by Paige Orwin
“Good job,” Janet added. Her voice held no approval.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said.
She thrust the paper at him. “Here. I found your crystal building.”
He blinked. “My what?”
“Kyra mentioned a crystal building. I checked to see what the satellites have on Toronto. This was the closest I could find.”
Edmund took the paper and unfolded it. It was printed in black and white, warm to the touch, a photograph of the northern city from far above. The Wizard War had devastated the ground, but not the sky: many satellites still functioned, if you could find the machinery to talk to them.
One pale, angular structure was circled in yellow marker.
Kyra had never spoken to Janet, as far as Edmund knew.
“Pamphlets?” he asked.
“Broadcast,” she replied. “Never thought I’d listen to a radio program.”
“How long?”
Janet flashed a humorless smile of her own. “All day. Good talking to you, Mr Templeton.” She turned around to start back up the stairwell, bracing a hand against the cracked stone.
He took a step up. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“Those people feed you,” she said.
Her footfalls receded, leaving him, once again, alone.
He sank back down. He took off his hat and stared into it.
What would it be like to be made of stone and metal sheathed in wax and porcelain? What would it be like to not have to take anything from anyone? What would it be like to never dream again, to never drown again, to never tremble at the thought of forever?
No one would have to feed him, then. Those people in Triskelion wouldn’t have had to die. He wouldn’t have been so desperate. He would have made better decisions.
He’d finally stop running.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It fit her well enough.
Istvan stepped back, inspecting the overall effect. Kyra was taller than most of the Triskelion force, and so there were some gaps at the joints, but for an overnight effort, it wasn’t bad at all. It was certainly better than that dress.
“Try walking,” he advised.
The pair of soldiers to either side of her retreated, bowing as they went.
Kyra stretched. The blue-grey steel of the breastplate had dents in it. The helmet had a visor and little else; not intended for a full motorized suit of armor, but for lighter auxiliaries. Armored shoulders flashed in the grey light of the morning sun. Her cape – they had insisted on a cape – fluttered bright scarlet.
She took a hesitant step. The boots only barely fit her. Their rough soles brushed dew off the grass.
“Seems OK,” she said.
Her left arm was strapped to her chest, immobilized. She hadn’t been able to move her fingers that morning. Istvan knew that such things could remedy themselves, in time, but didn’t hold high hopes. It was more than likely that the combination of dubious drugs and his own pain-siphoning presence was all that kept her able to move – or think – at all.
Lucy strode up beside him. “We shall fully restore Kasimir’s encampment while you bring a third death to the Immortal,” she boomed. Her blank visor tilted towards Kyra. “Let your wrath spare nothing, favored one.”
Kyra nodded an uncertain nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Istvan looked to the encampment that lay across the dam’s artificial lake, past the island where the wreckage of a mockery still lay tangled in electrical wire. A solitary creature had struck during the night; to its detriment. Small figures labored among the ruins, clad not in the brilliant finery of soldiers but in the drab grey of the slave force. He had ordered them freed, but the army treated them little differently. Now they were prisoners. They had nowhere to go.
He wished Lucy hadn’t brought them. It was one thing knowing that Triskelion was built on their backs, that the coal that powered tanks and forges had been hauled from the earth on their shoulders; it was another, seeing it. It was always easier to use people when you didn’t have to see them.
He’d… he’d find somewhere for them. In the meantime, he did have to admit that Niagara needed repairs done, and better defenses established, just in case. He’d figure something out.
Kyra walked a slow circle, cape streaming behind her, then shaded her eyes from the sun, now at a considerable angle from the horizon. “Is Mr Templeton coming back, or what?”
Istvan hadn’t seen the wizard since the night before. He was starting to wonder the same thing. “Any moment, I expect.”
The Conduit kicked at the grass.
Istvan sighed. “Perhaps he–”
Helicopter blades thundered overhead.
