Smoke and Stone

by Michael R. Fletcher

  I wasn’t using so much foku back then.

  His past, everything before leaving the Northern Cathedral and taking residence in the Wheat District, seemed muted, unreal.

  If you don’t take a little foku every day, gods know what you’ll miss. He needed to be sharp, to be alert. What if he missed something crucial because he was dull, distracted? He wanted to rush back to the church and dose up. Maybe he should include gorgoratzen and kognizioa into his daily regimen, at least until this was over. Dangerous. Too dangerous. He ground his teeth in frustration. I need to be better.

  Fumbling with his pouch, Akachi spilled foku seeds into the crimson-stained palm of his hand. Just a few more. Yejide slapped his hand away, spilling seeds to the floor. They floated in blood like those little wood boats his father used to bring back from the Crafters’ Ring. He remembered going to the river and racing his friends.

  “We all had boats,” he said. “Mine was blue.”

  “Akachi,” said Yejide. “We have to go.”

  Akachi turned his back on the horror that was what remained of the Artist. “Why?”

  “What the Artist said.”

  He replayed the last hour in his mind. Blood. Weak flesh. Screams. “He never begged. Never asked me to stop.”

  “At the end,” said Yejide, “he laughed. Said he was stalling. Keeping us here until it was time.”

  “I remember.” He eyed the seeds in the blood. Noticing one stuck to his bloody hand, he licked it off. Salty.

  “He was no nahualli. Whatever he thought he saw, he was wrong.”

  “The girl is coming,” said Yejide. “The Artist set a trap. He let you torture him.”

  He remembered. “That’s right! Efra will be angry because I tortured a gentle, harmless man.” Akachi glanced at the corpse. I did that. I cut a gentle man. Murdering that Dirt, the man he sacrificed on the altar in his church, stained him, lessened him somehow. This was worse. A thousand times worse. I wilfully tortured a man, every cut designed for maximum torment. As a nahual of Cloud Serpent, his knowledge of the human body was extensive. Hunting, he was taught, often involved asking hard questions.

  He hated himself.

  I had to. The gods…

  He needed more jainkoei. He needed to feel the will of Cloud Serpent in his blood.

  “He said she has the street-sorcerer with her. We have to go,” repeated Yejide. “Now.”

  “I bested that street sorcerer once. It was easy. I will crush her.” He looked around. “Where is Nafari?”

  “He went outside. This…” Yejide gestured at the corpse, at the blood painting the walls. “This disgusted him.”

  “And you?”

  “I am trained in torture. I first cut a man when I was eight.”

  Eight. What did it take to make a Hummingbird Guard? Akachi had never before thought about it. And it wasn’t an answer. Not really.

  Nafari stuck his head in the entrance, face wan, dripping sweat. “Someone is coming!”

  “Let’s see the end of this,” said Akachi, moving to join his friend in the street.

  Captain Yejide, Ibrahim, Njau, and Gyasi followed.

  For a moment Akachi thought he’d lost track of time in the Grower’s tenement and night had fallen. Looking up, he saw world-swallowing clouds of ash blanketing the city. The sun, a dim circle of crimson, lurked behind a billowing haze of smog turning the smoke a diseased yellow like rot.

  Eternal Bastion lay wreathed in shadow.

  NURU – QUEEN OF THE RED DESERT

  The Rada Loa are the oldest entities in existence, the very first intelligences of this reality. They birthed the first gods, are the distant ancestors of the failing deities currently plaguing humanity. They are the essences upon which the frame of this world is built, elemental in nature, ancient beyond reckoning. Only one of the Rada Loa remains, her true heritage forgotten by false priests and upstart gods.

  From the moment this reality birthed life, death was born.

  Mother Death, The Lady of the House, is the true master of Bastion.

  Mother Death is the last Rada Loa.

  —Loa Book of the Invisibles

  “Trouble,” said Nuru.

  Everyone focussed on her and she pointed at the Artist’s home. A gaunt young man in robes of banded red, white, and black exited the tenement. The white bands were splashed with gore. His hands dripped blood. Long hair, twisted knots entwined with the bones and skulls of dozens of snakes, fell to his knees in tight braids.

