by Mike Wild
The carnage did not last long but it gave Slowhand and Fitch enough time to overtake the horde and burst from the tunnel, the archer shouting warnings. But the distribution centre had already been alerted by the workers’ screams, and the cathedral’s cloister bells were sounding a security breach.
Guards were pouring from the sublevel’s barracks to take up position before the tunnel. Slowhand bundled Fitch behind their lines, amazed that he had started the day intending to kill the man and was now getting him to safety.
“Arrest this man,” Fitch ordered, intercepting two of the guards. “He tried to kill me.”
The guards stared at Fitch questioningly.
“The First Enemy moves. For all we know he is in league with him.”
The guards faces paled at the mention of the name, but they nodded and seized Slowhand by the arms. The archer glared – that was what you got for being the good guy.
“Fitch, don’t be a fool,” he pleaded. “I don’t know what’s going on here but let me help.”
“Take him,” Fitch ordered, and headed for safety.
“Dammit, Fitch! Can’t you see this is about more than just saving your skin!”
Slowhand’s protests fell on deaf ears as the horde continued to pour from the mouth of the tunnel. The guard commander hesitated for a moment before barking orders to his men. Crossbows were loosed and fifty or more quarrels slammed into the front ranks of the horde, the archers reloading instantly to despatch a second volley. By their sheer weight of numbers the quarrels slowed the horde more than Slowhand’s arrows had, but they were as ultimately ineffective at stopping them and, despite a third volley, the horde gained ground into the sublevel itself.
Ordering his crossbow men to continue firing at will, the guard commander turned to a number of robed figures who had hastily shuffled into position at the rear of the line, and with a downward sweep of his arm instructed them to deploy their defences.
Nothing happened, for the figures were shadowmages, and the magic here, too, was gone. A wave of desperation crossed the guard commander’s face and, despite his evident fear, he changed tactics, breaking forward from the line and unsheathing his sword, ordering his men to follow and do the same.
It was a mistake and a massacre. Only Slowhand and Fitch had so far witnessed how the horde behaved in close combat, and it hadn’t just been the utter lack of mercy with which they had mutilated the tunnel workers, it had been the way they had done so with no regard to mutilation to themselves. They didn’t care, didn’t feel anything, and the only way to stop them was utter dismemberment.
The cathedral guards didn’t get the chance. As they ploughed on, swords raised, into the front of the horde, the grey-fleshed intruders responded in kind, their makeshift weapons all the more deadly because of the suicidal way in which they were wielded. The guard commander and first wave of his men were bloodily felled without claiming a single foe, and even those who miraculously survived the sweeping attacks died horribly moments later, torn apart. More guards joined the fray and the horde began to slaughter these, too, fighting in eerie, absolute silence. The only noise was the wet sound of butchery, and the desperate cries and screams of the dying.
“Stop!” A voice commanded suddenly.
Slowhand glanced towards its source and saw that reinforcements had arrived, summoned from the upper levels by the tolling of the cloister bells. The Anointed Lord herself – Katherine Makennon – stood at their fore.
The archer drew a sharp intake of breath. He hadn’t forgotten how striking Katherine Makennon could be, but as the Anointed Lord strode towards the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder with her men, his thoughts were not on the way her shining armour accentuated rather than hid her statuesque form, nor on the feral mane of long red hair that swept behind her like a fiery comet’s tail. All he could think was that, for once, she might be biting off more than she could chew.
“Makennon, don’t,” he implored her as she passed. His words were barely heard above the clanking of her armour. “I don’t know what these things are but I’m not sure they can be stopped.”
The Anointed Lord halted briefly, her face a mix of recognition and curiosity at the archer’s presence, swiftly replaced with cast-iron determination. “I will stop them. This is my cathedral.”
Slowhand struggled against the guards as Makennon strode on, but their grip was firm. All he could do was watch as the Anointed Lord marched at the horde, her battleaxe swinging down before her with an audible swoosh. Scholten might well have been her cathedral but for the moment at least she was no longer its Anointed Lord, reincarnated instead as the battle-hardened Vossian general she had once been.
