Immortal Architects

by Paige Orwin

  Niagara didn’t have that many lights.

  The glow came from the south. From the wreckage of the city proper. From further down the road, in a winding line – and it was moving.

  Their mount gave a shriek. Marat had noticed, too.

  They wheeled southward.

  “Whu–?” asked Kyra.

  “Hold on,” Istvan told her.

  She looked around wildly, likely still half-asleep. The mockery had produced additional surfaces to secure her to before they left, for that reason. Perhaps she was expecting another sheet of ice.

  Instead, she received a blast of cannon fire – directly past their heads.

  Warning shot.

  Oh, it wasn’t. They couldn’t have come all this way. Lucy couldn’t have done it already, and brought others with her…

  Istvan leapt from his saddle, spreading tattered wings.

  “Hey!” shouted Kyra.

  “Stay away!” Istvan shouted. “All of you!”

  “What is it? Who are they?”

  Istvan darted around the mockery as it pulled up, engines straining. “An army,” he said. He hesitated. “Possibly mine.”

  Kyra blinked. “What?”

  He dared not say anything more. He dove towards the newcomers. The convoy. The line of baroque tanks, flanked by a swarm of smaller vehicles, driving ahead of what looked to be an entire locomotive and several dozen cars somehow freed of their tracks. The din was tremendous; the taste of dread and misery overwhelming. Smoke and dust streamed from their passage, a rising plume that reflected the glow of a hundred lights.

  It couldn’t be anyone else.

  A shout went up as he descended. Searchlights arced skyward. He selected the lead tank and dropped, landing beside its turret, spattering it with phantom mud and bullet scarring. “What is this?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

  The two figures in armor holding fast to its sides flinched away. One reflexively reached for a weapon, halting the gesture just in time to transform it into the customary slam of fist-on-breastplate. Both tried to kneel. It didn’t quite work in their position, but they did incline their heads and crouch somewhat lower.

  “None of that,” he snapped. “Tell the rest of your men not to fire at the mockery.”

  Another salute. Searchlights continued to sweep the sky, but a number of turrets lowered back to their usual ground-facing arcs. The other warrior held up a hand, and they slowed, the terrible grinding of treads and other things on pavement quieting as the rest of the convoy followed suite.

  Istvan wished such immediate obedience wasn’t so gratifying. “Now, what’s going on?”

  Silence.

  “What’s going on?” he repeated. “Answer me!”

  “A coup, my lord,” one of the warriors said, speaking as though Istvan had dragged the words from him with a hook and radiating an odd mixture of shock, self-recrimination, and terror.

  Istvan stared at him. “What?”

  “Kasimir denied the Banner-Bearer’s right-of-spirit. He has turned his back on the mother country. He cast her out and cursed your name. She has led the faithful these days and nights to join your service, that you may come into your power and establish new and righteous conquest on this earth.”

  The convoy rumbled to a halt.

  “Hail, Devil’s Doctor,” boomed a familiar voice.

  Istvan looked up, heart sinking. It was. Oh, it was.

  Lucy strode across the road towards him, clad in full armor, its plating scuffed and dented, stained with what might have been oil. She carried a simple sky-blue standard. The customary crest on her helmet now boasted a long horsehair plume, akin to that of Lord Kasimir.

  “What have you done?” Istvan asked, faintly. Not all the way to Niagara. Not here. Not now. Marat was still circling above, watching, and Barrio Libertad, too, through that bloody circlet. What would Edmund think?

  What would Kyra think?

  Lucy dropped to a knee before the back of the tank. “Hail, Lord of the Long War,” she continued. “Hail, Ravager of the Pale Beast, Ender of Complacency. I bring to you your spearhead, your first arrow, your sharpened blade. We departed in grace, as would be your wish; we come to you now to guide your transcendence.”