  Nahualli. More real than stone. Eyes like the smoky depths of obsidian. The world shook around him, wavered with the stretching of the veil separating Bastion from a thousand other realities.

  He stopped in the street, looking around as if wondering how he got there. Four Birds exited behind him.

  “I’m done running,” said Chisulo, drawing the cudgel.

  Happy cracked his knuckles. Grunting agreement, he wiped tears from granite eyes.

  Efra, small and unarmed, stood at Nuru’s side. “Growers run. We’re not Growers anymore.”

  “Nuru?” asked Chisulo.

  She drew the stone spider from its pouch.

  Ash fell from the sky, thick flakes choking the air, coating everything in greasy smears of grey.

  Efra laughed. “That’s our colour.”

  The nahual, wearing the blood-spattered robes of a priest of Cloud Serpent, spotted Nuru and grinned with bright teeth. Another young priest, ruggedly handsome, stood with him.

  The Artist is dead. Nuru knew it. The nahual killed him looking for her and Efra. Something inside her broke, snapped like a dry twig.

  Nuru knelt in the road, and placed the spider carving before her. For a mad moment she was reminded of playing in the fields as a child, kneeling in the dirt. Ash settled on her shoulders, clung to her face like grey tears.

  Passing Nuru, Efra kept moving, Chisulo and Happy at her side.

  Four Birds, armed and armoured, red leather smeared cinereal, stood with the priest.

  “Shit,” said Chisulo. “Six in total.”

  Happy eyed the Birds, two women and two men. “I don’t hit women.”

  “Well they’re going to hit you,” said Efra.

  The Birds fanned out on either side of the nahual of Cloud Serpent—Nahualli, church-trained sorcerer, Nuru corrected. She recognized him from the basement. He’d been gaunt the first time. Now he was etched sharp on bone, eyes hollowed with exhaustion and bright with a narcotic madness she suspected she shared.

  The Birds stood, cudgels held low, waiting. The other priest stood back like he didn’t want to be involved. He looked nervous, like he might break and run at any moment.

  Efra slowed as she approached.

  This felt wrong. Somehow, Nuru had expected everyone to sprint screaming into a fight. This was all too deliberate. The Birds looked calm, ready. The nahualli, on the other hand, looked oddly wide-eyed and innocent, a child seeing the world for the first time. Reaching out an open palm he caught a flake of ash. He licked it, frowning in distaste.

  He’s smoky. Totally prepared for us.

  Well, so was Nuru. The priest was in for a surprise.

  Last time, in the basement, the nahualli defeated her. This was different. That had been a dream, an alternate reality achieved through narcotics. This time… This time it was real.

  This time I have the spider.

  Efra stopped a half dozen paces from the nahualli.

  Seeing him this close Nuru realized how young he was. No older than me.

  “The Artist?” Efra asked.

  “Dead. I had to use him to find you.”

  “Did you?” She looked around. “Here I am. I came to you. Are you sure you didn’t torture a good man for no reason?”

  He blinked, glassy eyes shot with red. He looked haggard, exhausted. “It is the gods’ will.”

  “There,” said Efra, “we agree.”

  “That armour,” said one of the Birds, a man damned near as big as Happy, teeth bared in a
snarl. He nodded at Chisulo. “Where did you get it?”

  “I took it from the last Bird I fought.”

  “How many of you jumped him? Filthy cowards.”

  “I was alone.”

  “Liar.”

  Chisulo shrugged. He didn’t look happy, didn’t look proud at besting a Bird.

  “I’m going to break your skull like you broke his,” said the huge Bird. Anger cut his features, but he was calm. Cold.

  “I’m sorry,” said Chisulo, and Nuru knew he meant it. This was not some empty apology, he genuinely regretted killing the man. “I didn’t mean to.” His shoulders sagged. “I was scared.”

  “Scared,” said the gaunt nahualli, tasting the word. There was no mockery in him. Leaning to one side, he tried to see past Happy’s bulk. “What is your street sorcerer doing?”

  “Preparing,” said Efra. “You’re all going to die.”

  “Kill them,” said the woman who was clearly in charge.

  Nuru recognized the differences in her uniform. She’s a Bird Captain.

  The Birds advanced, the priests remaining behind. The nahual she’d never seen before looked ill. His robes were spattered and stained with puke. The stench came off him in waves, rode the hot breeze.

