by Luke Arnold
Thunk.
An arrow landed in the dirt. Our attackers had turned to more conventional weapons.
I pulled at Victor’s body but couldn’t free him. Then, I saw the machine, still tucked into his belt. I let go of Victor and grabbed the weapon instead.
Hard little hands wrapped around my wrist. He was awake.
“Did you do this?”
When he talked, red spittle hit my face.
“No. I swear.”
He grabbed my collar. Pulled my face in so tight I feared that he was going to use his last ounce of strength to bite off my nose.
“Destroy it. Don’t let them have it. Don’t tell them anything.”
SMASH!
Another hut exploded right beside us.
“PROMISE ME!” he coughed. “Before I shoot you myself!”
I nodded and he let me go.
I looked back at the boulder with his one real leg pinned beneath it. Victor looked like he was ten breaths from oblivion and I couldn’t see any way to help.
Frankie screamed again, so I left Vic in the dirt to go find her.
The fire was spreading and kicking up smoke. Frankie was tied to the remains of a broken weapons rack, freaked out but uninjured. I unharnessed her and hopped on top. There was no time for the saddle. I put the machine in its place beside my ribs, right where it belonged.
Thunk. Thunk.
More arrows. All too wide. Too inaccurate. Knocked about by wind and distance.
I kicked Frankie’s sides and we took off south, between boulders and broken huts. We left the Goblin to die in the dirt and I didn’t feel good about it but there was nothing I could do. As we weaved between the huts and the towers, arrows landed uselessly in the dirt and a bitter kind of pride burned in my chest.
They couldn’t hit me from up there. Not with those weapons. They needed the machine.
But they couldn’t have it.
I had it.
Frankie carried me out of the valley and we left them all behind.
32
We were in a bad way. Our blankets had been left behind, along with the saddle and the thermos that had saved our lives on the way out. Everything was back in Aaron Valley under piles of broken clay.
I was shivering. Even Frankie was shivering. The air was full of mist that made everything wet and undefined. The world had lost its edges like we’d all been wiped with turpentine.
I had trouble keeping my bearings and there was no way to tell what time it was. Wild animal sounds came from all directions. We plodded on, miserable and hurting.
Then, Frankie stopped.
The world went quiet. No bird calls. No wind. Just Frankie’s breath. She sniffed the air and made a noise like a growling dog.
“What is it, girl?”
Her eyes were locked ahead and her body went tense between my legs. Fear passed through her body into mine. Then, I heard it.
Hooves. Thundering against the path. Closer and closer.
Somebody was charging on horseback, through the mist, right in our direction.
I couldn’t see them through the fog. They wouldn’t be able to see us. I kicked Frankie to move off the path but she was petrified in place.
“Hey!” I screamed into the white. “Hey, look out!”
The hooves kept coming. Just as fast. Faster. Then I saw it.
The shadow of a horse. No rider. Thundering through the haze.
Frankie reared back on her hind legs and I had to dig my hands into her mane to keep from tumbling over. She lashed out at the air with her front legs but the display did nothing to slow down the incoming steed. It charged through Frankie’s wild limbs and sunk its teeth into the flesh under her neck.
The wild horse bit down hard and didn’t let go. I could see our attacker’s deformed face up close. Its eyes were clouded over with insanity and the flesh of its muzzle was punctured with pieces of shining stone. A jagged, broken rock punctured its forehead like a crystal third-eye.
It was a Unicorn.
A horse with a horn of pure magic sprouting from its forehead that some stories claimed was a piece of the river itself.
Well, it seemed that the storytellers were right.
The horn of pure magic had frozen, just like the sacred river, and created a cluster of sharp crystals that cut through its skin. One purple dagger of dark stone sprouted from under its eye socket and the wound was surrounded by old scabs and dead flesh. From the way the horse was acting, I guessed that the crystal had also grown back inside the animal’s brain.