  Istvan tried to remember anything that she said to him in Triskelion that might have led to this. They had spoken of Kasimir but only to note that the warlord had hoped to retain Istvan as an ally. They had spoken of the siege, but only as a test of Istvan’s abilities. He still didn’t know why Kasimir had wanted the place and its guardians destroyed. Hadn’t there been a statue, somewhere in its depths?

  Kyra had mentioned statues.

  Istvan stepped off the tank, landing on the pavement beside the warrior woman. “Why?” he asked. “Why now? Was it only the fighting that proved all of this to you, or was there something more to it?” He folded his wings and they dissipated, taking the rest with them; he didn’t want to prove her point by appearance. “Who were those people in the mountain?”

  “Fools,” Lucy replied.

  A metallic scream rang out. Istvan glanced at the sky. Black wings plummeted towards them, haloed in glowing motes like stars, blazing lights sweeping across the convoy.

  Lucy shot to her feet, raising her rifle.

  Istvan darted before her. “Don’t!”

  A strange cry came from behind them, a many-throated and melodic bellow with a high, piercing edge to it. The locomotive rose up off the ground, serpentine, gaping blunt jaws. Coals burned within it. A great plume of smoke and fire shot into the air.

  That was how the train ran on the road. It was a mockery. The entire train was a mockery. Terror boiled off it just like the smoke: were there people in those cars?

  A pair of warriors leapt off a nearby vehicle and ran at it, shouting in their own language, armed with long poles that glowed like hot pokers. They jabbed at its sides. The train hissed and lowered itself back to its wheels.

  Marat’s flier landed at the head of the convoy with a crash, claws digging into the pavement. It turned to cast wary headlights on the other mockery. The warriors before it raised their weapons but didn’t fire.

  Kyra peered out from behind its head. “Wow.”

  Lucy held up a fist. “My lord, what shall be the fate of this child?”

  “Nothing,” Istvan told her. “That’s Kyra. He… She is one of ours.”

  “And the mockery?”

  “An ally.”

  Lucy put her rifle away. The rest of the warriors followed suit. “In time,” she said, “you will form mighty alliances. Heed those who speak within you.”

  Kyra slid off the mockery’s back. “Wow,” she repeated. She walked nervously past the tank, breezes buffeting the smoke and exhaust around her, and stopped a short distance from Lucy. “You’re really Doctor Czernin’s army?”

  “We are pledged to eternal service,” Lucy boomed.

  “Why? He’s kind of a jerk.”

  Istvan imagined Edmund’s reaction to discovering that their charge had been cut down by a hail of concentrated gunfire. He interposed himself between them. “Er – don’t mind Kyra. She doesn’t know what’s happened.” He leaned closer to the Conduit, dropping his voice. “Be polite if you want to live.”

  “I’m recording,” said Kyra.

  “I know.”

  Lucy approached them, planting her banner on the ground and waving off the tank’s attendants. “Understand, child,” she said, kindly. “Your master is an ending spirit. He is no man. He is multitude. He is Lord of the Long War, the first we have discovered in this world. What you see before you is only the shell of what will be. You should be honored to stand in his presence.”

  Kyra frowned.

  “She isn’t property,” muttered Istvan.

  Lucy glanced back at him, and nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

  He knew he should say more. He knew he ought to protest the whole of it, that it was based on a philosophy – a religion! – that would only lead to p
ain. Triskelion was a ruin, its people so militaristic that their homeland couldn’t have been much better. If that was the will of an ending spirit, he didn’t want to be one.

  And yet… the fact remained that these people held a wholly different view of sundered spirits. What they were. What they could be. They had a place for him, a plan for him: that it involved vaulting to the status of god-king was almost secondary to the simple notion of anyone, anywhere, celebrating him for what he was. What if they knew something he didn’t?

  He couldn’t meet Kyra’s eyes.

  “Child,” Lucy continued, “you are truly blessed. These tales are yours. You need only ask, and I will tell them.”

  Kyra nodded, slowly. “O-kay.”

  “I’m sorry,” Istvan said.

