‘Your friend abandoned you,’ Mara went on. ‘Aria chose to deliver you here in exchange for an assured future with the Haurstaf.’ He glanced at the soldier again, who struck Ianthe across the face a second time.
Her jaw cracked against the floor. She clutched her spectacles to her face and wailed miserably, her whole body convulsing with sobs. The concrete floor swam behind a haze of blood and tears. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard them turn on the tap. They hosed her down, blasting her body with freezing water until her limbs were numb.
‘Briana Marks abandoned you,’ Mara said. ‘She ordered me to carry out this procedure. The faster we get to the end, the faster we can proceed with your dissection. For me, that’s where the real interest lies. I expect to find some Unmer in your brain.’
The soldier picked Ianthe up from the floor with one hand. Then he stove his forehead into her nose. She heard the cartilage snap. Her spectacles flew off, and she was plunged into darkness. He let her drop.
She jumped into his mind only to see her own miserable body scrambling across the wet floor. Her robe hung from her like a torn rag; her elbows and knees were bruised and bloody. She picked the spectacles up again and fumbled to put them back on.
The torturer peered down at her, his face expressionless. ‘Your own father abandoned you,’ he said. ‘Did you know he arranged to sell you to the Haurstaf? I’ve seen the letter myself. Of course the Guild does not negotiate with people like that.’
The soldier kicked Ianthe in the stomach.
She felt his boot break her rib. The pain made her vomit. Her lenses shifted to one side, and she felt herself slipping into darkness. She reached up and dragged them back over her streaming eyes. She coughed and sputtered and drew in a shuddering breath. The air tasted of bile.
‘Your mother abandoned you,’ Mara went on. ‘Didn’t she fail to protect you when the Hookmen came?’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘She simply allowed herself to slip under the brine.’
Ianthe screamed. She tried to crawl away, but the soldier dragged her upright once more. He punched her in the face, then let her drop. Pain filled every fibre of her body. She couldn’t move, but simply lay on the floor and stared at the drain, shivering uncontrollably.
‘Even Maskelyne abandoned you,’ the Torturer said. ‘Like everyone else, he saw you as a means to an end, a tool to increase his personal fortune. Up until now that’s really all you’ve ever been, Ianthe – something to be used by others.’
He crouched down beside her and spoke softly. ‘But I’m not like them, Ianthe. Can’t you see that I’m the only one who wants to understand you?’ He brushed back her hair. ‘I want to help you achieve something with your life. I’m finally giving you a purpose.’
She closed her eyes.
Mara sighed. ‘Again,’ he said.
While his men unloaded the trunk of gem lanterns from the wagon, Maskelyne went to explore the three earthen buildings within the cliff-side compound. The first held stores of food, water and ammunition. The second turned out to be a small barracks in which he found the gunnery sergeant asleep on his bunk, while two other soldiers played dice on top of a crate. Maskelyne nodded amicably. He tapped the metal door lightly and then ducked back outside and wandered over to the last building. Here he found a tidy chamber containing a single bed, table and chair, and a wardrobe full of pressed linen – evidently the captain’s quarters.
He returned to his men. ‘All good,’ he said. ‘Howlish deserves a medal.’
Mellor looked up from the contents of the trunk and inclined his head in the direction of the hut beside the barrier. ‘What about him?’
Maskelyne puffed out his cheeks. ‘It will have to be done quietly.’
One of the four others slipped a knife from his belt, but Maskelyne shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with it.’ He walked over to the hut and opened the door.
The soldier with the thin moustache was seated at his desk, writing out a report. He put his pencil down when Maskelyne came in.
‘Your gunnery sergeant wants a word,’ he said.
The soldier hissed. He got up and followed Maskelyne out. They walked over to the earthen bunker, whereupon the soldier ducked inside. Maskelyne pulled an ichusae from his jacket pocket, unplugged the stopper and tossed it into the building after the man. Then he closed the door and locked it with the padlock he kept in his other pocket.
‘Watch the door,’ he said to Mellor, ‘in case they try to shoot out the lock.’
His first officer nodded.
The men in the bunker screamed for the first six or seven minutes and then fell silent. Soon afterwards, an endless stream of brine flowed out through the gaps between the door and the frame. Countless gallons of the toxic water surged over the rocky ground and washed along the bottom of the palisade wall, before leaking through and cascading over the edge of the precipice in a honey-coloured waterfall.
‘So much for Awl,’ Mellor said.
‘All good things, Mr Mellor,’ Maskelyne replied.
As two of his men opened the trunk and began lifting out gem lanterns Maskelyne, Mellor and the others dismantled the wagon bed with crowbars. They ripped up planks from the floor, revealing the hidden compartment where they had stored the gas tanks and cutting torches. And then they carried the lot over to the cannon.
Ianthe lacked the courage to return to her body and so she drifted in a sea of ghosts. She floated through a darkness patterned by the things that other people saw. She was a passenger, riding in carriages that didn’t belong to her, a thief who stole moments from other people’s lives, and that knowledge filled her with shame. Deep down she knew that Mara was right. The world she inhabited had never embraced her. She’d never really been a part of it. She would return to him in time and beg him to end her life quickly. By sifting through the wreckage of her life, they might even find some purpose.
