by Ben Galley
Every monarch has their tool of command, and Sift’s was fear. There is power in it, but it is a hollow power, despite its weight. Her reign had been one of war, thirsty for dominion over the fractured Fae clans at the fringes of Undering. Perhaps at first her efforts had been virtuous; an attempt to preserve the proud, disconnected kingdom that was Undering; to keep it safe as the world dug deeper around them, to keep it united by its history and hatred of the upper world and its humans. But the years have a habit of twisting good intentions, and Sift’s distractions had left the stronghold of Shanarh hollow in itself.
The capital was now rotten at the core. Corruption had taken hold in the echelons below royal rule. Caol could see it plain as daylight in the crowds. Fae females, dripping jewellery from their arms, necks, and wings. Armour-clad mercenaries from Bodmin, Nort, and Hafenfol, lounging against doorways and looking for work or sport. Pickpockets, weaving to and fro. Rotund traders sweating in the press of the crowds, their wings drooping from lack of use and fat. Beggars and orphans too, sat in the muck and gazed on with blank, dirty faces.
That was the problem with a lifespan of centuries. It was always very easy to remember the way things were: better times. Caol set his jaw and felt the carriage shudder beneath him. It was not his place to fix this. That was a queen’s job.
If one thing is true of faeries above all else, it is that their tongues move faster than wildfire. Before long, most of the city had turned out to watch the queen’s carriage rattle past. As they rolled through the streets of dark dirt and black stone cobbles, cheers, chants and confused applause began to rise up from the swelling crowds. The buzzing drone of wings grew louder with every street corner the carriage passed.
Sift watched the whole affair through the pimpled glass of her carriage with a blank expression. She stared into the myriad faces and saw Rhin in every one. By the time her carriage reached the outskirts of the city, where the rock soared upwards to form the roof of the cavern, where Undering’s Lonely Star shone with the sunlight of the world above, she was already fast asleep, dreaming fitfully of the ghosts in the Deep Tunnels—the ghosts she was intent on hiring.
Chapter VII
TWISTER
27th June, 1867
Tedium was a word Merion had never known the depths of, he thought to himself, as he stumbled over yet another lump in the terrain. Nebraskar truly put the endless in Endless Land. They had been walking for days and for all the young Hark knew, they were walking on a colossal conveyor belt that fed them the same old prairie and scorched earth again and again.
He swore he had seen that boulder a hundred times. He swore he had seen that dry river bed before, and it mocked him now as it had mocked him then. He swore Lurker was leading them in circles. Merion clenched his teeth and soldiered on, dreaming once again of the feel of a deck underneath his feet, of rolling on the waves of the Iron Ocean, of the spatter of salt spray on his face. He longed for progress, and in the baked wilds of the west, that felt a lifetime and more away. With every aching step, his frustration built and built.
‘Do you know where we are, Lurker?’ Merion mumbled through his parched lips, breaking the silence of their trudging.
Lurker tipped back his hat and let his brown eyes rest on the undulating horizon. There was a dark smudge of cloud perched on it, and he eyed that warily for a moment before shrugging. ‘Nebraskar,’ he answered.
‘How very helpful.’
‘That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me today, boy. What do you want me to say?’
‘A couple of miles outside Boston would be brilliant.’
Lurker sighed. ‘Well, unless you got legs taller than mountains, I ain’t goin’ to be sayin’ that for a few weeks now, am I? Stop your grumblin’.’
‘I’ll stop when we’re at the coast, and heading back to the Empire.’
‘Then let me stop and roll up some grass, so I can stuff it in my ears and block you out.’
Merion got the hint. He was grumbling, and he knew it. But it seemed to be the only pastime in this blasted desert besides walking, and he had already had his fill of that. He scratched his forehead and glared at the horizon, willing it to come closer. He must have glared for half an hour, maybe more, before he saw them.
‘Lurker,’ he said, tapping the man on the arm. The prospector sighed again.
‘What now, boy? I told you …’
‘Not that, look ahead!’ Merion snapped. He could hear Lilain and Rhin moving up to see what he was pointing at. His aunt was almost healed of her injuries. She no longer needed her crutch. It was strapped across her back with her rifle.
