Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

  The engine of my nightmares shrieked as crank shafts twisted and gears splintered. The cinders were gone, and the ash drifted down in thin ribbons. The malevolent storm slowly cleared, leaving a shadow of the thing he’d been before malice and grief polluted him.

  Tiny streams of silver and gold crawled and flowed, spreading like a star slowly exploding. The metals began to glow, their light increasing as Kezsarak’s dimmed. Darker grey ribbons rolled and tumbled gleefully, drawn to where I stood.

  Kezsarak’s form cleared as the ash and cinders dwindled. Bovine legs of beaten copper supported a wide, muscled belly of sculpted lead. Above this was a man’s powerful chest in burnished tin and two mighty arms of iron. Resplendent above the body was a thoughtful, bearded face of dark gold, which bore silver horns sweeping from proud temples. The eyes, which no longer burned but glimmered, were pools of mercury cupped within golden sockets.

  He was primal and yet somehow refined. Life still glimmered in those quicksilver eyes, sad, bitter and broken.

  END ME, INCONQUO.

  The voice was so small now.

  PLEASE.

  Ancestors from ages past created this monster. In spite of everything that had passed between us, I pitied him.

  “Sleep,” I said softly, and I used my power to press the thought home.

  For an instant, he resisted. His resentment, grief and shame flashed against my mind. Then he surrendered, letting the power of the rings bear him into the depths of himself.

  Smooth and soft, the statued form of Kezsarak shrank and melted. A gentle implosion, until only the cuneiformed bands slid into place. A few moments later, the cask rested on the foundry floor. Still once more.

  I let out a long, low breath. My metallic armour had vanished, whether it had retreated into my body or joined the melted metal on the floor, I didn’t know.

  Looking down, I gave a start. With Keszarak contained within his cube, the only light in the space now came in as either moonlight, through cracks in the faraway ceiling, or from the glowing wet metal, which had curled around my feet. Somehow, the silvers, golds, greys, coppers and reds of those metals had leaked across the floor to make a shape. The shape surrounded me on all sides, laying on the surface around me, like an elaborate metallic sun.

  Squatting, I reached my hand out to touch it, and I felt the heat and the relief within the sun’s beads of reformed matter. Standing again, I stared at the shape, realising I could read it. It was not a language but a symbol, and somehow, I understood what it meant. A simple emotion: gratitude.

  Picking up the cask, I was relieved to find that — despite what it contained — it was light.

  I was even more thankful for that fact when, straightening, I heard distant sirens and realised I needed to leave.

  24

  Kezsarak’s cube under my arm, my feet slapping across the marshy plain, I ran from the foundry as fast as my abused body could manage. Every muscle and joint ached, and my left leg didn’t want to cooperate. My skin stung in places from cuts and punctures. My clothes were still damp and clung miserably to my body, shredded and ruined.

  Police vehicles cut a soggy track across the park towards the main gate as I slipped through a gap in the fence. They’d find broken firearms along with mangled old machinery. Maybe even a few bodies of Dillon’s men. In the chaos, I didn’t know what had happened to them. I wondered what the police would conclude from it all. I could always read about it in the news.

  My body hurt from all the abuse, but my stomach growled ferociously. I could murder a taco or ten.

  A grove at the edge of the field gave me cover so I slowed to look back and see if I was being pursued. Police officers swarmed from their vehicles. No one seemed to notice me so far, but it was likely someone would follow my tracks.

  The night was dark with patches of clouds, the ground slippery and wet. It made for slow going through the thin patch of timber. More than once, I stumbled over a root or ran into a low branch. My leg muscles burned and begged me to stop and sit. The trees soon thinned, and I arrived at the road which swept around the bottom of the park and into Greenwich’s residential area.

  Muttering and wincing, I reached inside the jacket to draw out my phone. I had the map of central London downloaded offline. Even if the foundry was off the edge of the map, I might be able to get my bearings, then get to Covent Garden Station and back to Lowe. I kicked myself for not thoroughly thinking through an exit strategy.

