The Crucible of the Dragon God tok-4

by Mike Wild

  "This isn't your ship, is it, sis? It's Old Race, scavenged from the remains of their technology and put together piecemeal. And this isn't your final destination, either, is it?" As Jenna helped crew position a gantry so that they could reach a rock platform filled with more modern machines and crates, which the crew then proceeded to load, he persisted. "All this equipment? What are you up to, Jenna? Where are you going?"

  Jenna span to face him. "Going, brother? We aren't going anywhere. In fact, we're running away from somewhere — as fast as we can."

  "Somewhere or something?" Slowhand said with sudden realisation. "On the ship, what you said when those things came. You knew what the k'nid were, didn't you?"

  "The k'nid?"

  "Yes, the k'nid. The things that attacked your ship."

  "Oh, so they've been given a name."

  "Is it those things you're running from? What the hells are they? Where do they come from?"

  Jenna stared at him defiantly, as if she were not going to answer, but then, as he held her eyes, she seemed to relent slightly. "There has been… a mistake," she said slowly, swallowing. "We need to rearm, reinforce, return to rectify what we have — "

  "That is enough," Querilous Fitch interrupted, grabbing Jenna by the wrist and spinning her around. "This civilian cannot be allowed to know the business of the Final — "

  "Hey!" Slowhand shouted, moving forward. "Get your hands off this civilian's sister or you're gonna find out just how uncivil he can — "

  Fitch's gaze snapped to him and, for a second, Slowhand swore he could see the blood vessels in his eyes dart and writhe like a nest of snakes.

  "Or what?" he said disdainfully, and the archer suddenly found himself airborne, though this time with no dirigible beneath him.

  The dismissive snap of the arm with which Fitch had accompanied his words had, seemingly without any effort on his part at all, flung him upwards and backwards with such force that he found himself hurtling through the harbour towards the energy panel from which the dirigible crystal fed. He impacted so hard that the wind was knocked completely out of him.

  "My Gods, Jenna," he gasped weakly. "What has the Faith done this time?"

  Jenna stared but no answer came and suddenly, seemingly instinctively, his left hand shot out to grab a small node on the panel, gripping it tightly so that he dangled there. This, Slowhand found strange, because there was no way — instinctively or otherwise — that he would grab such a device having seen the kind of power it channelled. Sure enough, his whole arm buzzed with a strange energy that spread through his bones to his ribs, but however much he wanted to he found he couldn't let go. In fact, he suddenly realised, his other arm was reaching for the opposite node.

  Slowhand felt a bolt of panic. He stared down at Fitch and saw the mage grinning coldly up at him. Damn it, it was the threadweaver who had made his arm lash out. And now he was forcing him to raise the other.

  Querilous Fitch was in his head.

  Below, Jenna snapped her gaze from Fitch to her brother and then back again, for a moment uncertain what was happening — but then it dawned on her. If his right hand connected with the other strut he would complete the circuit, and if that happened his whole body would be channelling the energy of the panel. Slowhand didn't want to know what would happen to him if it did. But the fact was, in his current position, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  His hand rising jerkingly, face twisted and sweating profusely, fighting against Fitch's will, he looked desperately at Jenna. His sister was clearly uncomfortable with what was happening, but it seemed her conditioning was preventing her from doing anything about it.

  Fight it, sis, Slowhand thought. Help me.

  And as if she had heard his plea, her gaze snapped to him once more, her brow furrowing deeply.

  Decide who and what's important to you, the archer urged. Make your choice.

  Suddenly Jenna was struggling with Fitch, trying to turn him away from Slowhand, to break his hold. But despite his frame, the threadweaver seemed to be as strong in body as he was in mind, and would not be turned. As the struggle continued, so did Slowhand's, his grip no more than inches away from the second node now. Groaning, he tried to fight against Fitch, but whatever part of his mind the threadweaver was manipulating it was inaccessible to him. Slowhand craned his neck to watch as his right arm rose ever upward and then suddenly spasmed in shock as it made contact and completed the circuit. The effect was agonising and the archer screamed and bucked, held as the current locked all of his muscles, seemingly gluing him to the panel. But as his body danced, he nevertheless managed to form one word in a guttural tone.