Dozens of rifles pointed at the sky. The train mockery, chained along the road to Niagara city, let loose a gout of flame. Kyra shouted: a great gust blasted upwards, tearing at the grass. Lucy dug her banner-spear into the ground. One of the other soldiers fell over.
The attacking mockery wobbled, speeding around for a second pass. It was a double-bladed affair, quite large, with bright red and yellow markings. It had its skids folded up. Shark teeth gaped at its front.
Istvan spread ragged wings and leapt at it. How many monsters could the north possibly muster? And where was Edmund, anyhow? The wizard should know better than anyone that they were wasting time.
The mockery roared above him. Istvan drew his knife, looped around and over the creature, tilted into a dive that dodged the first set of propeller blades, and–
–startled eyes, very human, met his own.
The machine blew through him, a rush of cold metal and plastic and blood and blazing heat and more metal. He floundered in its wake.
Grace Wu was in there.
Painted on. The teeth were painted on. It wasn’t a mockery at all.
Barrio Libertad had a helicopter?
Gunfire cracked, four or five shots at extreme range. Istvan made sure all of his limbs were where they ought to be and then dove back to the dam, speeding low over the Triskelion forces. “It’s friendly! It’s friendly! Let her land!”
Much of the grass near the museum and gift shop was clear: a broad sweep that followed the curve of the dam. That was where Grace landed, the downdraft sending waves rippling through dry stalks. No sooner had the helicopter’s skids touched the ground than she bounded out, clad in her usual outlandish attire. “You have to evacuate.”
Istvan alighted near her as Lucy and her two attendants hung back, forming a perimeter. “We do not,” he said.
“Oh,” said Kyra, “it’s her.”
Grace stared as the younger Conduit strode stiffly towards the landing site, resplendent in borrowed Triskelion gear. Then she shook her head, and turned back to Istvan. “Where’s Eddie?”
“Not here.”
She mouthed a curse. “He’s not in New Haven, either. Janet was right.”
Istvan frowned. “What?”
“Never mind. Listen, it’s coming for you. It’s less than two hours away.”
“What does Janet have to do with–”
“Harbor.” Grace glanced at Kyra. “That’s its name, right?”
Kyra nodded, mutely. She scanned the horizon with wide eyes. Bits of grass skimmed away, carried by a new wind.
Grace pulled her goggles off. “Harbor is crossing the lake, right now. You have to get everyone out of here.”
Istvan stared at her. Marat had said Harbor was a… a prison creature. It guarded the border. What was it doing, moving south? The tanks weren’t going to do any good at all against something like that. They had no support out here. Even Istvan could hack at a beast so large for days without slowing it. The last one he fought was at Barrio Libertad, and the fortress was… well, a fortress. With great turreted batteries.
“How?” was all he could manage.
“They’re on our side,” said Kyra. She hugged her good arm to her chest. “They said they were on our side!”
“Are you sure you haven’t seen Eddie anywhere?
” asked Grace.
Istvan shook his head. “No. No, I haven’t. Excuse me.”
Grace gave him a look. “Oh, sure.”
“They’re on our side,” Kyra insisted.
Istvan hurried over to Lucy, dropping his voice. “You wouldn’t happen to have brought any Bernault devices with you, perhaps? Maybe ten or twenty of them?”
The warrior woman shook her head. “Kasimir guards such weapons in his deepest vaults. To regain them would require a mighty campaign.”
“We haven’t any time for that.”
“No,” she agreed. “We do not. Not unless the Hour Thief grants us his power to move between moments, as he did the once-prisoners of our old foe.”
Istvan grimaced. Edmund wasn’t there to do any granting in the first place, never mind whether or not he could compress an entire military campaign into a few hours, which Istvan doubted. The man would never do anything like that again, anyhow. Giving away that much time could have killed him.
Grace had said he wasn’t in New Haven. Not at the Twelfth Hour, or anywhere nearby. Where was he? What did he think he was doing?
“I can try hitting it,” Kyra said. She made a fist with her good hand. “I hit it once. Maybe it’ll listen if I get its attention?”
