Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  Keq leaned forward, and Mosk noticed that the violet caste markings on his shoulders were still florid with excitement. The Proximate had missed the clean blood of men, too, it seemed.

  “The Rift Queen knew we were coming—I found signs indicating that this was a major meeting place for the rebels. My arakids are trying to follow a dozen different scent trails. We only caught the last few, probably those left as a rearguard while the rest escaped.”

  Mosk regarded the jagged stubs of his left pri-arm spurs. They would grow back in his next molt, but the loss angered him nonetheless. The cost of growing soft in between Hunts.

  “How could they have known we were coming? We only arrived in Tenocht this morning, and our camp is hidden behind the generator sector.”

  “I suspect,” said Keq, “that we were betrayed by the Tenocht Council. The queen must have a spy in the governing dome.”

  Mosk didn’t like having to rely on humans.

  “Kill all of them. I don’t have time for these soft people and their complexities. I want your Clot to take the cannon batteries at the front gate, Keq, and I want them back online and fully charged by morning. Tell Proximates Toq and Gelt to hold the remaining gates. This city will be locked tight until I am personally satisfied that it is clean—we left too soon after the last Hunt, and our sloppiness has festered.”

  “Yes, Sire. Do you expect the Pensanden to make a frontal assault? If he gets close enough to take the cannons before we—”

  Keq was suddenly silent. Mosk looked up from his damaged spurs with surprise. A slender kra-wyrm had flown up to the balcony, was hovering over the Hiveking’s head.

  Mosk dismissed Proximate Keq and turned to face the creature.

  It resembled a small, paler version of the draconfly. Only as long as one of Mosk’s arms, the kra-wyrm struggled to hover in one place with its two pairs of transparent wings. The winds were strong up here, ninety floors above the ground.

  Mosk raised the arm he had been inspecting, and the creature came to a rest on his spur nubs. The kra-wyrm was still wet from hatching. This must have been an urgent message.

  Mosk pulled it close and whispered the key word. “Yohl Ik’nal.”

  The kra-wyrm shivered and turned its back to Mosk, tilting its wings together to form a flat panel. Trembling light flowed across the wings, and a face appeared in the brightness. It was the Arkángel Desgarrar.

  “Our Lord has grown tired of waiting for your Hunt, Hiveking. He found the Pensanden Himself.”

  Mosk took a surprised step back. His throat clicked warily.

  “Where, Sire?”

  “In the city you so confidently deemed clear. And left in the hands of a traitor. The Pensanden is in Babel, Hiveking. And the only reason you still have your head is because I need someone to surround the city until I arrive.”

  “You, Sire? But . . . but my Swarm isn’t large enough to hold Tenocht and surround Babel until—”

  “You will leave Tenocht immediately and take your entire Swarm to Babel. You have wasted far too much time in a city that we already control. The Pensanden is in the tower, obviously using the king and any remnant tek to build up an army. I have sent Kai to prime the chambers, and we will need your forces there. Now.”

  Mosk was stunned. He felt a cold thorn pierce his heart.

  Is this what fear is? The anticipation of rewards for my weakness?

  The face in the light raised an eyebrow.

  “You are silent, Hiveking? Have your years hunting these humans infected you with their fears?”

  Am I infected? My ability to defeat the Nahuati alone, unique amongst my kind—it has required some understanding of their minds. The Arkángel himself told me that my brood was pushed as far into the human range of intellect as the Vestigarchy had ever gone.

  Too far?

  Mosk shook his ebon head. The cold thorn went deeper.

  Is this fear?

  “No, Sire. The wind up here is strong—I can barely hear you. I will take my swarm to Babel and hold it until you arrive.

  “Upon your arrival I will offer you my head. I recommend Proximate Keq as the new Hiveking. Cleanse my weakness from the blackspawn, Sire.”

  The Arkángel was silent, wrinkled lips in a grim line.

  He knows that I fear.

  “I will arrive at Babel in two days. I will be accompanied by five battalions. Have your Proximate familiarized with the proper command pheromones.”

  “Yes, Sire. My blood to your tongue.”

