by Tim Lebbon
‘I have more food to prepare,’ Tamma said. ‘I slept yesterday.’
Sol nodded, then walked past her to inspect the hold.
The lyons grumbled in a pen in the corner, metal clamps pulling lips back from their teeth, ivory plugs impeding their fire-glands. They could be trained to restrain their fire breathing, but on board ship it could be deadly to rely on such training. They both watched him pass by with wet, intelligent eyes.
A flight of sparrs was perched in a large mesh cage. Normal birds, trained to home by distance and direction so that they could be directed against enemy emplacements, they would be given disease pellets just before being sent to fly. The pellets were graded so as to release disease into the birds’ guts over a certain time. By the time they landed, they would be crawling with eyemelt or coughing death, or Arcanum-engineered afflictions like bad luck, or rampancy. Sol’s Blade had used sparrs to deliver a disease to melt the victim’s lungs, and an infection to make an enemy fuck the closest thing to him or her, human or animal. Both were as debilitating, but the latter was less deadly.
Disease delivery might aid a protracted campaign, but the next enclosure housed creatures more suited to a short, sharp attack. Six large sparkhawks sat on their perches, hooded and asleep. Sol admired their heavy feet, shining metallic talons, graceful bodies, and was amazed once again at the perfection that the Fade could bestow on some of its creations. These hawks were the fastest creatures in the world, able to approach an enemy from so high in the air that they were out of sight, and then dive so quickly that they were little more than a blur against the blue sky of day, or the starry night. They merited their name from the results of their attacks – sometimes the impact of claws upon body armour or metal helmet was so great, the heat produced by the speed so intense, that the victim’s skull was shattered in a shower of sparks.
The birds shifted on their perches with the movement of the ship, leaning in concert so that they remained upright. Even as they slept, Sol could not help thinking that there was more going on in their minds than even the handlers knew.
Scorch ant bombs, termites to undermine enemy defences, gull rats to sneak into enemy emplacements and vomit plague … each creature was carefully nurtured by the handlers, trained, cared for and pampered. And it was only because of Arcanum that the Spike were able to use these creatures at all.
The animals drove fear into the most determined of enemies, and Sol knew that fear was perhaps one of the greatest weapons. The story of Dank Ridge was still recounted, by Spike soldiers to family and friends when they were on leave, and by the Ald when another Spike victory was being celebrated. Over the years it had taken on the feel of a fable, and yet Sol had met one or two very old soldiers who claimed that their grandfathers had been there.
One Blade – forty-nine men and their commanding Blader – defending Dank Ridge against over twenty thousand Outer rebels. This was in the time of the Outer Rebellion, when the southern extremes of Alderia were ablaze with revolution, and Outers took advantage of the confusion to try and forge their own autonomous state. The Ald stamped down hard, and as the Outer army swelled, so did their confidence. One state after another fell before them, and then they marched north towards the Harcrassyan Mountains across the centre of Alderia. Caught unawares by such blatant aggression, three Spike Blades posted in that region fell beneath the onslaught. The story went that the Outers marched on, wearing the decapitated heads of their Spike victims on spears protruding above their own heads. Until, that was, they reached Dank Ridge. A narrow shoulder spanning one peak and the next, it was a vital route through the mountains and into the plains to the north … and, from there, New Kotrugam itself.
Blader Sugg and his Blade had heard of the massacres to the south, and had two days to prepare.
The battle was fierce, unrelenting, brutal, merciless. The Outers sent in wave upon wave, and Blader Sugg and his soldiers fought back with every means at their disposal. And in those two days, they had prepared more than weapon stacks and defensive structures.
Each telling of the story elaborated more and more on the types of animals they used, and how. But it was certain that this was the first battle during which Spike soldiers employed nature to aid their fight, and the effect was staggering. By the time reinforcements arrived three days later, ten thousand Outers lay dead across the ridge and scattered down the sheer slopes into the valleys on both sides. Their blood painted the landscape red. Their bloated corpses were still bursting with poisons and gases as the new Spike soldiers arrived, and in the face of fresh troops the traumatised Outers fled. They would be pursued, caught and slaughtered, but not before the stunning victory was celebrated.
