Breaking Chaos

by Ben Galley

  I pitied anyone that had need to walk across the whole fucking desert.

  Evening came to wash the sky of its colours, and still the Cult had not reared their heads. My lookout duties had gone from idle wandering to intense staring into the greying desert. The sun had not long since disappeared below the jagged, distant reaches of the desert and Sprawls. When I found a moment, I looked upwards to watch the heavens fade from red to black.

  The silence had become interminable. Torches had been lit, and their crackling was the only conversation. The shades were busy sewing patches from the inside of the huge balloon. Needles and glue made far less noise than hammers and nails, but I would have taken them back. Silence was too blank a canvas. Every desert noise was stark and strange, raising my hackles even though I was sure I had fewer worries than those around me.

  Horix had ensconced herself in the prow, nestled into the controls, brooding and peering out through the doorway with a fierce glare. Her eyes glinted under her hood, and whenever I passed by on my circuits, I watched them follow me, like a haunted painting.

  As night won over the sunset, Omshin called for more torches and spread his soldiers in a wide ring around the hollow between the dunes. Still nothing challenged them. I crouched, feeling useless and increasingly perturbed with every moment that dragged on. The Cult certainly knew how to make a person wait.

  In my prickly brand of boredom, I took to climbing the western dune. I found it even harder than the soldiers made it look. My lack of weight only made the sand slip more, and it took me some time to wade up to the top. I was greeted by several furrowed brows on my arrival. One grizzled old soldier was mid-sip on a hip flask. The other was a woman, seemingly annoyed at how I’d spent so long reaching them.

  ‘Slow night, huh?’ I said, using whatever time they gave me to look out into the desert. I wanted to spy a gleam of blue. A puff of sand. Anything to give this lingering threat a face. The human mind was cursed with the idea that knowing what was coming for you somehow made it less fearsome. I felt the morbid urge, same as all, but I despised the logic. Just because I can see that the beast charging at me is a twelve-foot, slavering bear doesn’t change the fact my face is about to be gnawed off. In fact, if that had been my death, I’d rather not know a fucking thing, and take my own blade to my throat instead. That wasn’t cowardice. That was just good sense.

  The soldiers knew their orders and had no words for me. They followed my gaze instead, and the three of us watched the desert in awkward silence. In my peripheries, I could see others watching us, uneasy that I wandered free. Half a dozen more wisecracks limped through my head before I decided that I didn’t care any more, and began to slide back down the slope.

  A dune must have been the only hill that could tire a person going down it. There was a strange weakness in my legs, and the difficulty of keeping my feet free from the cloying sand. Even on the flatter climes it shifted with every step.

  The wind said my name. It was so spoken so softly I could have dismissed it as my imagination. Caltro, it whispered, a breath that stirred my vapours into curls.

  I stared out past the Vengeance and the weaving channel the dunes made. A low ripple of sand made a fine wall for the soldiers. There was a gap between two of them, no doubt on purpose to tempt the attackers in. I strolled towards it, and as I walked I heard the hiss of the envelope filling up, and of whatever alchemy the shades were brewing inside it. I had asked the workers all sorts of questions earlier in the day, but got few answers. I had seen powder in sacks being carted about, full of something like crushed crystal. Whatever magic it was, the rumpled balloon had begun to bloat again, and rise, tilting the craft slightly further upright.

  My feet took me to the gap, where I was no doubt watched carefully for a few moments before the soldiers’ eyes turned outward again. It was the cusp of twilight; the colour had been sapped from the day and eyes were still struggling to adjust. No moon shone tonight, just one lonesome star on the horizon.

  I stared over the slight ridge, where a small, shadowy gully had collected wheels of dry, knotted bramble around a beetle carcass. They scraped against each other with every breath of wind. I hadn’t heard my name again, neither in the breeze nor the skeletal rasping of what passed for plants in this desert. I came to the conclusion that my boredom was concocting intrigue for me.

  Sand shifted to my right. I looked up to the soldier on that side, but he was lying with his chin on his hands, dazedly looking far out into the dunes. The soldier on the left was doing something similar.