  "Jennnnnaaaa…"

  Below, Jenna continued to struggle with Fitch but then, as if he had tired of a dog snapping at his ankles, he snapped his hand to the side and Jenna was thrown away from him to slam heavily into a pile of crates. Some of the crew turned, shocked that their Captain had been treated in such a way, but it was clear that none of them would do anything about it — dare challenge the threadweaver — and they continued to work. For her part, Jenna stared daggers at her so-called lieutenant, wiping a spot of blood from the side of her mouth. But for the moment she was evidently too weak to pick herself up and retaliate. If she even dared take Fitch on.

  Slowhand realised that if he were going to live he had to get out of this himself. Thankfully, as Fitch had used some of his energy to throw Jenna aside he had felt a fleeting and slight reduction in the threadweaver's hold. Enough for him to be able to pull his right hand away from the contact panel. If he could work on that…

  Slowhand moaned with effort, not only of trying to pull his hand away but also trying to make his intent as little obvious as possible. If Fitch spotted what he was doing, he had no doubt that his hand would be struck back to the panel in a second — and then he would be a dead man.

  Slowly, though, it began to work and with a sudden jerk of his limb he realised it was free of the connection, though the panel behind him continued to throb with the charge it had built up. Slowhand took advantage of this, making his body buck as if it were still part of the circuit, but secretly concentrating on the effort involved in freeing his right leg. It, too, broke free, though for a second the archer held it in place, making Fitch think he was as much constrained as he had always been.

  "Hey, Fitch," he gasped. "Shouldn't I be dead by now?"

  The threadweaver's eyebrow rose in surprise that his victim was able to speak, let alone breathe. Suddenly Slowhand felt a resurgence of the power, Fitch forcing him further onto the panel and, teeth gritted, he fought against the push with all of his will.

  "Threadweaver. I'm starting to think you couldn't weave your way out of a papyrus bag."

  Below him Fitch growled.

  "Querilous Fitch," Slowhand taunted further. "You think maybe that should be Querilous Oh-There's-A-Hitch?"

  That did it. As Slowhand had hoped, Fitch was the kind of man who, despite his power, couldn't resist venting his anger in a more physical form. The threadweaver lurched towards him with a snarl.

  As he did, his mental hold on Slowhand relaxed and, feeling his body untense against the panel, the archer made his move.

  He dropped to the floor and, as he impacted, threw himself into a forward roll, hands snatching behind his back for Suresight and an arrow from his quarrel. He came upright, the bow readied. Slowhand could have killed Fitch there and then but, without knowing exactly why, he didn't. Instead he fired off, in quick succession, four arrows aimed at Fitch's arms and legs. Flitch tried to deflect them, but he had no chance. The threadweaver was suddenly picked up and carried off his feet by their speed and power, thudding into the packing crate behind him. Fitch roared with anger, trying to pull away from the arrows that held him, but they were so solidly embedded in the wood through the folds of his cloak that he was trapped.

  Slowhand took a deep and satisfied breath and walked towards Fitch, pausing only to offer a hand to help the still prone Jenna up
. She snatched it without thanks — without even a smile, of relief or otherwise — and rounded on the pinioned threadweaver, pointing at the control panel where Slowhand had been trapped. It buzzed now with a release of energy that, despite Slowhand not knowing what it should sound like, didn't seem quite right.

  "You're action was irresponsible and stupid," she shouted. "Have you any idea of the amount of power contained in those things?" She pointed at Slowhand. "Inserting him into the circuit has destabilised the entire system and — "

  Jenna broke off, ducking, as the upper left corner of the panel exploded.

  "I think she's trying to say you broke it," Slowhand pointed out. He studied the panel as another section detonated, lighting up everyone's faces. "If you ask me, I reckon this whole place is going to go up."

  "You fool!" Jenna yelled at the threadweaver.