  I nearly burst into tears when I saw the screen had splintered and the mobile wouldn’t respond. I chucked the useless phone back in my pocket. With nothing else to do, I limped down the side of the road.

  A short time later, a vehicle rounded the curve. I had a brief surge of panic at the bright flashing lights until realising it was an ambulance. Too exhausted to find somewhere to hide, I stopped walking and watched the vehicle slow.

  A woman in a green ambulance uniform, complete with cap and windslicker, leapt out. She hustled towards me, took me by the arm and began to lead me to the ambulance.

  “I don’t want to go,” I grunted. “I’m fine.”

  “To hell with what you want!” she huffed, her grip unflinching. “I’ve been this way twice already. How long do you think an ambulance can circle a neighbourhood inconspicuously?”

  Squinting at the woman, I watched as her face shifted into that of someone I knew. She smiled and continued to haul me towards the back of the ambulance. I didn’t resist.

  “Daria?” I said, huskily.

  “There’s plenty of gauze and disinfectant. Plenty of water. But if you get into the narcotics, I’m turning this boat around. Mark my words.”

  The rear door swung open, and there on a stretcher, blanket around her shoulders, sat Jackie Davies. She rose, blankets tumbling, and helped me to the bench in the back.

  “Oh, Ibby,” she croaked. Tears poured down her face as she threw a blanket over my shoulders. “You’re alive.” She put her arms around me, and we melted into one another.

  I let my eyes droop shut. “We’re alive,” I echoed, my breath hitching. Keszarak’s cask slipped from my grasp and landed on the floor, cushioned by the blanket draped over me. I didn’t have the energy to pick it up. Let it stay there for now.

  Dary closed the door, and a moment later the ambulance began to move. Jackie bent and produced a water bottle. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to me. I drank greedily, washing the taste of ash out of my mouth. We swayed as the vehicle carried us out of the park and onto the London streets.

  “Ibby?” Jackie’s voice was soft and tremulous.

  I screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Yeah?”

  “I’m beginning to see why you doubt my taste in men.”

  I chuckled a dry laugh and gave my enlightened one a hug.

  I sat on a bench in Museum Station commons letting Daria remove shrapnel from my arm. Jackie sat nearby, staring around moon-eyed.

  “You get used to it,” I told her with a wince. “Ow.”

  “That’s the last piece,” Daria said, dropping the metal bit into a bowl.

  “No, she will not!” Lowe thundered, as he materialised from the aether. “Ibby, this is a junction between the realms of the spiritual and the material, not a youth hostel!”

  Jackie’s eyes were in danger of coming out of her head. “The ghost?” she whispered, hoarsely and pointed.

  On the way to Covent Garden, I’d given her a crash course in my new life. She was still adjusting. Overall, I think she was doing remarkably well, though Lowe’s sudden appearance and bad temper weren’t helping things.

  “Yes, I’m the ghost,” Lowe huffed and then flapped his long arms. “BOO!”

  Jackie blinked and recoiled but made no sign she was about to run away screaming.

  “Lowe, don’t be rude,” Daria chided as she swabbed and bandaged my arm. “They’ve been through enough tonight.”

  “But they can’t stay here, not long term, at least,” he pressed.

  “I d
on’t want to go home,” Jackie mumbled. “I won’t feel safe there.”

  “Ibby was here only a few days, and this place was a state,” Lowe went on as if he couldn’t hear. “Soot and ash on the upholstery. Dirty laundry in the corners. With two of you, it will be exponentially worse.”

  “Wait a minute.” I slid forwards, jaw first. “First, I was under psychic assault by a demon. Second, I was attacked at my flat, and third, we can’t stay here because you’re afraid we’ll be too messy?”

  Lowe drew himself up, smartly. “Ibby, I care for you deeply, and if you ever need a place to stay, I will of course oblige. But you are living, and so is Ms Davies. You need to be out there … well … being alive. Not in here avoiding life.”