On the horizon, shivering in the heat-haze, figures were swarming. They were black against the gathering cloud. Some were larger than others, most likely coaches or wagons. Even at a glance, there were at least a hundred of them, slowly coming towards them.
‘Into that hollow, there,’ Lurker pointed. ‘And let’s see who and what they are.’
After the incident with the bandits, they had become even warier of the wilderness. Without another word, the four of them scrambled down into a small hollow, wind-carved out of the rock. Lilain unslung Long Tom and put the spyglass to her eye and squinted.
‘What are they?’ Merion asked. By his side, Rhin was unsheathing his sword.
‘Homesteaders,’ Lilain replied. ‘At least they look like homesteaders. Loads of ’em.’
‘More?’ Merion scratched his head again. The very concept bamboozled him. Surely there’s enough land in the east of this vast country, he thought, before speaking aloud. ‘What exactly are they hoping to find out here, in this Almighty-forsaken desert?’
‘A home, believe it or not, Nephew,’ muttered Lilain. Like Lurker, she was growing tired of Merion’s grousing.
‘Lincoln’s Law,’ Lurker added. ‘Grants anyone who’s never taken up arms against him and his union a chance of land out here in the west.
‘There’s plenty of it,’ Merion replied.
Lilain swung her rifle back and forth, trying to count them all. ‘And it’s up for grabs. You settle it, you keep it.’
‘But what about the war with the Shohari?’
Lurker cleared his throat as he lifted his last drop of magpie blood to his lips. ‘America’s never been one for letting a little war stop its growin’,’ he answered, before shaking the vial into his mouth. He closed his eyes and concentrated as the blood worked its magick on him, then began to sniff the air. Something was distracting him, Merion could tell, and it was not the homesteaders. ‘Let’s go,’ the prospector said, eyeing the clouds bubbling up in the east. It was only just past midday, but the sky was growing dark as the weather groped for the prairie-lands.
With rifle and gun held low by their sides, and with Rhin shivering on the edge of visibility, they struck out again. Mile by mile, they closed the gap between themselves and the eager homesteaders, who were slowly spreading out from one another, until they stretched across the desert from north to south. Lurker aimed straight for the centre of their line.
They seem rushed, Merion thought, as they drew close enough to see their details. Despite their heavy packs and wagons, they travelled at a fast pace, as if the prospect of snapping up their own vast patch of land was just too much to handle.
As they came even closer, Merion saw that many of them kept glancing behind them at the dark clouds chasing them across the prairie. A handful, here and there, were even jogging, in defiance of the midday heat.
The air was becoming closer and thicker, and there was a shiver of something in the air that made his hair stand on end. A rumble in the sky made the homesteaders move even faster, and spread out even more thinly. Before long, he and the others just stood still, and waited for them to approach.
Lilain held up a hand to the first man to reach them, ready to greet him and ask what the rush was about. But the man strode straight on past, sparing them the briefest of glances before hurrying on.
‘How rude!’ Merion crossed his arms.
>
‘I think they may have the right idea,’ Lurker grunted, staring upwards at the grey cloud reaching overhead, which curled towards them like fingers.
Before Merion could ask what on earth the prospector was on about, another group of homesteaders reached them, waving their arms frantically. They were a family in its entirety, from the grandparents and grandchildren sitting in the wagon, to everybody in between. Brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles—they all seemed panicked as they hauled the rickety wagon through the dust and stunted grass.
‘Storm!’ one man, who was clearly the head of the family, shouted earnestly. ‘Storm’s coming!’
Merion actually began to smile. ‘Well, just what we need. A little rain to quench this damned heat,’ he replied.
‘Don’t be stupid, boy. It’s a twister!’ the man yelled, over the growing roar of the wind. The storm began to whip the dust into a frenzy.
Merion was about to demand who on the Almighty’s green earth the man thought he was, when Lurker cursed loudly by his side. ‘Shit!’ he hissed. ‘Knew it.’
