The hardline communicator starts buzzing. The cable still run all the way from here back to Ruin and then back over the ice haunted channel to the Home Islands and civilisation.
“Pole.”
“Afternoon Chap. How’s the shitty of lights?”
Hetal from tier two in Newcastle. A cultured voice that would be better suited to presenting radio news updates than working at the MDR.
Crystal clear transmission over the old hard line. “Cold. Nothing to report.”
“I could have told you that, Chap. Point of fact it’s why I’m calling. Minister has issued a personal agent recall.”
Pole puts a finger to his forehead and presses it hard against the lines engrained by years of stress and cold. Wasteful. Idiotic. “Any reason given or am I being diverted to clean up a sentient sewage spill?”
It’s not like he’s chasing the last Master or anything important. It’s not like that Master might be the key to recovering the old world in some sense or other.
“Ha ha there, chap, Roger, no sentient sewage spills. Command thinks you might have better luck doing something else though. Same aim. Tier One has had a bit of luck and think they know where he is.”
Pole’s ears prick up. “Where? I can get us moving soon as I’ve recovered the drones and I’ll need a medevac..”
“Hold your horses Poley. You’re going back. Team stays there. You’re right about where the target’s going, you’re just a bit early. Your orders are RTB at Ruin and receive an update from the Minister herself. Then we set you up with a proper team.”
“Now?”
“Now. She's GEVing in tonight.”
Pole can hear one of his teams reporting in, the crackle and hiss of short range radio barely cutting through the interference from the charged clouds above. Another injury. Ghoul sniper got lucky with a pot shot. “I’ve already got three crawlers. Not a lot more team to get. Unless you’re sending Stevens’?”
“That’s where you’re wrong chap. Culties involved, matter of utmost importance and all that, so it’s all hands on deck and you’ll never guess who’s back.”
“Santa Claus? The royal family?”
“Not funny chap.” The missing Royal Family has acquired an almost Arthurian air of legend around them since they disappeared on the evacuation flight over Ireland back at the start. Pole’s old enough that he remembers the tabloid exposes so lacks the rose tinted glasses.
“Andrews?”
“None of that. Get back to Ruin and all will be revealed. Acknowledged?” Hetal sounds stressed. It must be big.
“Acknowledged.” Pole cuts the feed. He calls out to his comms officer who is adjusting an antenna on the nearest Crawler. “I’ve been called back for a briefing. Supposedly we’re getting some help.”
“They’re taking us seriously for a change?”
“Looks that way.”
“Sir.” The comms officer turns to leave but halts. “nearly forgot. Teleprinter message from Stevens.”
Pole reads the short paper reel. “BTB! Big things up. Just beat the worm (ha ha) and minister wants us all to mosey on down for a shindig? Fun times. Hear our Albert may be back. Your old team says hi.”
Pole crumples the note and slides it into the burner. It flares for a moment then disintegrates into ash and endings. Time to move.
21
Vedyma
The trees seem to be avoiding us.
I look over at Ariadne who’s bundled up like an Inuit and she manages a shrug.
“Dunno, Lumpy. Not sure what’s up. They’re definitely acting shifty.”
There has been no sign of Thomas’ cultists or their constructs since we left the castle. We have a minor scare when a group of Russian cavalry trot between us and where I expect the tree line to be for our ride out, but they move quickly along and their attention remains upwards rather than outwards.
In weather like this I doubt even the hardiest human would be out by choice and it is a tribute to the Russians dutiful nature that they continue their patrol routes in even this limited form.
Or a hint that the Witches are a real threat to their Baron’s little domain. Russian discipline has always been harsh.
I wonder if there is still a Tsar. Last one I spoke to was rather fat and extremely full of himself. Hardly a real gentleman.
We walk through the ruins of Silesia in pursuit of our elusive escape route. The thinly woods amongst the broken market towns stubbornly refusing to switch into the lush forest of the World-Wood. We keep walking and the trees refuse to multiply. Just more frozen ruins, some more recent than others and swirling witches lifting and swooping from point to point in a crazed dance of death.