  “Like you?” Dary remarked, dryly.

  “Precisely,” Lowe answered without a hint of shame. “Besides, I’m going to be busy with our new … friend.” His eyes slid to Kezsarak’s cube, where it sat at the foot of the obelisk.

  “It is going to be delicate work. It’s for the best that the only person around to get hurt is a dead man.”

  I wanted to argue further, but he was right. If something happened, and Kezsarak needed containing, I wouldn’t be far, but living here was out of the question. All the coming and going to get food and necessities would eventually draw attention and put Winterthür on our trail.

  “Let’s get a place together,” Jackie piped up. “I have money enough to keep us afloat for a while. I don’t particularly want to live alone anymore.”

  “That’s a splendid idea,” Lowe said, enthusiastically.

  I met her eye, and we shared a nod. It was good to have a friend.

  “Well,” I sighed as I stood up, my body patched and bandaged. “I’m going to need to find a job. Archaeology is no longer in the future of Ms Bashir.”

  “I’m sorry, love,” Jackie said earnestly.

  “I wouldn’t assume that yet.” Dary got to her feet, shouldering her kit. “If you’ll remember, I used to have connections in that sphere. Give me a little time, and we’ll see what shakes out.”

  I gawked at her, torn between hope and self-protecting suspicion. “You could really do that?”

  Dary winked. “Give me a little time — is all I’m saying.”

  Spontaneously, I wrapped her up in a hug. At first, she was too surprised to react but by degrees she returned it.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Thank you.” She held me at arm’s length, sporting a mysterious smile.

  “Excellent,” Lowe said, clasping his hands together. “You ladies are moving out. Ibby will get her future back. I get to rehabilitate an ancient demon …”

  “I need to call my Uncle Iry,” I added. “Let him know I’m okay. My last message had a ‘goodbye’ type feeling.”

  “Yes, that too,” Lowe remarked, mildly, then cleared his throat. “About, Mr Sark … I believe he is still at large.”

  To our surprise, Dary chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him.” Her smile turned wicked. “I made a couple of calls. Sark won’t be bothering any of us for some time.”

  Epilogue

  Dillon Sark was out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time. He sagged briefly against the wall as he reached the roof of a small apartment complex on the south side.

  His right arm hung limply at his side and throbbed terribly. He couldn’t stand to look at it. The flesh was swollen and bruised. He needed medical attention, but it was too risky.

  He’d been exposed, and for those who worked with Winterthür, that meant only one thing.

  He’d arrived at his penthouse in Battersea Park and found it crawling with Metro bobbies. After a moment of eavesdropping, he discovered they had him labelled as a domestic terrorist or arms dealer. He was on his way to becoming the most wanted man in London, if not the UK.

  He’d slipped away then, his mind racing. The police were not his primary concern, though they did complicate things. It was his employer that had him worried. Disgraced members of Winterthür very quickly became former members … by way of execution. He ought to know; he’d carried out the deed himself several times.

  He needed to get out of London for the time being, figure out a way to get back in good standing. He wasn’t sure what that would look like, but he was determined to see it done. He needed time to think.

  He was a clever man after all.

  What had followed his flight from Battersea Park was an exercise in frustration. Safehouse after safehouse was compromised. Bobbies swarmed every retreat. The idiot police couldn’t have discovered his safehouses themselves. He’d been betrayed. Sold out.

  The roof was a very old hiding spot and offered nothing more than a hidden duffel bag with some new ID, money and a change of clothes. It had been so long since he’d prepped it, he’d nearly forgotten about it entirely.

  He rushed towards an air conditioning unit, stolen screwdriver in hand, but he stopped when he saw the panel was hanging loosely from a single screw. Years of paranoia set his hair on end, and he whirled around.

  A beautiful woman in a dark coat stood next to the stairwell door. Her arrival had been completely soundless. She gave him a sharp smile and winked at the upraised screwdriver. A dingy, black duffel bag sat at her feet.

