Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  “My apologies, august Hiveking. My lady. Your memory of this crumbling excuse for a castle serves you well—I am indeed taking a slightly more scenic route towards the council room. Your troupe, your . . . your swarm arrived in my city without warning and caught me entirely unprepared for such a venerable guest. Having been away at business in the east, I only returned this morning to learn of your arrival. Even now my servants are scurrying to prepare proper quarters befitting you and your—”

  “It has been too long since blackspawn bled this rotted city,” interrupted Mosk. In the stunned silence that followed this, the dry rustling of the Coldman’s toothy mouthparts could be heard above the sound of the wind through the balconies. Nyraud took a step back. Kai put a slender hand on Mosk’s arm and smiled.

  “King Nyraud, if the Swarm was indeed staying here, it would mean that your reign is ended and the Vestigarchy is again assuming control of Babel,” her eyes narrowed. “blackspawn do not stay unless they have first prepared their own ‘proper quarters’ with blood and fire. We are not venerable guests, and the only reason your stain of a city isn’t in embers right now is because we don’t have time to burn it properly.”

  All pretense gone, Nyraud’s face lost the mask of noble congeniality and assumed a form more befitting his features. His personal guard recognized the hungry look—the Hunter’s Gaze—and in seconds had escorted the speechless courtiers from sight.

  King Nyraud took a step back; not a retreat, but preparation for a pounce.

  “Witch, you haven’t burnt my city. You haven’t prepared anything with ‘blood and fire.’ And your threats, while frightening, are empty when your need of me is so obvious.”

  Nyraud’s voice was cool and quick.

  “Let me be more plain,” he continued. “There is only one thing that would bring the Hunt to Babel. Only one thing that would bring the Hiveking to me.”

  He leaned forward, predatory and direct. Mosk tilted his head curiously.

  “Who is this Pensanden?” Nyraud whispered. “Why would he be in my city? And do you need him alive?”

  Chapter 11

  “The sky, the wind, the rising thermals—we know a poetry that is new to man.”

  —Keyden Roth, Alaphim Roostmaster

  It was evening, with a few thin clouds scattered over the far western mountains like sparrow down. A gentle murmur of wind stretched through the Spire with familiar ease.

  Several angels had perched on the western cornices with their wings outstretched, capturing the last moments of sunlight flowing warm and purple over the distant Edrei. Sera was struck by how small the Alaphim seemed against the jutting spires and girders of her home.

  So small and so few.

  She knew that the Alaphim were suffering, that the Nests had been empty for over a decade now. Even in her relatively short lifetime here at Windroost Spire, Sera had noticed the numbers dwindling—ancient perches, carved with family names stretching back to the First Hatching, now gathered dust. It made her feel sad. Hopeless.

  And maybe a little guilty for risking our treaty with Nyraud just to spy on his Garden.

  She reflexively reached back to the space where her ponytail had once hung.

  Well, I paid for it.

  Sure, the treaty with King Nyraud kept them free from hunter arrows, even allowed them access to the Babel markets. It was a good thing not to have to worry about their “downstairs neighbor,” especially when the rest of the world couldn’t seem to forget that Vestigarchy extermination order. Or the current market price for angel feathers. But the treaty didn’t solve the Alaphim empty nests.

  The Spire felt emptier every year.

  Meaning more responsibility falls upon young angels who should be allowed to play instead of patrolling.

  After returning from Babel that morning, Sera had taken the metal scraps they had purchased over to the molting perch. She then forced herself to remain silent as Boneweaver Skek scolded and complained about the poor condition of the metals they had brought her. Skek, it seemed, took personal umbrage to the fact that fine metals, pure metals, weren’t delivered to her perch by grateful royalty every morning. Apparently, she had been listening to Lamech’s stories of “the way it was” before the Schism. For the first time, Sera understood why her father had warned her about spending too much time wrapped up in the old angel’s tales.

  Because being Alaphim used to mean something. Because we used to have a place in the world.

