“It is not too late,” she told him. “Join me now, and all will be forgiven — we shall bring the Fourth World back or enter the Sixth, together. And it will be once more as it was, forever.”
As her voice died away, a silence grew, hollowing Hex City’s heart. Tezcatlipoca stared down at her; for once, his borrowed features wore no smile. Another clench of cold went through Rook — this thing was a liar, he had always known that. Might it change whatever passed for its mind, now, even on the very cusp? How rich a cosmic jape that would be: Chess’s betrayer — himself — betrayed, in turn, by the inhabitant of Chess’s stolen flesh.
“Oh, sister,” the Enemy replied, almost in a whisper. “You might make it as it was, indeed, even now . . . but not forever. For just as nothing dead returns for long, nothing can last beyond its appointed time: not you, not me, not all our buried kin, drowned down there in darkness. Nothing.”
“I do not — ”
It sighed. “I know, I know. And still I will try to explain, much as I know it unlikely to help, before we do what we must.
“Listen. From First to Fourth, our worlds grew up around us — we were made and re-made with them, as part of them. All we ever were was a frightful tale, told so often and so well that all who heard, believed it — and we, ourselves, believed it so strongly that we became it. Of course we are the Blood Engine; that is what we were created to be, by the very mortals whose blood we drank to empower ourselves. Ghosts of dead magicians-to-be, grown so fat in turn on others’ unexpressed magic that we warped the very world around us into our mirror, and looked to that mirror as ‘proof’ we were what we thought ourselves to be.
“So we gutted our people to glut ourselves, and grew so dependent on the Machine that when it collapsed — our weakened subjects shattered by the conquistadors’ plagues, their guns and their greed, far swifter than we had ever imagined possible — most of us simply dissolved into oblivion. Which is as it should be. Because, as it has always been my role to proclaim, all things end.”
Astonishingly, the Enemy’s voice took on a note Rook had never heard before, from it or Chess: almost sympathetic. “Our time has gone, sister. What is to come will be different, taking place in a world much larger than ours ever was.” It smiled. “I confess, I rather look forward to it.”
Ixchel gaped up at him. “But doesn’t it feel right to accept the tribute, brother? Doesn’t it feel good?”
At that, Tezcatlipoca really did laugh, a hearty guffaw which threw its head back, making Rook’s throat lock and his eyes burn — for that was Chess’s laugh, pure and unalloyed, in all its nasty glee.
“Of course!” the Trickster-god declared, when its mirth had slackened enough to allow it. “Yet the mere fact that we like a thing doesn’t make it the right choice. If it did, the world would run on fucking, and not precious victim-king-blood at all.” And here the laughter ceased, as it whispered, eyes locked on hers: “Oh, but wait . . .
perhaps it does.”
A moment of silence, only one. Then Ixchel screamed, as much a bitter wail of grief as anything else; went charging up the Weed-slope, smashing the Enemy straight off its throne in a brute, inelegant tackle, strategy-stupid as any drink-addled groggery thug. They rolled over and down, coming to a tangled halt almost at Rook’s feet. He goggled at the dustup, while behind him the City-folk hollered half in horror, half hysteria, like onlookers in any given saloon brawl he’d ever seen.
Ixchel got one leg between Tezcatlipoca’s — Chess’s — knees, and kicked him off, bodily. He cartwheeled through the air only to light down standing, conjuring something out of his palm with a fluid movement: long and thin, shining white, a scaled whip spun from congealed lightning ending in a snake’s crack-jawed head. The creature writhed tail-end from the Enemy’s hand, looped ’round its knuckles, blind skull splitting wide to reveal two layers of yellowed ivory fangs which dripped smoking liquid in time with its own teakettle hiss.
Rook braced for its next move, fingers popping with black and silver print, random words fizzing ’tween his nails like firework sparks: He The LORD Do not Saieth Wrath End Ruin —
But before he could even consider striking, however, the Smoking Mirror had already lashed out, throwing that snake like a vaquero’s rawhide — whipping an arc which sliced cleanly through Ixchel’s vessel’s neck as though every scale were diamond-edged, sending her head to bounce on the ground once, twice, ’til it fell over, eyes staring sidelong. The headless body dropped to its knees and held there, balanced, same as a coin fallen miraculously on edge.
