by Lee Bond
"What might that be, milady?"
"Why be afraid?"
The question was delivered so simply, so without equivocation or accusation that it drew Ragar up short. He opened his mouth to answer 'because', but his tongue could find no words.
Ultimately, he did find something to say, and the words tumbled lamely from his lips. "We must be. We have always been."
"But why?" Mirabelle pressed stridently. "Why be afraid of summat that comes wi'out warning and does what it does when there's nowt method of stopping it, or the damage it does when it's here? It is this giant, lumbering thing. You cannot be free from it. So why fear it?"
Just as Ragar didn’t like talking about his not-so-secret inner fear about The Dark Age, he knew there wasn’t very much he could do to dissuade Lady Mirabelle from pressing the point. She’d never experienced one. Well, neither had he, but … Dark Age fear was a real, legitimate thing that was passed down through the family. Everyone alive today had someone in their family who’d endured the horrors and trials that exploded onto the scene when everything stopped working properly.
“You wouldn’t understand.” Ragar said at last, feeling lame. It was the excuse an adult used for a child. He began furtively praying that Mirabelle didn’t take the comment as an insult. Her bone white limbs moved faster than the eye could see. They might be on good speaking terms right now, but he’d be dead before he knew the situation ‘tween them had changed.
“Towards the end,” Mirabelle spoke softly, gently, her voice carrying no further than Ragar’s ears, “When our Mad Gothic King Barnabas Blake did rise up against his natural successor, the valiant and merciful Garth N’Chalez, he did draw upon the fullness of his power, Master Ragar, in ways we had never witnessed ‘ere that moment. He caused simulacra of himself, thrice the size of all others any Golem or gearhead had ever fought, to rise up out of the very earth, and with their birth, came the destruction of the land for many miles. These metallic beasts screamed and screamed as they rained fire and devastation in all directions, but this weren’t enough to deter the Rightful King from his course of action. Garth N’Chalez himself stole the body of one of those massive metal men and disappeared into the rising light, but only after doing his best to spare those who remained alive in Ickford.
That were strike one ‘gainst Rightful King.” Mirabelle still remembered watching the very land disappear with each fateful stab of dark lightning, King’s Own rage slamming into ancient earth to eat up every last scrap o’ it. “From there, our Old King did worse still, Master Ragar. Lightning the likes of which I had never seen in my long, wretched life lit down, erasing soil and rock and trees and men and houses and any babbies as might remain. Et them whole, leaving nowt behind but a kind of hungry darkness that et all as fell down and down. From that material, Mad Goth King Blake caused fiends and foulness to stride, e’er pushing our soon-to-be King forward. I stood and watched, Ragar, terrified to do anything other, stood and watched as two Gods did battle, saw the last of my world obliterated. Drained away. Sucked into nothingness.
And then I did see it reborn, given new life, new hope, new chance, all by King N’Chalez’ will. He did return Arcadia unto the way it had been once upon a time before your kind walked the stars. So, friend, when I say, ‘do not be afraid of that which you cannot see or stop’, I speak from a place of personal experience. At least here, in the Outside, not all is destroyed. Not all is lost. We are all survivors, hey? Instead of focusing on the Age that comes, the Age that will throw you into darkness, focus on the time after. Focus on readying yourself, if you dare, and instead of cowering as I did, Master Ragar, rise up. Rise up into the darkness and help forge the way for those who would step into the light after you are gone from this earth.”
Tears sprang into Ragar’s eyes then, and chills flowed up his arms and across his back. Powerful waves of regret and sorrow and so many other things flowed from Mirabelle to him that he was barely even aware of his feet moving on the ferrocrete. He could literally feel those dying moments in Arcadia, could somehow hear those bleak lightning strikes stealing away the only world she’d ever known. His eyes focused on a point further ahead, not trusting himself to do anything more complex than aim for it as he thought feverishly on Mirabelle’s impassioned speech.
Was she right? Was it that simple? Surely others had thought these thoughts before, right? Not every man, not every woman, perhaps, but enough. Could Dark Age malady just be … turned off? Ignored?