Makennon directed her men to the peripheries of the horde and then, roaring, waded into the heart of them, battleaxe carving a path as the invaders’ weapons sparked and clanged on her armour. While it looked as though she was wielding the heavy weapon with as much carelessness as the enemy were wielding theirs, it was in fact with great precision. Its twin blades bypassed, by hairsbreadths, her own people fighting beside her, cleaving only into the things that flailed about them. The horde might have been unaffected by damage from lesser weapons but the sheer mass of Makennon’s axe, to say nothing of the expertise with which it was used, was something they could not withstand. Within seconds she had reduced their numbers by twenty or more. As damaging as Makennon’s incursion was, though, the numbers involved were great, and as more guards fell beside her it was clear she faced a war of attrition with an inevitable conclusion. This did not deter Makennon from continuing her impassioned defence of her domain, however, and while she shouted for what few men remained to pull back to a safer position, she herself continued to wade forward until she had carved a sea of body parts that reached almost to the tunnel entrance. There, fatigue at last started to get the better of her, and she was forced to stand her ground. Breathing heavily and slightly bowed, her blood-slicked hands nevertheless levelled her axe before her, ready to swing it in a circle and cut down any or all of the horde who closed in about her.
But the horde did not close in. Instead, as one, they collapsed to the ground.
Slowhand’s surprise was as great as the Anointed Lord’s, but their interpretations of the unexpected development differed. Obviously concluding her efforts had somehow won the day, Makennon’s heavy breaths turned into shuddering gasps of relief, and slowly she raised her gaze to him, displaying flaring and victorious eyes. The archer was considerably more wary. Puppets, Fitch had called these things, and if that was the case their strings had just been cut. But he seriously doubted that, with such an advantage, this First Enemy – whoever he was – would have cut them in defeat.
Something was wrong.
Every one of the horde that remained intact began, slowly, to laugh. They didn’t stir from where they had collapsed, and their faces showed no more emotion than they had before, but from each of their upturned, gaping, black mouths came the sound of laughter. It was a cold and calculating laugh that echoed throughout the now otherwise still battlefield, and it seemed to come from very far away.
Makennon turned in a circle, her eyes on the collapsed forms, her axe ready to be wielded once more. And as she turned, she faced the tunnel.
She stared into the darkness. Something darker still seemed to grow there.
And then that darkness exploded in her face.
CHAPTER FOUR
KALI STIRRED, BLINKED in confusion. After the clout she’d taken from DeZantez she guessed it was normal to see stars, but the Enlightened One’s clout had clearly been an Almighty Clout because she was seeing balloons, bunting and flags as well. There was also a worgle right in front of her nose, staring at her in what seemed to be a very accusing way. Worgles had no eyes but it still stared, conjuring up flashes of Horse’s darting tongue and a pang of guilt she’d never realised she’d felt.
Kali shook her head to free it of weirdness, then groaned. She was surrounded by the stuff of festivals and fun, but the way DeZant
ez had turned on her she wasn’t feeling much like either. Wincing at the pain in her bruised temples she gently picked herself up off the floor to see she’d been confined in a small storeroom with a tiny window and solid wooden door. She tried to open the door but, naturally, it wouldn’t budge, no doubt barred on the outside as there was no lock within. She pulled a crate under the window and climbed up. The window was too small for even her lithe frame to squeeze through but at least the view enabled her to glean where she was and how long she’d been out.
By the look of the sun, it was just after midday, and she was in Solnos – what was left of Solnos anyway. The storeroom had clearly been sturdy enough to survive the quake – which explained why it was serving as a makeshift jail – but outside was devastation. She was looking out onto the town plaza, which was now deserted, many of the tables and chairs upturned, plates shattered, the remains of meals scattered across the mosaic floor. There was smoke everywhere, a pall of it pouring from a jagged rent that split the plaza in two. Beside the rent was the body of a small dog.
