The Hanging Mountains

by Sean Williams

  “And meanwhile—what? Your friends in the Swarm cause mayhem in the forest to distract everyone from us?”

  “To give me time to find you.” The golem looked down at the charms scratched and gouged across the tumbled rock and dirt. “Your friend's skill at hiding is excellent, but insufficient against a hunter such as me.”

  “So why don't you just do it?” asked the twins. “Why don't you just kill us—or try to? You weren't so talkative the last two times we met.”

  “Because it's afraid,” said Sal. Much of the conversation between the golem and the twins went over his head, but that detail he understood perfectly well. “It's not sure it can kill you while I'm around. Maybe if you were alone; maybe if it had caught you in a dark corner somewhere with no one to help you; maybe then it might have succeeded. But not now. I'm too strong for it.”

  The golem laughed, long and low. The man's face had lengthened and his ears had swept back. He half crouched on bent legs and his hands curled into claws. “You flatter yourself, boy. I was just hoping that you might be convinced to do it for me.”

  “No chance.”

  “Not even in exchange for Tom? For Kemp? For Mawson?”

  Sal couldn't let himself be tempted. A golem's word was poison. It might know where his lost companions were; it might even have taken them itself. But it was just as likely that it only knew that they were gone, and could be possible bargaining points. He wouldn't commit murder on the off-chance.

  “Sorry.”

  “Then you'll both die, and my pleasure will be doubled.”

  At no obvious command, the three wraiths stopped circling and rushed in towards Sal and the Homunculus. Sal's first instinct was to close ranks, but he knew that would be suicide. He had to stay out of the Homunculus's Change-sapping aura. Instead he dropped onto one knee and put his hand into the tangled soil. A great deal of potential lay untapped in the jumbled mess of boulders and loose soil. That energy could easily be turned into motion, if tipped the wrong way. If tipped the right way, it could mean the difference between life and death for him and the twins.

  He knew which way it had to go. Summoning one of the earliest mnemonics he had learned—from Shilly, not Lodo, in a cave filled with bones at the heart of a Ruin—he picked one wraith at random and kindled light in its breast. He pictured a tiny, blossoming point deep within its midnight flesh, growing brighter and brighter with every beat of its dark heart. All his strength went into the attack, and within seconds its effect became clear.

  Radiance burst from the wraith's mouth, open and hungry, and flashed suddenly from its eyes. With a screech, it veered violently off-course and careened across the rocky mountainside. Its cries grew increasingly agonised and its movements more erratic until finally, with a soundless pop, it simply burst. For the space of a breath, a tiny sun burned the mist away, and then even that was gone.

  Sal staggered forward, pulse pounding in his head. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes. Instead, he forced himself to look up. The two remaining creatures wheeled and darted, trying to get at the twins. The Homunculus stood with arms and legs splayed, shooting streams of metallic energy in reply. Sal couldn't make out what exactly the twins were doing, or how, but the Swarm did everything they could to avoid being hit. Where the streams touched, skin peeled back and black blood spurted. Angry, frustrated cries filled the air.

  Sal took heart in that, until he saw what a toll the effort was taking on the twins. The Homunculus was losing substance, becoming noticeably translucent as he watched. Each jet of energy robbed it of more and more solidity until Sal could actually make out the shape of tumbled rocks through it. And still the Swarm kept coming, snapping and scratching and getting closer by the second. It was only a matter of time before they came close enough to do real damage or the Homunculus vanished entirely.

  The golem howled in triumph. “Kill them! There's no imp to save them this time!”

  Sal ground his teeth and dug deeper. Void or no void, he had to try.

  “Sal, no. Don't do that.”

  The voice came through the Change and accompanied a sudden surge in energy. Wisps of mist converged from all directions on one of the wraiths, shrouding it in ever-increasing layers of white. It flailed and struggled, but still the mist thickened. Its flight grew clumsy and slow, its screaming muffled. With one last flex of willpower, the shreds of mist collapsed inward to form a shell of ice, and the wraith fell trapped to the ground.