The beast clenched its teeth, full of blood and foam. Despite the horror, I felt myself wanting to reach out and comfort it. The Coda had made so many monsters. So much pain. But it had never been captured as perfectly as this.
This was one of the sacred wonders of the world. A rarely seen symbol of how beautiful life could be, sent mad by a piece of corrupted magic cutting into its mind. The Coda had infected the whole world, but never had I seen a more sorry and terrifying victim.
Frankie screamed and stumbled to her feet. She landed a few hits with her flailing hooves but the Unicorn was unstoppable. It drove the jagged point of its horn forward and cut Frankie across her face.
I scrambled away as blood and hooves filled the air. The beast bit into Frankie’s side. She squealed, spun around and kicked out with her hind legs. The Unicorn avoided the attack, which at least created some much-needed space between them.
Blood dripped off both their faces, though I feared most of it came from my horse. They circled each other, breathing deep and limping. Frankie was exhausted, weak, and already badly wounded.
The Unicorn charged again and I rolled out the way. Frankie tried to keep her distance, spinning and kicking out with her back legs, but the Unicorn had no sense of self-preservation. Their heads smashed together. Mouths searched for ears or bits of soft flesh, both beasts wailing in anger and pain.
I fumbled the machine from its holster and held it up with frozen, shaking fingers. The fighters’ heads were locked close, rolling over each other, slick with blood and spittle.
Then Frankie broke free. The Unicorn reared up on its hind legs and I had a chance at a clear shot. My finger hovered over the switch.
It was a Unicorn. The first I’d ever seen.
Frankie got up on her haunches to strike out with her front hooves. There was a cracking sound as she made connection, slamming the rabid animal right on its skull, but the beast shrugged off the hit like it was nothing.
Then, my horse came down and the Unicorn launched itself up. Their bodies met in midair and the splintered, broken horn of the beast stabbed deep into Frankie’s neck.
Frankie’s scream came out as a wet gurgle, unable to rip her throat from the Unicorn’s horn. Her wide eyes found mine. She was begging me to save her.
I fired.
The two animals dropped to the ground.
The Unicorn died quickly. Frankie died slow. I put my hands in her mane and petted her until she was as cold as everything else in this broken, empty world.
33
All the best memories have music.
In Sunder, space was expensive. Those at the top had grand houses and gardens, while those at the bottom were crammed together like sticky candies left at the bottom of the tin. That was why the night at Prim Hall felt so strange: Sunder City’s most important persons were all squeezed in together, shoulder to shoulder, in tiny seats around a small stage.
For some reason, I was there too.
At the end of the row, Baxter Thatch had one ass cheek on the seat and the other dangling into the aisle. The woman sitting behind them was visibly frustrated by the size of the Demon but was trying not to show it.
To Baxter’s left, there were two empty seats, then me, then Amari.
I was wearing a bow tie, and I looked ridiculous. Amari was wearing a gown, and looked like a queen. It was sewn from sheer silk and skeleton leaves and I spent the whole night struggling not to stare.
On the
other side of Amari, Governor Lark grumbled about the size of his seat and its comfort and just about everything.
“I thought you brought him here to butter him up,” I whispered to Amari.
“Just wait.” Her lips touched my ear as she whispered back. “It will all change when they start playing.”
There was movement down below as the stage flooded with musicians. Dozens of them, all dressed in suits as ridiculous as mine.
The chairs creaked painfully as Baxter leaned over and said, “Where the hell is Hendricks?”
The only empty seats in the whole place were the two on our row. Before I could shrug, the doors at the back of the auditorium were flung open and the High Chancellor stumbled in. He was sweaty, drunk, and laughing loudly. A beautiful Warlock scholar followed behind him in a similar state of intoxication. Hendricks and I had met the young man at a bar the previous night. I’d found him fairly boring but he’d approached Hendricks flattery-first so it was impossible to get rid of him.