Kali craned her neck so that she could see beyond the plaza. The destruction that the machines and the quake had wrought had flattened almost half the town, spreading as far as the second square, where, though the well and church had survived, the adjoining graveyard had disgorged its dead, many of the coffins lying broken in the sun, others half sunk in the river along its edge.
A few people were gathered around the well, cleaning and caring for the wounded as best they could. More simply cradled those who were beyond care, slowly rocking them back and forth. The only sounds were those of distant coughing and gentle weeping.
Kali sighed. If there was one small mercy, it was that it all seemed to be over. The quake had ceased completely. The strange machines, still dominated the horizon, and as she narrowed her eyes to discern the spinning objects against the brightness of the sun, she thought she could make out pulsing waves radiating from them, as if the inaudible sound they made was almost physical.
What the hells are these things? she found herself wondering once more. She had to find out. But that wasn’t going to be easy in her current circumstances.
Kali considered her options. Horse had to be somewhere nearby, likely constrained like herself, and for a moment she considered whistling for him. Little would hold the bamfcat for long and, at full gallop, his armour would make short work of even these walls. She quickly rejected the idea, however, knowing that if she used the steed to instigate a jailbreak it would only confirm her guilt in the minds of her captors, however the hells they had concluded she was responsible in the first place. No, she had no desire to have her face on bounty posters all across Pontaine. It was better to get things cleared up.
Speaking of which, figures were moving towards her from the church right now: DeZantez and some fat, shaven-headed, jowly guy in fancy Final Faith robes. With him were a pair of meatheads, Faith again, who appeared to be his bodyguards. What a Faith dignitary was doing in Solnos she had no idea, but while she was never pleased to see one of Makennon’s lackeys, if he was coming to sort this mess out, fine.
Kali heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door opened, light momentarily flooding the room. Then fatso filled the gap, plunging it into shadow.
“I’m sorry about what’s happened,” Kali began. “but –”
“My name is Randus McCain,” the fat man said, speaking over her. “It is my honour to be the Overseer for this region.”
Kali’s eyes narrowed – she didn’t like to be interrupted. What she liked less, however, was the detail she could now see on her visitor’s fancy robe. The usual crossed circle of the Final Faith was present but at its centre the pattern had been interwoven with the symbol of a wide open eye. Kali felt a tug of concern. She knew the Faith hierarchy fairly well but the eye and this ‘Overseer’ role were new ones to her.
“Nice eye, Randus,” she said. “What’s that about, then?”
“Bring her,” the Overseer ordered the two bruisers. He moved back into the sun and the two men grabbed Kali roughly by the arms.
“Hey, now, wait,” Kali protested, struggling in their grip. Her instinct was to nut one and knee the other but the sound of sharp metals being unsheathed halted her action before it began.
Gabriella DeZantez stood in the doorway, head slightly bowed but gaze fixed on her, twin blades ready for use in her hands. Kali paused, she could see how perfectly posed for combat the woman was, how honed her muscles were, and, quick as she knew herself to be, realised that to challenge her would be folly. What affected her more than anything, though, was again the appearance of her cat-like eyes. They had an arresting presence about them – a genuine presence, that was, not the kind affected by fatso – that made her feel that, if she could appeal to anyone here, it would be her.
“What’s happening?” She asked her, swallowing slightly.
DeZantez didn’t answer, merely continued to stare, jaw muscle twitching. Randus McCain loomed behind her.
“You are charged with the manipulation of forbidden artefacts,” he said. “You are to answer for your crimes.”
Forbidden artefacts? Kali thought. McCain could only be referring to the machines. So the Faith were taking it upon themselves to police Old Race finds now? They really were arrogant bastards.
“Look, I keep trying to tell you –” she tried once more, but the Overseer merely nodded to his guards and she found herself being dragged from the storeroom.
Gabriella DeZantez stood aside as she passed but Kali sensed her immediately swing back into position behind her. Herded as she now was there was little chance of escape. Just one of DeZantez’s blades could sever her spine before she managed a step.
