“You’re all right now. You know it.”
“I wish things could go back to the way they were. But I know they can’t”
“Then don’t wish it. Move forward. Release the last of your anger.”
“I will Father. In the morrow, I will avenge you.”
Father shifted where he sat. His shadow mimicked the movement.
“The dead don’t care for vengeance. I just came to tell you what comes.”
“What comes?”
“What comes after the winter. What follows, Henry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I don’t know.”
“What comes after the ice and snow? Think.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is the Winter forever? Think. What comes? Think. What is next?”
“I can’t. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Think!”
“The thaw.”
Father disappeared in an instant, as if he were never there. Henry knew that neither of them had been. It was a dream and as he pondered it, he started to forget the details of it all. He knew he’d wake and that his mind would hold just the feeling of what he’d experienced, but the details would be lost to him.
The thaw.
Thirty-Three
To Catch a Royal Snitch
There wasn’t much to load into the car. No need for provisions, or tools of any kind. Henry took the weapon he’d forged with Hepburn and every knife he could find, strapping them around his torso and limbs so he could easily get at them. Henry had been determined at one point to fashion armor for himself after seeing it worn by soldiers in the old projections he’d watched, but once Hepburn explained the qualities of Henry’s bodysuit – which had been made for the battlefield – he settled instead for a tactical helmet which formed part of the same battle kit.
Henry took a final look at the ship that had been his home in these dark times. The ship that he had rehabilitated himself in and trained hard for what was about to begin.
The shark face of the vessel no longer appeared scary. It was just a hole that had rusted in time, filled with icicles that may have looked like teeth to some, especially the man with the flat face who had been pushed through the mouth of it to the icescape below.
Panthera didn’t appear to care about the vessel and hopped straight into the Duesenberg. Henry had seen how the animal had grown accustomed to traveling in it with Henry and enjoyed the warmth within once the engines came to life.
And, so they set off. The journey was morose. They spoke little, for much of it had already been said and Henry knew that Hepburn could recall every conversation they’d had for reference at any time. It was the inhuman condition.
Fury brought them on their way at great speed. The car looked like a giant cockroach, insectoid in shape and color, reflecting the sun from its panels. It was enthralling to be traveling at such speeds across the icescape. They passed each of the places that Henry had known in his life on Lantic. A jet stream of ice and snow followed them as they made their way across the vast plains; a superstorm was coming and the people of the Favela would soon see it.
Panthera sat up at the windscreen, watching the panorama, distracted now and then by the hologram.
“Thing just won’t die, will it, Pan?” Henry had said, to no avail.
An hour into the drive and they found the whalebone sled that the invaders had brought with them. The car rode over it, but there was no sign of Skindred or the pack dogs. They kept their eyes on the terrain after that, looking for the boy coward. The royal snitch.
Two more hours passed, and Henry slowed the vehicle when he saw a Big White feasting on something fallen. More successful than Panthera with the hologram, the Big White had pinned its cadaver by the head, crushing the skull flat, so it was unrecognizable. Henry pulled up alongside the Big White to take a closer look and the animal stood on two legs and roared at the car that had disturbed its meal. The meat had been butchered. Bones stuck out in places and the shape of it looked more like a butterfly than an individual; opened flat. A meat envelope.
“It’s hard to determine how long this body has been here whilst the polar bear confronts us. Shall I scare the creature away?”
Henry peered at the corpse. He couldn’t be sure because it was in such a mess, but he thought it might’ve been wearing a fur tunic. He looked at what was left of the face; flat matter spread out on the snow. A piece of hair remained. A dreadlock. Then, just meters from the body, he saw the unloaded gun.
The Big White roared again at the vehicle, challenging the inhabitants.
“It’s Skindred. Didn’t get far and not a good end for him. But I s’pose that pleases me a lot,” said Henry as the Big White charged toward the Duesenberg. “Don’t worry, big fella. We don’t want any of that coward meat.” Henry steered the vehicle away just as the bear was upon them.
With Skindred gone, it made things simpler. He figured he only had forty, perhaps fifty enemy fighters left to kill.
Henry accelerated and the car traveled faster than it had before. It was exhilarating. There wasn’t a creature alive or a bird that could keep up with them. Even the android seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Let’s get this done. I want to see my sisters.”
The car soared across the ice. A land rocket, delivering war to the adults of the Favela, finally.
Thirty-Four
Tattoos
Sissel looked at the meager finds from below. She knew every room in every building that was close enough to swim to from the holes already cut into the icescape. The salvagers had started going back over things previously discarded and had brought them up top to see if they might satisfy Ginger Lanner, the spiteful brute whose clothes were a patchwork of garments that had once belonged to others. Lanner had given himself the role of foreman to the salvagers, mainly to hold power over Sissel, who he’d come to hate since she chose to help the boy, Henry, find his weakling brother, rather than report him to Lanner as instructed.
Yet Sissel had to hold it together and keep in line for her crew, the Orfins. Lanner would too easily find cause to lash out at the children, or worse still, make examples of them. She’d lost two under the ice in less than six months. At least she had Yaxley, who always had her back. Dependable Yaxley, who was now more than her right-hand boy. Yaxley had become her lover.