  The Cloud Serpent nahualli knelt, just like Nuru, and laid carved animals on the ash-stained stone before him.

  We’re going to play together. The thought, and the accompanying visual, was so insane Nuru giggled.

  Two of the Birds—a man with a huge beard and a woman who walked like her ribs were busted—went after Happy. The other two, the massive Bird and the Captain, faced off against Chisulo.

  No one thinks Efra is a threat. They’d learn.

  Where Chisulo retreated, swinging his cudgel to keep his opponents back, Happy roared like an enraged bull-elephant and charged. The male Bird swung low and Happy took the blow on his thigh. He punched the Bird in the chin, crumpling him to the ground. For a big man, he was surprisingly fast. The woman hit him in the side and he grunted. He suffered two more vicious attacks, his left arm taking most of the damage, as he bent to collect the man’s dropped cudgel. Then he turned with that deceptive speed, struck her on the temple with his cudgel. She dropped, boneless, the shape of her head wrong.

  The other priest, the one who looked like he puked on himself, screamed and sprinted to the woman. He dropped to his knees at her side, weeping.

  Efra stood rooted in place. Screams of pain and rage echoed off nearby tenements.

  She’ll run now. Self-preservation will drive her. Fighting Birds was stupid. It was death.

  Already the man Happy punched had regained his feet. Somehow, even though Happy held the cudgel, the Bird managed to back the Grower up, ducking and weaving under the big man’s attacks.

  The kneeling Cloud Serpent nahualli twitched and shook, eyes rolled back in his head.

  Chisulo caught one of his opponents, the large Bird, just below the ear with a wild swing. The man wobbled and fell, but Chisulo’s mad attack left him exposed. The Captain knocked his cudgel away, spun, and smashed his left knee with her weapon. He screamed, hobbling backward.

  He’s going to die. We’re all going to die.

  To Nuru’s surprise, Efra took two running steps and kicked the kneeling nahualli in the face. He fell backward, sprawling awkwardly in the street. Something fell from his robes, skittered across stone. Something black. It glittered like a smoky mirror. Efra bent to collect the obsidian dagger. Soft leather, stained and brown, damp with new blood, wrapped one end. The Artist’s blood.

  The huge Bird on the ground groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position. He sat, back to Efra, a stride from the girl. She cut his throat before he knew she was there, left him gagging and clawing at the wound.

  She is death.

  The Bird Captain had Chisulo down and was dismantling him. She smashed bones and joints with expert precision.

  Efra ran, bare feet silent on stone. She stabbed the woman in the side, two quick jabs. The obsidian passed through leather like it was cotton. The Bird turned, swinging her cudgel in a skull-splitting arc. Efra ducked under it and stuck her in the belly. The Bird’s own momentum tore the wound open and she splashed the street at her sandalled feet red with spilled gore. The woman, one hand holding herself in, kicked Efra in the gut. Efra’s knees struck stone and she wheezed, fighting for breath. The Bird Captain loomed over her, pouring blood and not caring.

  Nuru watched, helpless.

  She going to smash her brain all over the street.

  The cudgel swept up.

  Growers cower.

  Growers flinch away.

  Growers run.

  Efra drove herself from the ground. Coming up inside that swing, she stabbed the woman in the throat. Even haemorrhaging blood, the Bird disarmed her, sending the dagger skittering away, kneed her in the gut and caught her on the side of the head with an elbow. Efra collapsed to the street, dazed. The Bird Captain staggered, struggling to stanch the wound in her throat and hold in her ravaged belly. Blood spurted past desperate fingers. She retched and coughed, spraying a red mist. Sinking to the ground, she sat, and then fell to one side. Her legs twitched and kicked.

  Chisulo pushed himself to his feet. Chest heaving, teeth bared in a snarl of pain, he limped toward the nahualli. The priest grinned with madness. Carved animals lay scattered, forgotten on the ground.

  The nahualli changed. His chest and shoulders swelled to twice their size. Muscles rippled over impossibly huge arms. Glossy black fur shimmered in the sun. Armoured plates folded out of his flesh, covering him. Inch long claws, curved like hooks, grew from his fingertips. Green cat’s eyes surveyed the street.