It felt wrong, but Mirabelle’s words hammered into him again and again, the soft whispers of her queer Arcadian accent gaining strength each time. Why be afraid of something you cannot stop? Was he afraid of his eventual death, for that was surely a thing coming, possibly quite sooner rather than later?
Ragar turned that notion over inside. No. There was no fear of death. He’d seen most of his entire family die, had mourned and grieved, and at the end of it, he’d understood quite easily that death came to everyone in the entire Universe. Death was just as unavoidable as a Dark Age.
Why embrace one, but fear the other? They were both there, in the wings, waiting to swoop down.
So he would try being unafraid of the Age to come. The idea of paving the way for those who came after him, for those who would be lucky enough to step into the light … it resonated inside him, deep down, in the bones.
It were well glorious.
“Thank you milady.” Ragar bowed deeply. “I think you have given me a greater gift than you can know.”
A faint smile crossed Mirabelle’s lips, and the seepage from her eye cracked and ran loose once more. Who was she, to give hope to an Outsider, even one as friendly as Ragar? They were all going to die. Except her, of course. She were an Obsidian Golem on the Outside, out of reach of anything as could bring her harm. Nowt in the Outside had been built with King’s Will, and she reckoned King Nickels were off doing whatever it was as needed doing, so there weren’t overmuch to plague her mind.
The Lady of the Weeping Eye made to say something innocuous, to perhaps turn their heavy conversation to something lighter when a wink of light high and far away caught her one good eye. “Ragar. What think you is that, there? ‘pon the ceiling o’ this place?”
Ragar followed Mirabelle’s ghostly finger until he, too, spied the light. “Can’t be the lights coming on … we’ve been severed from the main power grid and any remaining juice is being squirrel… oh. Oh. Oh no.”
Ragar stopped where he was and spun in a loose circle. There. Another, and another. He counted five glimmers of light that very quickly erupted into smartly burning beams of raw power before –just as quickly- disappearing, leaving nothing to prove that there’d been anything at all save burning tracers of light that made the eyes hurt. Behind him and Mirabelle, the thousand-strong crew made noises that were a mixture of triumphant and fearful.
The Golem walked to where Ragar stood, questions flying from her. “What were those things? Why do some of your Outsiders sound joyous whilst others are filled wi’ fear?”
How to even explain Enforcers to someone who'd never even heard of them before? Ragar fumbled for words that might make sense to Mirabelle when he realized he didn't need to. "On the Inside," how easy it was to use the Lady's words as his own, "did your King have his own people? Men to invoke his Law when he were busy doing summat else?"
Mirabelle nodded, watching on as five new beads of light erupted in the same place as before, though this time down t’the ground. Whoever Enforcers were, they weren't interested in anyone on this level, which said to her that they were here for Book. "Aye. They was called Gearmen. Hard men wearing suits made from King's Will and bearing weapons that were instant death or worse should King demand it. Beyond that, there were others as well, calling themselves Brigadiers, and they carried with them a kernel of King's Own Will wi' 'em. Whatever they willed could be brought forth, though not as forceful as Barnabas Blake himself. They did ride the land, dispensing things called justice and mercy, though at times
it were well difficult to tell the difference 'tween mercy and cruelty."
"Enforcers be a combination, then, of the two." Ragar caught the speculative look in Mirabelle's eye and nodded. "Aye. In the Outside, they're referred to as Trinity's punitive fist. Wherever they go, destruction follows. They have leave to do as they see fit. They don't show up for anything small, neither, my lady. And when they are done, 'tis rare for the world 'pon which they landed to remain in one piece."
"Sounds exactly like a Brigadier." Mirabelle said moodily. E'en before she'd become a Golem, she'd never had a good feeling about those jumped up men and women as dandied about in Arcadia proper, acting better than all else 'neath The Dome. And after becoming someone out of their reach, she'd had plenty of opportunities to behold their handiwork. "So why then do some of these people look hopeful at their presence if all an Enforcer means is death?"