  ‘Caltro.’

  This time there was no imagination at play. The whisper was quiet but clear as a chime. It came from where the sand was still slipping. A black mask appeared as it turned, no smile, no features, just two glowing blue eye-holes. It looked as if some mannequin had been buried for decades beneath the dunes, waiting to haunt me. I saw the rest of her shape, faint and half-hidden beneath the sand, but made up of a sand-coloured coat and trews. She was lying so motionless, I couldn’t tell where she began and the desert ended.

  ‘Liria or Yaridin?’

  ‘Liria, as I die and glow.’

  I was relieved, to be honest. ‘This is a new look for you.’

  ‘We are very resourceful. A gift from the old Tribes of Sesha that once walked the Duneplains. They used these garments to sneak up on their prey.’

  My eyes switched between the soldiers as I took a casual step towards her, putting me between her and at least one of their views. I silently searched the sand for other black masks poking up, eyes gleaming at me like the ghouls of old stories.

  ‘And am I prey?’ I asked her. ‘I take it you didn’t come here to give me a lesson on Arctian society.’

  Liria blinked slowly, and I wondered how she was holding back her glow. In the half-light, her eyes were like soft blue chalk, barely casting any light. Maybe that was why the guards had spent so long looking for the Cult. And here they were: poised on the edge of our camp. I looked for weapons on her indistinct form but found none. I was curious whether she was a fighter, as well as a sneak.

  ‘That is for you to answer,’ she told me plainly. ‘How you act from here on in defines you. Run with Horix, or come with us.’

  Finally, they were freely welcoming me in. I could have smiled. Reaching deeper into the Cult was easier than I had expected it to be, and that was why I clarified, ‘To my freedom, or back to Temsa?’

  Liria did not lie. ‘Not to Temsa. To us.’

  ‘Why do you insist on trusting that vile snake?’ It probably wasn’t the best time for questions, but I still wanted to know.

  ‘Trust has nothing to do with it. Faith, more like, that he will continue grasping for the throne as expected. Fortunately, he does not need you in that quest any more. Your trial is over.’

  I personally hated the word ‘quest’. It gave grandeur to often droll or questionable tasks. Pomp to those with no excuse to call themselves heroes. Don’t even get me started on what I thought about ‘trial’. That was not a comfortable word for any thief to hear. I didn’t like it when the sisters had first said it, but I didn’t mind it now it was almost over.

  ‘You wanted a rabid wolf for the job of taking the throne. Well, now you have two, and this particular wolf can fly. Why not let me open the Sanctuary for her instead of Temsa?’ I didn’t say it to protect Horix, but for myself. Selfishness is often hidden behind drapes of good intention and compassion. I had a chance at picking the greatest vault ever constructed. It was a jewel that now gleamed almost as brightly as my freedom.

  ‘Chaos is an art, seeming random but made of small and subtle changes. Horix is a force too great, and must be curbed.’

  ‘She’s ruffling your feathers, isn’t she?’

  Liria looked at me as if she’d never seen a bird in her life. I tried another turn of phrase from my homeland.

  ‘She’s shitting on your bonfire.’

  I didn’t need the ghost to remove the mask to know she pouted with anno
yance beneath it. It was the usual facial expression my wit received.

  ‘She is unpredictable, yes,’ she said. ‘You want your freedom, Caltro, yet you continue to put your faith in the widow’s false promises. You ran from Temsa when we asked you to stay. We offer you safety, and you talk of helping Horix to open the Sanctuary. Unlike her, we have your best interests at heart. We are your kin, if nothing else. Can you say that of anybody else you’ve dealt with in Araxes?’

  I thought of lying, and pretending this whole thing had been a ruse to let the Cult have a shot at Horix, but I already felt weak just thinking of it.

  ‘No,’ I said instead, shaking my head. Not even of the dead gods. Damn it if these sisters didn’t make a huge amount of sense. ‘But she still has my coin. And that is final.’

  ‘Join us, Caltro, and the morning may tell a different story. For her and for you.’

