by Jen Williams
‘I would brace yourself,’ said Feveroot. ‘For want of a better word, we’re about to land.’
Wydrin turned back in time to see what looked like a busy market square filling her field of vision. She saw colourful stalls, and people fleeing from them, and then they were down and rolling, the world a chaos of noise and splintered wood.
When finally they stopped moving, Wydrin uncurled herself and looked around. Echo sat dazed on her lap, while the wreckage of the market lay in disarray around them. Estenn, she was sure, must have come down somewhere nearby. She hoped that the zealot had landed on her head and was currently leaking her brains onto the cobbles somewhere, but the gods did not seem to be on their side lately. Feveroot shuddered beneath her and she slid off his back, passing Echo up to her shoulder as she did so.
‘Hold on tight to me, Echo, this isn’t over yet. Feveroot? How are you doing?’
The demon turned his sleek hawk head towards her. His eyes still glowed red, but without their usual fire. ‘See for yourself.’ He raised the wing that Y’Gria had caught – the glowing substance appeared to have stopped flowing for the time being, but the limb was ragged, pieces of his shiny black flesh peeling back like the petals of some exotic flower. ‘Not fatal, but I am greatly weakened.’
‘Fuck. I’m sorry.’ She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. Her head was spinning again, and the city smelled strange to her – to one side, a stall that had been selling spices had been smashed to pieces, spilling powders of many colours onto the ground. It was hard to think clearly. ‘Can you fly?’
‘Not at this size, I’m afraid, and not for long.’
Wydrin looked up. The floating palace still loomed above them, casting a shadow over the city. Distantly she could hear the soft crump of magical explosions, and as she watched she saw a ball of bright purple fire arc up from below and hit the palace on its craggy underside. The mages of Raistinia had some understanding of what had come for them and were trying to fight back. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, ignoring the burning of her cheek. ‘Go back up,’ she said. ‘Make yourself something small, and get back up there without attracting Y’Gria’s attention. Help Frith and Sebastian, if you can.’
Feveroot tipped his head to one side. ‘Without you commanding me, I cannot …’
‘Oh right.’ Wydrin cast around and saw a stall that had been selling jars of wine. A few of them were miraculously untouched. She uncorked one and used the contents to wash out the inside of the phial, spilling most of the wine over herself in the process. When it was done, she held it out to Feveroot.
The giant hawk collapsed in on itself and became a simple human figure made of black glass. The eyes, as ever, were red. Gingerly, Feveroot took the phial from Wydrin. If anything she thought he looked afraid.
‘You understand what you have done?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But I don’t have time to worry about it, and I’ve decided to trust you. Don’t make me regret it. Please, get up there and help them.’
Feveroot blinked, and abruptly the human shape dropped away to be replaced by a large bat, the phial clutched in its back paws. The demon shot up into the air, soon lost to sight behind roofs and towers. Wydrin couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t agreed to help them at all, now that he had his freedom in his grasp.
‘Wydrin the Godless!’
Estenn appeared out of the wreckage of the market, her cutlass already grasped in her fist. Her hair hung over her face, and she was baring her teeth like the ink wolves that circled her neck. ‘We have some unfinished business.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Wydrin. ‘That.’ She turned and jumped over a pile of broken crates, heading for a side street.
78
It took Frith no more than a second to accept Sebastian’s presence, and then he was at his back, cutting his bonds and freeing his arms. He passed Sebastian the short sword from his own belt.
‘We must keep her occupied.’
They had time to exchange no more words than that, as Y’Gria was already writhing, splitting into hundreds and hundreds of questing, pale roots. Estenn had vanished over the side, apparently in some suicidal pursuit of Wydrin, but the enraged god was more than enough to deal with. Sebastian fell into an attack stance – the sword was shorter and lighter than his preferred weapon, but the Ynnsmouth knights were trained to proficiency with all blades – while Frith spun the staff between his hands, sending a barrage of orange flame at the bulk of the creature. And creature she was, as Y’Gria’s humanity was melting away rapidly – her finely featured face bloated and then ran, becoming something stretched and feral-looking, her mouth splitting into a gaping maw. Several of her fatter tentacles sprouted long twisted barbs, and they began to squirm together like a nest of enraged snakes.
