by Daryl Banner
The fortress is only three stories high, but it’s over ten stories deep. They take the spiraling staircase down into the dungeons of the fortress, the stones in the walls appearing more and more crude and jagged the farther they go. Their footsteps clang against their ears, echoing up and down the steps. Tide’s imagination always runs away from him when they descend the nine mighty stories into the depths of the earth. He imagines their footsteps are disturbing and waking some ancient beast deep down, a creature of thousands of years of age that wishes not to be unrested. The creatures and animals of Atlas sleep, Tide tells himself, but would a great beast sleep as they do, or would it be awake as we are, eyes always on the ready for its next meal? Tide, frustrated with his own fears, pries open a latch of his armor with his one free hand, letting some of his glow spill out and illuminate the way farther. The torches along the walls aren’t enough; all they do is make the way more sweaty.
At last, they reach the great underground corridor, its ceiling and walls so far away, it’s like they don’t exist. Tide and Scorp walk down the hall toward the Queen’s chambers, feeling as if they were crossing a great plain made of bricks and uneven cobblestone.
The guardsmen open the doors, letting in the two boys. When the great white doors shut at their back, Tide feels the chill of death crawling up his spine and settling in his every bone. One lonesome brazier is lit at the end of the long hall, by which the Queen sits. Even the brazier’s light looks paler than a fire ought to be. The sight is so cold and unwelcoming, Tide can’t bring himself to approach.
Neither can Scorp. The boys have turned in many bags of heads before, but this is the first month that they’ve been short one.
“Come.”
Tide can’t make his legs move, the thick bag over his shoulder seeming to pull upon his hands, as if the severed, smelly heads inside it were jumping around and laughing at him. It’s Scorp who begins sauntering down the hall toward the Queen. Tide finally breaks from his stance and follows, his throat feeling hollow as a deep, dark well that holds no water. He’s a shell, an empty skull, a bottomless pit.
The Queen is a tall, rigid, cold-looking woman. Her hair as grey and silvery as her eyes, which appear almost serpentine. She pricks needles through everything and everyone with her shielded gaze. Tide always feels so small in front of her and can never seem to make his mouth work properly.
“Your eyes, Queen,” says Scorp when they stop at the foot of the steps leading to her throne by the brazier.
When Tide feels the eyes of the Queen upon him, he fumbles with his bag, having gotten it caught on a hook in his armor, then finally deposits it in front of him with a sickly, scattered thud.
Only the Queen’s eyes move when she glances down at the bag. Without even checking its contents, her mouth tightens. “You are short.”
How can she tell? “J-Just by one,” blurts Tide, his voice so small and meek, it doesn’t sound like his own.
“We will get you another set of eyes,” Scorp promises, able to somehow wield more confidence before this great lady than Tide can. “We were occupied in our final hour with a pair of … ninth rats who both met their end when the building fell in upon itself. It was our plan to bring you eleven heads, but instead we’ve given you nine. We can easily—”
“I’ve never been fond of excuses,” says the Queen, her voice like an icicle cutting through the heat of Scorp’s very breath. “Save them for your school teachers who mind to scold you for lopsided math and uncrossed T’s upon your handwriting. I am no teacher. I am not collecting homework. I assign a task and I expect it done.”
“Really, though, it’s just a matter of the time,” Scorp pushes on. Tide stares at his partner, astonished that he’s daring to continue providing excuses to the Queen. “I figured being late was worse. All we need is one more day. We will have for you a tenth head that will outdo the first nine. Heck, pick an eye color. Your favorite. We’ll find that very one.”
The Queen, her face like the bleak stone that swallows them on every side of her chambers, is not amused by his quipping. Too much silence passes between them, so much so that even Scorp appears to begin regretting his words. He swallows hard in the long, wordless space.