"Mayhap they think they're here to bring the Stack back online." Ragar watched the milling crowd for a second, and was gratified to see that some of them as were hoping to see the Enforcers save them all realize they were gone already into the lower levels. "But they hain't taking into consideration…"
"Me and the other Arcadians elsewhere in this Stack." Mirabelle had spent long moments during this trek of hers -of theirs- considering the nature the other Arcadians may have undertaken since being brought to this strange world of Zanzibar. She knew she was different e'en more than before The Dome had fallen, so then the others must've undergone changes as well, hey?
"Are you all really that bad?" Ragar wondered aloud. For all her violence and oddness, Mirabelle didn't seem so terrible.
"We are a race bred for war, Master Ragar, from birth to death and rebirth through Dark Iron. E'en those who never raised a hand 'gainst Big Kings or any other of the King's menagerie have in them stock from warriors and soldiers. Violence and all associated wi' it is all we know. The four of us are prime examples of the best and worst, jumbled together." Mirabelle trudged ever forward. The elevator was close now, close enough for them as were guarding it to see the approach of the crowd. "So aye. Our presence here warrant's Trinity best and worst as well. If we Arcadians do not kill each other in pursuit of Book, then we can only hope that the Enforcers do us in. Now. Bid the others behind us to stand still whilst I deal with them as guard this ellyvator."
Ragar dipped his head at the command and turned to deal with the growing Clan of the Weeping Eye while Lady Mirabelle found it inside herself to do those things she did not want to do any longer.
***
Mirabelle moved slowly towards the heavily barricaded front entrance to the elevator, neither warily nor boldly; whosoever stood guard over this place either would or would not open the doors and let her people through and down. Each choice available to them had their specific consequences.
She was more than willing to follow whichever path she was set on.
A harsh stab of light flared down upon her from on high, so brilliant and white that it looked to her -as she held a hand up to shield her eyes from it- that she glowed in the dark.
"Who goes there?" A voice demanded loudly.
The question tickled Mirabelle. 'twere almost as if she were back to home, 'neath The Dome, and it weren't soldiers or guards asking the question, but scared old men hoping their Estate would be standing 'ere the morn came.
But she was no Agnethea, to tilt her head back and let the amusement out. So she stood plainly, and answered. "I am Mirabelle, the Lady of the Weeping Eye. Me and mine seek ingress so that we might continue our journey downwards. Will you abide by my request, or shall we …"
The moment her name reached the ears of those men who remained hidden from sight, it was almost as if a fire had been set 'neath their feet. Though the walls were high and thick, Mirabelle felt the scurrying movement wash across her skin. Men -a dozen or e'en more, perhaps, it were hard to tell- hurrying this way and that, preparing themselves for her particular brand mayhem.
"'tis to be the hard path, then. I shall allow it." Mirabelle squared herself off and did her own preparations, which were more mental than physical; she were an unstoppable object, but there were still the promise she'd made to King N'Chalez concerning no violence to work through. How would he feel, with one of his running amok?
The doors opened with a harsh grating sound, metal against metal, filling the air with high-pitched squeals that no doubt had anyone in earshot worried and afeared for their lives. Assuming, of course, they'd gotten over the terror of being witness to five Enforcers burning their way through the level wi'out so much as a by your leave.
Mirabelle raised her arms and made fists with her unstoppable hands. "Come on then, boys, let's have this done and over wi' as quick as quick can, hey? I do think I'm on a timetable 'ere the Enforcers arrived, though Old Man Chevy hain't on the scene quite yet. I shall try to be less bloody this time 'round, as I've got a whole damnable village on my heels now. Too many gentle souls for such carnage, isn't it just?"
Weren't ten but thirty, weren't soldiers or guards but them as were like gearheads, though wi'out Dark Iron, what had Ragar called 'em? Gangers? Summat like that. They carried many weapons, were dressed raggedly but had the look of resolve in their eyes as said they were more than ready to use what they bore on their backs or in their hands.
"Are you her?"
Mirabelle recognized the voice as the same from the loudspeaking machine. This time, the question made no sense. "Am I 'her' who, exactly, hey?"
