Landquaker

by Dean F. Wilson

   “You know,” Jacob said. “They're not going to stop until they conquer everything. That means you. That means the land. If you do nothing, you might as well rip that grass up with your own hands and smother the soil, because that's essentially what you'll be doing.”

   The Mianachi grimaced as he spoke, as if he was talking about disembowelling them. Some of them stood up, chanting in their tongue, and others from the opposing tribes joined them. In time there was enough amongst the congregation speaking a single word in a variety of dialects. Toorasa. Trasat. Oosarta. It all meant the same thing: War.

  13 – WAR DANCE

  The chanting was so loud that it took some time before people realised that there were other voices, unfamiliar voices, shouting something else. The congregation fell silent, and all eyes turned to see members of the Anganda tribe entering the tent.

   Their leader, whose skin was flayed, so that the red muscle was visible, marched up to Sitting Stone, who did not budge from her seat. He leaned down to her, pressing his flayed face close to hers, until she looked away.

   “I hear you call Land Council,” he hissed. “It is no Council if you do not summon all tribes. Perching Tamba must have seat at table.”

   She turned back to him, and looked disapprovingly up and down at his mangled body. “You are no tribe, Perching Tamba. Anganda are disgraced Ootana, ashamed to even wear their skin.”

   “We were one,” he replied. He had a way of talking that almost flayed the words, as if they could not leave his mouth without being despoiled.

   “Ootana do not recognise Anganda,” she said.

   Perching Tamba smiled, revealing his razor-sharp teeth, whittled down into a point. For all their rhetoric against the so-called demons, the Anganda looked more like what they claimed to be fighting against.

   Suddenly, the Anganda leader reached for the curved knife strapped to his belt, and swung it at Sitting Stone, who rolled back, dodging the blade. She ended on her feet, but she did not advance on her attacker. The other Anganda tribesmen unleashed a flurry of blades of all shapes and sizes, many of them more like scythes for tilling the land, now used to till the enemy instead. The Ootana evaded these attacks, never striking back, but the other more aggressive tribes dived at the Anganda, casting sword and spear, throwing knives and spitting darts. Amidst this chaos the Resistance members ducked and dodged, trying to scramble away.

  Rommond was seized by one of the Anganda, who raised his blade as if to flay the general's skin, but he did not account for the Hawk's swift eyes and talon-like grip. Rommond stepped forward, blocking the attacking arm with a force that almost shattered the tribesman's wrist, but he continued on, striking the man across the neck, ducking from another blow, and knocking the Anganda to the ground with a ferocious upper cut to the chin. He shook the pain from his hand before seizing the tribesman's fallen blade.

   He turned, just as another blade sliced by, chopping a button from his cuff. He glanced at the frayed thread with great displeasure, as if it were a wound of the flesh. Then he channelled his anger through his new-found sword, chopping off the arm of his attacker. “A stitch for a stitch,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Jacob and Whistler hid behind one of the large wooden beams supporting the tent, watching Rommond spinning and slicing, Taberah punching, and Brooklyn scurrying away.

   “We have to do something,” Whistler whispered.

   “Yeah,” Jacob said, dodging a dart. “I don't think a fist fight is going to work with this lot.”

   Whistler held up a pistol. “Maybe we can use this.”

   “Hell, where did you get that?”

   “You gave it to me.”

   “How did you get it in here? You know what, never mind.”

   “I had it in my hat,” the boy said.

   “Sheesh, I'm glad I didn't pat you on the head.” Jacob opened the barrel and sighed. “You know, kid, I'm not sure this'll be enough.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “It's got two bullets. There's just too many of them. I mean, who would we even choose?”

   At that moment, there was a flurry of noise in the tent, and they heard Rommond and Taberah struggling. Jacob thought that this was it, the “now or never” moment, before the Resistance and Order leaders were killed. He peeped out, readying the gun in his hand, but what he saw struck his resolve dead like a bullet of its own. There, at the entrance to the tent, stood Teller, the sun glinting off his bald head, the gaslight gleaming off his crooked smile.