Then, the Queen rises from her throne. She reaches into the bag and, from the long, wispy hair of a boy they procured from the tenth, she pulls out a head. She studies the eyes long and hard, then turns her own onto Tide, then onto Scorp. She drops the head back into the bag. The thumping sound it makes when it lands among the other heads causes Tide’s bowels to coil within him like an unrested serpent. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
“I’m so very sorry, Queen.” Scorp bows his head, holding a hand to his chest. “Please grant me and my partner one last chance to give you the final set of eyes you need from us. I—”
“Oh, you’ll have your chance.” The Queen gives a wave of her hand, her finger waggling between the two of them. “Carry on, then, the two of you. Your chance is here.”
Scorp and Tide wrinkle their faces, looking at each other. They don’t follow. “You are gonna … gonna give us a chance?” asks Scorp, his mouth hanging limply.
“Yes. And this is it.” The Queen lifts her chin. “We have nine sets of eyes and we need a tenth. So give me a tenth. Here. Now.”
Scorp’s eyes flash. He stares at Tide, understanding late to sink in. Tide’s heart hammers against his chest. One of us, Tide realizes, feeling air stirring across his arms.
“Do it before I take both of you,” she commands.
The very next instant, Scorp has drawn his blade. He lifts it in the air with the speed of a scorpion, its tail lifted, its poison ready.
But Tide’s hand is in the air just as quickly, and he pulls upon the wind with such ferocity, he feels every muscle in his body pulse with the force of his power.
Scorp’s lungs collapse from the vacuum and the whites of his eyes burn with alarm, wetted and bloodshot in an instant. The wind surges around him like invisible hands, pulling him off the ground with its infinite, elemental force. He drops his weapon with a loud clang that’s swallowed by the torrent of wind, then makes a grab at his own throat, desperate for air as Tide robs him of it.
The wind pulls the sword along the ground, scraping the stone like the talons of a great metal dragon.
The brazier dances wildly, its pale flames stirred with the wind.
Their whole world twists and pulls and screams around them.
Scorp can’t move, the surging wind keeping him off the ground and holding him in place while simultaneously pulling all the air out of his lungs, suffocating him. The horror in Scorp’s eyes is reflected in Tide’s as he stares at his partner, who he’s slowly killing.
Die, Tide begs him, desperate, terrified. Die quickly. Please.
But Scorp does not die quickly. Bumps appear on the boy’s face. Then his arms. Then his neck. His own Legacy turns him into a strange, lumpy creature before Tide’s horrified eyes. It’s Scorp’s last, desperate, primal attempt to save himself … using a useless Legacy that can do nothing at all for him.
But the visual disturbs Tide all the more. His arms tremble as he pushes the wind, stronger and stronger. His lips hang open dumbly, quivering, terrified at what he’s being made to do. Tears begin to sting his eyes as he watches the now-bumpy-faced Scorp continue to gasp helplessly for air, reaching toward Tide with his lumpy hands, then giving up and grabbing at his throat again. Is he begging? He kicks in the air, unable to get any footing, unable to do anything but suffocate in agony, drowning in air.
Drowning in air …
Scorp’s bloodshot eyes drift upward, unseeing. His tongue and jaw go slack. Then, his arms. And then his head, drooping back.
The sword scrapes along the stone. The brazier hisses, growls.
And still Tide clenches his teeth, the wind unrelenting, pulling the air out of Scorp even long after Scorp has drawn his last breath, even after his partner’s heart stops, even after Tide’s own ears are deaf w
ith the surging power of wind and fury.
Only after far too long a time, Tide lets go of the wind ever slightly, and just that little bit of slack is all Scorp needs to drop to the ground in a clumsy crash of limbs.
Lifeless.
Unmoving.
Tide is shaking everywhere. Tears wet his cheeks. His posture broken, his teeth clattering with fear, he stares down at his dead partner Scorp, the only friend he’s had in this city, the companion he’s made, the partner he’s kept … and killed.
Wetness spreads from his groin and runs down his big legs, covering them with an unwelcome warmth. An involuntary, strange sort of sputtering that’s somewhere between a wailing cry and a moan of fear comes out of Tide’s lips. He can’t stop staring at Scorp’s dead body.
“Ten,” says the Queen.
0160 Arrow
Arrow can’t shake away that last look in Athan’s eyes before he left.
“You alright, man?”