Some of the ruins are very recent indeed. Veritably smoking with nary a person to be found.
After passing the burnt out ruins of yet another fortified village my ‘spider’ sense has started an urgent tingle that reaches right up to my sinuses. I am also becoming concerned that my interactions with my crystal recorders has left me with a lot of unnecessary cultural junk that I really must purge at some point or I may become insufferable.
The further we walk the worse the weather becomes, and the more I can see nerves eating away at Ariadne. No forest means a very long walk home through the wildest lands the new world of ice can offer. And the absence is bizarre. Even I know that the portals don’t just up and leave when they have a contract with a tree wrangler of Aunty Clem’s undoubted competence. The trees are as bound by the laws as everything else in the world, bar the Far and their monstrous queens.
Ariadne keeps casting sharp glances left and right with those big green eyes of hers, the brim of her hat drooping at the edges from the precipitation. Every time Emmet or the Pony block her view there is a flurry of muttering and hand wringing and then the search continues.
We change course like a pack of hounds casting about for a particularly duplicitous fox. Each patch of trees is a disappointment.
A witch falls from the sky off in the distance, too far for Ariadne to see but I watch her drop like a meteorite swathed in black cloth.
She wouldn’t deal well with such information now. In fact her mood is bordering on panic. “Something’s up Lumpy. Something's up.”
“Take your time, dear girl.” I suggest. “Maybe attend to Hemlock for a moment’s respite?”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.”
After a couple of hours of fruitless wandering she stops entirely and starts casting her hands over a patch of disturbed earth that has caught her eye. She picks up a clod and sniffs it and hisses quietly. “Hold up a mo gents. Someone's pissing about with us. Thought there was something wrong.”
I nod reassuringly. “Not a problem dear girl. I could do with a breather.”
A sharp look over a pile of cut mud divots.
“Vampire joke.” I offer, eyebrows raised.
“Just no, Lumpy. This is serious.” She pulls Hemlock from his sack. He gives a disapproving growl but starts sniffing and scratching the earth himself. Then they look at each other.
“So what do we have dear lady? Friend cat? Issues?”
“Could say that Lumpy,” she replies sharing another knowing look with Hemlock. She picks him up by the fatty scruff of the neck and carefully lowers him back into his sack. Then points a manicured finger to the dark sod. “someone’s pulled our ride. One of the sisters.”
I harrumph. “Who would do such a thing? We had a deal young witch, and I can hardly occasion that I somehow insulted your dear Aunty Clem to such an extent that she would do such a base thing. Leaving me high and dry? Rather she insulted me I feel… My Ugaritic is excellent – I heard it spoken in…”
“Not Clem you muppet. She might not like you much but she sticks to the rules. And that’s not considering the obvious fact that she’d not dump me in the arse end of some Russian Barony without one of my fur lined hats.” She dabs sadly at her apparently flimsy alternative. “This is other witches. Not us. And you might think about taking a look-see
over there.” She gestures meaningfully.
“Ah.” I look around. Sure enough there's a large crow watching us from a skeletal tree about a hundred yards away. It flaps off with a harsh caw before I can leash my will to it.
“That is an issue.” I stretch out my senses.
The interference from the clouds is strong here and there is the usual problem of Ariadne's brain frizz providing background noise like a broken microwave, but it is easier than I expect.
There are two groups of Vedymee witches near. The first is following us at a distance just over the horizon, their spirits hang above, out of reach, disembodied and studying us from immediately below the cloud cover. Inquisitive tentacles and claws reach for them from that hell-scape rimed in red signifier ice and are repelled with effort that lights up the arcane world in flashes of searing light.
A clumsy way to operate but effective for a powerful group of witches working together. How they could think I’d not notice them is difficult to believe.
They are not alone, their physical bodies are guarded by dozens of those Russian Cossacks on their trotting ponies much like our friend here and a pair of tanks.