This were a strangeness, yet summat suggested she play it through rather than fly through them, a bonewhite blur gradually becoming soaked in blood.
"The one from the other level, the one who killed all our brothers save the one calling himself Punch now." A man stepped forward through the crowd, better dressed than his brethren. "The one who set him free to warn the others."
Ah. She should've known. She'd let the other ganger go for no particular reason other than she'd grown suddenly tired of killing. Her admonition that he warn others of his ilk of her coming and of her intentions had been even greater whimsy.
She stood her ground, tilted her head back boldly so they could see her ruination that much easier. "I am. I am she. What of it?"
"We've been waiting for you." Marshak stepped forward again and nearly soiled himself when the Lady of the Weeping Eye was before him, slender hand grasping his throat with strength that would've -were he not being choked- stolen his breath away.
"Caution, ganger. We are speaking so peacefully here and now. Do not ruin the moment. Being covered in the blood of Man hain't something I'm particularly fond of."
Lights popping in his skull, Marshak reached gingerly up to his shirt and pulled it off to one side, revealing the crudely inked eye tattooed into his chest just below the sternum. Endless tears dripped from the corner, and if you looked close and careful enough, the ghostly visage of a skull could just barely be seen.
"What foolishness is this?" Mirabelle demanded, amazed. She let the ganger down and stared more closely at the ink on his skin. "'tis the rendering of my bad eye, the permanent memory of ill deeds that need repayment. Why then do you wear it 'pon you? 'tis not your burden."
It was hard to miss the radiant hostility percolating just beneath the pale woman's nearly translucent-seeming skin, or the effort she was spending in not pulling them all to pieces as she'd already done at least once. Marshak probed his throat for signs of injury. Nothing obvious, but he was willing to bet cold hard cash he'd be black and blue around there before too much longer.
"That's just it, Lady of the Weeping Eye." Marshak threw his hand at the men arrayed behind him. "We all wear it now, for the same reason. We are all bad men. The worst. We're guilty of heinous things…"
"I was part of a group of Golems, stranger, who kidnapped children 'tween the ages of four and ten, for the sole purpose of experimentation. Those who died -and there were thousands- did so twisted, blackened and turned into cruel ash. The one that survived then began a pogrom 'g
ainst our own kind and spoke of genocide for all others." Mirabelle smiled again, this time cruelly, at the sudden, sick apprehension crossing the man's face as he realized she weren't spinning tales. She caressed her injury, stomach curling at the queer stickiness of the goo flowing from the damaged eye. "'tis but one of many reasons I remain unhealed. Do your crimes equal mine, then, in any way?"
Marshak refused to be dismissed. "Probably not, no. At least, not in the same way. We hear you’re one of them Arcadians, though not like the wardogs we seen from around the way. So maybe for you, your crimes underneath that weird Dome are worse. But for us, we realize ours … we seek redemption. When you spared Little Syx, let him go, told him to warn the rest of us you were on your way and to stay hidden, he spoke about you. Your anger. Your majestic fury. Your pristine white skin, run red with blood. And the reasons why."
"You speak more clearly than most in this place, stranger."
"Signs of a misspent youth." Marshak flicked a smile.
"Your elocution doesn't explain the ink."
The message was loud and clear: speak plainly or die.
"Understand, Lady, on a regular day in Stack 17, the death of an innocent doesn't bring anything except maybe a shrug of the shoulders and a complacent 'oh well, this is the way the world is'." White showed in the corner of the Lady's eye at the statement, so Marshak kept speaking before she could announce his death. "But today isn't an ordinary day, is it? A bone colored goddess in white robes and with half a face murdered and tortured all but one responsible for the death of that child. And we all thought 'we could kill her. We can do it'. But then I thought…"
"And who are you? Precisely?"
"Marshak. Once high and mighty like many, but fallen low enough because I have darkness inside me." Marshak dipped his head. "As I was saying. I thought … Syx has been given another chance, he has seen a thing we cannot imagine, his eyes and his voice betray no lie. This is real. This is coming our way. And it was decided."