Rook’s legs folded under him, as if all his strength had simply decided enough, and shut itself off; he thudded to the ground beside Ixchel’s popped-off skull, knees on fire, wondering if death was ’bout to seize him, too.
But not so much, no. For in the world they now shared, as already established, death did not mean as much as it otherwise might.
Instead, Ixchel’s eyes rolled to meet his, dread stare strangling a half-born shriek in Rook’s throat; she bit into her own lower lip and chewed, almost hard enough to sever it.
With black syrupy blood pouring down her chin, her impossible voice pounded into the Rev’s head, rail spike deep: Fool! He thinks to show me weak — prove him wrong!
Overcome by a dreamlike detachment, Rook somehow knew what to do without even asking — so he picked the head up by its tresses, coated his palm with blood and smeared it over the neck stump like caulking, then lofted it in a hexation-boosted throw toward the kneeling body, where it landed angled so as best to set vertebra to vertebra, neat as you please. While the smoking blood sealed together like boiling oil cut with molasses, Ixchel heaved herself to her feet, black-shrouded in counter-luminance.
Through jaws clenched so tight Rook thought they might have fused likewise, she grated out, “Not enough, brother. Not nearly enough.”
The grin the Enemy gifted her with, in return, seemed to rock ground and sky at once: purest berserkery, without any of Chess’s usual sense that no matter what, he would survive. This was a grimace which risked everything, at once utterly aware and utterly unafraid of mortality — its own, obviously, along with everyone else’s.
Very well, then, sister, it replied. We start over, though not in the way you mean.
And as she blinked her slow, dead lids at him, not understanding, Rook saw the Weed around him begin to flex, to stir . . . to grow.
Too soon, Rook thought, desperately. Christ Jesus Almighty blast other gods small and large alike, altogether! Too Goddamn soon, entirely.
He slid a hand into one pocket, reaching for the token he’d hid there: just a dried spruce wand, nothing to look at, a mere peeled twig — but trigger, nonetheless, for the mightiest spell Rook’d yet devised, so powerful he’d had to work it in careful stages throughout the night while Ixchel slept, weaving it into the wards over the entire City and tying its activation to a single, simple physical event, for fear she’d sense its presence. Worthless, perhaps, depending — yet it was all he had. So he braced his thumb on the wand’s middle and pushed, felt it bend . . .
Then froze, as did both undead gods and all their watchers, as a sharp and steely call stabbed into every mind within the City’s walls. It had no words, only the simplest possible meaning —
Danger comes! Danger! To the East Gates!
A voiceless “voice” that carried the Honourable Chu’s unmistakeable harsh tones. And simultaneous with it, something else: a vibrant pulse, so deep as to be felt more than heard, the lowest string of some Titan’s harp plucked once and then again, each note just slightly louder. Sal Followell turned at its call, shoulders hunched and eyes wide to their whites, her fear freighted with an awful fatigue, thirty years’ worth of disasters in the making: What now, for all God’s love? What next?
“What . . . is that?” Ixchel rasped, echoing her, all unawares. And addressing the question neither to Rook nor any other human but to her fellow petty deity, with all the casual thoug
htlessness of kin before strangers, as if their duel was already forgotten.
Rook, too intent to feel insulted, was already whipping back a reply to Chu, along the same channels: Mexes here already, that it? Laying down fire, preparatory to attack?
No. They are here — but —
A most curious sensation: Chu’s mind went blank and grey, an empty sheet, as if sheer bewilderment precluded any coherent image.
And almost simultaneously, the Enemy’s next words wiped Rook’s own mind equally blank, as it observed: Aha, I see. Interesting, indeed. The Crack . . . is closing.
Soft, and so awed that even the god’s infuriating sly glee had faded; the lightning-snake danced forgotten on its wielder’s palm, finally folding back inside once Tezcatlipoca remembered it the way a frog’s tongue retracts.