  The one remaining wraith screamed in anger. Sal turned to see a sleek Panic balloon touching down on the far side of the avalanche. Two men—Highson, who had called the warning to Sal, and a mage Sal didn't know—climbed out of the gondola and hurried across the rubble.

  The twins had fallen slumped over the rocks. Sal limped forward to defend their body, which looked as watery and fragile as a bubble about to burst. The wraith didn't know who to attack for a moment, and swung from one target to another before making up its mind. It lunged first at Sal, trying to rake him with a flurry of claws and teeth. He fell back, crossed arms blazing with flickering, faltering light, and it skidded blindly away, swinging across the sky in a jagged arc. When its vision cleared, it lunged next at the Stone Mage, who stamped his foot hard on the stone beneath him, just once, and blasted it with blue flame.

  The shrieking ceased.

  Highson ran over and knelt besides Sal. “Are you all right? We came as fast as we could.”

  “I'm okay,” he said, brushing well-meaning hands away. His thoughts were as turgid and heavy as clotted blood, but he would be all right. “The twins—the golem—”

  Highson looked up the slope, then back at Sal. His expression was grim.

  Seth?

  Hadrian?

  The twins floated in blackness so deep they couldn't see each other or even themselves. No light existed to see by, and they had no eyes to see with anyway, even if it had.

  We're back, they thought, feeling an awful familiarity wash over them. Bardo—the Void Beneath—was at the same time infinite and claustrophobic. It could stretch forever one moment or collapse as close as a funeral shroud another. This was the one place in the universe they had thought never to revisit.

  Are we?

  The Void hung silent and empty around them. No Lost Minds clamouring to be heard; no hum, even. Just nothing.

  Where else could we be?

  I don't know. Maybe we're dead.

  I don't think so. There's no world-tree, and we're still together. This can't possibly be the Third Realm.

  You don't sound too certain of that.

  Are you certain of anything right now?

  Only that we're talking.

  There was a small silence.

  How do we get back?

  I don't know.

  We have to try.

  Why?

  Not this again, Seth.

  I mean it. Why not just stay here, back where we started?

  And sulk until the end of the world?

  Well, we don't seem to be doing much good at anything else. We're just getting in the way and letting other people do the work. They found out about the Swarm on their own. Sal blew one of them to bits while we dicked around with the egrigor. What's the point of us? What difference can we possibly make?

  Upuaut obviously thought we made a difference, otherwise it wouldn't have tried to kill us.

  Or it was just wrong. Hunting and killing is its strong point, not long-term planning.

  If it was wrong about wanting us dead, doesn't that mean it's better if we stay alive?

  This time the silence stretched longer than before.

  I don't know what to do.

  Neither do I. But I do know that this isn't where we started. We lived in the world once. We can do it again.

  I hope you're right.

  You have to do better than hope. Pukje said that to me once.

  Well, where is he when we need him? Perhaps he'd be able to tell us how to get the hell out of here.r />
  Into the darkness burst a ray of light, carrying with it the voice and thoughts of another.

  Seth? Hadrian?

  The twins recognised the presence instantly, even though there were no physical features to register. The mind was a familiar one.

  We're here, they called.

  We thought we'd lost you, said Highson Sparre, who the twins knew better in the Void by his heart-name, Guin. They themselves had no heart-names, just “Seth” and “Hadrian.” What happened?

  It was difficult to explain. The twins remembered Kail describing how golems could take over a Change-worker's body if they extended themselves too far. We took too much from ourselves. There was nothing left. We ended up here.

  Highson seemed to accept that explanation. It was similar enough, they supposed, to what happened in his world. You'll recover. Change-workers always recover, or we'd never get anything important done.

  But we're not Change-workers.

  We won't know about that until we get you out of here, will we? Whether you want to come or not, I'm here to drag you out again.