  The light fuzzed into static and then disappeared. The kra-wyrm shuddered one last time and then fell to the ground lifeless. Its purpose had been served.

  As has mine.

  But . . . I don’t want to die.

  Chapter 19

  “This is Gonna Hurt.”

  —Title to the Dogfish Knights second album, which broke international record sales.

  They are everywhere!

  An army of coldmen, arakid, and draconflies covered the Reaches in a carpet of shifting, rustling darkness for as far out across the plains as Enoch could see—or at least, for as far as the Ark’s hull-mounted optical docking-sensors could see. He was down in the tunnels with the Core Unit, monitoring the Ark’s activity in preparation for the Vestigarchy attack.

  The draconflies had been arriving for the past three days, some unloading their cargo of insectoid warriors and some circling Babel’s perimeter. There were now two dozen of them in the air—the low humming of their wings had become a constant refrain in the city. Despite the incredible size, the massive presence of this force, Enoch couldn’t help but smile. He knew the power of this place. Knew it intimately.

  And the bugs have learned not to land on the walls anymore.

  The blackspawn were now staying safely out of the range of the city’s cannons—a dozen craters peppering the battlefield in front of them bore witness to a hard lesson learned. The functionality of the Ark’s defensive systems had been a complete surprise to the Vestigarchy, even knowing of the Pensanden inside.

  I guess they thought me too young, too inexperienced to have brought so much of this unfinished starship back to life.

  However, Enoch did have to admit that his father’s leadership—the planning, the energy, the organization—had been vital to the confident situation he found himself in. Enoch knew that the tower could hold off an army like the one arrayed below indefinitely.

  This is my gift to you, Father. And my apology for leaving.

  Enoch shook the regret from his thoughts. There wasn’t any time for that now. He keyed in the perimeter patrol checks and waited as the Huntsmen stationed around Babel’s walls sent in their reports. The king’s “public Unit placement” now made a lot more sense to Enoch—while it had been a costly and labor-intensive act of municipal generosity, the benefit of having instantaneous communication with the soldiers at key points in the city was vital. King Nyraud’s foresight was astounding.

  Enoch made one last check to ensure that the cannons were fully charged and that the sensors were clear. He then powered up a line of access channels along the path he would be leaving through. He wanted to have his eye on this battle, on the weapon he’d resurrected, and on his father for as long as he could.

  Mesha was pawing at the door. She was ready to go.

  I don’t know if I ever will be ready to go. But I have to. If I don’t go now, I’ll never find another time when Father and his Huntsmen are so distracted. If I don’t go now, I’ll never be able to bring myself to leave—no matter how many more “dark secrets” I learn.

  Enoch pushed the pain away. He tried to remember the rooms he had discovered, the trophies. He tried to remember Sera’s words, her calm and tearful descriptions of the horrors of the Tower.

  I have to go.

  Setting the Core Unit to automatically collect reports from the perimeters, he glanced over the newly awakened tunnel cameras. He could see the liberated prisoners from several angles; they had just stepped out of his secret e
levator and were separating into the various tunnels which would lead them under the city, past the blackspawn army, and out into the cover of swampland along the northern borders of Babel. Enoch had deliberately shortened the range on the northern cannons so that the Vestigarchy forces would move in close, past the tunnel exits. The Core Unit was programmed to open fire on those forces in thirty minutes, just when the prisoners would need some chaos to hide their escape.

  And my escape. I don’t need anyone.

  Enoch keyed in the final command, which would lock the door upon his exit—cover for at least several hours, enough to hide his absence. He picked up Mesha and left the room.

  * * * *

  Sera couldn’t believe that this boy—this shepherd boy—had been able to accomplish what he had.

  I know that he claims to be a Pensanden, but he’s so young.

  This thought made her laugh—didn’t she hate it when the older Alaphim referred to her age with such condescension? G’Nor heard the sound and looked down at her, one tawny ear raised in question. He raised a massive paw and signed.

  Sera shook her head.

  “No, I’m not laughing at you. I was just thinking about how unexpected our rescue was—and how unexpected the rescuer.”