“Kid, you have one arm,” Grace informed her.
“I can do it!”
Grace gave Istvan a look that suggested he’d given Kyra too many painkillers.
“Take me in the helicopter,” Kyra continued. “If I don’t have to hold us in the air, I could do more, maybe. And Dr Czernin can fight, too.”
Lucy eyed the conversation. “We will hold our ground, should you will it,” she said. “We are no strangers to such beasts.”
Istvan shook his head. Without better weapons, that would be little more than pointless massacre. “No. Fall back into the woods, if you can. It will probably go after the dam and then the city – they always do.”
“You will give up your prize so easily?”
“The dam doesn’t matter! I don’t want you all getting killed!”
Lucy took a step backward, then struck fist to breastplate. “Thank you for your mercy, my lord. We will prepare to fall back at once.”
She strode away.
Istvan folded his wings. Mercy, indeed. He’d won the dam with blood in the first place. How quick they were to praise him. How quick he was to let them.
Grace Wu waved him back over. “Doc,” she called, “what are the odds that Kyra’s cult is behind this? I only know what we got from the logs; did you and Eddie discuss anything else off-camera?”
Istvan approached both of them again, letting his worse aspects fall away and thinking of Kyra’s damning comments on Pietro. Not off-camera. Not all of it. “Marat said that Harbor is a prison creature. He didn’t seem able to control it. I would imagine that only Shokat Anoushak knew how. As for the cult…” He tried to imagine what Edmund might say. “They do know some of what she knew. Perhaps this is part of it.”
“What if we’re too late?” asked Kyra. “What if she’s back already?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said Grace.
“What if Harbor’s a distraction?” Kyra continued. “We should go to the crystal building. How fast is your helicopter? Do you think we could find Marat and get help?”
Grace opened her mouth, then closed it. She glanced up at the sky and its gathering clouds, cast Istvan another look of aggravation – what did you feed this kid? – and then popped the door of the helicopter open. “Come on. Both of you. We’ll talk in the air.”
They lifted off as Lucy’s army began to break camp.
* * *
“No, I’m not supposed to be here,” snapped Grace over the whine of rotors. “I’m supposed to be back on Shattered round-up duty. You think the Council wants anything to do with you guys? You think we don’t have our own problems?”
The helicopter jolted. Storm clouds streamed past the cockpit windows. The lake below them churned into house-high waves, steaming where lightning struck it, whipped into fog and froth by Harbor’s passage.
“I didn’t know Barrio Libertad had aircraft,” Istvan said.
“We have lots of things. It doesn’t matter.” She dipped them lower, gaze flicking between altimeter and cloud bank. “If they’re not going to do anything, I will. I’m not letting you get the kid shot again.”
Kyra, in the back, fumbled with her seat harness one-handed. “We have to be low enough now. Come on, open the doors! Let’s go get it!”
Grace gave Istvan another look.
Lucy had asserted that it was “mostly” morphine. Istvan was beginning to suspect the rest consisted of combat stimulants. When they got back, he was going to find a Triskelion medic and insist on a much more thorough translation of those labels.
“It was the best medication we had available,” he muttered. “Would you rather we gave her nothing?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re not fighting Harbor,” she called over her shoulder. “Sit down.”
Kyra, undeterred, leaned forward, straps dangling from her shoulders. She gripped the corner of Istvan’s chair and stared out at the lake.
“Sit down,” Grace repeated.
The younger Conduit squinted. “What are those lights?”
“Lightning, I would imagine,” said Istvan, because Harbor was covered in lightning, after all. “Now, Kyra, you really ought to–”
“No, no,” said Kyra. “Little lights! Turn back around!”
Grace gritted her teeth. The helicopter shuddered as she brought it back around, knuckles white on her controls. The horizon tilted. Harbor’s storm bank spun below and then settled, the beast’s green lightning cracking through brief gaps in the fog.
