Rojan Dizon 03 - Last to Rise

by Francis Knight

  Instead, we made our quiet way to the end of the tunnel, easy enough thanks to Pasha making sure no one was ahead the whole time. Calmed my nerves just a tad, especially if I forgot how he’d said those Storad before had been muffled somehow.

  One step out of the tunnel, and there it was. Outside. Mythical, denied, a dream of what else life could be. Real. It might have been worth the weight of duty on my shoulders just for the feel of it. Open air. No buildings looming over me, no long drop beneath me to shiver my nerves. The sky, right there above me with nothing to block the moon but clouds; no criss-crossing walkways to hem me in. The pass above us, with vague humped shadows lurking – the new machines, with half an army camped beside them.

  That valley wasn’t much, I dare say. A steeply sloping tumble of rocks, all shifting shadows in the moonlight, with the road that led to the top of the pass running through it, a couple of warped and knotty trees struggling to survive in the constant wind. That was all. But it felt like something else.

  I didn’t get the chance to decide what exactly, because the valley still had plenty of Storad in it. Plus Dench was a canny bastard and he knew me too well.

  There are two things that will distract me beyond rational thought. One is the sudden appearance of a naked lady, which Dench had sadly failed to provide. The second is the fondness, or slavish devotion, I have for certain foods. Like, nice ones that taste good. Especially at that point when we were all on starvation rations of what had never been very appetising in the first place. We were trying to be quiet but it was hard when my stomach rumbled so much it could be felt, earthquake-like, in my boots.

  The bastard had something roasting. Something nice that smelled stronger as though it was cooking just feet away. A fat, meaty smell almost choked me in my own saliva, reminding me of long-gone steaks, of gravy I could wallow in for days.

  My stomach rumbled again, more a growl this time, loud enough that it echoed off the walls of the tunnel mouth.

  “Rojan,” Pasha whispered, “we’re supposed to be being quiet —” but then his own stomach growled as though in challenge to mine.

  I clenched my teeth and told my belly to shut up before it got me killed. “Let’s just hurry up and be done with this. Maybe steal the food on the way back, all right?”

  “Yeah.” He shut his eyes as though he wished he could shut his nose too, cracked a finger and set about trying to see who might be about, who we needed to avoid or overcome.

  We waited, and drooled, for a while until the gunshots started – Malaki had arranged for a bit of distraction for us, a small sortie of snipers, his best men with guns. Lise had managed to up the range on a few of the guns, but the Storad didn’t know that, so their lights hadn’t been dimmed and men stood out clearly against cooking fires and lamps. Bullets pinged off rocks down near the outer gates, a couple of men screamed like Namrat had just bitten their balls, and we had a nice bit of chaos to work with.

  I’ve worked out since that Dench’s inquisitor’s helm wasn’t just a protection against a sudden sword or a whack over the head. It was also a protection against certain kinds of magic. More specifically, Pasha couldn’t hear anything of what went on inside one. He wouldn’t even know the wearer was there, as had happened once before. It seemed Dench had shown the Storad just how it did that so that they could incorporate it into their own design – hence Pasha not hearing the guys in the original tunnel too well. This guard, however, had something a bit extra – an exact replica of Dench’s helmet – and he had been placed – among others, we later found out – outside where Dench thought the tunnels were, which he had, naturally given his understated efficiency and ability to scare the crap out of anyone who took his orders, mostly found.

  I poked my head out of the tunnel and was trying to think clearly rather than gawp at being really, truly Outside and in the nearby presence of food that might even taste of something, when a heavily accented voice to one side said, “Rojan Dizon, I assume?”

  My heart nearly had a prolapse, which wasn’t helped by the sight of the gun in the man’s hand pointed right at my head. Worse, it didn’t look like a usual gun but more complicated, which probably meant it was more efficient at killing people. The helm didn’t help much – styled like Namrat’s head, all teeth and voracious hunger with blank eyes that seemed to judge me.