  So it seems.

  I don't remember the last time, but Sal told me about it. He says we made a deal, you and I. You should stick to it. There are things that need to be done.

  That's what we told you, the last time.

  Well, the irony isn't lost on me. You can take that for granted.

  In the end, it was the hint of bitterness in Highson's voice that decided the twins on which course of action to take. To come back into the Void Beneath must have been difficult for him—to revisit the place that should, at one time, have been the death of him, and then to rescue the being that had confounded him for so long. Who were they to claim that life was too hard for living?

  Highson made no immediate move to leave just yet. So this is what it's like in here. I wondered.

  It's changed, said the twins. It's not the same.

  How?

  They explained that the Lost Minds were gone, along with the usual mind-numbing hum.

  What does that mean?

  They didn't know for certain, but a nasty suspicion had formed in their minds. The hum might not have been part of the Void at all. What if it was something in here with us and we never realised?

  Something like what?

  Yod.

  But—Highson stopped in confusion. How can it be just a hum?

  Don't mistake it for anything human, or perhaps even anything we can recognise as alive. In the Second Realm it looked like a giant black pyramid. Why not something just as strange here? A hum that grinds you down, sucks away your memories, saps your will to live…

  The more they thought about it, the more it made a terrible kind of sense. All that time they had been stuck cheek to jowl, not just with each other, but with their enemy as well. Sandwiched together in Bardo for an eternity, they simply hadn't known—and maybe neither had it. Would a being large enough to eat whole worlds notice two tiny individuals among the many who had passed through its supernatural belly?

  Yod had eaten the Lost Minds. There seemed to be no way of denying that probability. It had been absorbing their will, one by one, for centuries, conserving energy until the chance came to get out. And now, after one last meal, it was out, somewhere, somehow.

  Yod was free.

  How long have we been in here?

  Hours, Highson said.

  They weren't surprised. Time passed strangely in the Void. What happened to Upuaut?

  While we contained the last of the wraiths, it slipped away.

  Of course, the twins thought. I think it's time we were leaving, too.

  Highson gathered his will about him, processing complicated shapes and patterns in his mind and letting those shapes bleed out into the Void Beneath. The twins were gathered into his mental embrace and bound tightly to him.

  How strange to think I won't remember this, Highson said. It's so clear in my mind now…

  Light flared again, blasting through them like a rocket exhaust. The Void flexed and twisted, as though reluctant to give up the last of its inhabitants. The twins felt stretched, compressed, then—

  Free. The darkness of nothing became the darkness of closed eyelids. Through their other senses they heard the tinkling of rock, smelled sweat and ash, tasted copper, and felt rough stone beneath their artificial back.

  They opened their eyes, and saw the stars.

  “What happened to the fog?” Hadrian asked.

  “It blew away,” said Sal, leaning into view. “There was a fire, then a storm. It's all taking a while to settle down. Maybe the mist and clouds will come back afterwards. Maybe they won't. We'll have to wait and see.”

  Hands helped them sit upright. Seth felt infinitely weary. “Where's Highson?”

  “Right behind you.” The warden looked slightly stunned as they turned to face him.

  “I remember,” he said. “I remember everything we said in there.”

  “And I can still feel the Change,” said Sal, “even though I'm standing right next to you.”

  Father and son's expressions were perfectly mirrored, just for a moment.

  The twins turned away, unable to bear it.

  There you go, Hadrian said. That was our last chance. We gave everything, and it almost finished us off. Then we came back. The world accepts us completely now. Even if we wanted to back out, it's probably too late.

  Even if we wanted to, repeated Seth, thinking of more than just the Change and what Sal had said. Yod ate the Lost Ones. If we needed proof it meant business, we've got it. We can't walk away from this. We can't run. We have to make a fight of it, or get eaten with everyone else.