  14 – ONE TOO MANY CHIEFTAINS

  As Teller stood by the door, basking in his smugness, Jacob took aim. For all the trouble he had caused them, for everything he had done to him, to Whistler, to the entire Resistance, Jacob thought these two bullets were well-deserved. Hell, he thought, he deserves a few more.

   Just as his finger clicked on the trigger, Perching Tamba dove at him, tackling him to the ground. The bullet fired, but missed its target, making Teller that little bit more smug. The gun slid away, and Jacob tried to shield himself from the Anganda leader's ferocious strikes.

   “Walled-ones are weak!” the tribesman roared, digging his fists into Jacob's chest.

   From the corner of his eye, Jacob could see Whistler picking up the gun. He held it up with both hands, aiming it at Perching Tamba. His hands shook, and both Whistler and Jacob closed their eyes. The bang seemed louder than most gunshots. It struck Perching Tamba in the shoulder, and the force of the recoil knocked Whistler to the ground.

   The Anganda leader looked up at the boy and growled, before seizing Jacob by the ears and bashing his head upon the ground. Everything blackened for Jacob, but for Whistler, he could still see Perching Tamba's maddened eyes.

   “I am going to enjoy flaying you,” he said.

  When Jacob came to, he found himself tied up, and so were the others, along with Sitting Stone and many of the other surviving tribespeople, though the latter were kept away from the Resistance hostages. It took a moment to realise that the bald betrayer really was standing there, that it was not just all a bad dream. On the other end of the large tent, Perching Tamba tormented some of the opposing tribes. For Rommond and his team, the torment was Teller.

   “I thought you were dead,” Rommond said.

   “So did I, dear Edward,” Teller replied, “what with all these savages about.”

   “You'll die soon enough,” Taberah said, spitting the words at him.

   Teller smiled. “It would want to be soon, for your sake, but Taberah, I am afraid I will disappoint you. You see, me … oh, I think I will live forever.”

   Taberah scoffed.

   “Scoff all you will, but marans can change bodies.”

   Taberah eyed him up and down. “You should have changed yours a long time ago.”

   “How droll,” Teller said, “but I am not actually maran yet.”

   “Yet?” Rommond asked.

   “I am human, Edward, just like you. Well, maybe more than you.”

   “Not like me,” the general replied. “You'll never be like me. And do you hear that? That's the truth, something you appear to have great difficulty with, demon.”

   “I do not know why you resist, Edward. You could have this too. You could abandon your human frailties and let the Iron Alchemists do their work, transmuting one thing to another. And when you get old, you just do it all again. And when you run out of bodies here, you move to the next world, and the next, and you really can live forever.”

   “Then you'd have the sickness,” Rommond said.

   “He already does,” Taberah added. “It's in his soul.”

   Teller chortled. “The Iron Plague is a small price to pay for eternal life, do you not think? Especially when iron is so abundant here. People partake of Hope even when they do not have to. A little boost now and then is a ... minor inconvenience.”

   “So you're not a demon in body,” Rommond said, �
�just in your heart.”

   As Teller spoke, Jacob turned to Whistler, and it was clear from the boy's face that he had put it together: that it really was not his fault that he had not seen the demon in Teller—because he was actually human. He just desperately wanted to be something else. As Jacob looked at Teller now, he could not blame him.

  Teller waxed poetical about his struggle to be accepted by the Anganda, how he had almost lost his life to the tribes, and how his exceptional speaking skills saved him. Perching Tamba was out of earshot, so Teller was very forthcoming about his position in the Regime, but he revealed that failure was not tolerated in the Iron Empire, “unlike the Resistance,” a statement he made with much glee. Yet he was not so smug when he spoke of his salvation, of him redeeming himself in the eyes of the Iron Emperor by bringing him this prized catch, for which he would finally earn the great reward of being made like him. To the Anganda he promised a direct route to the man on the iron throne, so that they could finally kill the Devil, but once he got them there, he knew that they would all burn in Hell.