  “You kidding?” she replied. “We got an army!”

  “Istvan,” said Edmund, “what the hell?”

  Istvan froze.

  Edmund strode through smoke, a caped shadow against the many lights of the convoy. He wore his top hat. He held his pocket watch. He was shivering, and exhausted, and in shock: but the anger was enough to carry him forward, and the fear enough to propel him from behind.

  Grace Wu stalked beside him.

  Edmund. Edmund, they came of their own initiative. It was their idea. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

  I let them do it. I never denied what they said.

  “Doc,” called Grace. She clenched her hands into fists. The panels of her gauntlets clicked and locked. Sparks crackled across the metal. “Gig’s up.”

  * * *

  At least fifteen Triskelion rifles immediately pointed in her direction.

  Edmund kept his hands tucked in his pockets. “I don’t know what you expected.”

  Lucy – it was Lucy, though with some unfamiliar additions to her armor – leveled her banner like a spear, which on closer inspection, it was. Scarlet lights flashed behind her visor. “No further, Scion of He-Who-Watches-in-Walls,” she boomed in her strange accent. “This is sovereign ground. You have no right here.”

  Grace paused where she was. “Where’s your boss?”

  “I answer to no mortal,” Lucy replied.

  Grace shifted her gaze to Istvan. “You kill him with the rest, Doc?”

  “No,” said Istvan. He stood just behind the lead tank, near Lucy. His translucent form was hard to make out in the harsh glare of so many headlights, but it seemed like he’d rather be anywhere but there: he was turned sideways, not looking directly at Grace or Edmund, gripping his bandolier. Clouds of poison seeped across the pavement.

  Behind him, Kyra edged away, trying to retreat. Edmund couldn’t blame her.

  “Kyra,” called Grace, “stay put. We’ll get you out of here.”

  The Conduit froze. She turned and straightened, taking a deep breath… and then didn’t seem to know what to say. She swallowed. She glanced back and forth between Grace and Istvan, then looked back to the bomber mockery perched at the head of the convoy. The creature made a low creaking noise. Some of Marat’s lights drifted closer.

  Kyra reached a hand back and leaned against the tank treads, her breath coming harder. She stared down at nothing.

  Edmund had seen that look at Barrio Libertad. They should never have let a kid get herself involved in this. What was Istvan thinking, letting her anywhere near these people? They were mercenaries, killers, slavers: whatever they were doing here, it wasn’t going to be good, and Kyra shouldn’t have to see it.

  She shouldn’t have to know exactly what they’d done.

  Edmund took a step forward. Some of the rifles shifted to point at him. He smiled, tightly. “Istvan, could I have a word?”

  He had fought Triskelion soldiers before, more than once. He didn’t need permission for passage. He knew how they operated: if they fired off gas grenades here, he’d be ready, and those rifles would be useless. They couldn’t touch him. Istvan knew that.

  The ghost glanced at him, but didn’t hold eye contact long. He sighed. “Let him through,” he murmured.

  Lucy made a curt gesture. All of the rifles returned to pointing at Grace.

  “Thank you,” said Edmund. He crossed the distance between them, cape snapping in the cold wind, keeping his hands in his pockets.

  It was never easy. It was never simple. This entire fiasco had been a mistake. If Istvan was somehow behind this, Edmund was about ready to call it quits. Let Grace take the lead. Let Barrio Libertad do whatever they wanted.

  Sorry, Mercedes, we lost. We lost the second I locked Kyra in those chains.

  We lost the second you put me in charge.

  Grace let her lightning sputter out. She propped a hand on her hip. “If that’s how it is,” she said to Lucy. “Fine. We can do it that way. How much do you know about your old boss’s dealings with Barrio Libertad?”

  Lucy flipped her banner-spear back upright and planted it on the ground. “Such dealings are null, Scion. Your courage is misplaced.”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s talk about what’s installed on your tank, and maybe a couple of your soldiers.” Grace put a finger to her ear. “Wait, no – actually, most of your equipment. That’s going to make this hard for you.”