But not yet. Her fear held her back, even as it deepened her shame. And so she wandered on through the darkness, a ghost afraid of her own death. She saw the Haurstaf scattered throughout their grand palace, the thousands in the woodland camps outside and the nebulous haze of the millions in the world beyond. She drifted down through the unseen spaces between occupied rooms, past the bright arena of the Unmer rat maze and down to the glass-roofed suites in the foundations.
She found him kneeling on the floor beside his bed, sobbing into his hands. Scraps of a letter littered the floor around him. The shock of seeing him like this almost broke her. All of his armour had gone. He was naked before her, naked before the gaze of the Haurstaf witch in the high-chair above. He had covered his face, as if that could somehow hide his despair.
A sudden fury gripped Ianthe. What gave the Haurstaf the right to preside over the lives of others? Over his life? Over hers? They weren’t mankind’s liberators but its new enslavers. Ianthe reached out into the mind of the witch, gathering together all of the woman’s perceptions and thoughts into a single all-enveloping embrace.
And then she snuffed them out.
‘If you knew how much money I’ve spent on that pirate Howlish,’ Maskelyne said, ‘then you wouldn’t have sold yourselves so cheaply.’
The gunnery captain shrugged. He put his arm around the young Haurstaf telepath. ‘I think we got a bargain, Mr Maskelyne.’
Maskelyne eyed them both. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and him eighteen. If he was smart enough to attain his rank at that age, then he was smart enough to know he could have taken Maskelyne for much more. Which meant his reasons for helping them had to be personal. Or was she the one with the reasons? The two of them looked on as Mellor and his men cut through the last of the c
annon’s securing bolts.
‘You know Ianthe?’ Maskelyne said to the girl.
The telepath hung her head.
‘You don’t need to know why we’re doing this, Mr Maskelyne,’ the captain said. ‘The money is enough to give us a fresh start.’
Maskelyne grunted.
Mellor switched off his gas torch. ‘That’s us, sir.’
‘Good. Now hitch up the horses.’
The men brought the two horses round and used the wagon hitch to secure them to one side of the cannon. Mellor grabbed the reins and pulled, urging the heavy beasts forward. Nothing happened at first, but then a low scraping sound came from the base of the gun. Slowly, the whole cannon revolved on its vertical axis. When it was more or less facing in the opposite direction, Maskelyne walked around the weapon, checking the new trajectory with a compass.
‘That will do nicely, Mr Mellor,’ he said. From his jacket pocket he took out a map, heavily marked with pencilled circles, lines and crosses. He studied it while the men unhitched the horses and steered them away. Then he made an adjustment to the cannon’s elevation by turning a brass wheel in the side of the gun carriage. The barrel dropped gradually lower.
‘How do you intend to get her out?’ the telepath said.
‘Brute force,’ Maskelyne admitted. ‘It’s the only way to deal with the Haurstaf, present company excluded.’
‘But what if you hurt her?’
‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
The captain held his girlfriend closer. ‘He knows exactly where they’re keeping her, Regina.’
She didn’t seem convinced.
Mellor handed one of the gem lanterns to Maskelyne, who opened it up and made a small adjustment to the mechanism inside. Then he pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. Mellor loaded the lantern into the cannon.
‘You know the demands?’ Maskelyne said to the girl.
She nodded.
‘Word for word?’
‘Word for word.’
Maskelyne covered his ears. ‘Fire.’
Mellor pulled the lanyard, and the cannon barrel retracted with a sudden, violent boom. A flare of light shot skywards, arced over the trees covering the hillside above them and disappeared from sight. Maskelyne turned to Mellor’s men and nodded. They set off at once in the direction of the road.
‘I was expecting more of a bang,’ the gunnery captain said.
At that moment, the skies above them erupted with fire. The ensuing blast wave ripped the tops from hundreds of trees, blowing tons of debris far over their heads as a thunderous concussion shook the valley. Maskelyne, Mellor and the young couple dived for the ground. The whole mountain continued to shake for several heartbeats, and then finally settled. Scraps of burning forest drifted down past them.
‘Send the demands, please,’ Maskelyne said to the girl.
She got to her feet shakily, then took a deep breath. After a moment, she said, ‘It’s done.’
‘Any response?’
‘Give them a minute.’
They waited.
The telepath suddenly blew through her teeth. ‘They say . . .’ She paused and shook her head. ‘They say no, they say . . .’
‘Word for word.’
‘There’s a lot of it. A lot of argument, hold on . . .’ She raised her hand. ‘They want you to stop . . .’
‘Word for word.’
‘You will halt your attack immediately. The Haurstaf do not negotiate with terrorists. They’re . . . They’re bombarding me with questions, about you, about our location.’
‘That’s to be expected.’
‘They don’t know where the shell came from.’
Maskelyne turned to Mellor, who began to reload the cannon immediately. ‘Tell them the next shell destroys the mountain above the palace,’ he said to the girl.
