A Tree of Bones

by Gemma Files

  Another voice intruded, from further back — female, uptown New York — Berta? Calling out: “He doesn’t have too much choice about it, Mister Morrow; lost his gun in the first rush, so we’ve been watchin’ his back ever since. That’s after he jimmied my collar free, of course . . .”

  Another one — definitely Eulie, this time — chimed in. “. . . an’ he was glad enough he did, when one of them dog-things with the hands jumped him. Sissy made short work of it, so when she was done, he popped mine off, too . . .”

  But here she trailed away, voice dipping further, almost breaking. Perhaps recalling how there’d been a third person answered to that diminutive, once upon a time — someone whose shell still flew somewhere above, claw-handed and red to the elbow, seeking for further prey.

  Morrow stopped to cough, long and heavingly, Carver considerately glancing away ’til he was done. After which he then leaned in just as Morrow pulled himself up, and said: “Saw what happened, y’know . . . with Himself, back in the thick of it. What you did.”

  Face clammy, Morrow spat to clear his mouth before replying, carefully. “What was that, Jonas, exactly?”

  Make or break time, and they knew it, ’specially since Morrow’s injury made it highly unlikely he could fight back, if Carver decided he had to do anything about Pinkerton’s untimely and highly unnatural demise.

  But the younger man simply shrugged. “Nothin’ I’d swear to, sir, in court or out of it. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  Morrow felt welcome relief and a weird sort of sadness fall on him together to hear it, both genuinely grateful yet truly amazed that anyone he’d known such a powerfully brief time would advance him this high-blown level of trust. But then again, these were tumultuous days; Carver’d done much the same for Fennig’s ladies already, and seen it returned fivefold. Might be he’d decided he might as well place his faith in whosoever it took his fancy to, for however short a time he might remain able to do so.

  One way or the other, Morrow was glad to feel Eulie’s light touch probe at his hurts, efficient as any “real” doctor. “This’ll pain some,” she told him. He nodded.

  “Can’t think but it wouldn’t.”

  “All right, then. Just so’s you know, and don’t blame me.”

  “I wouldn’t be, uh!, too likely to — ohHOhhhh, that’s some big fuckin’ pile of — ”

  “What-all’d I tell you, Mister Morrow? Pain hurts, that’s just what it does; ain’t no easy way ’round it, nice as it’d be if there was. Now, just hold on one tick more yet, and let me do what I gotta.”

  Something ran through him then, stem to stern, like the very hairs of his skin were all set afire at once; he fell back, slipping on offal. Felt his arm snap out, twist this way and that — Jesus, it seemed as though the movements must be earthshakingly huge, though he suspected they were anything but. At the same time, a violent shiver of arcane light buzzed blue all along his break, re-righting it. He could’ve told the exact moment his shoulder popped in, had that not been rendered fairly obvious by its precise coincidence with the second he began to vomit.

  Sympathetic hands grasped his shoulders, one white-skinned and female, the other male and brown. “Just ride it out, Ed,” Carver told him, in one ear, while Morrow hacked and shook.

  Thanks for the advice, never in life would’ve occurred t’me to take that option, Morrow wanted to grump back soon as the pain-haze cleared, which was thankfully fast — but at that very same instant, he looked up once more to see Berta abruptly transfixed and staring even higher, tears streaming down her stately face.

  “Oh God,” she said, quiet, like she didn’t even know her mouth was open. “Oh God, oh, Clo. What that damn woman did to you.”

  “Poor sissy,” Eulie agreed, gripping Berta’s hand tight. “But . . .

  ain’t much we can do about it, I s’pect. So we best be movin’ on, before . . .”

  Too late for caution there, though.

  Above, Clo and Ixchel orbited each other, a moon split in two, vomiting the last of Pinkerton’s ill-gotten witchery back and forth between ’em like they were passing a bottle, while the Rev — back from wherever he’d disappeared off to, now the real fight was mainly over — danced attendance, picking off stragglers with nuggets of verse tossed like Ketchum Grenades. Here a And it came to pass . . .

  that Joshua . . . said unto the captains of the men of war which went with him, Come near, put your feet upon the neck of these kings, there a and David went out, and fought with the Philistines, and slew them with a great slaughter; and they fled from him. Which “they” sure did, like blast-frightened rabbits, and to no particularly good effect, either.