‘I have had enough of you!’ Her voice was distorted and slurred as her mouth fell open to reveal a long, pointed purple tongue. ‘I will not suffer your pestilence a moment longer.’
She swiped at them, a move designed to simply fling them from the edge of the floating palace to fall to their deaths, but Frith moved faster, conjuring a sudden wall of glittering ice to block her tendrils. Almost instantly the ice cracked with the pressure being exerted on it, but Sebastian was already sprinting towards the knotted section where the tentacles joined the main meat of her body. Bringing all his weight to bear on the blow, he struck downwards and severed several of the limbs in one arching movement. Bright blue blood spurted across grass and stone, and Y’Gria bellowed with outrage. Sebastian grinned.
‘Quickly,’ shouted Frith, ‘I will cover you as best I can!’
As more feelers shot across the grass towards him, more shards of ice burst into existence, as well as sheets of orange flame that turned the questing roots black and crispy. Sebastian glanced back to Frith once, to see the young lord holding the staff in both hands, turning it this way and that to direct his magical attacks. The expression on his face was one of utmost concentration and, Sebastian thought, grim satisfaction. Convinced that Frith knew what he was doing, Sebastian let himself fall back into the familiar movements and patterns of his training – the enemy was fast, the enemy was everywhere, but he had a sword in his fist and the fever of battle was roaring through his veins.
Sebastian leapt forward, sword moving in a blur as his blade sliced through tentacle after tentacle. His tunic was soaked through with what passed for Y’Gria’s blood, and the old god was shrieking, retreating back against the ruins that cupped the wide lawn. The silvery thread that was his dragon blood was singing, sensing the weakness and fear of its prey, and for once he surrendered to it completely. It was glorious – the simplicity of the fight, the satisfaction of torn flesh. And through that shimmering silver connection he suddenly felt Oster nearby.
Are you there?
There was no answer. Putting it to one side while still drawing strength from it, Sebastian drove on, until he was beneath the bulbous flesh sack that was the main part of Y’Gria’s body. He would carve this so-called god up into pieces, and his dragon brethren would feast.
‘ENOUGH!’
The rippling flesh of Y’Gria’s body expanded, throwing him back over the severed pieces of tentacle that littered the grass. The smooth pale-green node of flesh in front of him split open in a bloodless wound, and a great blind beak lined with yellow teeth burst forth, snapping and questing inches from his boot.
Sebastian had a moment to grasp that this was Y’Gria’s truest form – a giant carnivorous plant, all growth and appetite – before it was reaching for him on the end of a long, sinuous neck. Its green throat filled his vision, wet and pulsating, and the beak opened to its fullest extent, ready to snap down over his legs, when something black and shining struck him from one side with enormous violence, rolling him out of the creature’s reach. Sebastian scrambled to his feet to find an uncertain black shape pooled at his feet, dotted with glowing red lights.
‘It thirsts for blood, as I once did,’ said the shape, and b
efore Sebastian could take that in, Frith was at his side. He was still sending multiple fireballs up towards the writhing shape of the god, but his face was wet with sweat now, his white hair slick to his forehead.
‘The situation’, he panted, ‘is not improving.’
Sebastian looked up. Y’Gria had swollen until she dwarfed her own ruins, a pulsating, multi-limbed creature, questing tendrils nosing at the sky, the grass, the stones. The terrible plant-beak that had burst forth from her expanded gut had been joined by two more identical protrusions, their wide mouths creaking open and snapping shut, weaving on the ends of their necks like snakes. Of Y’Gria’s human form, there was no sign.
‘Isu’s balls,’ said Sebastian.