  “And Pasha too, I’m reliably informed. Yes, that’s it. Over here where I can see you, hands out. No twisting anything. Dench has warned me all about you. Now, if Jake comes any closer —”

  At which point I was glad I’d won the argument about the cantankerous Halina. Two sick wet cracks, a hiss of pain, and the guard lifted off the ground before he slammed into a boulder behind him. The smack dislodged the gun in his hand, but not before it let off a wild shot that made Pasha and me duck as it whizzed over our heads and punched into a scree of rocks.

  Pasha grabbed the gun before the guard could react, but he couldn’t stop the shout. I grabbed Halina as she stared down in surprise at the stunned guard and, with Pasha behind, we ducked through a crack and between two tents precariously erected in the lee of some house-sized boulders. Not a moment too soon, either. A welter of footsteps as men came running over rocks, hoarse shouts that sounded like gargling with gravel, Dench’s name the only word I could understand. Maybe the only one I needed to. The plan had gone tits up before it was properly started. I’m not sure why I expected anything else.

  We’d have been done for then, I have no doubt, if the snipers at our gates hadn’t started taking pot-shots at the nicely grouped men nearby. Bullets pinged off boulders, slammed through a man’s shoulder so that he twirled round and fell in a shower of blood. Everything seemed to happen both too fast and too slow, and my stomach tied itself in knots.

  There was only one way out of this, and that was through it.

  Cold sweat made my hand clammy as I grabbed Halina’s arm and we darted through the tents before anyone could organise themselves enough to try to find us. We’d planned – all right, hoped like hell – to have ten minutes of chaos to work with. Long enough to find a handy little hole to hide in, for me to rearrange the engine of the infernal machine that loomed by the camp, and then get the hell out. Instead of the ten minutes we’d hoped for, the way it looked now we had about two minutes, if we were lucky. Then we had all the time in the world to get killed, because I couldn’t see us getting back to the tunnel as things were. Why the hell had I suggested this? Sometimes my own stupidity surprises even me.

  All we had time for was trying to live, trying to do what we’d come for and then get out.

  I went left, straight to the machine, but Pasha yanked me back. Four men that way sounded in my head. He was a handy guy to have around. I nodded and let him lead the way.

  Those few minutes so shredded my nerves, I can barely even recall them. I certainly went off going Outside ever again, even if I could get steak or bacon. It wouldn’t have tempted me if it was wall-to-wall naked ladies sluiced in gravy. The sheer openness of Outside scoured what little courage I had so that I wished for the comfort of buildings to surround me, for walkways to catch me in their stifling net.

  A cry went up behind, in front, all around it seemed. Pasha didn’t steer us wrong, knew who was where, when they moved. But a minute – or was it an hour? – later even he conceded defeat. With a sign that we could go no further, not forward or back, we huddled behind a rock that had split, leaving us a tiny hole to cower in.

  I could see through the crack a little. The machine, looking squat and powerful and mindless. A jumble of men, of tents and shouting and fires cooking whatever it was that was driving my stomach to distraction. Even through all that, the constant gnawing hunger of the past weeks meant that the smell of cooking meat wasn’t far from my thoughts. Just a taste would do. Just a little lick.

  I blinked the thought away and carried on looking. Past the tents they’d made a corral of sorts, and in the dim light of the moon shapes shambled about in it, snuffling and maki
ng the odd, and I mean odd, squeak. A pair of beady little eyes peered out of the gloom, right at me, and the thing gave an almighty shriek like Namrat had hold of its bollocks and was twisting for all he was worth. I shot backwards into the hidey-hole and tried to press myself into the rock while I processed what I’d just seen. I couldn’t be 100 per cent certain – I’d only ever seen them up close in books, or, once, dead and laid out on a slab – but I was pretty sure it was a pig. The bastards really did have pigs. Bacon on the hoof, or trotter or whatever. But I soon had other things to worry about rather than salivate over.

  An ominous whoomph sound in front, another behind.

  “What the fuck was that?” I whispered.

  You don’t want to know, Pasha thought at me. Really. If you’re going to do it, it needs to be now.