  Clouds of dust, blasted sand and mist hung roiling along the plain’s east edge, obscuring the way back to Camp Pink. Before it, a lone cavalryman in an officer’s uniform — Washford, no doubt, even if it was impossible to pick out variations in backlit skin from this distance — galloped back and forth before the remnants of the Thirteenth, yelling orders, organizing its retreat. Morrow saw the skull-faced hag’s eyes light up, tracking the rider’s movements, and groaned to himself. Every instinct he had to attack, intervene, distract just for a moment warred hard against the helpless, hopeless knowledge of the exact uselessness of any such effort — not to mention just what a poor reward it would be for Carver, Berta and Eulie, getting ’em killed alongside him even after all this.

  He drew breath to order the others away — and spasmed head to foot in a wriggling jolt, not painful this time but fire-streaked cold and thrilling; almost exactly like the icy ecstasy of spilling blood to empower Chess, another nahuatl epiphany boiling out of him. Except this one was . . . sharper, more controlled: a lasso tightening on his brain, rather than a gush spilling outward.

  All of the above came in half an instant — joined, in the next, by a presence so startling it left no room even for joy.

  Ed — it’s Yancey! We found him, Ed; we got him! An image followed here, stamped on his brain like some instantaneous tintype: hollow, insubstantial, yet indisputably the face of the real Chess Pargeter, alive with whatever the Enemy so viciously lacked. We’re at Old Woman Butte, in Chaco Canyon — a greyish flat-sided sandstone tower, rearing above the desert — get here, soon as you can! Please, Ed. Pl —

  With a whipcrack of pain, the connection snapped; Morrow cried out, staggering back onto Carver’s supporting arm again, as Berta and Eulie gaped. “Jesus, Ed!” Carver exclaimed. “The hell was that?”

  “Message,” Morrow gasped. “From — a friend.” He paused, wondering how to explain, and lost his chance almost immediately — for just then, Eulie glanced up and shrieked, eyes bugging. Morrow and Carver whirled together to see Ixchel and Clo descending on them without much speed — why bother hurrying, with nowhere for the four to flee?

  Briefly, Morrow wondered if they’d somehow sensed Yancey’s calling, or if that coincidence was sheer fluke.

  Didn’t matter either way, he supposed, and shifted his grip to his empty shotgun’s barrel, raising the stock like a club.

  For a moment, he thought the boom that echoed out ’cross the plains was more thunder, another hexacious levinbolt called forth to fry them where they stood. But a second later, as the sadly familiar whistling roar of incoming mortar fire ripped across the sky, Morrow understood his own error.

  “Down!” he yelled, grabbed Berta and dove face-first into the dirt, while Carver yanked Eulie down likewise. Above, Ixchel and Clo actually drew up, revolving one scant moment before the projectile struck. The shell burst between them with a flare of eldritch, oily light that painted both once-women in stark black silhouette, then shrouded them in colourless fire, evoking a single shared shriek of inhuman pain.

  Ixchel plunged groundward like a dry leaf spit out of an autumn bonfire; Clo rocketed skyward instead, a day-born comet, fiercely trying to extinguish her fire against the wind.

  Out of the dust-fog came an earthshaking roar, and the dust itself roiled apart to reveal somethi
ng Morrow’d as yet only glimpsed in sketches and half-built frameworks: the newest version of Doctor Asbury’s hex-powered “ghost-train,” twice as massive, sporting three armed and armoured cars in a chain — a true Land Ironclad, slabbed in iron plates like Merrimac and Monitor alike, with gun-muzzles thrusting out on all sides. The foremost still smoked, evident source of the missile that had struck down the demon women — a “hex-mine,” Asbury named it. Off the side of the foremost cab, Captain Washford clung to a steel bracket in the open air, sabre drawn and flashing in the murk.

  At impossible speed, the arcanistric behemoth roared across the plain aimed for the fallen Moon-Lady, only to collide with Clo as she streaked down upon it out of the heavens, still ablaze like Lucifer: Struck the roof and bounced off, a stray firework scraping ’gainst stone, then arced smoothly ’round and came back down to land on all fours, clinging. With every star tattooed on her body manifesting seared pinholes of volcanic light, her clawed hands tore at the armour ’til battle-forged steel yielded to alien might — long strips peeled back same as hide would, torn edges glowing red with heat. The ironclad began to weave back and forth, yet maintained speed toward Ixchel, the ceiba forest, the walls of New Aztectlan beyond. More shells burst forth, borne on tongues of fire; explosions inked in unnatural hues of green, blue and purple mushroomed up out of the ceiba trees, setting off chain reaction shockwaves which shattered row after row of those black monstrosities.