  Fitch actually looked chastised. "He shouldn't have done what he did. Shouldn't have been able — "

  "He's my brother. He's a — "

  She's going to say it, Slowhand thought. The name. And when she did, then the world would know the truth. But at the same time he considered this, the panel behind him detonated once more and the conversation abruptly ceased. Because, this time the explosion set off a chain reaction that spread to more panels next to it, and then more after that, and suddenly one entire side of the waystation was aflame.

  "Yep, I was right," Slowhand said, smugly.

  "Fark," Jenna shouted, and she began to move among her people, shouting orders. "Get everyone back on board, now! You, do as I say! And you! Leave everything not already loaded! Mister Ransom, loose the umbilicals and prepare for immediate departure!"

  "Ma'am, we haven't finished refuel — "

  "It will have to do, Mister Quinn! If we don't get out of here now, we're not leaving. By the Lord of All, I'll glide this thing into Gransk if I have to!"

  Gransk, Slowhand thought. There was that name again. Where the hells was it? What was it? As troubling as the question was, though, something troubled him even more, and that was his sister's attitude to him since he had escaped from certain death. There had been no smiles, no hugs, no anything, and he was beginning to think that the only reason Jenna had fought with Fitch was because she knew how dangerous his unauthorised actions were — that the fact that her own brother had been the spanner in the works didn't really matter to her at all. The realisation left him with a heaviness in his heart that was worse than he'd felt at the loss of Kali Hooper, but it was a heaviness that he could not afford to indulge in right now.

  He looked around him, ducking as the explosions from the Old Race mechanisms increased, sending plumes of fire into the paths of the airship crew. Most were on board now, only himself, Jenna and Ransom still uncoupling the ship not on the safety of the deck. And, of course, Fitch. The threadweaver was still struggling against the arrows holding him, and Slowhand was pleased to see an expression of panicked horror had overtaken the usual arrogance that filled that face. His temptation to leave the bastard exactly where he was almost overwhelming but -

  Slowhand sighed, swiftly pulled the arrows from Fitch's robes and then bundled him towards the gantry. The last thing he expected — but should have expected — was that at the last minute Fitch would plant his palm on his chest and send him hurtling backwards into a pile of crates. Dazed, he watched as Jenna and the last crewmembers boarded, and the airship was already pulling away by the time he rose and ran after it. The archer tried to make the jump from dock to airship but stopped himself at the last moment by grabbing onto a rail. The gap between them was just too great.

  "Jenna," he shouted as the airship receded further beyond his reach. "I have to know — is there anything of you left?

  His sister stared back, the wind whipping at her face, and Slowhand wasn't sure whether it was that or something else that made her eyes tear up.

  Then she dug into a pocket, took out a small object and threw it across the widening gap towards him. Slowhand flung out a hand and then stared down at what he'd caught — a bracelet — before looking back up to question what it was. But, in the brief moment he had looked down, the airship had begun to turn away, as had his sister, perhaps not voluntarily, towards Querilous Fitch. Slowhand roared as the threadweaver approached her and then placed his palms on her skull and the hopes that he had harboured until that moment — that even now he might be able to turn Jenna away from the Final Faith — were finally dashed as his sister quivered beneath Fitch's touch.

  Watching the airship descend to the harbour's entrance tunnel, Slowhand could not remember when he had last — if ever — felt so lonely. But there was no time to dwell upon the feeling as another fierce explosion from behind almost blew him off the gantry.

  The archer looked around, searching for something — anything — that could help him get off this rock. But the only viable method of transport had already left and all that remained was the bones of its sisterships. Then it suddenly occurred to him that if Jenna and the Final Filth could build their flying machine piecemeal, then anything the Filth could do, he could do too.

  Slowhand worked quickly but precisely, skewering bolts of cloth from the rotted dirigibles with arrows from Suresight, before pulling them down and framing them around struts of lightweight metal. He tied the pieces of cloth into place with catgut from his quiver, pulling each piece taut until, when he flicked them, they thrummed like drums above the two triangular sections he had created. Finally he linked the two sections together, creating a makeshift hinge by tying the metal struts to the flexible frame of Suresight itself, swung a strap beneath the two, and then stood back to admire his handiwork.