“I’m not getting any lower,” said Grace.
Istvan tried to make out any of Kyra’s lights, and couldn’t. “I could have a closer look,” he suggested.
Grace shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
He drew his feet up onto the seat. “Kyra, please sit down,” he said. “You can take my place if you like, but you do need to be strapped in.”
“I can fly,” Kyra muttered.
“Yes, and you’ll fly straight through the canopy if you hit a bad stretch. Where will Miss Wu be then, hm?”
Grace snorted. “I’ll–”
Istvan hurled himself through the window.
The cold of the glass gave way to the cold of the open air. He snapped open his wings. The fog rolled below him, and he dove into it. Harbor’s great back crashed through the water like an island in motion, its tallest towers a crest that rose above the spray. It wasn’t swimming: it was walking along the lake bed, and Istvan feared the waves that would strike the shore when it arrived.
Why it hadn’t swam through the Earth to emerge below Niagara in moments, as others of its kind had done to other cities, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps its masters could only tell it to move, and so it had moved in the simplest way it knew how.
As he dipped lower for a closer look, a mote of fiery light darted past him. It turned a circle, as though inspecting him, and then flew away, joining another of its kind in the fog. He knew those lights.
“Hello?” he called.
A familiar metallic scream answered. Shadows flitted through the fog. Then, strange-angled wings rushed towards him, edged in fire.
Istvan dodged out of the way. “Marat! What’s–”
A second mockery sped after it. Then a third, and a fourth. They were ungraceful things, their limbs twisted, their steel hides pocked with rust and burn marks. One had wings of stretched canvas attached to the shell of an automobile – a travesty that never ought to have flown at all. Still, its maw was sharp and jagged, and its headlights burned with the same feral intelligence as its siblings.
Marat’s sleeker beast dove for Harbor’s towers. Wind whistled through the holes torn into its back edge.
Istvan chased after it. “Marat!”
Lights spilled from the m
ockery’s jaws, streaming over its back and wings, etching lines of fire across the metal.
GO
Were they trying to stop Harbor? Marat had pulled information from Edmund’s head, before, and Kyra said that its kind were scouts and interrogators: could it stream into Harbor, as well, and turn it back?
And these other mockeries…
Istvan pulled up and away, drawing his knife. He’d never seen mockeries so crudely constructed. Or… had he? Imitations. They had to be. Imitations made by the cult. He could at least give Marat a fighting chance before he returned to Grace and Kyra.
Canvas parted easily. He’d learned that in his war. The beasts rolled and slashed and snapped at him – dropping from above, barreling up from below, streaming smoke that blinded, darting in and out of the fog – but he’d dealt with their like before, and it was a long, long way to fall.
Where was Edmund? If Janet Justice had told Grace that she’d seen him, why? Did she not trust him? He should have come back. He should have been with them. He’d promised that he would return. Had Grace checked his table at Charlie’s?
Oh, if he were hiding… or hurt…
Istvan looked up from the spinning fragments of a wing to meet the next challenger – and then ducked as a circle at the front of its cockpit burned cherry-red, molten metal spraying from a hole that hadn’t been there before. It tumbled away. It hadn’t even managed a scream.
Grace Wu’s helicopter, shark teeth and all, hovered where it had been. A peculiar mirrored device protruded from under its nose. She waved from the cockpit.
Well, now.
Istvan darted back inside to discover that Kyra had taken up his offer of the copilot’s place; he settled into one of the rear bucket seats. “It’s Marat,” he said. “They may have a chance of turning it back.”
Kyra pumped her good arm. “I knew it! Now we have to go to the crystal building!”
Istvan glanced at Grace. There was no guarantee that Marat would or could stop Harbor, but neither could they. Not without something like the Bernault devices. But going after the cult already, and without Edmund? He was the only one who knew anything about magic. He was the only one who knew anything about Shokat Anoushak in any great detail. He was their wizard! They wouldn’t even be able to understand her, if she were truly returned.