  “Come now, Archy,” she purred. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

  Sark swore. “That’s mine,” he growled, nodding towards the bag. “And, I hate that name.”

  “We should never be ashamed of where we come from, Archy,” she chided and gave a cold little laugh. “Relax, I’m here to help.”

  She tossed the bag at Dillon’s feet.

  He squatted and rifled through the contents. Everything was present, but there was something extra. He drew out a small envelope of heavy stock. There was handwriting on the front.

  With love, D. Tehom.

  There was something hard and small inside.

  “What’s this?” he asked, as he straightened.

  “It’s your way back in, Archy,” she explained. “This is what gets you back under the sheltering wing of Winterthür.”

  Dillon looked at the envelope and then back at the woman, his eyes narrowing. “And what does it get you?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

  Sark raised the envelope and tore it open with his teeth. He fished out a tiny stone cylinder. It had holes bored through its sides and cuneiform inscribed on either end.

  “What’s this?”

  But when he looked up, he was alone with only the wail of sirens drifting up from the wet streets below.

  ***

  Metal Guardian

  Rings of the Inconquo, Book 2

  Prologue

  City of Kalhu, 5400 BC

  Nighttime in the city was unnaturally bright, leaving Daria feeling exposed. It took all her self-control not to rush from shadow to shadow. Instead, she moved down the paved street, sliding between and around city folk going about their nocturnal errands. Men, women, and even some children carried on their business as though it were the middle of the day – commerce and community occurring under fireless lights shining from atop human-sized pillars.

  Yes, light without fire, as though the heavens themselves had been plundered to offer their bounty to the streets of Kalhu. Night held no dominion here in Ninurta’s city, home of the Inconquo. In fact, as best she could tell, the only thing which held any dominion in Kalhu and the lands stretching to the horizon was Ninurta himself. In the days since Lamashtu’s chilling whispers had surfaced in her mind, she’d passed through the countryside to see firsthand the domains of the king. A king that men were now calling a god. Every village she crept through, and every town she’d nested in, was buzzing with rumors, uttered with equal parts wonder and terror, at the power that sat upon Kalhu.

  “With but a thought he commands things to his will,” they wheezed among themselves. “A warrior’s sword bends in def
erence to him, and a king’s armour runs to the ground to cower before him.”

  Herds of dull-eyed humans gasped and murmured. At first, Daria had fought to keep the mocking incredulity from her face and voice. But the stories grew more fantastic and yet more tangible the closer she got to the city.

  “He works metal without a forge.”

  “With only his mind, he can make things fit for court or the battlefield.”

  “When he desires a thing, he has but to think it, and all the world turns upon that thought.”

  The pervasive stories were growing to such heights she couldn’t stand it. When she came upon the first outlying town with its pillar crowned in fireless light, she decided to investigate. The pillar had been “gifted” to the town’s people by Ninurta’s children, to be placed at the centre of their collection of hovels. Men recalling the event spoke in dread-filled whispers of how the Inconquo had spoken of an end to the tyranny of the night, but to these farmers and herders, it was exchanging one lord for another. For all of the night’s tyranny, it never demanded a tithe of their crops like Ninurta did.

  For a newly desecrated creature of darkness, this new order of things seemed so wrong, so perverse, that she’d braved the profane light atop the pillar for a chance to see what manner of sorcery created it. She’d been shocked. There were no complex engravings on a sacred tablet, or weavings of mystic energies, only a clay vessel with a perforation around the top from which the light emerged. Her eyes watering at the light’s glare, she’d investigated further and found only an arrangement of metal bars resting in an acrid smelling brine.

  It was not magic, at least not in any sense by which she knew the word, and in serving Tiamat and now Lamashtu, she’d seen her fair share of magic. This was different, and though she did not understand how it could be so, she felt the first trembles of fear in her perpetually empty belly. Men had made these things, and if they could fashion such as these, was there any limit to what they could achieve?