‘What? Knew what?’ Merion cried, starting to feel a second-hand panic seeping in. He wondered what else this blasted country had in store for him. His aunt was staring upwards, and he followed her gaze to the swirling clouds above, so dark a grey they could have been called obsidian. The sun had been swallowed by the clouds as they advanced, and now they were hungry for the rest of the sky.
The homesteaders were now beginning to run, scattering in all directions, their wagons bouncing over the ruts and rocks, children screaming and the elderly whimpering. Merion could not begin to understand what the matter was, yet he felt their fear all the same. Yes, the clouds looked ugly, but surely they had all seen a thunderstorm before?
‘It’s a twister, Nephew, a tornado!’ Lilain snapped at him. Lurker was already heading southwards, jogging across the dust as the first drops of rain came hammering down.
‘This way!’
‘What’s happening?’ Rhin shouted, dodging raindrops the size of pebbles. He looked as bamboozled as Merion. All grudges forgotten, the boy reached down and grabbed the faerie by the waist, lifting him onto his shoulder as he ran. They snuck looks over their shoulders as the sky rumbled again.
‘You’ll find out soon enough if you don’t move it, boy!’ Lurker hollered. The roar of the rain and the howling of the wind was growing louder by the moment. Merion gritted his teeth as he ran, his hands held up to shield his face.
He stole another look over his shoulder at the swirling storm. Through the rain he spied a spiral deep in the cloud’s roots. It hovered almost directly overhead. As he watched, a twisting finger of dark cloud began to drop from the storm and curl down towards the ground, growing fatter as it descended.
‘Run!’ Lurker shouted as loud as he could, and the three of them broke into a sprint. Lilain, despite her recently healed wounds, was struggling, and she cantered over the dust like a lame horse. Merion put his shoulder under her arm and helped as best he could. The wind snapped at their heels and tried to whisk their feet from under them. Rhin held on to Merion’s collar for dear life, his strong grey hands turning white as he gripped the fabric, fighting not be torn away.
There was a crash and a roar as the column of cloud collided with the desert. Rocks and dirt exploded from its footfall, and the twister began to swell with the detritus ripped from the earth, turning even darker as it began to spin. The noise was deafening: a cacophony of thunder, hammering rain, and the screeching roar of the twister as it earned its namesake, turning faster and faster, as though it was attempting to tunnel down into hell itself.
Merion had never imagined such a thing could exist. He ran sideways, barely able to tear his eyes away from it. The whirling column had hypnotised him, and he gaped in awe and, though he would later deny it, terror.
His foot snagged something and he cried out as he tumbled into the mud. The wind dragged him backwards, as though it had lassoed his feet. Merion clawed at the dirt, panicking as he struggled to break free.
‘Merion!’ Lilain yelled, snatching his hand. She yanked him up, freakishly strong as ever, and dragged him forward.
It was as if the twister had developed a taste for him, for it began to swing south and chase them down. Just my luck, he thought blithely to himself, as he hurtled forward, as fast as his tired legs and numb feet could carry him. Lilain ignored the pain and her aching joints and ran just as fast, catching up with Lurker, who was trying desperately to keep his hat on his head.
‘A town!’ he yelled, sprinting alongside them. ‘Over there, behind a hill! See the roofs?’
Merion did, and pushed his legs harder. The roaring was getting louder by the second. The wind tore at their limbs, eager to steal them away into its vortex. Merion would not give it the satisfaction, he swore to himself. I’ve not come all this way to be eaten by a storm.
‘Come on!’ Lurker urged, as he scrambled up the low hill and skidded down the slope beyond. Merion half-ran, half-fell after him, as did his aunt. Rhin just held on grimly as the world somersaulted around him.
The town was a poor excuse for that title: a handful of tumbledown buildings huddled together in a circle, which by the looks of them, had long been abandoned. Lurker led them towards a stout-looking barn with a patchwork roof. That old adage, ‘any port in a storm’ had never been so fitting, Merion thought, as his feet pounded the dirt.
‘Inside!’ Lurker yelled, after wrenching open a rickety door. They needed no encouragement. The barn was already shaking in the wind. The twister was cresting the hill.
