City of Iron and Dust

by J. P. Oakes

  “Oh,” Harretta says, nodding, “the coward wants to retreat.”

  Which is exactly what Bee was hoping she wouldn’t say. Because it’s unfair. Because it’s not true. And because it’s precisely what everyone else is thinking.

  Tharn opens his mouth, says nothing. What can he say?

  Bee wants to agree with Tharn. But is that because of his own cowardice? And does he want to wear his fear as a badge? Does he want everyone in the Fae Liberation Front to see that every time they look at him?

  Tharn turns to him, a question in his eyes. Does Bee have his back? Bee does not want to lead the Fae Liberation Front. He does not believe in leaders. But he does want his voice to be heard among the chorus.

  “Well,” Bee says slowly, “I mean they have literally put themselves in a kill box.”

  Tharn looks away. “You don’t even know what a kill box is.”

  Bee shrugs helplessly. “It’s square… We’ll kill them in it…”

  Harretta pushes the advantage. “To the vote?”

  Tharn shakes his head, gives in to it. “To attack?” he asks the assembled rebels.

  Twenty voices whisper back, “Aye.”

  So be it.

  Bee unslings the machine gun. Its metal feels cold and sharp in his hands. It is designed to do one thing. To make him one thing.

  Tharn is next to him, the revolver out. His jaw is set. Above them, the moon peers between two clouds, paints one of Tharn’s cheeks white, leaves the other untouched. He doesn’t look at Bee.

  “You want the machine gun?” Bee whispers. He wants Tharn to know that they are still friends. He wants the others to see Tharn with the instrument that saved them in his hands, to know Bee still believes in Tharn. He also doesn’t want to fire that thing ever again.

  Tharn hesitates. Bee pushes the gun at him. When Tharn takes it there’s a slight tremble in his hands that Bee pretends he doesn’t see. Tharn hands Bee the pistol.

  Below them, the goblins are splitting into two groups, one near each open edge of the lot, connected by a narrow stream of runners swapping messages and flitting into blood-red tents.

  These goblins are preparing to murder fae, Bee tells himself. They are going to murder innocents.

  Except, Bee is not exactly innocent, is he?

  He puts his crosshairs on a goblin’s torso. Does he have a wife? Children? Does a mother complain to him that he forgets to send cards on her birthday?

  Revolution is a violent act. It is an upheaval of norms. It shakes the world and forces it to settle in a new pattern. Bee knows his theory. He has read his books.

  And yet, as the other fae open fire, he thinks that Tharn is not the only coward. He thinks that he is here, hiding his fear behind this gun. He thinks he is going to throw up.

  Then he fires. He watches the goblin buck and go down.

  Next to him, Tharn opens up with the machine gun. Its blazing stream of bullets walks between bodies, chews up tent fabric. A box of ammunition explodes. Tharn leans over the roof’s edge, lips pulled back in a rictus leer.

  The goblins return fire. Bullets patter the concrete below Bee. The gutter cracks, splinters, falls down like a great clunky streamer thrown in celebration of this destruction and mayhem. Something whines past Bee’s ear. Another round passes so close to his scalp that his hair blows in its breeze.

  Then one of the goblins’ shots clips Tharn’s shoulder, throws him up and back. The machine gun releases its primal scream towards the heavens, then goes quiet. Someone’s head detonates next to Harretta. Bee feels blood and bone spatter against his cheek.

  He keeps on firing, though. There is nothing left to do. They are committed. Perhaps, Bee thinks, the more he fires, the sooner it will be over.

  His gun locks, his magazine empty. He rolls away from the building edge, reloads. His hands are shaking. His clothes are wet with sweat.

  He goes to swing back to the fray, finds he can’t. His body won’t respond. Rational parts of his brain are screaming at him that this is suicide by goblin commando. He screams back at it that his friends are dying out here, because he didn’t have Tharn’s back, because he is too much of a coward to risk being labeled a coward.

  He swings back, fires once, stares down on a slaughterhouse scene. Below him, the only movement is twitching.