Impossible! Ixchel burst out, to which the other only shrugged.
And yet, it replied, dryly. Your yellow ancient sees it, from where he sits. Only wait long enough, look hard, and it will become clear to us all. Can you not feel the stitchery, rucking this crust beneath us like skin? Somewhere, someone — and I think we both know who — is sewing the grievous wound we gave this New World up.
Against her will, Ixchel turned; Rook did the same, with everyone else soon following. Even as their attention shifted, meanwhile, the Enemy vanished in a thunderclap of collapsing air, only to instantly reappear as a speck perched upon the eastern wall itself — poised to peer down upon the tide of City-folk who were flooding that-a-way already, in response to Chu’s call. With a silent curse, Rook released the trigger-wand, then offered that same hand to Sal, with the other threading Ixchel’s cold fingers. A silent twist of will was all it took to send ’em hurtling over the crowd’s heads as well, touching down at Chu’s side atop the main Eastern gate.
A quick scan gave him the Mex battalion in mid-march, trailing southward from Bewelcome, though slowed somewhat by the wreckage remaining ’round hastily abandoned Camp Pink. Here and there, what wounded they found still living were being collected, hauled back to the medical supply wagons. But those thundering drumbeat vibrations continued rolling through the ground, and all movement quickly ceased. Even at this distance, Rook could hear faint yells and oaths, saw the soldiers reel back, pointing upward — breaking and running, some of ’em, at the simple advance of whatever massive thing was slowly heaving itself over the hilltops of the eastern horizon, its mere shadow so immense it spilled ’cross the dirt like a second night.
The hell? Rook wondered, agape. Then waited, already braced ’gainst the tidal wave to come, to find out.
After less than half an hour’s fast march from the battleground, Geyer had called halt in the middle of one of many narrow valleys winding through the eastern hills. How he knew their route Ludlow could never tell, since all this terrain looked alike to him, but was both grateful and relieved, having taken ever more of Doctor Asbury’s weight as they marched; indeed, Ludlow was not entirely sure that the arcanologist was even conscious, at this point.
Within minutes, the first of the Texican outriders had spotted their position, and rode to meet them. These men’s complete lack of any uniform, or consistency in gear, made Ludlow blink. A half dozen wore garb which ranged from Alamo buckskins to Mexican serapes, some going sombreroed and moccasined, others coonskin-capped and booted, while one sported a bloodstained grey Confederate officer’s shell coat. Their arms and gear seemed equally potluck, including pistols and rifles and shotguns of a dozen different makes. The scouts’ leader — a short, hawk-nosed ruffian who looked more than half-Mex, himself — introduced himself as Sergeant Juan Alvarez, then sent the fake secesh hotfoot back to the main force, before breaking out brandy and provisions to revive the weary travellers.
They debriefed as they ate, between chews, and Alvarez listened, expressionless. Ludlow found he truly couldn’t tell if the man took their reports seriously, or was just waiting to see when they’d start to rave outright. Since Geyer had led by recounting the morning’s events with due professional flatness, Ludlow’d strained to follow suit, deliberately leaching all trace of hyperbole from his own interpolations . . . yet the tale still spoke for itself, outrageous as ever. When they finished, Alvarez’s only response was to stroke his moustache in ruminative silence.
“All this brujeria,” he said abruptly. “None of it came with the Mexicans, ay? Just that Lady and her kin, who the earthquake loosed from Hell.” Geyer and Ludlow looked first at each other then back to him, and nodded, almost in unison. Heartened, Alvarez turned next to Asbury, whose cheeks had finally regained some colour after a few long swigs. “And you, Doctor — what’s left in your bag of tricks to help keep the maleficios off our backs, exactly, while we make for Hex City?”
Asbury blinked. “I — very little, sir,” he admitted. “I have a Manifold, of course, to ward off active spells, and my aetheric screen for concealment, but nothing else . . . nothing functional, at any rate. Though if more were recovered from Pinkerton’s leavings, I suppose I could try to — ” Adding hastily, at the Sergeant’s scowl: “But truly, I do not believe that will be necessary. The Emperor’s stated goal is to ‘liberate his people therein enslaved.’ Any obstacle we pose to that objective is likelier, I think, to enjoy New Aztectlan’s approval, rather than the reverse.”