Blader Sugg had died in the battle, along with most of his Blade. But six women and four men remained alive, standing true behind mountains of dead Outers. Their eyes wide, their weapons dripping blood and gore. And they saluted Fade and the Ald as they jeered their fleeing enemies.
Sol enjoyed the story and celebrated it, knowing at the same time that it had doubtless been exaggerated with each telling. But Dank Ridge was undeniably the source of the Spike’s increasing reliance on such living weapons and, from that point on, fear of the Spike had been so rich that rebellion had been unknown, and more minor skirmishes brief, and decisive.
This war they were sailing for now might be the truest test, the real thing. He shivered slightly, watching the hawks lean into the ship’s sway. He was unsure whether it was fear or excitement, because sometimes to a Spike soldier – and especially a Blader – in the face of a fight they both felt the same.
Dank Ridge had also been the birthplace of Arcanum. The several soldiers from Sugg’s Blade who had mastered control of the wildlife had first been exposed as dabblers in arcane arts, and then feted for what they had achieved. Both feared and revered, their hidden talents had been nurtured by the Spike, and this had inspired many more soldiers to reveal their interests. Arcanum was created, soldiers were seconded. The Ald, grudgingly approving such a move, could hardly deny its efficacy.
Forbidden magic was never touched, but its fringes were stroked, and sometimes lifted.
This was how Sol had met Lechmy Borle.
He walked around the hold one more time, nodding to the handlers, and then left them to their ministrations. He was an intelligent man, but did not pretend to understand much of what Arcanum and those associated with it could do. It was now its own branch of the Spike, though these handlers were Arcanum trained.
It’s like lifting the veil, Leki had told him once, soon after they first met. The world you know is an oil painting. The most beautiful, incredible, detailed and complex oil painting you’ve ever seen. At Arcanum we lift the surface and observe how the brush strokes work, analyse the composition of the paint. Decide how a dozen colours and a thousand touches make up one effect.
And the canvas? Sol had asked.
Oh no, Leki had said, shaking her head, smiling, but deadly serious. We never go that deep.
Back on deck, Sol relished the elements’ assault. Rain lashed across the deck, blown by a gale, and stung the exposed skin of his face. The ship rocked from wave to wave, its sharpened and strengthened bow cutting a path through the ocean that was doing its best to kill them all. The oil painting of the stormy night sea was vicious, but Sol could not see below the surface.
You have to look a certain way, Leki had said. See with different eyes. And you, my lover, are a fighter, not an artist.
He had not taken that as a rebuke. She had scratched at his chest, then submerged below the bath’s surface, where she had remained for some time until all thoughts of paintings and canvases were brushed aside. Falling in love with an amphy definitely had its advantages.
Don’t the Engines touch the canvas? he had asked Leki a few days before her departure for Skythe. She had been preparing her equipment, a meagre collection of valves, gears and other small devices that could be concealed about her person. Arcanum had instructed her in racking. She’d sa
id that it would help them stay in touch, but he could already feel a distance growing between them.
The Engines are the canvas, she’d said. She paused, and when Sol went to her and pressed his hands against her shoulders, he could feel the tension in her knotted muscles. That was when he knew that everything had changed. Arcanum had gone deep.
He staggered slightly as he made his way towards the stern, leaning into the tilting deck like the sparkhawks below. The sea thrust them up at the sky, the sky forced them down into the sea and the ship rode out the storm.
Three Spike worked at priming steam valves for the rifles and pistols that some soldiers would carry into battle. The fire pit was contained in a heavy iron pot, insulated from the deck by layers of gravel between sheets of charred wood, propped, and surrounded with a dozen water-filled buckets ready for any accidental spillage. The ship’s crew hated any hint of open fire on board, but they also understood the need. Water boiled, steam was captured, empty valves were loaded and sealed – their spirals bound, ventings barred – and the primed valves were collected in a wooden chest. It was hot, exhausting work, and the three Spike soldiers had stripped to their underwear.