  I peered back through the split in the rock, making sure to avoid the pig’s eye. The machine sat there, looking mean and pissed off. Half a dozen men crawled over it with spanners and other tools. Two more had what looked like a sodding great bullet and were loading it into the back of the muzzle.

  Someone screamed behind me like their arse was on fire, counterpointed by the subtle crack of dislocating fingers.

  Now, Rojan, now!

  The crack of my own fingers, and there it was. I tried to ignore the screams around me, inside me, and concentrate on the engine. Too much, it was going to take too much, enough to send me batty but what choice did I have?

  At the back there, where a pipe belched out thick, black smoke in oily streamers. Under those steel plates… I didn’t know if I had it or not, only knew it was something big and complicated, but we were out of time, out of luck. Another twist, another surge, what felt like a vein popping inside my head, and whatever it was, it was gone. I hoped Lise could get some use out of it, and dry-heaved behind the rock.

  I stayed there for a while, I think, with the cool rock comforting my sweating face. More meat roasted or burned somewhere close but it had an odd tang to it, one I’d never smelled before that made my grumbling stomach shut up. Someone shook my shoulder and wouldn’t let up so I turned to find Pasha. His face was pale, sweating like my own, a touch of panic in his eyes and the jerky way he was moving.

  “Thank fuck. Come on, I think I’ve bought us some time but you have to get us out of here. Rearrange us the hell out.”

  “Can’t do three, you know that,” I managed to mumble. Myself and one other, and that was pushing it, especially after what I’d just put my hand and brain through. Even on a good day – and trust me, this was not a good day – I’d struggle to do three, in fact I’d never tried it because two was almost enough to burst a blood vessel. I was pretty sure three would leave me good for nothing but the knackers’ yard, and I didn’t want to test my theory. “Back to the tunnel, that was the plan.”

  The way Pasha’s lips twitched into a grimace said it all, that I didn’t want to look, or know; but I looked anyway, or tried to.

  “The tunnel isn’t an option right now. You don’t need to see why. Just get us out before those guards realise what I’ve made them do, and stop doing it.”

  He wouldn’t let me look past him, but the blood on his hands, splashed over his shirt, was enough. Halina didn’t look much better – she looked like she was going to throw up, but she got herself under control quickly enough and tried for a cocky smile that fell flat.

  Three – how in hell was I going to manage three?

  “Rojan!” Dench’s voice cut through everything, all the smoke and blood and the singing in my head. “Come on, you little bastard, you and Pasha, I know you’re here.”

  He sounded ready to split me in two. It was all the encouragement I needed to do something, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think rearranging us was a good plan – it was too far and I was too screwed. I was probably too far gone for just me and Pasha, and leaving Halina behind wasn’t an option.

  I was too screwed for almost anything but I caught sight of the pig, of the rocky slope behind it, and a slightly less stupid thing came to mind. Slightly less stupid, with an added hope we might be able to grab a pig too – despite imminent death, my stomach was feeling jealous at getting left out of the planning and kept inserting its own ideas.

  “Not rearranging us out. Can’t. Not three. Too screwed. But I can do something. Hold on and get ready to help me run.” It was a stupid plan really, but all the choice we had apart from die, and I’ve never been a fan of that.

  Pasha tried one of his monkey grins, though it was pretty shaky. “I won’t let go, I promise you. You fall in, I fall in.”

  I managed a nod and he held on to my arm, his voice in my head holding me like he promised, not letting me fall in if he could help it.

  It was touch-and-go none the less. The black swooped in like a carrion bird, threatening to carry me off, and I was helpless before it. Only Pasha’s voice kept me here, this side of sane. I clung to it, and it was then that I realised how much I’d come to rely on the little sod.

  It wouldn’t take much, I hoped. I really did. The valley sides were static rivers of rocks, some as big as houses. I wasn’t going to manage one of those in my state, but with any luck I wouldn’t have to. Take the right rock, and all the rest should come tumbling down.