“Sounds good, but men don’t always think clear in battle,” Alvarez pointed out. “And for all I know, the jefes got secret orders to do some damn fool thing like turn us toward Hex City once we whup the Mexes, or even if we don’t.”
“Not this time, Sergeant,” Geyer replied. “George Thiel knows the score, and he’s no fool. He’ll convince your Captain, just like we did you. Besides . . . strikes me if you thought we were complete lunatics, you wouldn’t have wasted time on us at all, let alone served us private stock. Am I wrong?”
Alvarez fell to petting on his moustache again, like he thought if he only stroked it long enough, it might give him sage advice. “Captain Farris and your Mister Thiel should be catching us up soon enough,” he said, presently, “’long with the rest of the troops — and though we ain’t got time to stop, we got spare horses. Man can listen and ride at the same time, you want to argue at me further.”
Asbury’s face fell, like Babylon. “No, please — must we go back? We are not a mile from the battlefield, even now! Mister Geyer I can understand, but Mister Ludlow and I can surely be of no further use to you, only burdening your quartermasters to no good purpose.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Doc,” Geyer said. “Risked myself plenty to get you out of Camp Pink intact — don’t you think there might’ve been some point to the exercise, beyond simple human compassion?”
“Well, yes, certainly; I assumed as much. But . . .” Here the Professor trailed off, stared past Alvarez, blinking. “Sergeant — is that your man now, returning?”
Ludlow traced the glance, even as Alvarez shifted to confirm Asbury’s reckoning. Yes, it was indeed Shell-coat, taking it at a gallop and waving his hat fiercely while he did, as if to drive them back, though his accompanying yells were still too distant for sense. But his horse-hooves’ thunder kept on swelling, ’til Ludlow realized the vibration he “thought” he felt welling up through his boots was no fantasy. Behind, meanwhile, yet more horses carrying unfamiliar riders flooded into the valley in a torrent, scattering cold grey dust in their wake, and surged down the narrow path at a perilous angle — like they were too shit-scared not to risk dashing ’emselves to death on the arroyo’s looming sides, veteran cavalry or no, alongside the threat of breaking their mounts’ precious legs, in the bargain.
“Clear away!” Alvarez shouted, jumping straight up, jackrabbit-style; Geyer, Ludlow and Asbury obeyed with alacrity, scrambling out of the troops’ way in flummoxed alarm, even as one of the few clearly uniformed men — a blue-jacketed lieutenant — pulled up to shout unintelligibly in Alvarez’s ear while the rest of the Texican troop roiled past. Ludlow gaped, the beat beneath his feet
increasing further, a dull volley of rhythmic hammer-blows: slow, strange, implacable. Louder, and louder, and louder —
“Holy Christ and all His Apostles plus sweet Saint Michael, too!” screamed Geyer, pointing back over Ludlow’s shoulder, face gone white. Ludlow spun and promptly collapsed, knees instantaneously slack; Asbury blinked wetly up at the sight, eyes full of a similar horror, though leavened with an unremitting awe — a shock so intense, so monumental, it almost rang as joy.
The shape which reared up over the furthest visible hill and plunged down on one side of the valley was a gigantic black column furred with ship’s-cable hairs and glinting with chitinous armour plates, towering what had to be close to threescore yards into the sky. It was followed seconds after by a second such pillar, equally massive, which hit ground on the defile’s other side with the same sort of hissing, hydraulic-powered crash — then another on the left, another to the right — the speed with which arrangements moved was near-incomprehensible, for their multi-jointed size. Above, a vast black ovoid shape cut off the cold grey sunlight, drowning them in freezing shadow; a fifth and sixth column touched down, even as the first two lifted and reached forward again. High above, multiple sets of eye-spheres like obsidian boulders glittered in twin rows; mandibles the size of stalactites shone, flint-sharp and venom-sheened.
The Hexslinger Omnibus Page 97