  Spotting the woman Efra stabbed laying motionless in a growing pool of her own viscera, he roared. The sound was full of pain and loss.

  Seeing Efra, the priest stalked forward, a hunting cat. Gone was the skinny youth. This was some kind of hallucinated monster mixing aspects of a puma, a bear, and what looked to be pangolin scales.

  Chisulo pushed past Efra. “Get behind me.”

  No! Run! But Nuru knew he wouldn’t.

  The spider.

  She shouldn’t have been watching her friends die, she should have been focussing on the carving, letting the narcotics do their work. But she couldn’t look away.

  The nahualli laughed, a mad half-sob of agony.

  “It ends,” said the priest. “Smoking Mirror has failed. Your punishment is death.”

  Chisulo snarled in challenge. “Run,” he said over his shoulder to Efra.

  He charged the priest. With a yell, he brought the cudgel down on the nahualli’s monstrous arm. Ebony snapped with a crack like desert thunder. The priest backhanded him, lifting him off his feet and sending him spinning away. He landed, rolling. Chisulo rose again, grimacing in agony. His right arm hung useless, shards of shattered wood embedded in his knuckles. He advanced.

  “Run!” Nuru screamed.

  Chisulo ignored her. She knew he would. He would never abandon a friend. Never.

  Nuru saw Happy slamming a Hummingbird’s head on the stone street, massive fingers wrapped around the man’s skull, the ground beneath red with blood.

  She saw the other priest kneeling over the woman Happy brained with a cudgel. He cried, screaming in soul-torn anguish.

  She saw the woman Efra stabbed. The Bird lay still, eyes wide, dead.

  She saw the carving before her. Red eyes. Flesh so dark it ate light.

  Give yourself to me, said the carving. I’ll save your friends.

  Lost souls. Banished gods. Demons. The nahual spoke of such things, read from their book. Nuru had listened. She remembered every story, every word. With the exception of the handful of gods at the heart of Bastion, the old gods were either dead or banished or both. Ancient deities with strange names. Mama Oclla, Apophis, and Tâmtu, Red Smoking Mirror, who she remembered was also referred to as The Flayed One. Banished gods stalked the Bloody Desert, hunting those souls ca
st from the Sand Wall, devouring or enslaving them.

  Focus on the carving.

  She hadn’t blinked in an eternity. Tears streamed from her eyes, fell from her chin to wet the sand, turning it back into blood.

  Blood.

  Blood red eyes.

  Chisulo said it looks like me. Nuru couldn’t see it. The carving was beautiful where Nuru was all flaws.

  It’s perfect. She’d captured every detail, every nuance. She knew its rage at being banished from Bastion.

  Nuru saw the nahualli rear up like a huge bear covered in armoured plates. He’d shed all sign of humanity, shredded the veil between worlds. His allies possessed his flesh.

  He’s too powerful.

  Seeing Chisulo rise, the nahualli leapt, too fast for the eye to track, and landed atop him, pinning him.

  Efra turned to stare at Nuru, eyes wide with desperate fear. Do something, they said. Save him.

  She does know fear. I was wrong.

  Behind the girl, the nahualli lifted a huge bear-like paw and smashed it down on Chisulo, caving in his chest and shattering ribs.

  The nahualli stood. Chisulo lay broken at his feet.

  Chisulo.

  He was there in her earliest memories. He’d been there for her every triumph, comforted her after every failure. Every choice he made was to the betterment of others. He walked through life like making the world a better place was easy, like the right choice wasn’t really a choice at all. She loved all her friends, but Chisulo was the best of them. He made them better people. Even Bomani, with all his rage, knew to follow Chisulo without question.

  He can’t be gone.

  The nahualli towered over Efra. The tiny girl turned to face him, alone.

  Protect her or Bastion falls, Smoking Mirror said of Efra.

  Nuru gave herself to the spider. She called to it, let it fill her. The spider became her everything.

  Nuru learned the truth.

  This spider was no ally. It was not a lost soul or a demon.

  The spider was a god.

  Lady of the Dead. The Queen of Bastion. Lady of the House. The Falcon. The Great Mother. Eldest of the gods, her names went on forever, each stranger than the last. Nephthys. Nebthet. Mother of the Universe. Kālarātri. The Black One. The Destroyer.