Sissel had chosen him and instigated it all. It had been for comfort at first, after feeling a strange loss at the death of the brave, stupid boy that had come looking for his siblings so long ago. And somehow, beyond comfort and company, she had developed feelings for Yaxley (though she’d never tell him), and he knew her well enough not to embarrass her by sharing how he felt about her (which she knew was a lot). The Orfins knew, but she’d never let Lanner find out, as he would make it his mission to hurt her through Yaxley, maybe cut him down in front of her, or drown him by the foot of the hill so all would see. So their love was a closely guarded secret. They understood each other more than anyone else could, and it worked. It was the nearest to happiness that Sissel had found in her life, and that troubled her. In the Favela, happiness was not permitted and deep down, she felt it would be short-lived.
“This stuff has come up time and again. I’m sure we even put some of this crap back down there. They ain’t ever going to swallow it,” Yaxley said, holding an unopened tin of paint and a wall clock.
Sissel looked about her to see if Lanner was on the icescape, and when she was sure he wasn’t, she leaned forward and kissed Yaxley on the lips. She withdrew from him, but he placed his hand on her waist and pulled her closer. His chest was a decoration of raised scars. Upon it were a skull, a bird, and a whale surfacing on an etched ocean. Sissel ran her fingers across them admiringly, then showed him a fresh tattoo on her own forearm; a bird that matched his. Carved out of something close to love. A growing feeling, yet a pup. The skin was sore and the scab had cracked and bled.
“Same, same. When did you do that?” Yax
ley asked her, blushing.
“Two days ago, but you notice nothing,” she said in response. “The Orfins, we can’t send them lower, or further. You know that. This game is up, like that kid said.”
“That kid? Henry. Always him.” Yaxley looked hurt, withdrawing from Sissel slightly.
“Don’t look at me like that, Yax. He was right. What we do and why we do. We could explore instead. Spread out and go landside. We might even find something to help us.”
“Like weapons?”
Sissel lowered her voice as two salvager kids surfaced from the circle of water beside them. “Yes, like weapons. If we found guns that worked, we could take them.” She balled her fist, then relaxed it.
Yaxley took her hand and kissed it gently. “Lanner will sniff it a mile off, you know it.”
The salvagers helped each other out of the water with a collective groan and spooned their bodies close on the ice, rubbing each other to generate heat.
Sissel bit her lip in frustration. “E Para.” I do. “You’re right.”
A call came from up on the hill. It was Little L, one of the smallest of the crew, returning to the sieve. They couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was gesturing with her arms frantically about something behind them, something in the distance. Sissel assumed it was a Big White and turned with alarm. The Orfins all ceased work and shielded their eyes from the sun, trying to see what the girl on the hill was looking at.
Yaxley saw it first. He took Sissel’s arm and pointed.
A low storm, a churning mist, an object traveling at such speed that none of them had ever witnessed before.
“What is it?” Sissel asked. The salvager kids appeared from their makeshift shelters and out of the waters. An excitement spread across the children who started calling out what they thought they were seeing. A sea-monster, a rocket machine, Santa...
“Ain’t no storm. Ain’t a sled either. Looks like trouble,” Yaxley said, not taking his eyes from the horizon. He squinted, yet Sissel knew it was pointless trying to bridge the distance and see what was rolling toward the Favela.
“Maybe we don’t have to go searching for anything. Let’s get the children off the ice and up the hill.”
“Do we report?”
They exchanged a look that said it all. Whether that was hope, or opportunity, or just a perverse desire to watch the kingdom crumble up close, neither expressed it aloud, but they wanted to be there and witness what was to come.
“No. Whatever happens, we didn’t see anything coming. Let us leave this shit here and tell the crew to shut it up tight.”
“Yes, boss man.” Yaxley gave an overwrought mock salute.
“I’m your warrior and I’m your leader. Call me boss man again and I’ll break your arm.” Sissel smiled, then punched Yaxley hard on the shoulder. “You’re still my bitchboy, Yax.”
“Always, meu amor,” he submitted. My love. It was the first time he’d said it out loud.
“I hope it,” affirmed Sissel, before she signaled for everyone to return to the Favela. None questioned it and they moved in unison, dragging their eyes from the unidentified object that sped ever closer in a plume of mist.
Thirty-Five
Dead Dogs
Skindred had never felt as much fear in his whole life. There were beatings he’d had as a small child and always the threat of death in some elaborate form in the Favela. He’d also done his share of salvaging and had his heart and lungs pumped on more than one occasion after running out of breath in the underbelly of the old citadel. But Henry, much altered and inhuman, had alone given him a new level of fear that he couldn’t shake. Skindred remembered the look on Henry’s disfigured face after he’d smashed Slim’s antlers into his skull, over and over with such speed and ferocity and lack of remorse that petrified the betrayer.
He hated the feeling. It was Skindred that put the fear into the little ones. It was him who made them wet their strides and fill their furs. He made them suffer in silence, never daring to tell any of the older salvagers, who would get word back to Sissel in a heartbeat. It was fun. The best game.