   Teller rambled on, delighting in his ingenuity, revelling in the tale. He had spent months unable to breathe a word to anyone, plotting and planning, and finding his old enemies landing straight in his lap. That he wanted them to know how much trouble he had went through was no surprise.

   But the next part was.

   There was an odd noise, like a quacking sound. Moments later the people inside the tent spotted a mechanical duck that had waddled in. It stopped and seemed to look at them with its little beady eyes, and everyone there looked at it in confusion.

   Talk about a fish out of water, Jacob thought.

   When Teller saw it, he said, “What in Heaven's name is—?”

   It was not just an explosion. There was something in it that released a blinding flash, as if whoever had made it had discovered how to bottle lightning. Part of the tent ripped open from the blast, and there behind it stood the Coilhunter, his long coat billowing, his hat tipped down, his guitar strapped firmly to his back, his rifle held firmly in hand.

   “Sorry to crash your party,” he said, “but there's a guest here who isn't on the list.” His voice grew suddenly darker. “He's on mine instead.”

   The Anganda leapt at him, but Nox threw a small orb at them, which burst, letting out three dozen tiny mechanical butterflies. They sensed movement, and flew towards the charging tribesmen, latching onto them, before releasing a noxious gas into their face. Some of the Anganda collapsed immediately, while others fought on towards the Coilhunter, trying to grab him with one hand, while swatting the wind-up insects with the other.

   “Stay still!” Nox called over to Taberah, who was struggling with her bonds. She stopped, and the butterfly that was flapping its way over to her changed course.

   Despite the fact that Nox marched on, the flying gas-cannisters did not go for him. Jacob was no mechanic, but he knew it was not out of love for their master. As Nox walked, and the butterflies flapped, the tribesmen dropped like flies, until the Coilhunter was wading through a pile of bodies, kicking people out of his way.

   One of the struggling tribesmen grabbed the tube leading from Nox's mask to his backpack, but he did not grab it for long. Nox had the man pinned to the ground quickly, pressing his boot into the Angand's neck.

   “You gotta learn some manners, boy,” Nox said. “Here, let me teach you.” He struck him hard in the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking him out.

   There was one person who did not attack: Teller. He was trying to flee until he heard Nox's warning to Taberah, and then he stopped mid-stride, keeping perfectly still, his back turned towards the Coilhunter.

   “Reginald E. Teller,” Nox said, drawing out the name, letting the words gather some of the grit in his throat, making the name sound like a death sentence. In many ways, it was.

   The Coilhunter marched up to Teller. “Turn around,” he said.

   “I cannot do that,” Teller said. “You made sure of that.”

   Nox tapped a button on a band strapped to his left wrist. The mechanical butterflies plummeted to the ground.

   “There,” Nox said. “I made sure you can turn now.”

   Teller turned very slowly. “Do not come near me. I have a bomb.”

   Nox must have smiled beneath that mask. “So do I.”

   Teller trembled. For all his brazen words to the Resistance fighters whose hands and legs were tied up tight, he no longer looked so confident. He wanted life eternal, but life did not want him.

   “They will not pay you anything, Coilhunter. I am not r—”

   “Oh, they'll pay,” Nox interrupted. “I'll make sure of that.”

   The sweat poured from Teller's already well-oiled brow. “I can pay you more.”

   A puff of smoke came out of the filter in Nox's mask. “I've heard that line before. But, ya see, when I take up a contract—and every Wanted poster is a contract just waitin' for me to sign—I always follow through. This might seem like a lawless land, but I don't go around breakin' that unwritten law. So, yes, you'll pay more, but it won't be with coils.”

   “Please,” Teller begged. “I … I have a family.”

   “No, he doesn't,” Taberah yelled over.

   “I have a future,” Teller said. “I can … I can help you.”