‘But what about Ianthe?’
‘Do as I say.’
She paused a moment. ‘Wait. They’re willing to talk. They’ve offered to meet you.’ She shook her head again. ‘There’s a lot of confusion. Something strange is going on in there. I’m losing contact everywhere.’
Maskelyne snarled, ‘They’re shutting me out.’
‘No . . .’
He picked up another gem lantern, set the feedback mechanism and tossed it over to Mellor. ‘Five degrees lower. They’ve had their warning.’
‘What are you doing?’ the telepath cried.
The captain grabbed his arm. ‘This isn’t what we arranged.’
‘It’s in the tube now,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Tick, tock.’
Mellor pulled the lanyard, and the second shell blasted into the air, tracing a fiery arc across the blue sky. This time gunfire crackled on the hillside to the south.
‘They’re on to our position, sir,’ Mellor said.
A second concussion tore across the roof of the world, its flash illuminating the snow-clad mountain peaks. The sound of impact was much heavier than before. The ground shuddered under their feet.
‘That was rock,’ Maskelyne said.
A great grey cloud of ash rose over the forest ridge. Moments later, a hail of small stones pinged against the outcrop all around them. Maskelyne stood where he was, listening intently. ‘They’re still firing,’ he said. ‘Why are they still firing?’
He could hear it more clearly now that the echo of the gem lantern explosion had diminished – the constant rat-a-rat of small-arms fire, accompanied now and then by the distant booming of cannons.
He turned and looked out across the valley. And there he spotted a tiny craft glinting in the sunshine high above the valley floor. It dodged and weaved between puffs of smoke. The Guild military were trying to bring it down. It was an Unmer chariot, and it was heading this way.
Ianthe drifted through the dark spaces of the palace, no longer as a lost and frightened ghost, but as a harbinger of death. While her body lay broken in the torturer’s cell, her mind remained free to travel wherever she wished. And she used it now to wreak destruction. She moved from room to room, possessing Haurstaf minds and shattering them. Their perceptions vanished in her wake, leaving only swathes of darkness.
From the kitchens to the banquet hall she flitted, through floors and walls, snuffing out lives like candle flames. She watched girls fleeing, screaming as their companions fell around them. Hundreds of them fought to get out of the palace. But they were as slow as they were vulnerable and she tore through them like a gale. Their minds were windows they couldn’t close. They could not keep her out and they could not hide.
The palace grew darker as its corridors filled with the dead. Soon the only lights came from the dungeons where the Unmer dwelt, and the scattered human servants who still wandered among their masters’ corpses. Ianthe became weary. She allowed the survivors to leave unimpeded. And then her attention returned to the torturer’s cell.
The torturer’s accomplice was sharpening a knife.
Blasts shook the flying machine as Granger tried to steer it past another Guild compound. The view screens flickered and then settled down again, still focused on a single artillery position at the northern end of a long ridge. Maskelyne had rotated the cannon 180 degrees, so that it now aimed towards the Haurstaf stronghold. Its last shot had brought down half the mountainside. If he lowered the barrel again, his next shot would obliterate the palace itself.
He hunched over the steering console, his feverish eyes darting to and fro as he used one brine-scarred hand to spin
the controls erratically in order to keep the craft on an unpredictable course. In his other hand he clutched the grip of the Replicating Sword he’d taken from the transmitting station. He wore a suit of mechanical nerve armour that clicked and whirred softly whenever he moved. His belt held an assortment of small blades, pistols and other small artefacts. And he wore a blood-red crystal shield strapped across his back.
A series of concussions battered the chariot’s hull, knocking it momentarily off course. Smoke blotted the view screens and wafted in through the open hatchway. The engines howled and began to judder violently. Sparks erupted from the console. Granger shut down systems and readjusted the controls with lightning speed, the metal nerves in his mechanical suit compensating for the limits of his own tortured body. The shield on his back started to glow with alternating colours as it absorbed the smoke, using the sudden rise in entropy to energize its sorcerous portals.
As the fumes cleared, Granger spied the artillery position once again, now less than two hundred yards below him. Maskelyne’s man was frantically spinning the gun carriage wheel, trying to bring the cannon’s barrel round to bear on the rapidly approaching craft. But where was Maskelyne himself? Granger grinned. There. He spotted the metaphysicist fleeing for his life across the compound. Granger was going too fast to stop now, so he threw the craft sideways to intercept him.
The rock outcrop filled the view screens.
The chariot struck the ground like a meteor, exploding into a cloud of pulverized rock and metal.
Granger watched the impact from a spot several hundred yards above the compound. The seven simulacrums who stood in the forest around him watched it, too, but none of their positions offered him a better view of the events that had just occurred. It had all happened too quickly. He couldn’t see Maskelyne. But had he actually hit the man? He felt a sudden vibration in the grip of his sword, and his eighth simulacrum appeared. This copy of himself cricked his neck and flexed his shoulders. Good.
Gravedigger 01 - Sea Of Ghosts Page 42