It wasn’t just the presence of the woman she sensed, though. There was more than a whiff of resentment coming from her, too. Resentment directed not at her but McCain. That was interesting and something she might be able to use when she found out what was going on. For the time being Kali allowed herself to be marched towards the church, noticing two things. The first was the fact that DeZantez faltered slightly as they came within view of the graveyard, as if someone close to her had suffered the upheavals there. The second was that Horse was chained beyond the well, guarded by more goons who had presumably escorted McCain into town. The bamfcat registered her predicament as she drew closer and began to snort and pull against his chains. Kali knew he could snap them in an instant but stared into his flaring green eyes and shook her head. Horse calmed.
Prisoner and escorts reached the church and paused. McCain turned to DeZantez.
“Wait outside,” the Overseer ordered. “Ensure we are not interrupted.”
DeZantez protested. “I am the Enlightened One of Solnos. My place is inside the church, where I should witness these proceedings.”
“I have given you an Overseer command, Sister of the Swords of Dawn. Need I remind you that yours is a temporary position and that our office holds jurisdiction over your own.”
DeZantez’s face darkened, her hands tightening on the hilts of her blades. “Need I remind you that your office did not, until recently, even exist. This town has been my responsibility for months and I have lost many of my people today.”
Kali noticed McCain’s goons go for their own weapons but the Overseer shook his head. “Very well. But you are to take no part in these proceedings, do you understand?”
DeZantez glared but nodded briskly. Kali could hardly blame her for her attitude. If she’d just had her authority stamped on like that, she’d be pitsed off too. The irony was, DeZantez could have whittled both goons down to a knucklebone in a second but, as a Sword of Dawn, the Faith’s chains of command were sacred to her, whoever rattled them.
The interior of the church was pleasantly cool as Kali was ushered in. The wooden door was shut firmly behind her, DeZantez taking up position before it, and Kali looked around. Where she had expected some one-to-one questioning from McCain she found herself instead confronted by a numbe
r of townsfolk filing into pews as if to act as a jury. And when the Overseer stood in a shaft of light at a podium before which she, in turn, was forced to stand, she knew exactly that a jury was what they were going to be.
Hang on, she thought. Things were getting a little out of hand here. Moving a little too fast for her liking.
This was no questioning.
This was a trial.
“Kali Hooper, you stand accused –”
“What the hells is this?” Kali shouted over him. “I’ve done nothing to be tried for.”
“Nothing?” McCain retorted. He pointed at the jury, raising his voice. “The loss of this community’s loved ones at your hands is ‘nothing’?”
Kali faltered. She was being charged with these people’s deaths? Oh no, this was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She stared helplessly at the jury and then steadily at McCain.
“You’re talking about the appearance of those machines. I had nothing to do with that. What happened was as much of a surprise to me as to you.”
“A surprise?” McCain repeated. “A surprise? You make it sound like those machines were nothing more than some cheap trick gone wrong!”
There was a mumbling in the jury, shaking of heads, and Kali swallowed. Scant few hours had passed since the disaster, and these people’s horror and anger were still raw. Even though she knew she shouldn’t have to, she sought another choice of words.
“A shock, then.”
McCain let her response hang in the air a second. “A shock,” he said, nodding to himself. “A shock. What are you girl, an adventurer? One of those tomb raiders who make their living scrabbling for shiny things in the dirt?” He paused and gripped the sides of the podium, rattling it until his jowls shook. “In doing what you do,” he thundered, “how many other shocks have you caused by sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
The jury stirred angrily, and glared at Kali. She, in turn, glared at McCain. And he had the gall to accuse her of cheap tricks, the fat bastard. McCain didn’t care about these people’s feelings, wasn’t interested in meting out justice for them. All he wanted to do was manipulate them, and her. The shaft of light, the shouting, the flair for the dramatic – McCain, wherever in the hells he’d sprung from, seemed to have his own little travelling roadshow, and the trouble with roadshows was that they always ran to a script. Just as well, then, that this hadn’t been a ‘one-to-one’ discussion because she would have been wasting her time. If she was to avoid being rail-roaded into whatever outcome McCain had in mind, she’d need to appeal to the jury directly. And to DeZantez.