  G’Nor’s purring ratcheted up an octave, his equivalent of a laugh.

  Sera lifted her hand to place it on the side of the beast’s peaked shoulder and smiled. She had become close friends with the Ur’lyn in their weeks of confinement, and had surprised herself by how quickly she had been able to learn his subtle, gestured language.

  On Enoch’s subsequent visits, the boy had consented to leaving the lights on so that she could see G’Nor’s gestures more clearly; Sera had been fascinated by the insights that this imposing predator had on life and the ending of a people. So much of what he said put into words her own feelings about the Alaphim.

  Enoch had taken longer warming up to G’Nor due to his close encounter with the Ur’lyn’s claw. Sera had explained to him that G’Nor had taken the swipe to make the boy aware that, although caged, he was far from helpless. She told Enoch that G’Nor could have done worse when he passed him on the road back in Midian, killing or at least exposing the boy. But the Ur’lyn had held back then and had sensed something unique about Enoch.

  That memory sure stunned Shepherd Boy, and I think it pleased him. Enoch likes his unique status. And I think the memory helped him to move past his fear of the Ur’lyn—what was it that Enoch said to G’Nor? That he reminds him of his master? Enoch seemed relieved to be able to say that, almost as though it felt good to remember his master again.

  Regardless, I’m glad he consented to freeing us both. Spending weeks caged next to that troll was enough for me.

  At that thought, she quickly looked down the tunnel in front of her.

  And I don’t want to meet any more of them.

  Sera couldn’t hear any of the other prisoners’ footsteps anymore—their paths had finally spread to the point of “numerical chaotic safety,” as Enoch put it. Any one prisoner captured could never lead a guard towards the others. Sera wondered about the other prisoners. She had spent so much time with them, but their surgical muteness, combined with a general sense of fear and suspicion, kept her from learning much. She silently wished them well.

  The tunnels weren’t as cold as Enoch had described them in his harrowing tale, and for good reason. Just a week ago, he had led a team of the king’s alchemists to seal off the ruptured tank of frostwater. Apparently this was done with the excuse of conserving and rerouting the fluid into the tower, cooling the defensive cannons and allowing a higher rate of fire. It had certainly convinced Nyraud. But the result of a temperate and troll-free escape route was something Sera appreciated. Once committed to an idea, Enoch reasoned through every possible angle that idea could take. It was unbelievable how thorough and detailed the boy’s mind could be.

  She leaned against G’Nor’s warm flank and sighed.

  “What about our rescuer? Do you still want to kill him?”

  The Ur’lyn turned his head to look at her but kept walking. Sera knew that G’Nor was bothered by Enoch’s ancestry. The Pensanden were the cause of much of his people’s suffering; he saw the fall, the Schism, and the practical genocide of the etherwalkers as a painful but divine cleansing. Sera had stayed awake several nights trying to talk G’Nor out of killing Enoch—hours of odd, slow-moving conversation. It was true that the Ur’lyn had sensed something special about Enoch even back along the road when they had their first encounter, recognized the scent instinctively. What she hadn’t told Enoch, however, was that G’Nor had been debating his responsibility to destroy the Pensanden once they had all escaped. She was almost positive that she could talk him out of it.

  This was the thing Sera found most interesting: for a somber creature from a race of melancholy mystics, G’Nor was unexpectedly optimistic. Sure, he saw most things as absolutes, but he tended to place himself on the better, nobler, more successful side of those absolutes. Like his escape from Nyraud’s Gardens, for example. There he was caged with manticores at the topmost level of the Hunter King’s tower, and G’Nor spoke of his “eventual escape” with a certainty that had at first made Sera laugh. Then, when she realized that he wasn’t joking—something he seemed incapable of—she had asked him how he was going to accomplish this feat. G’Nor had simply stared at her with those yellow-green eyes and purred.

  That purring. Sometimes it was a song and sometimes it was poetry. G’Nor said it was the sound his people made to “warm the cold times.” Sera thought it was a great way to avoid answering hard questions, but she had grown accustomed to the thick sound. The Ur’lyn was doing it now, and she could feel it coming through the firm walls of muscle at his side.