A man of power with them, old and heavy with rage, a kindred spirit to the General at the Paris war. I concentrate, try to pin down what exactly it is we deal with, three witches in total though there had been four, the echo of death providing a reminder of the dangers above us and the stalking silent death that seems to pursue the sisters.
Powerful trackers who must have been following us since, since when? I suppose they could have picked up the scent from the time we arrived or gone looking for their friends or maybe one…
Worthless suppositions. Three magical trackers plus nearly a hundred armed men. Problematic. And barely half our problems.
The other group is at a hamlet nearby, well, twenty miles away but much like Ariadne they are making enough noise that I could hear them a thousand miles across an ocean if I wanted to. They are hungry, distracted, surrounded by enthralled souls and terrified humans. If there are any armed men there, they will be hiding.
They are gorging on power. I recognise the signature of their hunt from the burnt villages we have passed. What are they up to? Are they just ‘powering up?’ Seeking sources of strength for some struggle to come.
I return to find Ariadne watching me with a look of amusement on her face. “You look dumb when you do that.”
“That is entirely possible. That said we would appear to be in the proverbial cleft stick. In that direction we have a hundred Cossacks and three of your kind who are either following us or are taking an extended holiday in these icy wastes which given the weather I strongly doubt. Over that way we have four dozen or so of your kind who are… pursuing their natural inclinations.”
She taps her finger on her hand turning her palm first one way then the other. Emmet watches impassively. “If you weren’t here I could probably arrange somethin’ with the ladies with the Russkies that might stick. I had to bring a fecking vampire didn’t I?”
“You did.” I confirm. “Though more vice-versa.”
“Russkies hate your lot something fierce and if we go for that hunting pack I’ll probably be eating dirt before I can open me mouth to speak. Might do better the other way if we can get there. Crap on a stick. Got an idea why the hunting pack’s hanging back?”
“Well not to blow my own trumpet but your friends over there can probably tell I’m no ordinary vampire. And I dont think they have anything specific against me...”
“Smarter than the average bear Lumps? Yeah you probably do show up as something a bit exotic given the amount of bullshit you shout out and those antique wards. They might have seen us dealing with those stupid bone golems. Ahh.” She groans. “We should make a decision one way or t’other. We stand here, the cossacks get their courage up, and I get a bullet in the brain pan if I’m real lucky and you get to play hard hockey with their horses if they can catch you.”
“Think they’re the ones hiding the world-wood entrances?”
She chews at her lower lip. “Mebbeh.”
“The hamlet then?”
“Guess so. Don’t want to hurt em Lumps. They’re misguided. Maybe a little bad but they’re sisters and all that.”
“Sick child eating sisters Mistress Witch?”
“Misguided. They’ve gone through a lot you know Lumpy.” She looks up. “This isn’t a great place to be and they only do what they have to to get by. We all do. We’ve been a bit luckier than them.”
“They eat children and turn into large corvids over time. They are quite different from you and yours Mistress Witch. My understanding is they could at least desist from the first behaviour if they put their mind to it.”
“Took us a hundred year and a whole heap of nastiness so it’s a bit more than that. Some curse.” She replies. “They’ll at least be distracted.”
“By lunch.”
“Oh stow it. You drink blood.”
“Sometimes. And I tend to be quite polite about it. Thinking about it I am a bit peckish…”
“Ha bloody ha. Off we go, pointy-teeth. Wherever it is we’re going.” She shrugs. “I can’t hear em which is a bit weird. Dunno why, so you’ve got point. Talk first though. Right?”
“Sisters.” I pick up a stalk to chew. It tastes as bad as the last one but it helps me think. “As a thought experiment let’s assume they don’t want to listen to you no matter how eloquent you are.” My sarcasm is thick here. “That being the case, how do you think they’d react if we, say… we grabbed a couple of the sisters as a bargaining chip. As a last resort of course!”