  Sera spread her wings and glided down to a lower platform. After unloading the scrap metal, her bag felt much lighter. She had one more delivery, the one she had saved for last as a personal reward for dealing with Skek. And the one that she probably wouldn’t tell father about.

  I can be quick—Lamech’s perch isn’t far from here, and I can ask him to keep it brief.

  Windroost Spire had not always been an angel sanctuary. According to Lamech, it was really the unfinished tip of a massive spaceship intended to travel to distant worlds. After the Betrayal, when the Arkángels brought the combined wrath of the Vestigarchy against their own kind, refugees from several of the fallen Spires had discovered this place. It was a discovery that saved their lives, and, as far as Lamech knew, had preserved their kind. Who would think to search for Alaphim in the tower of the king who had personally slain hundreds of them? Who, at the first word from the coldmen, summoned his own personal guard, rode at top speed to the southernmost corner of the Reaches, and toppled ancient Fullwind Spire? Nyraud’s grandsire’s hatred for the angels was famous, and it gave Sera a grim satisfaction to know that her people were brave enough and clever enough to use his own misunderstood “tower” against him.

  And they didn’t just hide here. They discovered that much of the tip was inaccessible to those living in the platforms of the tower below. And all of the tip was inaccessible to a king unwilling to use the few mechanical lifts which still functioned in his palace.

  So Windroost had stayed hidden for a time, at least until King Maloch died. The boneweavers had power to work their magic, and the refugee angels scoured the skies for any of their brethren who may have survived the Fourth Hunt. Those few who returned had to be instructed on the new rules, on how to survive and stay hidden. It had been a hard time.

  Not that things are much better now. Maloch’s grandson is certainly a better king than even his father, more open to exploring and familiarizing himself with the dying tek of his tower—but nobody is fooled into thinking that his alliance with us is based on anything other than his own ambitions. Why else would he request patrols into the north, past Jabbok and skirting the Old Cities? We may have lost as many angels running his blasted scouting missions as we would have without the treaty!

  These gloomy thoughts were quickly chased away as Sera neared Lamech’s perch. It was situated over the crown of something he called “the navigation bridge.” Shaped like a crescent moon, the space was more complete than much of the tip upon which Windroost Spire was located but because of its location and placement at the lowest wing, had been ignored until he settled there. It was fully paneled and had a complement of luxurious benches and desks—all anchored sideways to the wall that would become a floor after launch, but impressive nonetheless. Lamech used them as shelves for his metal books. With these books, he had answers to just about any question Sera could think of. And she had tried to stymie him.

  Sera smiled to remember his perplexity when she asked why the Tzolkin Core had built (or tried to build) the Ark in this place. Lamech had frowned, ran an errant finger through his sparse primaries, and then stood in a rush. In seconds he had the right book, and the always-confusing answer:

  The tower was only part of what would be a “colonization vessel.” Heavier elements had been constructed and assembled in orbit around the planet and would be attached after launch, but because of “necessary structural tests for gravity” and “high-volume storage of concentrated volatiles” much of the ship’s body had to be built and launched from this fa
cility, which later became Babel. Apparently the complex natural cave system winding through the terrain here allowed for a more efficient adaptation of “subterranean heat-deflection and umbilical structures.” Sera didn’t understand much of the magical words Lamech used, but they were fun to say.

  She pulled her delivery out of the bag and gave an entry whistle. A familiar shuffling came from inside the perch. Lamech was obviously in the middle of an exciting read, and was torn between leaving the book and seeing a rare visitor.

  “Yes, who is it?” came the cracked reply.

  “It’s Sera, Lamech. I’ve come with a gift and a question.”

  There was a pause, a noise which sounded like fingers tapping against the wall, and then a sigh. The clank of metal against metal, a book being set against the floor.

  Sounds like he’s decided the book can wait. I’m in luck.

  “Come on in, child. Your father was here earlier. Very polite, your Hatchsire. Said something about not wasting your time. I’ll have to remember that. Only tell you the important stories now.”