  My happy beast.

  G’Nor claimed to be “slender” for his kind. Sera had a hard time imagining how a creature could get any larger, or more imposingly built. The wooden carving she had purchased at the market hadn’t prepared her.

  On all fours, the Ur’lyn was a massive block of tawny fur and bulk reaching seven feet from paw to arching shoulder peak. His thick neck extended another few feet out and down from the peak, ending in a leonine face with a blunt, whiskered muzzle. Those feline eyes, sparkling from a mask of darker fur, held all of the wild and ferocious millennia of this creature’s ancestry. It was no surprise that Lamech had seemed so taken with the Ur’lyn. They shared a beauty with the angels, and she had said so.

  Enoch had claimed that this dual beauty—the ethereal and the wild—was an obvious example of the Pensanden art. Sera had laughed. G’Nor had considered for a minute, then raised those mighty paws to sign a response. He said that no, Enoch’s people found the art. They took it. And then they had framed it for themselves.

  Enoch didn’t have a response for that, and he hadn’t come back for several days after G’Nor made the comment. Sera recognized hurt pride when she saw it.

  I can tell that this arrogance is new to him. He is excited about it. He is still unexpectedly flattered when his competence is rewarded—and doubly hurt when it is questioned. What has Nyraud been teaching this boy to get him so caught up in his own worship?

  Regardless, Enoch had made the right decision. The hard decision.

  And I’m not just saying that because he saved my life.

  Sera felt something—respect? Admiration? She was unsure. It felt odd to think that the object of these feelings was a boy just barely stepping into adolescence. A boy . . . well, not much younger than her . . .

  No, no, no, Sera. Let’s not move our attention away from escaping the Hunter King. And the blackspawn surrounding that tower.

  She shook her head and was comforted to feel the touch of her growing tresses against the side of her face.

  But I’m impressed that he is able to voluntarily walk away from all of this.

  They had reached a point where the hallway split into two. Sera remembered Enoch’s instructions to take the le
ft tunnel. G’Nor stopped, sniffing the ground in front of them.

  “What? You smell something?”

  The Ur’lyn pushed off of the ground with his front paws and stood—filling the blue-lit hallway as he scented the air. He extracted his ebony claws to emphasize the command of his signed words.

  “You mean trolls passed here recently?” she said, wanting to be sure. “And a specter? Yeah, I’ll climb up on your back.”

  A specter? I thought trolls were bad enough!

  Sera grabbed onto the longer hair that ran along G’Nor’s spine—almost a mane. G’Nor dropped back to all fours and leaned towards her, lowering his shoulder peak. They had talked about doing this up in their cages but had never tried it. She was a little nervous—not for the height, obviously, but for the utter dependence that this position forced upon her.

  Well, I wouldn’t have to rely on an Ur’lyn if I had kept out of Nyraud’s hunting camp. I wouldn’t have to worry about breaking my already clipped and damaged wings if I had stayed on patrol . . .

  Sera pulled on handfuls of mane and lifted herself up onto the broad, shaggy back. Her head almost touched the ceiling, and she winced as her wings brushed a light tube. They still ached, but the skin had healed over. She would need to find her people when this was all over. Maybe Sera would never fly again, but a boneweaver could at least straighten the twist in her carpal joint.

  Enoch says he can’t fix my wings—says he doesn’t dare touch their “art” after so much time working with the crude guns in the tower.

  But I’ve caught him staring at them, doing his deep Pensanden look. He wants to try.

  Sera reached back to run a hand over the rough edges of her shorn feathers.

  Do I want him to try? Could he make it worse?

  They didn’t encounter any trolls, or specters for that matter, as they moved lower into the tunnels. G’Nor’s rumbling purr seemed to warm the air around her, and Sera tried to ignore the ache in her wings. She found that she could overcome her claustrophobic fears of dependence, actually started to enjoy her ride on the Ur’lyn’s broad, warm back. Soon they reached the portal Enoch had mentioned, a large steel disk marked with purple symbols. And Enoch was there waiting for them.