  The Fae Liberation Front lie on a rooftop beneath a smoking sky. They stare down at the massacre they have enacted. They wait. Some of them bleed. Below them, bodies fall still. Slowly, they realize their work is done.

  Bee isn’t the first to stand up. Neither is Harretta. But when they both do, she claps him on the shoulder.

  “Kill box,” she says to him. “Fuck yeah.”

  Bee still thinks he’s going to throw up.

  Knull

  Skart helps Knull up through the window at the back of the alleyway. Knull tumbles headfirst, scared to flip and risk his injured ankle. He lands on his shoulders in a pile of old sacks that stink of mushrooms and dung. Skart follows after him, showing surprising agility for an old man. But the craggy kobold still massages his back as he stands.

  “Not what I once was.”

  “What?” Knull asks. “Relevant?” He feels bitter about all this. He also can’t help but feel it’s all Skart’s fault.

  Skart shrugs and fails to rise to the bait. Knull looks around the room. A little light from the street filters into it from another narrow window in the opposite wall. He can make out shelves and cans, little else.

  “What is this place?”

  “A storeroom,” Skart says. “A safe space. No one but friends come here.”

  To Knull, though, the place looks like a rat trap. If the Spriggans come in here, they’re both boned.

  “Anyway,” Skart says, “back to business.”

  It takes Knull time to realize what Skart’s actually saying. “You want to iron out a Dust deal in here? With them outside?” What, Knull would like to know, is wrong with this fae?

  “It’ll be twenty minutes before we can be sure the Spriggans are gone,” Skart says, pulling deeper, Knull supposes, from his well of esoteric goblin military knowledge. “We have the time.”

  Knull just shakes his head.

  “What’s more,” Skart plows on, “I think that considering I just saved your neck, we might be able to negotiate a bit on price.”

  Knull thinks this might actually be the most absurd thing he’s heard so far. “Why?” he asks.

  It’s Skart’s turn to stare. “I just saved your life.”

  “Yeah,” Knull nods. “Which is great for you because now I can still connect you to the fae with Dust to sell.”

  Skart pushes both hands through his bushy red hair. “Can we please dispense with the fiction that the seller isn’t you? It would make things so much easier.”

  Knull couldn’t agree more. Still he’s surprised it’s taken the old kobold this long to figure it out.

  “All right,” he says. “So, you buy the Dust off me. Same as I said before, half up front.”

  Skart scoffs. “You want over a million gears before you even prove you have this Dust?”

  Which, in the end, Knull had been hoping for. Because one and a half million gears would get him so far away from Skart that he’d never have to follow through on the deal, and it would let him find a new seller, and make even more off that schmuck.

  Still, it is perhaps reassuring that Skart is demonstrating the most basic of street smarts, even if it will mean more work on Knull’s part. “I’ll take a photo of the stash,” he says. “Bring that to you.” There will, of course, be nothing in the background to identify the Dust’s location. Skart might know about special forces search patterns, but Knull knows Dust deals.

  “I need to do this deal tonight,” Skart says. “Now.”

  Knull almost laughs. How many rookie mistakes can the old kobold make in one night? Never let the mark know how much you need what they have.

  “I told you, I’ll be able to get you the money,�
� Skart says. “More than you’re asking for. If I get the Dust tonight, then you can have riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Knull knows a bullshit deal when he hears one. Because it sounds exactly like what he’d tell someone he was trying to rip off. There is enough earnestness in Skart’s voice, though, that he thinks the kobold might genuinely believe what he’s saying. This sort of passion is so foreign to Knull that he can’t help but pull on the thread to see where it might lead.

  “What are you going to do with the Dust?” he asks.

  “Change everything.” In the thin light Skart’s expression is impossible to read.

  Knull thinks he’s meant to be impressed. He’s not.

  Skart shakes his head. “Don’t you feel it? It’s already happening out there.”

  The only thing Knull feels is the junkie energy that’s coming off the old kobold in waves. He half expects Skart to start with the flashbacks next.

  “The city is rising up,” Skart says. “Fae are in the streets. The goblins have refused to relinquish power so now the fae are seizing it.”

  And Knull has been through a lot, but finally, he thinks, he might be about to lose his shit.