Born and raised in Crosshaven, Wydrin had always secretly believed that all cities were a natural home to her – put her down in any confusion of buildings and meandering streets, and she could always take you to the best tavern – but Raistinia was proving itself to be a maze. Alleys she felt must take her to a main street led back on themselves; she burst out onto squares to find that there were no other exits, and the walls and buildings all felt too tall, looming over her like enemies. Stumbling into a small cobbled courtyard she was startled by an ornate fountain, the sound of water splashing over the stones somehow unbearable.
‘It’s this bloody fever,’ she said aloud, leaning against the nearest wall to get her breath back. ‘It’s pulling everything out of shape. Like trying to run in a nightmare.’
Echo, who was gripping tightly to the back of Wydrin’s collar, shifted slightly, papery skin scraping against Wydrin’s neck. ‘Your blood. Is wrong,’ it said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Before Wydrin had a chance to answer, Estenn appeared at the entrance to the courtyard. For a few seconds the expression of steely determination on her face reminded Wydrin of her own mother, and then she was sprinting across the square. Wydrin gathered what wits she had and ran for a set of stone steps leading up to a dark doorway. Inside was a cool wood-panelled room hung with elaborate portraits, and two men in scholar’s robes stared at her in shock.
‘Get out of the city,’ she said as she ran past them. ‘Get everyone out, if you can.’
She was sprinting up another set of wooden stairs as she heard Estenn come in the room behind her, and then she was running across a gangway that led over the street to another building. Being back out in the daylight again she blinked rapidly, her head spinning, and she collided lightly with the side. In seconds Estenn was on her, and it was only Echo’s tug on the back of her collar that made her sidestep rapidly away, narrowly avoiding Estenn’s whirling cutlass. Turning to face the woman, she drew both her sword and her dagger.
‘You want to do it here, do you?’ She flexed her fingers, twirling Frostling so that it glittered in the dusty sunshine. ‘That’s fine with me.’
‘There is no stopping it,’ said Estenn, her eyes wide. ‘Can’t you see that? I passed through the Eye of Euriale to get here, I have the weapon. It is my destiny to save the gods.’
‘Destiny is just a fancy word for people who want their own way all the time. And I came after you, Emissary. Maybe it’s my destiny to stop you.’ She dropped into a fighting stance, ignoring the way the world pitched around her like a ship at sea. ‘I will not let you kill all these innocent people.’
‘Innocent?’ sneered Estenn. ‘They took the gods from us, and left us to live in a world without their grace for a thousand years. They made a tiny, grubby world full of men and misery, and they didn’t even stay around to suffer it with us.’
Wydrin laughed. It was growing difficult to remember why she was here. Above them, the floating palace loomed like a cancer on the sky. She bit the inside of her mouth, forcing herself to concentrate on the pain. ‘The world is always grubby. You don’t like it? Make it better. You don’t get to wipe it all away and remake it in your image, and you can’t rely on gods to sort it out. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about any of us. We’re better off without them.’ Tasting blood in her mouth she leapt forward, blades flashing.
Estenn roared and danced forward to meet her, swords meeting in a discordant crash. Keeping Glassheart as a barrier, Wydrin ducked and slashed out with Frostling, but Estenn slipped back out of range. The pressure from Estenn’s cutlass removed, Wydrin stumbled, head spinning, and then the other woman began to flicker and fade from view.
‘Oh no you don’t, that’s bloody cheating.’ Keeping her eyes on where the woman had been, Wydrin dived forward, Frostling at a point, and was rewarded with a squawk of pain and the pressure of her blade piercing flesh. Estenn flickered back into view, her right arm running with blood, but before Wydrin could react she brought the pommel of her cutlass round in a heavy blow, connecting with the side of Wydrin’s head. Her vision dimmed and suddenly her knees were hitting wooden boards. The sounds of the city were muffled, and she felt blood running down her neck to soak into her shirt.