  Sera laughed. Lamech had a tendency to see any social interaction exactly as he wanted to see it. She followed the old angel into his perch, squinting in the dim light.

  Lamech was well into his third century now, at a stage when the boneweavers no longer spent metal on “unnecessary upkeep.” He had lost many of his feathers, and Sera could see knobs of brass protruding from his curved spine. His hair had receded behind his ears, and the once midnight-blue was now threaded with bright silver. Lamech’s eyes were still quick, and the wrinkles around his ring-mounts accented every expression.

  We are even beautiful in our waning years.

  “Okay, fledgling. First the gift, then the question. This is how we do things now in Windroost Spire. Times are hard.”

  Sera smiled—this was the same thing Lamech said on every visit. It made it sound like the “hard times” were a regrettable but temporary situation, and that at any other time Lamech would be willing to share his tales at no cost.

  “Here you go. The gift is something I found in the market this morning, and my question comes tied to it.”

  She handed him the carved wooden beast. It was a sandy brown and covered with exquisite detailing—tooled fur resolving into stylized curling locks which flowed across the toy’s stout form. Sera’s ears had perked up at the vendor’s pitch for “exquisitely carved toys in fine wood! Beasts from beyond the sandy seas! Manticores, Grems, and Ur’lyns, come buy!”

  Now she could ask about these Ur’lyns without revealing her visit to Nyraud’s Garden. Now she could find out what sort of monster he kept.

  Lamech lifted the carving and held it up to the waning sunset light which trickled orange into the room. He nodded his head.

  “Not a bad representation, but the pose is all wrong. The Ur’lyn don’t stand on their hind legs like a man. They are largely quadrupeds, but have been known to pull back onto their haunches when fighting.”

  Sera smiled. Of course Lamech knew this.

  “What is an Ur’lyn, Lamech?”

  Lamech turned the carving in the light, admiring the way the textured fur caught the sun.

  “Like many of the ‘monsters’ of our world, the Ur’lyn are merely a misunderstood remnant of the times before the Schism. You remember the story of the blackspawn, don’t you child?”

  Sera nodded.

  “They were originally bred to fight in the gladiator pits, right? For the entertainment of the Pensanden?

  “Oh, not just for the etherwalkers. The entire world enjoyed these bloodsports. And while there were strict, civilized rules against humans competing in such events, the Pensanden had their gene-crafters create warriors who almost seemed human, at least in their cleverness. Their sadism.

  “The Ur’lyn were a combination of several distinct predatory animals—animals which are now long gone. Their names: Lion. Tiger. Bear. Names which bore the legendary sound of fear and nightmare for most of mankind’s history. And now they are summed up in a race which is, like our own, falling into extinction.”

  For some reason, this made Sera sad. The beast she had seen in the Garden was rare. Was special.

  Like me.

  “Why is it . . . I mean, why are they going extinct?”

  Lamech put the carving down on the table beside him and turned to look at Sera. One eyebrow raised, he continued.

  “In all my years of patrolling through the southern deserts, south of Midian and beyond, I only came across a single pack of Ur’lyn. I took the chance to land and speak with them, and, as I am prone to do, question them about their own history. The creatures speak using their forepaws, Sera, since their mouths are too full of fang to form words we could understand. I spent the better part of a year learning their language. It is simple and poetic—the language of a noble savage.”

  “They speak? The Ur’lyn are intelligent?”

  “Oh yes, much more so than their later rivals. The blackspawn were only given cunning, only given the part of human thought which could scheme to fill hungers. This was done as a reaction to the Ur’lyn, who many thought had been given too much of the human sensibilities. Why would a gladiator need to empathize with his opponent? Or consider the morality of his battles? These were not things that the gene-crafters deliberately included in the Ur’lyn psyche, simply an effect that they lacked the skill to control in their early creations. They learned control with the blackspawn. None of the angst, just quick and decisive bloodshed.”