  Looking like a pair of artificial wings, what he had created would not emulate a bird but he could hang beneath it and it would glide. He hoped that was all he would need. There was no time to test its airworthiness, however, as the explosions around him had now become so frequent that they were one solid, roiling mass of ever expanding combustion. The only thing that he could do now was fly.

  Slowhand slung the device on his back, tightened the strap, and ran, the precipice that loomed before him doing nothing to discourage him — because if he stayed he was dead anyway. Suddenly, he was in the air and plummeting, and with desperate shifts of his weight from his left and to his right, he managed to manoeuvre the contraption between the numerous metal struts and beams that filled the cavern, dropping past and through them until the floor of the cavern was in sight.

  Here, Slowhand arced his body upward, feeling the strain not only on his muscles but on the contraption itself. However, as it groaned in unison with him, his flight path gradually changed from the near vertical to the horizontal. He banked to the left, into the harbour's exit tunnel, its striplights blinking by him, and he could feel the wind from the outside on his face. But with a quite literal sinking feeling, he realised that the air currents within the tunnel were not enough to keep him aloft. Thankfully, the explosions in the harbour above obliged him at that very moment, blasting a wave of heated air and flame down into the tunnel buffeting him forward as effectively as if he had been swatted away by some giant, invisible hand. Slowhand yelled with surprise and with exhilaration and, as the sky darkened around him, realised he had exited the tunnel and was above the Drakengrats once more.

  He was just beginning to think he was safe when the entire underside of Thunderlungs' Cry began to blow apart in a series of thunderous and buffeting explosions. There was an ominous cracking from above, too, and as the air about him began, suddenly, to fill with falling stones, rocks and even boulders, he realised that Thunderlungs' Cry itself was coming down. Slowhand cursed and frantically began to manoeuvre the glider through the deadly rain, avoiding pieces of the collapsing bridge by inches and aware that even a single impact could slap him from the sky. Whether through some innate piloting skill or sheer luck, he emerged unscathed, and was about to whoop in triumph when a growing shadow on the distant ground made him instinctively look up.

 
Ohhh, fark! he thought.

  Because Thunderlungs Cry had saved the best for last, it seemed, and — seemingly in slow motion — an entire middle section of the bridge was plummeting towards him.

  Slowhand never thought he'd be grateful for more explosions, but for the final, momentous detonation from the rockface, he most assuredly was.

  He suddenly found himself being punched across the sky. The shockwave from the final detonation had caught the glider and punched it into a spin away from the rock face and, to Slowhand's misfortune, higher rather than lower into the mountains. As he sailed dizzyingly above the immense chasm he realised that while he had been punched higher, this did not necessarily mean that he was going to remain high as the shockwave had severely damaged what little integrity his invention had possessed in the first place. Swallowing uneasily, the archer craned his neck to inspect how bad things were, and his worst fears were confirmed. His jerry-rigged frame was bent and warped, and where he had lashed catgut to hold it together, it was now either snapping away from the metal or uncoiling from it with a sound like multiple cracking whips. He estimated he had perhaps a minute before the whole thing came apart.

  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to keep the glider aloft, and there was nowhere he could bring it in to a forced landing. He was going down.

  Slowhand found his attitude becoming unexpectedly philosophical. Maybe Hooper and he were going to meet up again, after all, and he could imagine the conversation already.

  "Hooper."

  "Slowhand."

  "How's things?"

  "Ohhh, you know… dead. You?"

  "Dead."

  "Mmmm."

  "Mmmm."

  "So…"

  "So…"

  Killiam Slowhand smiled, but it was a smile that faded as it formed. Because one of the last things he saw from his aerial vantage point were the k'nid, spilling towards the peninsula.

  Then, abruptly, there was no more time and the glider impacted with the ground.