  “What?” He throws his hands up. “You idiots are doing this again? Again? And you want me to sell you Dust on the promise of an IOU? Tomorrow, you’ll be in a goblin jail being tortured, and at best I’ll be sitting with my dick in my hands. Screw you.”

  He thinks his vehemence has caught Skart off guard, but the old kobold recovers fast. “You want to live like this?” Skart asks. “You want to be under the goblins’ thumb?”

  And Skart really doesn’t get it, Knull realizes.

  “Of course not!” he shouts before he remembers he’s meant to be hiding from goblin special forces. “That’s why I’m trying to get three million gears,” he hisses. “Because that’s the answer, you dumb shit. Not kicking the goblins in the nuts. That just means reprisals. It always means reprisals. It always makes things worse. Always.”

  And in the face of his unexpected fury, Skart just grins. Like an asshole.

  “Not tonight,” Skart says. “Tonight is different.”

  “No it’s not!” Knull really cannot get over this crap. It’s like his parents are telling him that this time he really can trust them with the baggy of Dust. “It’s always the same fight, over and over and over, with you idiots.” He finds he’s poking Skart in the temple. “We lost it. We always lose it. You’re fighting for something that’s already been decided. Just let it fucking go already.”

  And finally it seems like he might have shaken Skart’s sense of smug superiority.

  “Let it go?” the old kobold asks. “Let go of the deaths of my family? My friends? Let go of a world of green, and good, and light, and hope? You are an ignorant fucking child. You don’t even know what’s been lost.”

  And that’s it. Knull’s out. He’s done.

  “Screw you,” he says. “Keep your money. I’ll find someone who’s…” But he can’t keep on track. It’s gnawing away at him, this constant stream of horse dung that Skart is spouting. His anger slips its leash. “You’re fighting for a gone-away world!” he spits. “It’s not even out there beyond the Iron Wall anymore. Even if you could win, you’re fighting an old, irrelevant war.”

  Skart’s fists are balled. “Do you have no feeling in your heart for anyone but yourself? Does it not even cross your mind to lift your fellow fae up to the sun?”

  “There is no sun in this world,” Knull snaps. “There’s smoke, and smog, and rain, and I know you can’t believe it, but I like it that way. It’s my sky. It’s the one I was born under.”

  Skart shakes his head. “You are selfish, and you are lost. And you don’t even recognize when someone is trying to save you.”

  “I don’t want to be saved by you. I want to save myself. You should too. Make the most of now. This is the world we live in. This is our home. All you old-timers go on about what we lost. You’re lost. You’re in the past and you can’t get out.”

  “With that brick of Dust,” Skart says, “the old world is a click of my fingers away.”

  Which is, of course, insane. Because Knull knows that while you could pretty much do whatever you wanted with that much Dust in your system, you’d be too busy detonating, with each and every one of your blood vessels tearing its way out of your body. And if that’s really the extent of Skart’s plan, then Knull knows he has definitely been here too long.

  “Fuck this.” He heads back to the window.

  “Where are you—” Skart starts, but Knull has already grabbed the sill. It hurts to haul himself up with his busted ankle but it’s worth it as he glances back and sees the expression on Skart’s face.

  He’s still grinning about that when he reaches the end of the alleyway and finds himself staring directly into the barrel of a Spriggan’s gun.

  12

  When the Bodies Hit the Floor

  Skart

  Skart should have known. Of course he should. It should have been obvious that of all the idiotic choices Knull could make, he would make the most idiotic one available. It was so obvious, Skart almost feels—as he stares at the window Knull just disappeared through—that he might be the stupid one here.

  There is, of course, only one thing he can do now. Skart is beginning to realize that there are no choices left on this path, just ugly necessities. So, no matter how much he’d rather avoid this, he grabs the windowsill and follows in Knull’s wake.

  By the time he has his head out the window, the Spriggans have Knull up against a wall. One goblin has a gun in the young fae’s mouth, and another is rhythmically tenderizing his balls. For his part, Knull is simply crying.

  The first Spriggan pulls his weapon from Knull’s jaws. “Where is it?” he spits.