  Lamech brought the toy Ur’lyn up to his eye and flipped down a magnification lens. The detailing on the creature’s face made him smile.

  “As murderous as they were, these new insects-come-gladiators still couldn’t compete one-to-one against the ferocity forged over millennia. It still took an entire Clot of the coldmen to down a mature Ur’lyn. Why, I could read you some tales of incredible battles—”

  “You were telling me why they are dying out.”

  “Yes, yes, I was. Did I mention that I learned their paw-language?”

  Sera tried not to be impatient. This is how talks with Lamech tended to go lately.

  “Yes, you did. You said it was simple and—”

  “Poetic! A beautiful way of speaking! And it allowed them to hunt while conversing, to silently compose an approach from which no prey could escape. The Ur’lyn were consummate hunters—”

  “ . . . and are now dwindling because . . . ?”

  “Yes! Dwindling. Oh yes. Because they became mystics.”

  “Mystics?”

  “Quite. The Ur’lyn carry the bloody memories of their ancestor-races—something they call the Red Instinct. These memories will seize hold of an Ur’lyn when hunting, or in battle, and transform the creature into an unstoppable blur of claws and fangs. Very effective in the arena. But when the instinct fades, and the blood cools, the Ur’lyn have to face the death they have wrought with a moral consciousness which nature never meant for them to have. This contradiction harrowed the poor creatures to the point of despondency. It is one of the reasons the blackspawn were created in their place, for the short ‘battle life’ of an Ur’lyn before this hopelessness set in was highly inefficient. The Pensanden dislike inefficiency.

  “So the Ur’lyn were ‘retired.’ Removed from the arenas and replaced by the exciting new monsters. blackspawn. Manticores. Lamia. Many collectors, fans of the bloodsport, tried to keep the race alive out of nostalgia, a love of memories. The Ur’lyn became relics before they became a people.

  “So when the Schism happened, these remnant Ur’lyn found each other. They shared their pains and created a culture. They became a tribe. And they turned the paradox of Red Instinct and Morality into a mystical belief in the cruelty of the universe. A belief that they are doomed souls, avatars of suffering meant to pay for the crimes of other races.”

  “And this belief is what is killing them?”

  “Well, it isn’t helping them. When an adult Ur’lyn has reached its prime,
it is given a ‘Task of Atonement’ from the ruling Shaman Pride—a group of aged mystics. This task usually involves traveling to a distant land and ‘saving an innocent’ from evil. The Ur’lyn who comes back, and very few do, becomes an Atoned Beast. It can then fully enter the pack, select a mate, and breed.”

  “The Ur’lyn’s own mysticism is their greatest killer. Because the ‘evil’ they try to save an innocent from is almost always the Vestigarchy.”

  Lamech took the carved Ur’lyn and stood, placing it on one of his nearby “shelves.”

  “Is it a tragedy that such an untouchable killer, the perfect predator in a fallen world of monsters, is bringing about its own end?”

  The old angel was still for a moment, then turned and shuffled back to the window. He picked up a book from the sill and settled down to read.

  This signaled that the storytelling was over.

  Sera whispered a thank you and left. Flying back to her own perch as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, she considered Lamech’s last words.

  Yes. Yes it is a tragedy. And I won’t let Nyraud kill the Ur’lyn in his Garden. I am going to rescue it.

  Chapter 12

  “You don’t walk the streets of Undertown at night. The shadows . . . they seep up from beneath; they clot like blood. They are angry, the shadows.”

  —Gelven Menkatral, Scrapmonger

  Enoch shivered. They had been moving through the tunnels under Babel for hours now, and it was cold. Even Mesha’s warm weight about his neck couldn’t hold off the chill. Cal whistled a short burst, stopping the ape. Sal sat back on his haunches and sighed. His breath came out as a thin puff of vapor in the frigid air.

  “This cold is new. I’ve been further down than we are now, and it’s never been like this.”