She pulls a face. “Ack, seriously? Well they’d probably let you go. For a while.”
“Then hunt me down for the rest of time?”
“You know us pretty well, Lumps.”
“In which case dear lady best speed...” I reach out again to the village and point a pointy finger in the relevant direction. “That way. Emmet, if you would be so kind?”
Emmet grabs Ariadne and hoists her up on a shoulder. There is a squeak of rage followed by a gasp as we make best Golem speed towards the Hamlet of Novaya Roding.
“He’s a quite fast so hold on!” I yell after them. “Emmet, wait outside. No…”
He’s gone.
“… escapades.”
I turn to Buttercup or Daisy or whatever the Pony is called. “Looks like I’ll be carrying you for a change.”
It looks at me and slowly blinks. “Agreed?” It chews thoughtfully and ignores me.
I bring the pony. Details are irrelevant when I need to move fast and the sound isn’t an issue.
We are at the outskirts of the hamlet in seven minutes. Not bad for a twenty-mile hike. It’s a shame I never developed the ability to keep that pace up for any length of time or I would hardly need the witches’ help. Still I prefer the company to the convenience and honestly I often forget I can do things after a century or two of inactivity.
Ariadne is trying to rub some feeling back into her legs after being helped down by Emmet from her makeshift piggy-back ride.
“Little warning next time Lumpy? Though that was kinda fun in a red-raw arse sort of way.”
“Sorry dear girl, I usually ask Emmet to put some padding down first, but time is of the essence and cushions are at a premium in this world of ice and ruin.”
The hamlet is walled in heavy stone. It has an ornate warded gate set in thick walls with spikes of silverised metal jutting from them across the upper surfaces. Wires hang from lamps set on the spikes which spark with power and the whole ensemble is topped off with automatic gun positions set high up on stilted towers towering over the low-set lands about.
A moat bubbles around these walls from which I can detect a potent array of curses and vampire-specific poisons bubbling. They remind me of the cartoons my crystals had recorded. Deadly danger as flip-book animation. I half expect spectral forms to float up moaning ‘evil' or ‘danger' though that would have re
moved a great deal of their efficacy.
Were it not for the fact that these formidable defences are entirely unmanned we would have had a great deal of difficulty getting in. However, the gates are swinging open in the bitter wind so I don’t even have to knock.
I’ll take that as an invitation.
During a Witch attack the Garrison will be sleeping or dead. Had these been western witches I’d have bet the first, as they are not it is even odds the second.
Oh. There they are.
Ariadne surveys the scene, she goes over to one of the slumped forms by the open gate. It has the moth-eaten appearance of an old rag doll, gaps and cloth and dry grey flesh. “Ah hell Lumpy. What have you got us into? This is… horrible. And the damn noise…”
There is an unearthly cacophony on the wind coming from the gates, flowing out like syrup from an upturned jar. It keens and wails, thick with meaning and arcane flavours of cinnamon and copper. To my ears it sounds like an enormous flock of birds grating out their hunger in a grotesque mockery of a great symphony, a medley of hunger and need. There is a primitive beat to it, like drums.
Eminently repulsive, forcing potential rescuers to gather all their courage to even approach the feeding site.
To the ears of its intended prey within the site it will sound like the greatest show on earth is taking place just outside their window. Come see!
To an adult human in the same area of effect it acts as a paralytic, fear freezing all but the best in place.
I wonder how it sounds to Ariadne. Maybe a sad lament reminding her that not all witches are as enlightened as her, nor keep their malice restricted to the bounds of civilised behaviour.
I rather like the sound. It appeals to something primal within my empty heart. “It is a rare treat to hear the hunting ditties of the hag-ride dear girl. This is your history.”
“Old Black Annis would be turning in her grave if she heard this shite.” She winces. “If those black robed feckers hadn’t burnt her back in the day. Ack it’s getting in me head.”
I frown. “Do I need to do something, dear girl?”
Master In His Tomb Page 19