  The push’s up and running again, praise Christ, Morrow thought, frankly amazed. As all the while, left writhing on the ground directly in the Ironclad’s path, Ixchel howled fit to burst — so loud it bruised the soul, shook the very dirt they stood on, and almost made it seem like she was about to pry the whole Crack’s lips open using just her voice alone.

  “Goddamn yes!” Carver yelled, dancing like a madman; Morrow didn’t doubt but that he’d have drawn his gun and sprinted to join the attack, had Morrow not seized his arm at the last moment to haul him ’round. Carver glared at him, furiously. “We gotta help him, Ed, for love of all — that’s the Captain out there!”

  “Captain’ll live or die on his own, with nought for us do about it — ’cept fall alongside him, things go bad as they probably will!” Morrow yelled back. “What we gotta do get out of here, soon as we can — find a place, Old Woman Butte, in Chaco County . . .”

  “Shit’d be the point of that, exactly?”

  “’Cause Chess Pargeter is there, the real Chess Pargeter. And if anyone can set this all to rights . . . that’d be him.”

  “Don’t know — ” Carver started, mutinously. But froze a second later as Berta Schemerhorne grabbed him from behind, threading one arm through his quick as any needle, without even a by-your-leave. Her other hand was already twinned with Eulie’s, knuckles locked, while Eulie herself slapped her free palm to Morrow’s forehead.

  “I do,” Berta told Carver, firmly. Then, to Eulie: “You read ’im, sissy. I’ll drive.”

  Aw, shit, Morrow thought, knowing what was coming. Then stiffened again, entranced once more, as the hex-girl sieved his memories with brutal speed, found Yancey’s sending, flung a tendril of power out through the link itself to track its source. He heard Carver’s gasp slide to a retch, poor bastard, and felt for him — with luck, they’d hopefully already be wherever they were going before his spasm had time to bring up more’n bile, though Morrow doubted he’d see that as much of a mercy.

  Got a lot to learn ’bout hexes still, son, even after the last few days — but you will, believe me. ’Specially given who-all we’re on our way to see.

  Thought faded and skipped as time itself seemed to bend, a suture looped and violently pulled between now and yet-to-be. After which — with a crack of torn air, plus a flash of light-in-darkness that folded the world like a poorly-painted scrim —

  — all four of them were gone.

  From the shorthand notes of Fitz Hugh Ludlow:

  As the she-demon rips open the Ironclad’s roof, locks and cables part — the third car is released! It tumbles away, breaking up; passengers and demon-girl go flying — the remaining two cars roar on, Capt. Washford still yelling orders from his mounted perch to crush the fallen Lady — yet all in vain, for the first threat comes once more! Flung high out of the wreck, she lands upon the foremost car, resumes her ravaging — armour plating tears like sodden leather — but the Ironclad bears down still upon “goddess” Ixchel, felled and helpless yet, until —

  Reverend Rook appears by his wife’s side! — a blasphemy, and they are gone! Over the pit where the Lady fell, the Ironclad thunders too late — yet there is still the forest, and the City’s walls — the guns continue firing — can the Ironclad still accomplish victory, before the she-demon guts it from within?

  A great swathe of armour rips back — Washford vaults to the roof, sword in hand, and runs her through! Valiant fellow, a credit to his race — but NO! His blade snaps like green pine, she plunges both claws through his belly — he drives her and himself forward, off the car, down in front of it, to — their deaths? His, at least. Oh, poor Captain Washford!

  Next: a shattering crash! Both Ironclad cars flip up and over, iron dice shook in a box — the Demon kneels, unmoved, where they made impact! To either side beyond her, the cars tumble and roll onward, ceiba trees smashed to dust, gaping paths of ruin — one reaches the City wall itself — IT EXPLODES! A pillar of hellish flame boils up to the sky, sickly-hued — Good God, the screaming can be heard from where I stand —

  — but here hot shrapnel whined by Ludlow’s ear fast enough to sting, slapping him back to himself just in time to realize his danger. No Pinkerton to shield him anymore, no Washford, either — he could not be behind the front line, since that existed no longer. His right hand ached, pencil death-gripped, its point worn almost to wood with the fury of his scribbling, while his other arm burned from holding telescope to eye. Yet even through tear-blurred vision, the last thing he saw through it stayed etched on his sight, a phantom forever threatening to turn real: that thing once known as Clodagh Killeen stalking back out onto the field of battle, hungry for yet more blood, a shard of Captain Washford’s sabre still lodged deep in its midsection like a mis-set unicorn’s horn.