The latecomers skipped down the stairs and Baxter stood up to let them in.
“Just in time,” Baxter mumbled. Hendricks gave them a kiss on the cheek and slid along the row to my side.
The hush of the room descended into a powerful silence.
“Fetch, you remember Liam.”
“Hi,” said Liam, reaching over Hendricks and holding out a hand.
“Shh,” said Amari. “It’s starting.”
So as not to irritate her, I turned my attention to the stage. Hendricks thought I was just refusing to greet his friend.
“Don’t be jealous, boy.”
“I’m not,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “I’m trying to be quiet.”
“Ohhhh, of course.” I could hear his smile without even looking at him. “This is why I had to bring Liam along. You’re going to spend all night making googly eyes at your—”
I elbowed him in the ribs and he squealed. Every head in the room turned in frustration and we both had to stifle our laughs.
Amari reached out, took my hand, and held it, resting on her knee. That shut me right up. Hendricks gave a knowing chuckle but I’d left him far behind.
Amari and I were still in our early days (in truth, it was early days till the end). This was right back at the beginning when I was just the tour guide who occasionally got invited to the big kids’ table. This was the most physical contact we’d ever had. I knew that she’d only taken my hand to shut me up but it still warmed me like the afternoon sun.
Then came the music.
I’d never seen so many instruments. Certainly not in one place and never all playing the same song. How many were there? A hundred? Violins and cellos and trumpets and drums and twisted pieces I’d never seen before. Listening to them all, working together, I realized why I’d never seen some of those instruments out on the street – they just wouldn’t work on their own.
Back in Weatherly, there were small bands that only ever played anthems and hymns. Sunder was full of traveling bards and bar-room crooners, but it was hard enough for them to make money on their own, let alone split their profits with other players. I’d never imagined that anyone would dedicate themselves to an instrument that would only ever be featured as part of some extravagant collective. Only here, in this impossible collection of perfectly timed players, did they have a place.
At the end of the front row of musicians, there was a young girl with some kind of horn resting on her lap. As far as I could tell, she was the only player who hadn’t done anything since the music started. She just sat there, staring at the floor, doing nothing.
I turned to ask Amari why the woman wasn’t playing but her eyes were closed and she had a far-away smile on her face.
Then the strings dropped away. Then the cymbals and the chimes, and a new sound rose up from the center of the room. It sounded like the saddest voice in the world. I was reminded of a grieving woman I’d heard down by the riverbank, keening at the funeral for her plague-taken son.
It was the young girl and her horn. So slow. So sad.
The whole audience sat perfectly silent. All those folks who spent their days being so damn important didn’t dare shift in their seats as that heartbreaking, lone cry washed over us all.
Amari squeezed my hand. I watched her breathe in, deep, like she was drinking in the music. I squeezed it back and she slid her fingers through mine and we held each other tight till the end. When the music stopped and the crowd stood up to cheer, she let go so that she could applaud too.
I missed her hand immediately, like it was something of mine she’d taken away. The feeling of a newly missing tooth or too-short haircut.
I clapped along with the crowd but all I could think about was the feeling of her skin against mine and wondering if I’d ever be able to touch her again.
34
I needed to get up. I needed to keep moving.
But why?
Why shouldn’t I just lie down with my horse and go to sleep? I had no friends waiting for my return. No lover. Not even a fish that needed feeding. I was ready to accept that the world would be a lot better if I just listened to my aching body and never moved again.
But I turned my brain over one last time, and an answer finally dropped out. One that surprised me.
Rick Tippity.
He hadn’t killed Niles, I was sure of that now, but I’d told Simms that he had. Also, I could no longer ignore the fact that he’d never truly confessed to killing his partner. It was more likely that the ice man got frozen through an experiment gone wrong. Tippity had tried to explain that to me but I’d been too committed to making him fit into my story.
I hated the guy, sure, but I didn’t want to be responsible for sending him to the hangman.