Arrow nods absently, flicking his gaze at Prat once just to give him a curt, half-second smile. He fiddles with a charm on the desk, waiting for Lionis and Athan to confirm that they’ve made it to the warehouse. They should be there within the hour.
“The wind’s died down,” Prat observes, his eyes glinting in the soft green light coming from the computer, the rest of his acne-filled face painted amber from the eleventh ward map on the screen.
“Yes,” Arrow agrees, staring at the charm that had confounded them earlier, the one with all the noise. “Now it’s just …”
“Noise.”
“Noise,” confirms Arrow. “Still, if the charm …” If the charm was truly dead, it wouldn’t be producing any noise at all. I know how my charms work. The wind is gone, but it still creates noise. And this noise definitely sounds like Juston’s Legacy, yet …
“If the charm … what?”
Arrow shakes his head. “Sorry. I was lost in a thought. It’s fine. As soon as Lionis and Athan get there, we’ll have answers.”
“You think that was a good idea? Sending them together?”
Arrow sighs. We didn’t even get Gandra and Yellow’s approval. He smirks at Prat, then says, “Let’s just hope the four of them get back before mommy and daddy find out what we’ve done.”
Prat smiles at that, reassured. Arrow returns his attention to the charms. He never had much of a sense of humor, so when he makes any little joke, no matter how bad, it always seems to calm everyone around him, as if it’s some sign of good things to come. Yet, Athan …
The door opens abruptly and Victra’s head appears. “Arrow. Charms. Front line.”
Arrow lifts his face from the table. “The charms are asleep.”
“No.” Her eyes seem to drift for a moment. Arrow realizes with a start that she’s using her Legacy. “I see them.”
“Who?”
“Those self-important girls from the seventh. I think,” says Victra, looking through someone else’s eyes. “Two of the ones from the meeting, I see those ones. Shit. There’s too many of them.”
“So?” cuts in Prat. “We struck a deal with them, didn’t we? The terms included—”
“Fuck the terms. I don’t trust them.” Victra glares, furious with what she’s seeing through whoever’s eyes she’s linked to. “I need to go to Gandra with this,” she decides, her eyes adrift. “Keep hold of your charms, Arrow. Listen outside.”
Arrow quirks an eyebrow. “But I’m still listening for Lionis and Athan.”
“Listen to both, damn it.” Victra lets the door close behind her as she heads off.
Arrow and Prat share a look. “Should we worry?” asks Prat, his fingers drumming along the desk.
The sight of Athan’s worried eyes invade Arrow once again. His own heart races as he thinks about what it might mean. He’s heard so many words shared between Wick and Athan. He knows about Athan’s panicky demeanor and what usually follows after he has an episode.
“Maybe we should’ve … listened.”
Prat is turning the 3D rendering of his map around and around on the computer, observing it from all angles. “Listened to what?”
“Athan’s warning.”
“Athan had a warning?”
“Somewhat. It came in the form of his panic.” Arrow bites his lip, glancing down at the charms nervously. He sifts through them, sorting the ones for outside their tower. He touches them, drawing out more of their sound, lifting the volumes. Slouching in his chair with his ear angled toward them, he listens, squinting.
Prat doesn’t respond, still mindlessly playing with the 3D map rendering that Arrow devised from his paper ones. The room is silent but for the soft tapping of Prat’s fingers on the screen each time he turns the map.
Arrow hears a voice in the charm. Prat hears it too, the two boys turning toward it suddenly. The words are indistinguishable, noisy. Then it’s a young woman’s voice, and only a few words seem to come through, as if she passed by the sister charm outside just within range for her voice to be picked up by it. “With the steel. All of it. And all of them.”
Arrow’s eyes narrow. Did he get those words right, or did he mishear her?
“Steel?” whispers Prat, as if worried that the charms are two-way and whatever they say can be heard in the streets; it can’t. “Is that what she said? Like, steel as in weapons? As in swords?”
“I don’t know.” Arrow swallows, then looks up to meet Prat’s anxious eyes. “I said I don’t know,” he repeats.
And then he hears a blaring, high-pitched ringing from one of the charms. A jolt of fear tears through Arrow at the sound of it.