  Ludlow had scribed upon battlefields before, observing close-hand the hell which mere mortals, unassisted, could wreak upon each other; had, on occasion, pronounced — like many an “educated” fool — that Man needed no hexes, devils or angels guiding him to be capable of the greatest good and the greatest evil. As he looked out on this devastation below, however . . . carnage worse than any cannonade; foul-smelling smoke reaching skyward from the ruined plain; unnatural fires burning wild through the ceiba forest; the wrecks of the Ironclad’s cars, still spitting sparks and smoke . . . and, worse than all, the lightning-eyed thing that moved through that ruin like a shark in chummed water, responsible for most of it, Ludlow realized, at last, what self-satisfied hubris his pronouncements had been. A foolish attempt to elevate, or perhaps denigrate, his own species — to place the average person on a level with actual gods and devils.

  With a practised speed learned on those same aforementioned battlefields, Ludlow collapsed and stowed the telescope, then stuffed pad and pencil in his shoulder-bag to scramble down the knoll’s backside. Cold, faintly damp scree skittered under his boots; he let himself slide down and came to a kneeling stop, then rabbited down the small arroyo below. If he remembered right, and his overwhelming terror hadn’t got the absolute best of him, this let out into a small river valley that in turn debouched onto the winding path covering some-odd miles back to Bewelcome.

  From a bank of scrub brush near the arroyo’s far end, however, two strong hands shot up and yanked him hard down, into cover. Ludlow gave out with a choked yell — then relaxed as the owner of those hands came into view before him: Frank Geyer, mud-stained and dusty, but seemingly otherwise uninjured. Doctor Asbury crouched beside, miserable-looking, though at least his eyes were clear. In one hand, he held
a small brass orb, a fob atop whirring as it slowly spun.

  “Half-feared no one had made it out but myself,” Ludlow whispered. “Did you see the end of it?”

  Geyer shook his head. “No need to,” he said. “Couldn’t’ve gone well regardless, and I can only s’pose it didn’t. Now stay still, and listen.”

  Ludlow frowned. Something seemed off about Geyer’s voice; his own too, now he thought on it. As though they spoke in a stuffy, closed room — and the light ’round them lay far gloomier than it should, for what little cover they had.

  “Sounds odd, don’t it?” Geyer explained, noticing his reaction. “You can thank the Doc here for that — it’s some sort of ‘suppressor,’ a hex-powered camouflage blind, for intelligence work. Upshot is, long’s we keep quiet and don’t move, he guarantees we won’t be found, ’less some poor bastard trips right over us.”

  “‘Found’? But who’s there left to fear would — ?” Ludlow began, then stopped. For something was approaching, from nearer than was comfortable and damned quick, to boot.

  Though he’d previously thought the dim rumbling he’d been hearing some mere after-echo of the battle’s chaos, now — as it grew ever louder, ever more rhythmic — he suddenly knew exactly where it was coming from, and cringed farther back under Asbury’s tenuous magical cover. Again, Geyer signalled him to keep his mouth shut, and he obliged, gladly.

  In silence, the three of them watched the long-predicted Mexican battalion’s first outriders move past the arroyo mouth, mounting toward the plain. A sea of red, white and green Mexican flags, Habsburg’s gold-crowned eagle and black griffins prominent in its centre, waved from bayonet blades atop rifles proudly held erect by red-coated cavalry officers; infantry in paler blue coats followed behind, fusiliers marching with rifles over shoulders. All the men wore broad-brimmed black hats, while a few of the officers sported tall beaver-helms good enough for any Beefeater in London.

  Some of them were Carlotta colonists, Ludlow had no doubt — fled seceshes in favour of slavery, done up in their new country’s finery. But from this distance Mex and American blended all together, and he didn’t exactly feel like taking a closer look, just to find out which was which.