  I knew whatever I decided would not save anybody’s life tonight. Only my own interests, and they were largely self-preservative. And here I was, being invited into the Cult of Sesh, and having an army claim my half-coin while I was at it. I hoped Oshirim and his posse were happy, wherever they stared down from. I certainly was, though I played nonchalant.

  ‘Fine. Try your luck with the widow. And if you get my half-coin off her, I will consider it.’

  ‘Oh, it was never your choice to make, Caltro. The widow has made an enemy of us without you. Yours was to stand by or defy us. A final chance,’ said Liria. I heard the smile in her voice, and it unsettled my nerves. ‘Let’s test your widow, Caltro.’

  With a rustle of sand, I withdrew from the ridge and nodded politely to the soldiers. Part of me wanted to give them a fighting chance. I could have laughed. I’d never been given one; they didn’t deserve it either.

  It’s an odd thing, deciding where to watch a slaughter from. You have to consider such matters as blood splatter, crossfire, and general getting in the way. I had no armour to speak of, only my ripped and borrowed smock. I decided on a spot halfway up a dune; far enough away from the ship, and with a rock as a pillow. I reclined against it and stared down at the battleground. My posture was so casual as to look foolish, and yet inside I was as tense as a ghost can be. It was as though I’d bet for both contenders in a fight, and somehow found myself down in the pit with them.

  I saw the crooked form of Horix watching me from within the shadows of the Vengeance’s doorway. Her eyes had that glint to them again. There came a strange tug on me as she clutched the half-coin at her neck. I braced myself against it.

  ‘Come here, Caltro!’ she called me.

  The despising look on my face said everything, as did my stillness. The only move I made was to entwine my hands behind my head. I had made my decision. Aligned my walls to a lord’s castle, as the Krass peasants put it. It was reaping time.

  ‘You continue to test my patience, shade!’

  Three soldiers were already tramping towards me, the widow striding behind them like a gale hurrying leaves down a street. She had wrenched my coin from her neck and raised it high as if it was the severed head of some enemy she’d won a victory over. Horix waited as her men came to fetch me. It took them some time with the sloping sand, but when they did, they did so roughly. I was thrown back down the slopes, rolling to a stop at the widow’s feet. Copper spear-points stopped me from getting up.

  Horix stood over me, face drawn back in displeasure. ‘You are a pestilent creature, Caltro, and I am past being tired of it. What is it you don’t realise about your status in this world? You are lesser. Beneath. Half alive. And yet you roam about like some prize feline, refusing to come when I, your owner, call. You are bloated on your own confidence, shade. I thought we had come to an understanding on that matter, but it appears I will have to keep reminding you of it until your task is done. When I can finally be rid of you.’

  I was about to give her a whole new perspective on understanding when three black arrows interrupted us. With a snicker-snack, they found a place in each of the soldiers’ necks, where the armour was soft. Blood flecks spattered Horix’s cheek as the nearest one gurgled around steel and wood.

  The widow was fast on her feet for an old bag. She was already inside the Vengeance before the soldiers had head-butted the sand. I retreated to a nearby torch, eager to show myself off, being in the ring of soldiers and all.

  ‘Inside, Caltro!’

  I didn’t move, knowing she was too cautious to fetch me. Arrows zipped past my shoulders, steel-tipped instead of copper. For flesh, not vapour. Another soldier pitched into the grit with an arrow in his face.

  ‘To arms!’ came the cry from Omshin, cut off as an arrow found his shoulder. I watched him half-run, half-fall down the dunes. The soldiers not cut down by arrows, those too burrowed in the sand to be easy targets, followed behind. Bolstering the others, shields clanked together in a firm circle around the airship. Dark figures began to rise from the gaps in their perimeter. Sand poured from their edges. Dark blades emerged from shadow. Screams came from the ridge I had lingered on.

  More figures appeared on the dune’s peak. Their black faces and glowing eyes would have set fear in the hearts of any traveller. But Horix’s soldiers were worth every purse of silver she had paid for them. Old army fellows, well used to fighting the dead and the living.