Sol hefted a rifle leaning against a bulkhead and examined its workings. It was cleaned and oiled as if new, metal and wooden parts melded and merged perfectly. A work of art. It was also heavy and cumbersome, and the need to reload both shot and valve between each use made it effective only for long-distance assault. There were pistols for close use, but they too were only one-shot weapons. Sol had always viewed the steam arms as shock weapons, used for surprise and initial assault. Anything after that was crossbow and arrow, and, close in, sword and dagger. Other Bladers called him old-fashioned, but his Blade’s kill rate for various campaigns proved his wisdom.
Nodding to the three sweating soldiers, he passed them by and leaned against the stern railing. He could see some of the other ships, keeping a good distance apart in case of collisions. The closest was to starboard, the generals’ flagship keeping pace with Sol’s warship, ready for the generals to make the journey back across in the boat still tied to his ship’s deck. A guide rope connected the two vessels. It sliced through waves, flapping up, straightening in a haze of spray. Beyond the flagship were two more, barely shadows in the stormy night. They were only visible because of the lamps burning at the tips of each mast, lit on the ships’ captains’ insistence to help avoid catastrophic accidents.
In the night behind them, braving seas already sailed, came more ships. Nineteen in total, each carrying one Blade and its associated weaponry. The largest military force to set sail from the shores of Alderia in a generation.
Suddenly the sea was not so furious, and the angry sky not so threatening. Sol expanded with pride. He gripped the railing and started into the storm, daring it to take him. But it did not dare.
‘Blader Merry,’ a voice said. It shook. ‘Sol. They’ve transcribed.’
‘Gallan,’ Sol said without turning around.
‘Shall I read it, or …?’ Sol turned and leaned casually against the railing. Gallan was wrapped in a heavy coat, soaking wet already, wide-eyed at Sol’s obvious defiance of the storm.
‘Please,’ Sol said. Words whispered by my Leki, he thought, watching Gallan opening a small notebook and trying to shield it against the weather.
‘Aeon risen,’ Gallan read, his voice slow and measured. He swallowed before continuing. ‘This was always its scheme. Trying to track. Watching for Kolts. Will send racking again when enemy located. Fade help us all.’
Aeon risen, Sol thought, and he closed his eyes, trying to remove himself and shut out the storm. The Engines suddenly seemed so much more important.
‘Fade help us all,’ Gallan repeated. ‘Sol … what will we find there?’
‘It doesn’t matter!’ Sol said sharply. ‘It’s not our job to second-guess. Whatever we find, we triumph over. Aeon, Kolts, whatever. With the gods of the Fade behind us, how can we not?’
‘How can we not?’ Gallan echoed. But he looked more scared than comforted.
‘Tell the generals.’
‘They already know.’
‘Good,’ Sol said. We defeated Aeon last time, he thought. But that was hundreds of years before. And, impostor god though it was, if this second coming had always been its scheme, what might Aeon have planned over such a long time?
But a Blader could not be defeatist, even to himself.
‘Fuck Aeon,’ Sol said. ‘If we fear its name, what about when we confront it? Gallan?’
Gallan nodded. ‘Fuck Aeon,’ he said.
‘And that is our mantra when we land,’ Sol said. ‘Spread the word.’
‘Yes, Sol.’ He turned and rushed below deck again, leaving Sol standing alone against the storm.
Another day and they would be on dry land again. Despite what he had just heard – and, being a soldier, perhaps because of it – Sol was looking forward to setting foot on Skythe for the very first time.
Chapter 15
frozen
Time was nebulous. Venden was unsure whether a day had passed since Aeon’s rising, or a year. His perception flitted from the violent seas in the south, to frozen wastes in the north that he had never suspected existed. All the while Aeon observed, and the six-century gap in its knowledge was being filled. It saw the lessening of Skythe that had so obsessed Venden. It understood the disruption in evolution, the way that nature had been corrupted beyond and around suitable forms, following random paths that seemed to bear no relevance to environment.