   “He'll help tie you up.”

   Nox turned his head slightly and peered over the high collar of his coat. “Taberah, you got anything you wanna say to your captor here?”

   “Only if I can say it with a knife.”

   “Sorry, love, it's nothin' personal, but I don't let anyone steal my kills.”

   At that moment, Teller darted away, but as quickly as he ran, Nox fired a small grappling hook, which embedded in the coward's skin. The Coilhunter reeled him in slowly like a fish.

   “There's only one place you're going,” he said. “To Hell.”

   He flicked his left arm, and a pistol popped out from his sleeve. He fired a single shot, right between the eyes. Teller did not have time to cry. He clattered off the ground.

   Nox took out a Wanted poster from his pocket and cast it down beside Teller's body, where the blood crept towards it as if to claim the prize. On the paper was Teller's face, just like it had been on the poster he hung up inside the Silver Ghost, and there below it was the prize, a thousand coils, and below that the stamp of the Regime. It was a fake poster, just like Teller was a fake, but it might as well have been real, because it ended Teller's life.

  15 – PART OF THE TRIBE

  The Coilhunter freed the captives quickly, and summoned his little pet butterflies back into their box. Something told Jacob that those were not the only pets he had.

   “We could use a soldier like you,” Rommond said.

   “That's what every army keeps sayin',” Nox replied, “and I keep tellin' 'em I ain't one to be recruited. Some of us just weren't made for company. Some of us were always supposed to be lone wolves.” He gestured to Jacob. “This one knows what I mean.”

   “Things have changed,” Jacob replied, placing his hand on Whistler's shoulder. “You feel different when you're part of the pack.”

   “Sounds lovely, but I already had a family, and I'm still fightin' for 'em.”

   “Well, thank you for saving us,” Taberah said, “and for killing Teller. He was supposed to be one of us, but he betrayed us.”

   “He was never one of us,” Rommond stated.

   Nox looked at the body. “Maybe you should have put up a Wanted poster then. I could've collected two bounties tonight.”

   “Well, we thought he was dead,” Taberah replied.

   “See, that's the difference between you and me. I don't think someone's dead till I've killed 'em myself. Well, though I won't fight your war,” he added, pointing to Teller's body, “he won't fight it either.”

   The Coilhunter departed, dragging Teller'
s body with him. Jacob was not entirely sure what he was going to do with it, or if he would really get any money from the Regime. They might pay up just to know that he was dead, and not spilling secrets. Jacob just hoped there were no big secrets that the Resistance needed Teller to spill.

  The attack by the Anganda rallied the Free Tribes together more than ever, and rallied them to the cause of the Resistance. Many saw the Anganda as a by-product of the Regime, granting that new tribe its cause, its reason for existence, but seeing them working with Teller made them wonder if the Anganda were secretly under the thumb of the Iron Emperor. Rommond knew that was not the case, that Teller had wormed his way among that tribe just as he had done with the Order, but he never revealed this. The lie sounded better. It helped blow the trumpets of war.

   “I think we've delayed here long enough,” the general said. “We need to head back to Blackout and make the final preparations for the attack on the Landquaker.”

   “Always in hurry,” Sitting Stone said. “We must stay one more night. Many of us go not only to war, but to death. There is ritual that must be done. You must do it too.”

  The tribespeople made several giant bonfires, one for each of the tribes, and a larger central bonfire for the union of them, representing the Mother-clan, a few survivors of which were said to roam the lands. Some smaller fires were lit around these, some for the chieftains, some for the ancestors, and some for the spirits.

   The drumming began almost immediately, and so did the dance. The dancers moved in a circle around the family of fires, keeping just one foot on the ground at any given time. They crouched in tight and low for some of the quick, low beats, then stretched their arms up high for the slower, louder ones, alternating their steps as they went. This mix of high and low was mirrored by their chants, and by the chorus of chants from the onlookers, all except the few Resistance members who did not know the words.