If Estenn had not been so desperate to snatch Echo away at that moment, if she had spent the second it would have taken to cut her throat, then it would have all ended there – it was a thought that would reoccur to Wydrin, over the rest of that long, painful day. Instead, Estenn grabbed at Echo, pulling the small creature sharply towards her. Wydrin surged to her feet, driving the top of her head directly into Estenn’s face. There was a crunch of small bones as the older woman’s nose broke and a cry of mingled rage and pain, then Wydrin snatched Echo back from her unresisting hand and ran blindly down the walkway. There were men and women in the streets below, shouting and pointing at the sky. If she could just get far away and hide, just for a little while, they could move the Red Echo somewhere else, but Estenn was relentless. Already Wydrin could hear the pounding of her boots, and when she burst into the tower on the far side, she was only a few steps behind.
I should be able to kill her, she thought wildly, running up a spiral staircase with little thought as to where it would take her. She is good, but she’s not as good as the Copper Cat. Even so, she knew that she had come very close to losing her life. Shame crowded her throat, and she swallowed it down.
Hardly knowing where she was, she burst through a door to find another bridge to another tower. Below stretched a great square pool of glittering blue water boxed in by red-brick walls, and beyond that, the sea itself. There was nowhere else to go. She had run herself into a dead end, again.
‘No choice,’ she muttered as she ran across the bridge, shoving Echo back onto her shoulder. ‘I suppose I will have to bloody kill her now, fever madness or not.’ The other tower, she realised as she ran towards it, was actually little more than a lookout post – a wide platform at the top, a beacon ready to be lit against a stormy night.
‘Wydrin Threefellows, this ends now.’
She reached the platform and turned, blades ready. The sea was a restless blue roar at her back, and that was a comfort of sorts. She could smell the salt.
‘I think you’re right about that,’ she said, forcing a grin on to her face. I am the Copper Cat of Crosshaven, she told herself. I am the daughter of Devinia the Red. I can take this bitch. ‘If the gods are so powerful and so right, why aren’t they down here fighting with you?’ She gripped her weapons until her knuckles turned white. ‘Think about it, Estenn. If they are gods, why do they struggle against the mages? They’re just greedy arseholes with too much power and a tendency to show off.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’ve fought all your life. You’re worth more than they are.’
Estenn just shook her head. ‘I owe what I am to them. I was made to serve them.’
‘If you truly believe that, then you really are the biggest idiot walking.’
There was a moment of silence between them. Wydrin felt the papery scratching of Echo at her back, and behind Estenn the palace hung like a second moon. It was still possible to see bursts of coloured light, and she thought of Frith, still fighting. It made her feel a little stronger.
Then Estenn raised her hand, reve
aling the livid purple scar on her palm. ‘You speak as though the gods have no real power,’ she said. ‘But they do.’
She squeezed her hand shut, and fear and rage and pain surged through Wydrin like a rip-tide. Wordlessly, she fell to her knees, desperately trying to hold on to a sense of herself as the storm moved through her. The fever that was in her blood boiled over, and she saw everything she feared the most thrust in front of her eyes like garish puppets at a mummers’ show – Sebastian lost to her, walking into a cursed jungle never to return; the tip of Estenn’s sword bursting through Frith’s chest, the awareness in his grey eyes seeping away to nothing.
‘No …’
She could not escape it. These things would always be waiting for her, there was no outrunning or outfighting the inevitable heartbreak. Dimly she was aware of Estenn standing over her, strong hands tearing Echo away. She heard Echo cry out, and she lifted her head to see the two parts of the spell finally joined. Estenn was saying something, words that had little meaning, and then a storm of red and black sand was swirling up into the sky above the tower, a strange localised tornado that grew larger and larger as she watched. It began to spread out, dispersing through the air like ink in water, and although she was half sure she imagined it, a great cry went up from the city below. Twin shadows, black and red, blotted out the sun.
‘They will all die now,’ said Estenn, her face split in a beatific smile. ‘First this city, then the next, and then all of them will fall.’
Without thinking, Wydrin forced herself to her feet and ran at the Red Echo – two small forms, papery hands joined. She reached down and tore one from the other, clasped what she had to her chest, and leapt from the side of the tower.
79