Then another charm bursts out with the same sound. Then yet another.
Prat and Arrow are out of their chairs, slamming against the wall as far as they can get from the piercing noise, slapping hands over their own ears. Another charm joins in, screaming its digital fury at them. Another. Another.
“Finger!” screams Arrow through the noise, realizing it too late.
He bursts out of the room, Prat and the noise of shrill digital screaming chasing them. Without care, Arrow tears through the rooms and halls of the ninth floor.
He slams into the door before his hand can find the handle. Opening the door, Gandra, Yellow, and two other faces look up at Arrow, startled by his abrupt, rude entry.
“The Finger Of Madness!!” he screams at them, shaken to his bone. “It’s the only explanation! My charms are screeching! They’re broken, all of them!”
“Are you sure?” asks Gandra, her voice severe and her eyes like ice. “Are you absolutely sure?”
In this small instant, Arrow realizes the other two faces in the room are Victra’s … and the Caldron girl he saved. She has regained her consciousness. Her soft, scared eyes lock with Arrow’s, and the two of them share a moment of recognition—though Arrow knows that the only thing she’d recognize him for is being the man who saved her from the fire. Your family destroyed mine, and I saved you from the Red Light of Madness in return. Could we be ever so lucky a second time?
“Y-Yes,” he finally answers.
“It can’t be,” protests Victra. She stares up at the ceiling, likely jumping into someone else’s eyes on the outside. “No, I don’t see it. I don’t see any red fiery anything.” She blinks away and turns back to Arrow. “Besides, we’d be struck by now.”
Arrow licks his lips, finding them dry suddenly. His eyes turn into two hollow sockets. I let Athan’s panic get to me. I’ve been a fool. Yet … “Then … Then why are my charms screaming at me?”
Gandra shakes her head. “Victra. Get in the eyes of the Warden. Look for his son and his guards and his employees.”
Victra stares at the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration, and reaches for them with her Legacy. After a short moment, her face clouds with bafflement. “I … I don’t …”
“They’re gone?” Gandra asks. Victra nods absently, though she still seems to be looking for them. “Oh, I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of this. We’re alone
here in the tower?”
“I can’t find any eyes,” Victra confirms, the uneasiness evident even despite her normally cocky demeanor.
Gandra lifts her head of wild, tangled grey hair. “Arrow, quiet your screaming charms if you can, or else simply gather the ones linked to the eleventh and to the earpieces on Lionis, Athan, Wick, and Juston. We can’t lose all contact with them. Get them all, Arrow. Prat, your maps. Every single one. Victra, our emergency—”
“Gandra,” interrupts Yellow, his voice tense.
“Don’t cut me off. Victra, our emergency go-packs. Enough for all of us. Yellow, you’ll follow our trail and memory-wipe everyone—and I mean fucking everyone—that we pass who isn’t us. I have a horrible feeling that we’ve been …” She swallows her words, cursing herself for almost saying them.
“Betrayed,” finishes Yellow anyway, his voice ringing with hurt. “After all we did for—”
“The Warden is a self-preserving shit,” Gandra says, furious at once as she raids her desk, filling a bag with items. “And so’s his son. May they both enjoy the company of the Wall Breaker cunts. Arrow. Go. Charms, now. Prat, your maps. Go, go, go.”
After one last glance at the girl—her eyes full of fear and pain and confusion—he bolts from the room. Prat follows, stopping near the round table where his desk full of paper maps is. Arrow, on his own, slaps his hands over his ears as he approaches his private room which still screams at him with a shrill, ear-piercing magnitude. As he enters the room, the sound grows so loud, he can hardly stand it, even with his hands covering his ears. How can I possibly know which charm isn’t screaming at me? He stares at all his gadgets and pieces and ears, ears, ears … and he hears nothing but the shriek.
He lifts a foot to the table, trying to work his Legacy through his toes, but is not successful at quieting any of the rogue charms. He reaches with his elbow, but can’t even manage to bring himself any closer to the charms and their deafening screams. “FUCK!!” yells out Arrow, his word drowned in the potent assault of sound.