  Through eyes perfectly attuned to the nighttime world, they watched as balloons flew in from the southwest, skimming low over mountainsides fully revealed for the first time. Thick columns of smoke towered in the distance, not quite obscuring a city floating in midair beside a jutting tree-covered ridge. And to the northeast, through kilometres of stone and ice, a shadow growing larger, deeper, darker.

  We're coming, the twins told it. We're going to finish you if it kills us.

  The Earth trembled beneath them, as though in reply.

  “The pieces of a broken vase are not the opposite of a

  vase; the clay it came from is not the opposite of a vase.

  The opposite of a vase is the need that brought it into

  existence and the absence its departure leaves behind.

  We too are nothing if we are not desired;

  we were nothing if we are not missed.”

  THE BOOK OF TOWERS, EXEGESIS 13:16

  Dawn was a special time. Skender sat with his legs dangling over the edge of a platform in the Panic city, waiting for the first rays of the sun to creep over the mountains. He, like everyone in both cities, knew that this could well be the last opportunity, for a long time, to see the day begin. Already the fog was rolling back over the foothills, pressing in from the west like a returning tide. Once the cloud cover closed back overhead, the sky would be hidden again.

  A great crowd had gathered to watch with him. The Panic homes had windows but for the most part lacked balconies. The only way to experience the spectacle properly was to stand outside in the streets, on walkways and roofs, and from the gondolas of floating balloons. Bright-eyed, gangly armed children swung bare feet over the edge of horizontal ladders. High-pitched nasal trumpets sounded from every quarter. Judging by the throng, he estimated that perhaps half the city had either got up early, like him, or stayed up all night to take advantage of the strange weather.

  And for the locals it was very strange. None of them had seen the open sky before, having been born and raised inside the permanent fog. Only those who had flown high enough to rise entirely above the clouds had ever seen further than a dozen metres—and they were few. Panic pilots did indeed learn their routes by memory, as Chu had guessed. Deviations from tradition weren't encouraged. Only a handful dared go beyond the norm to see what lay beyond.r />
  “This is a good omen,” said Griel, “and a defining moment for my people.”

  Skender turned. The Panic soldier had come up unnoticed behind him and stood looking at the sky. His expression was deeply satisfied.

  “How so?”

  “The sky is where we came from. It's right that we be reminded, once every lifetime.”

  “Do you think you'll ever go back?”

  “Perhaps. Only time will tell—and the success of your venture.”

  Skender nodded, not quite ready yet to think beyond the moment. “Thanks for letting us land here, and for the beds. Chu wasn't sure what sort of reception she'd get back at Milang.”

  Griel smiled broadly. When the kingsfolk grinned, Skender thought, their whole faces seemed to light up. With such broad mouths, every expression was exaggerated. That made them bad liars.

  “The last I saw of Chu,” Griel said, “she was surrounded by balloon-makers, swapping details of fabrics and charms. That wing of hers, even in its present state, is quite a curiosity. Her new friends would keep her busy for weeks if she let them.”

  “She hasn't decided what she's going to do yet,” Skender said, turning back to look at the sky. It was changing from black to blue around the summit of the mountains. Brands still glowed in the city of Milang, as though the stars fading above were finding new homes below. “What about you? There was talk of you being King, wasn't there?”

  “Oh, yes, but who wants that?” Griel put a long hand on Skender's shoulder. “Oriel can have the crown, if it'll have him. He's welcome to it. I've got everything I dreamed of in my vision. Kingsfolk and foresters are talking again, and Jao is talking to me—or will be, once we get her back. Beyond that,” he added with a wink, “I'm shortsighted anyway.”

  Just like many of the Panic pilots, Skender now knew. When vision didn't need to extend very far, keen eyesight wasn't a prerequisite. Unlike Chu, who could count the leg hairs of an ant from across the Divide—or so she claimed.

  A halo of light blossomed across the top of the mountain. Oohs and aahs of wonder came from the crowd. Fingers pointed.