  Lucy stepped towards her. “Hollow threats! Those were Once-Lord Kasimir’s prizes, Scion, not ours. We destroyed them prior to our passage!”

  Edmund stopped beside Istvan. he said in German.

  Istvan still wouldn’t look at him.

 

  Istvan shook his head. He was watching Grace.

  Edmund sighed. Of course he was. He wasn’t like Edmund, who had to remember to look away from her. he explained.

  They knew the real state of Niagara, now, wreckage and all. They’d called his and Mercedes’ bluff. He couldn’t get away from them.

  Couldn’t get away from her.

  he continued.

  Istvan swallowed. He looked ill.

  said Edmund,

  “You’re doing the German thing again,” said Kyra.

  Edmund looked back. The Conduit stood just behind Istvan, arms tucked to her chest in the strange way she did, tall and thin and dark against the night. She was hunched, her shoulders drooping; like the weight of the whole Triskelion convoy sat on her back. Pale smears marred the waist of Edmund’s loaned overcoat, dust and alkali rubbed off the tank’s dirty sides.

  “Wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she added.

  “You weren’t supposed to leave Barrio Libertad,” Edmund told her.

  “Mr Espinoza let me go.”

  Edmund thought of all the trouble that could have been avoided. Like this. This, right now. No Kyra, no confrontation with Barrio Libertad, no need to rush finding a base of operations, no Triskelion. They could have dealt with Shokat Anoushak on their own time. They’d done it once before.

  Kyra’s fault. If she’d just kept her mouth shut.

  “And Diego shouldn’t have defied his own people,” Edmund said, because he couldn’t say the rest. He eyed the headband she still wore. “Was that camera his idea, or did Grace put you up to it?”

  Kyra pressed her hands more tightly to her chest. “It was just in case.”

  “Did Grace put you up to it?”

  “I only saw her once. She wanted to help me learn my powers.”

  That wasn’t an answer. He was tired of not getting answers. No one ever told him anything until it was too late, and then when he did his best to fix it, he got criticized for it.

>   He raised his voice. “Kyra, did Grace–”

  “No!”

  His hat blew off, the sudden wind forcing him backwards. Istvan winced. Lucy and Grace paused their argument, the former catching at her cape and the latter holding up a hand to shield herself against a hail of dirt and grit. Some of the soldiers turned rifles on Kyra. It took a moment for the smell of exhaust and chlorine to creep back into its place.

  Kyra bolted.

  Gunshots split the air.

  Oh, hell.

  Oh, hell, he hadn’t meant for that to happen.

  The sound yet rang in his ears. Only a moment. It only took a moment. A half-second lapse of judgement, and a kid could die. That was it.

  Edmund tackled her to the ground.

  “Don’t fire,” Istvan roared. “Don’t bloody fire!”

  Broken feathers beat around his head. Wetness seeped into his sleeve. A distant, mechanical clanging swept past his ears. A light like an approaching train. A fireball burst above them.

  Kyra screamed. Edmund covered his face.

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pain seared through Istvan’s senses.

  Marat’s mockery charged with a deafening shriek, ripping up pieces of road. Five soldiers crashed to the ground beside him: three on their backs, two sprawled in odder positions. Three from inside the tank, two from perches on its hull. The tank itself had vanished. Parts of the rest of the convoy went with it, men and vehicles both flashing out of existence with the same clamor: Barrio Libertad’s technological teleport, turned against its allies.

  The shape of a massive owl blazed in the sky.

  Istvan hovered above the prone forms of Kyra and Edmund, all semblance of humanity torn from him. It came to this. They had let it come to this!

  He’d not refused Lucy’s overtures. He’d not stopped Edmund. He’d not told Kyra to stay with the mockery. He’d accepted that it couldn’t have gone any other way.

  He couldn’t be hurt.