  Those still carrying bows fired a volley. Two of the Cult were turned to pincushions. Blue smoke puffed from sleeves and eye-holes and they collapsed in a bundle of cloth. Many wore arrows but kept on striding across the sand, and I wondered what it took to turn my kind permanently dead with a blade.

  Another volley was launched and more garments littered the dune. Omshin yelled something and every third member of their line strode outwards, spears balanced in a groove in their shields. They roamed like marauders, fighting each cultist as they came. They fought like scorpions, pinning their enemy with heavy strikes from their shields before stabbing them. When they tired, they retreated to be replaced by another soldier. It was a clever rotating mill of death. It kept the fighting as far away from the Vengeance as possible.

  Frequent flashes of white showed colours in the grey sand. Blue bursts intermingled with occasional splashes of blood and filth. The only cries came from Horix’s soldiers. The Cult worked silently, impassively, even the live ones. The other sounds were the frantic hissing of those working away inside the Vengeance, burning their precious powder to make gas.

  They had no formation, no visible tactics besides numbers. Ever increasing numbers. Those in the camouflaged cloaks had been cut down, and now plain cultists in grey and red cloaks were wading down into the clamorous hollow. I spied some in armour waiting on the ridge, holding spears. I knew little of battle, but I knew if somebody had the balls – even ghostly blue ones – to stand so casually on the edge of a fight, it was a worrying sign.

  Omshin was yelling out targets, striding from one side of his circle to the other. An arrow shaft still protruded from his arm. The formation contracted slightly with every soldier that fell. Two score still remained, however. Maybe more. I had already counted almost double that in piles of clothes. A few cultists had yet to die, and were squirming about in the sand, glowing brightly where stumps had replaced limbs.

  And still they came.

  Armoured shades came striding down the hill, swinging curved swords or wiggling spears. They took on the roaming soldiers head-on, moving fast and viciously. The number of cries and dead increased palpably.

  The Vengeance groaned as it tilted almost upright. The bag of gas billowed in the places it had begun to sag. New patches strained. A pop of something inside the craft punched some more lift into the saggier places, and with another groan the Vengeance sat upright on its awkward hull.

  ‘Caltro! Get inside now!’ called Horix.

  Arrows rained, seeking to puncture the thick leather hide of the envelope, but it was no use. Instead of lifting up, the craft listed sideways, carving a deep furrow in the sand.

  ‘Now, Caltro!’
the widow yelled.

  I moved only towards the half-coin dangling around her neck, looser on its retied chain. More pops and hisses came from the inside of the envelope, and the Vengeance lurched into the sky. Ropes were dangled for the soldiers able to leave the fray. I held onto one, but did not climb it. I simply stared at Horix, holding her eyes while I waited to pounce.

  Omshin and his soldiers moved with us, dragging the fight up the gully between the dunes. The cultists followed, bunching up into a mob that followed, but didn’t exactly chase. A few raced forwards to keep the soldiers busy, while the rest climbed the sides of the dunes, firing down at the escapees.

  ‘Climb, you useless shade. Here! Now!’ Horix continued to snarl at me.

  I looked back at the cultists and saw Enlightened Sister Liria standing in amongst the masked fray. She was hard to see in the dust cloud the fighting had kicked up, but I saw that she had removed her mask. Her face glowed now. She had eyes only for me.

  I felt the rope slide through my grip along to the shout of, ‘CLIMB!’ from the widow. Above me, a red-faced Widow Horix, clawing at thin air for me. Her yellow teeth were bared in a fiercely desperate gurn.

  ‘Come to me, Caltro!’

  I saw the copper half-moon dangling around her neck, bright against the black of her cloth. And so I climbed, hand over slipping hand, until my legs dangled beneath me and once again I knew what it was like to fly.

  Once I was near, Horix got to her knees, beckoning me ever closer, black silks flapping around her face. The wind blew hot and fresh through my vapours. I lunged for the edge of the Vengeance, fell short, but stayed dangling from the rope. I stared up at her wild eyes, her flowing stream of silver hair, and waited.