But Skindred felt bullied. He’d been made to run. To do someone else’s bidding. To feel worthless and small. His confidence had melted away on the ice by MV Greyhound and he had to keep reminding himself who he was. Skindred. Skindred! Skin...
When the sun fell, Skindred became too anxious to sleep. Worried that Henry would appear before him, or in his nightmares. He’d seen the car that was parked beside the ship and had tried to take control of it, but he’d been too flustered, worried about Henry, his snow leopard or the metal monster appearing at any moment. He’d deserted the vehicle. He’d heard about them and knew they were quicker than pack dogs, but he had no idea how close Henry would ever be to him, or if he’d see or hear him coming. He wondered whether his nemesis would ride up on the back of the snow leopard, or on the shoulders of the tin being and kill him with few words. His neck hurt from looking over his shoulder constantly.
Skindred reached a place where a corpse lay untouched in the snow. A peacekeeper. One of six other comrades he’d set out with from the Favela. Henry had been met with six, including Skindred, yet there had been seven comrades when they set out, until one was ended by his own lot. It had been trivial, but the result was that Erasmus had killed one of their own in an argument on the way to the yot-boat.
Only Skindred knew, and it was the biggest stroke of luck. He thanked the stars that a few choice words and raised voices had escalated into this man’s death so close to the final encampment. He thanked Odin and he thanked the main God that people harked about. Had the argument taken place a day or two earlier in their journey, it would have been too far for Skindred to reach and Henry would’ve caught up with him and cut him down. He thanked Mohammed and Neptune. He thanked Erasmus and her quick temper.
And the plan lay there in the corpse. The only one he had, which had come to him in the seconds between being asleep and lying awake following the briefest of naps.
Skindred took out a knife and hacked at his dreadlocks with it, cutting four of them free of his scalp. Then he wove them into the hair of the dead peacekeeper, before he brought out his unloaded gun and used it to smash the dead man’s skull beyond all recognition. Such trickery! Skindred delighted that Henry might think him dead in the snow. Skindred was slippery, like an eel, and that was how he liked it.
Skindred took off his fur tunic and swapped it with the dead man’s old fleece jacket. It wasn’t nearly as warm, but Skindred needed his plan to work. He tossed his gun next to the body and surveyed his crime scene.
With the addition of his hair to the mess, he thought it looked convincing and could buy him time, or allow him to truly disappear. That thought too had come to him, of course; the idea that he could try his own luck on Lantic and live alone as a free person, far from the king, Ginger Lanner and the Orfins who all wanted him dead. Yet Skindred knew he would not last. He would go insane in his own company and he would not know how to survive. He’d seen girls catching fish, unfurling the bloodied rags from inside them and putting them into the water to attract a catch. As a youngster, Skindred had only scavenged from the Bone Yard. Always going for the easy option. As he grew older, he bullied others for dog meat, fish or seal blubber, or traded for things he had salvaged or stolen. His only course of action was to tell his tales. Yet the journey back to the Favela, unarmed, would be an impossible one.
After setting the scene of his own death for Henry to discover, Skindred headed in a new direction and trod a wide circle away from any path that Henry would take. Skindred was going to take a long route back to the yot-boat, several days further on the ice. Skindred had a notion to steal its treasures and find whatever weapons he could to get him back to the Favela as a returning hero.
To increase his chances of survival, he’d kicked two of the pack dogs to death and slung them in a sealskin. His stomach was empty and he’d started salivating about the meat in his sack, but he’d
been too scared to stop.
A distant rumble and a continuous spray of snow showed him the car, driving at great speed toward the Favela. Henry had not seen him and had likely taken the bait with the ruined corpse of the secret peacekeeper.
Skindred fell in the snow, laughing hysterically to himself. By the time he reached the Favela, it would be over, one way or another. He would prepare his stories for every eventuality, for that was where his strength lay. Deceit and treachery and self-preservation. Never a warrior, Skindred was and always had been a true survivor.
Skindred opened the sealskin, reached in and took out the hind quarter of one of the deformed pack dogs. He felt triumphant. And safe.
Thirty-Six
King of Hearts
Hilde took the stairs which were shaped like a conch shell and took a deep breath before she entered the room. Ginger Lanner had his arm linked with hers, and as beautiful as she looked in her white, sleeveless lace panel wedding gown, Lanner was the perfect contrast, in his patchwork outfit that he’d only smartened by adding a ladies’ brooch to his breast pocket; a single red flower that caught the light as he moved. He’d hung the bearskin, stolen from Hilde’s father, by the gangway entrance of Moonbird. In a way, he was being respectful.
The loyal guard, Omeed, stood at the doors to the grand room, dressed in a dinner jacket that was too small for him and holding a machine gun. He greeted the pair and turned to open the doors and grant them entrance.
“Didn’t I say you would be happy here?” Lanner bared his gap-toothed smile at the girl about to walk down the aisle to meet her waiting groom.
“You’re a man of your word. Long may you live, Mister Lanner,” Hilde replied, with more than a hint of spite in her voice. Lanner smiled nervously this time, aware that Hilde was no longer someone he could mess with. She was about to surpass him in the pecking order of the Favela.
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