on our way.”

  Pare smirked. “On our way to where, exactly?”

  Eriane pulled her feet under her and wiped her face, fed up with listening to the two of them go at each other. “Kelef, like Master Mane said.”

  “I’m not going anywhere near Kelef,” Pare said.

  “What are you talking about?” Jacob asked.

  “I’m going back to Morrelton. That construct can rust for all I care.”

  Eriane looked at Jacob, who was staring at Pare and looking just as dumbfounded as she felt.

  “Master Mane and Icariascus are dead because of him,” Pare said, like he was quoting a math problem. “Not to mention Michael and Atherton, and who knows how many others.”

  It was difficult for Eriane to process what Pare was implying. “But Master Mane told us to take him there,” she said.

  “And he told you to help get him there,” Jacob added.

  “Did you not hear what I just said?” Pare raised his voice, and addressed Eriane directly. “You don’t seem to get it. Mane. Is. Dead. And it’s the canner’s fault.”

  “Don’t call him that.” Eriane’s blood boiled and she closed in on Pare. “You don’t get it, Pariadnus. Mane died for Samuel, not because of him.”

  “What difference does it make, Eri?” Pare’s voice was quieter, but no softer. “We’re on our own, now, and I’m not risking my neck for a canner,” he said, turning his back.

  “Does the canner get a say?” Samuel stood silhouetted in the cave entrance, the waterfall roaring behind him.

  Eriane ran to embrace him, relieved to see him standing. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Samuel hugged her back and continued. “I can’t really say what it is I’m looking for. I don’t know why I’m important, but I know now there’s something in these memories I need to make sense of, and whatever it is, it’s a lot bigger than just me.”