  Knull is gagging and sobbing. The second Spriggan punches Knull in the gut while the first repeats his question.

  “Where’s what?” Knull asks, which means he’s either more resilient than Skart thought or even dumber.

  The first Spriggan grabs Knull by the throat. “You think we pulled you off the street at random? You think we’re idiots? You left a trail, you schmuck. We’ve got dogs. Your fae rebels may think they’re clever bastards, but they haven’t broken all the CCTV cameras. We tracked you here. So, we know you’re our fae. Now give it up.”

  They don’t wait for an answer, though, just punch Knull in the gut again. He goes to the ground mewling.

  They will, Skart thinks, probably work Knull for another minute or two before they get serious about wanting answers. He considers letting them extract the information he wants, then using it to get the Dust himself. But there’s no guarantee he could get to the Dust ahead of the goblins. He’s not as young as he used to be.

  He thinks of the black growths in his arms. Thinks of a ticking clock.

  The pair go back to their work. They’re so intent on it, they don’t even look up as Skart wrestles his way through the old window frame.

  The third goblin positioned directly below the window does, however. He puts his gun to Skart’s skull.

  “You’re going to watch this,” says Skart’s new friend. “And then you’re going to tell us everything you know.”

  “Yes, yes,” Skart says. “I know.”

  He is fairly sure that this isn’t what the Spriggan expected. In fact, he’s staking his life on it.

  The Spriggan’s moment of confusion is just that—a moment—but it’s all Skart has. He ducks, hurls himself back into the commando’s body. He brings his arm up, locks the Spriggan’s wrist, wrenches. There’s an audible snap.

  Skart plucks the gun from the air as it flies free. Behind him, the goblin is grabbing at Skart’s throat with his uninjured hand. Skart reaches around his own body and jams the gun barrel against the commando’s ribs.

  He pulls the trigger twice and the pressure on his neck lessens.

  For the other two Spriggans, Knull is rapidly becoming less interesting
.

  Skart grabs the toppling commando, spins his body round, uses it as a shield. Rounds strike the goblin’s body armor, drive Skart back. He’s hunched up against the wall. But being pinned down isn’t going to work. It’s only seconds before they find his ankles or an exposed elbow.

  He pushes up off the wall, taking the dead weight of the commando with him. He’s roaring.

  There is not much magic left in the Iron City, but not all its works have been undone. Some things that were done before the Iron Wall went up are written in flesh and bone. There was a time when he was young, and a warrior. A time when he was sent into the frontlines of battle with magic carved into his skin. Magic to make him stronger, faster, better. And he is old now. He is broken now. But the magic left a mark. He has made it further through life than many fae. He has seventy years to call his own, even if he can feel the final curtain calling him. And the magic left him still capable of something more than his age would suggest.

  He just isn’t sure if it’s enough.

  He staggers forward. He can feel bullets hitting the back plate of the commando’s Kevlar vest already. An arm has almost come off. He’s only halfway down the alley. It’s not far enough.

  This is so much harder than it used to be. This is so much worse than when he was young and shirtless, marked with runes, Dust burning in his veins, fighting for his homeland, fighting with a vigor lost somewhere in the grind of the countless years.

  He fires the pistol under what’s left of the commando’s armpit. The shots are astonishingly loud between the alleyway’s walls. He misses with all of them, but it’s enough to buy him eight more yards.

  He flings the ragged corpse forward, charges after it. But he’s misjudged the distance. He needed about five more yards.

  The commando’s gun comes up in his face. He skids to a halt. “Nice try, motherfucker,” the Spriggan says. Skart doesn’t really think he appreciates the effort all this has taken, though.

  Still, it’s an opening, and Skart will take it. He swings his legs up into the Spriggan’s crotch.

  Then they’re down on the ground wrestling. The last Spriggan stands over them, trying to line up a clear shot, but Skart is grappling for all he’s worth, pulling on almost seventy years of tricks and cheats, fighting as dirty as he can. He gouges at an eye, a mouth. He knees the commando in the balls for good measure. He hears a shoulder joint pop and for a moment he isn’t sure if it’s his or his opponent’s.