I focused on his stupid, beady little face, and somehow it was enough reason to stand up. Enough reason to at least try to survive the journey home.
I took the only supplies we had left – matches, knife and a single blanket – then, I did something horrible.
Please know that I spent a long time standing in the cold, contemplating whether it was worth it. I went through the journey home a dozen times in my mind, doing the sums on how long it would take, before finally admitting to myself that it was unavoidable.
I cut a slab of meat from Frankie’s shoulder.
I know. But it would take days to get back to Sunder and it was unlikely that I’d find any food on the way. Besides, I’d spent every cent on that horse and it didn’t seem right to let good meat go to waste.
Then, just because I was already past the point of decency, I also cut the horn from the Unicorn’s head. I stomped off the main section with the heel of my boot, and then pried as much of it as I could from its skull. The jagged edges cut my fingers and all our blood mixed together: Frankie, me, and the legendary beast.
I’d managed to acquire the very thing that Warren was looking for, but he mustn’t have known what the Unicorns had become. The shards were dull and cloudy. They didn’t look magical. They were nothing like the glowing orbs that Tippity had taken from the Fae bodies. Nevertheless, I wrapped the pieces up in leather and put them in my pocket. It was as stupid as carrying around a broken whiskey bottle and I was already anticipating the moment when I’d reach in for a Clayfield and slice myself open. But it was too late for me to worry about being stupid.
Having added a few more terrible deeds to my name, I started the long walk home.
That night, I found a storage house with an underground cellar and was able to get some rest away from the elements. The mist was still there when I woke the following morning. I stayed on the road but I always felt lost. I considered doubling back or waiting for the sky to clear so I could tell which way the sun was setting but I feared that if I stopped moving forward I’d die on the spot. Finally, I passed the shack where Frankie and I had stayed on the way out, which let me know that I was going in the right direction. Without it, I might have lost my mind.
At night I’d cook stri
ps of horse meat on the fire. They were the saddest meals of my life, though I wouldn’t have lived long without them.
For the first couple of days, I was expecting someone to follow me. I kept one ear cocked, and was constantly turning to look back the way I’d come. After days of silence, I had to assume that they hadn’t brought horses and so believed they couldn’t catch me. Also, if they’d only come to get Victor, and hadn’t known that I’d be there, they’d have no idea that the machine was with me. To them, I was just some stranger caught up in their mess.
One morning, at dawn, I was curled up under a bit of old canvas asking my blood if it felt like flowing that day, when I heard the sound of an engine. At first, I thought I might have misjudged my distance from Sunder and was hearing sounds of the city on the breeze. But it got louder. Closer. I peered out from under the cloth to see a shining piece of the future drive by.
It was an automobile. But not one of those pre-Coda machines that puffed black smoke and rattled like a sack full of jackhammers. It was sleek and smooth with orange lights at the front and dark windows that hid the driver.
It must be owned by the same folks as that truck that had almost flattened me and Tippity on our way back from the woods. If they were the same people who were pushing boulders down the valley, then I’d need to watch myself. I kept to the side of the road after that, ready to jump into the bushes if another car came rumbling in my direction.
More days passed as I shuffled along the trail. I slept in a hollow tree and an old wagon and an abandoned inn but I never woke up feeling refreshed or renewed. It was one long walk. A punishment for my mistakes. It was painful. It felt futile. But the whole time, I had a machine at my side that could have ended it all.
Somehow, that made it okay. Because I had a way to stop it if I really wanted to. Each step was a choice. It was my decision. With that strange, destructive mindset, it took me six days to get back to Sunder.
I shuffled up Main Street, one foot in front of the other, and saw that Georgio wasn’t in his café. I had no idea what time it was. Not even what day of the week. The revolving door attacked me with my reflection. There was blood and dirt all over my face, cut with lines of tears. I looked like a corpse that had been re-animated by a Necromancer of questionable skills.