What is your intention? Venden wondered. He had felt, briefly, his own body coming apart to clothe Aeon’s strange bones, and now the fate of what was left – mind, soul, consciousness – was uncertain. Before, there had been life and death. Now there seemed to be something more.
Over time – moments, or months – Venden came to realise that Aeon was acting like a child. It moved across the landscape from here to there, observing, examining, absorbing information as it went and seeking more each and every moment. There was a restrained excitement to it, and also a deep sadness that Venden thought might well have been his own.
Only once did a sudden reaction shock him with its extremes. They approached one of the old Engines – Venden knew of three on Skythe, and suspected there were the remains of more buried or hidden away from view – and Aeon recoiled. He felt its disgust, and something deeper that he had no wish to sense.
Fear. Aeon had passed the Engine and been afraid.
Time and distance drifted by …
And, at last, Venden began to sense something forming in the risen god’s mind that could only have been purpose. It went down into the land, past a lake of fading fire and into the frozen heart of Skythe. There it settled for a while.
As yet, Venden could not tell what this purpose might be.
Juda spent some time scouring the Engine’s surface before finding his way inside. The entrance was not where he had found it a day before. He was certain of this, just as he was certain that everything had changed since then. The skies were darker, and the stars seemed less willing to shine their way through. The land was quieter as everything waited for what would come next. It had begun to snow. And the arrow pinning him to the here and now was feeling more like a guide than ever before. It pointed the way, and Juda followed.
Inside, the Engine welcomed his presence. It should have been dark as the void, but smears of light were seeping from somewhere deeper in the Engine where he could not go, skeins of illumination drifting like exotic sea creatures in an ocean of calm. The bodies of those old dead Fade priests spun like memories stirred by his presence. Amongst them, the few dregs he had not managed to collect on his last visit.
‘And this is where I belong,’ Juda said again. Not even echoes answered him back; the Engine swallowed all. Perhaps his voice would become an echo in a thousand years, or ten thousand, surprising some other seeker of magic who might venture in here and find …
What? His bo
nes? No, not that, because he had no intention of dying. Not here, and not elsewhere. The slayer’s arrow could not kill him, nor its poison, and so he would embrace the miracle of his survival. He had so much left to do.
The Engine seemed larger on the inside than the outside. He drifted, feet sometimes touching the floor or walls, sometimes not. The light broke against him like waves, fragmenting and crawling around his body and across his clothes to collect again beyond him, and continue on its way. His mind was awash with thoughts of how to work the Engine. Perhaps deeper down there was a power source, but he could not edge himself deeper. Maybe it was buried in the land itself, probing metallic fingers through soil and rock as it sought the magic it had been brought here to fire.
Or it could have been that magic was always free, and the Engine was a prison.
As he drifted, he became aware of how little he actually knew. About the source of magic, how it had been nurtured, brought here, implemented, controlled, harnessed. He would have cried if he had not already wasted his tears on pain, so he brought his hand to his wound and pressed, welcoming fresh agonies.
‘How?’ he asked, and there was no answer. ‘Crex Wry, whatever you are … If you want me to set you aflame, then tell me where to find the ember!’
Nothing.
Delayed tiredness suddenly washed over him. He had been running for a long time, and although the dreg had salved his wound and absorbed the effects of the slayer’s poison, his left side was soaked with blood. Juda floated against a solid wall that felt smooth as metal, but warmer. He rested against it, assumed it must be the floor, and rolled onto his right side so that the protruding arrow was not touching anything.
I’ll only rest a while, he thought. I’ll sleep away the last of the poison, and then when I next wake—
But he did not sleep.
The shapes came for him through the darkness. Twisting, questing shapes, glinting metallic and yet flexing like the lithest of limbs. They glided, and even though they seemed to touch nothing, he could still hear the whisper of their movement through the air. Talking to me, Juda thought, and the first shape arced around as if inspecting him.