  It worked better than I could possibly have hoped for, for once. It was still too much, even that little. Another pop in my head, the gush of something hot down my face. Through some kind of black mist I saw the rocks go, shooting out of the jumble like corks out of bottles and tumbling off down the valley. I heard more than saw the resulting landslide, the grind of rock on rock, a scream, followed by another, and the high-pitched squeal of what was probably a pig. A clatter of trotters on stone as the corral snapped and the pigs made a determined escape attempt, squealing all the way. Halina saw what I was about and joined in the fun – rocks started zipping about, slamming into men, scaring the crap out of some of the pigs so they careered through and over tents, kicking and gouging anyone they found. A bigger rock – Halina grunted in effort – rose straight up and then fell into one of the bigger fires, sending sparks everywhere. A few of those sparks ended up finding a home on the trampled tents, and the subsequent impromptu bonfires had men running every which way.

  “Nice,” Pasha breathed, then grabbed my arm and dragged me up and away. “Shit.”

  Yeah, shit was about right. A group of men had stayed steady around the tunnel entrance, ignoring the pandemonium of pigs squealing their way up and down the valley, of men screaming and swearing, of fires and of soldiers turning on each other as suggested by Pasha. Well, I can only assume that’s why they were suddenly trying to rip each other’s faces off.

  I staggered to my feet, wiped at my face and tried again. Another rock or two, another landslide. It might be enough. It was enough to get me another pop in my head, a fresh flow down my face and the voice of the black taking over every rational thought.

  A sudden yank from Pasha as a gun sounded right near my ear and the swoosh of a bullet whipping through the air where we’d just been almost fucked it up for good, but I’d got the rocks free, set more tumbling down, end over end, cutting the men off from us, leaving the tunnel mouth blessedly free, for now.

  We had to run, but I was barely capable of walking, and I was retching so hard I thought I might actually bring up my stomach.

  After that, there was a lot of nothing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sound came back first, little overheard snatches that made no sense. Dendal’s papery voice reading scripture. Pasha’s worried murmur. Perak shouting, “I absolutely forbid it!” in a voice so strained it almost wasn’t his. I kept my eyes shut and let myself drift for a while, not really knowing where, or even who, I was.

  All that came back slowly to start with. I was in a bed, and it smelled nice so I could be sure I wasn’t in my office, squidged on the sofa that smelled of mouldy stuffed tigers. Not just nice – I could smell proper food cooking, which was beyond nice and into downright heaven
ly. I turned over, relishing the sudden space, the clean sheets and the promise that smell seemed to give, and discovered an arm draped across me. A feminine one with a delicate hand. Better and better, though it appeared the lady it was attached to was clothed, which was a disappointment.

  I was heroically prepared to make the most of it though, until everything else came back with a rush that felt like a mountain in the face and an anvil of weight across my shoulders. Dench – Storad – machines – Halina watching me with eyes like dinner plates in a face pale as winter, all her delicious hatred of the world and everything in it drained away before she snapped back and threw rocks around with an abandon that had scared me. The men I’d seen, whom Pasha had tried to stop me seeing. Half burned, some of them, or with faces ripped and bleeding as they went for each other in a mindless, mechanical way. I sat bolt upright in the bed and leaned over the side to be sick, but nothing came up except pink-tinged bile.

  A soft voice, a softer hand on my shoulder that normally I’d have been all over like a rash but I couldn’t muster the energy or enthusiasm right then.

  “Lie down, you shouldn’t be up yet.”

  I shrugged Erlat off more brusquely than I meant to and tried to stand up. On the third try I managed, and with a shadowy tiger stalking the corner of the room, I found a shirt to put on. “I can’t. Not – I can’t. Where the hell is my allover?”

  “Kersan’s still trying to get the blood out.”

  “Blood? But —”

  “Your blood, Rojan.” Erlat slid out of bed and came to stand in front of me. I’d never seen her like this before. Maybe it was the hair that threw me, a glossy snake of it that draped her shoulders instead of being kept in its tight coil at the nape of her neck, before it slid on down over the silky nightgown that made me come over all funny. Or perhaps that there wasn’t even a hint of either her smooth professional persona or any teasing. I began to wonder how many different women she was. Too many for me to keep track of, especially the way my mind had seemingly turned to mush.