Lilain ran around in a mad circle, scouting for a cellar, a basement, or any sort of hole that could keep them safe.
‘Here!’ Rhin cried, pointing to two thick doors set flat in the dust-ridden floor. There was a rusty padlock holding them, but Fae steel made short work of that. Sparks flew as the metal split. Lurker heaved one of the doors up, just long enough for the others to slip inside.
The hole stank of manure, but it was far better than being dragged into the sky to Almighty knew where. The four of them huddled in the deepest corner, arms gripping each other tightly, their hands interlocking.
‘Merion! Rush the armadillo!’ Lilain yelled as the barn began to moan and splinter. The twister was visiting its destruction on the tiny town, already ripping it to shreds, like a bitter child with a handful of leaves.
‘Now?’ Merion panted.
‘Of course now, Nephew! Drink!’
Merion yanked the vial from his pocket and ripped the cork out with his teeth. He threw the vial up, almost chipping his teeth, and gulped the warm blood down. Even then his throat protested, rankling at the touch and taste of foreign blood sliding down his throat. But this was not the time for squeamishness. He drank every single drop and threw the bottle aside with a crash.
His belly burst into flame, and he gritted his teeth as the magick bit him.
‘Hold on!’ his aunt hissed in his ear, and her strong fingers wrapped around his neck, digging into his shoulder. Somehow it helped him force the shade out into his veins. It dizzied him, but he kept with it, remembering everything he had learnt in Fell Falls. He had not rushed like this since the night on the Serpeds’ riverboat, but his body remembered it well, and the magick rushed to his skull.
‘Agh!’ he cried, as it leapt to his back and shoulders. He could feel the skin ripping, then hardening, then pushing outwards in odd shapes. It was painful, but something about it felt right. As he bared every one of his teeth, eyes clamped shut, Lilain pushed him up so she, Lurker, and Rhin could cower beneath his chest. Merion felt the thudding of their heads against his skin. Only then did he realise what was happening and quickly spread his arms out so he could lie on top of them.
Above them the barn roof was ripped from its roots, torn into the sky to feed the twister. The noise was so loud Merion thought his ears would bleed. Wood twisted to splinters. Metal ties peeled like blistered skin. Rocks and rain flying like cannon-f
ire and bullets.
With a horrendous, stomach-lurching bang, the doors of their cellar were wrenched from their hinges. The four knuckled down, clawing at the dirt and mud and praying it would not give them up. They felt the wind heaving at their clothes, trying to prise them from the earth and drag them into the raging sky. Wreckage fell in waves as the twister spun its wicked path through the barn. Merion could feel each missile striking his back and spread-eagled limbs. They would have skewered him without the blood, bludgeoned or speared them all to death. The young Hark squeezed his eyes shut and prayed the rushing would last long enough for the villainous twister to grow bored.
They spent barely a minute in that stinking hole, but it felt like a lifetime. When the twister finally moved on, choked with its spoils, they let out their breath and sagged into the mud. Exhaustion pounced. The four of them simply lay there, looking up at the grey sky as it tumbled on overhead, letting the raindrops pound them until they too grew tired of the town and moved on.
Lilain was the first one to her feet, breathing as though she had recently been strangled. She wiped blood from the ridge of her nose, where a stray splinter had caught her, and staggered upright to totter about, her eyes darting here and there but seeing nothing, so caught up was she in her relief and vestigial terror.
The others came up in their own time. Merion was last. He twitched violently as the shade faded away and his skin melted back into its usual self. The armoured plates left great bruises and blisters in their wake, and he hissed and cursed beneath his breath as they scrapped against his shirt.
‘Remind me to hug an armadillo if I ever meet one,’ he gasped.
Lurker moved to pat the boy heartily on the back. ‘That was too close,’ he rumbled, throat thick with dust. ‘Too shit-darn close. But that was some fine rushin’, Merion.’
Lilain was still nurturing her thousand-yard stare. ‘Thank the Maker for that fixer. Armadillo ain’t easy to come by.’
