by Lee Bond
Through it all, Living Armor did continue singing the childhood lullaby, the sound growing weaker and weaker as more and more of itself turned to gray ash that floated away into the sky.
O’er time, and o’er exposure of watching things die, either by your hand or by the hand of fate, you gained a sixth sense as to when the end were finally coming, and as the lyrics flowing from the armor turned into nowt but a child’s whisper, Dom pursed his lips in disappointment.
“Were rather lookin’ forward to puttin’ you down my own self.” Dom admitted to the dying armor. “Still and all, I reckon I can’t be too mad at your old friend up there in the sky for doin’ the job for me. After all…”
“Will I dream?” The voice … the question … it were soft and gentle, almost a sigh issuing forth from the cracked-wide helmet.
“I’m sorry, wot?” The genuine question, laden with emotion Dom were certain summat like this weren’t supposed to possess, put a real thrill of weirdness through the Arcadian. ‘twere like hearing a dead man ask the same question, risen back into the light for just a moment, the last shreds of his soul suddenly terrified to go into that darkness wi’out first knowing what waited on t’other side.
‘gainst better judgment, and terribly mindful of the angry beam –and the even angrier wound on his right shoulder, which were going to need looking at sooner, rather than later- Dom stepped forward, injury throbbing in recognition of it’s source.
Catching a few drifts of gray ash as they flew away, Dom rubbed thumb and forefinger together. The powder were greasy ‘tween his fingers. “So very odd.”
“Will I dream?” Living Armor asked, hopefully for the last time; e’en the source of it’s demise were growing dim now, the dark orange turning darker still and the curious wispy nimbus spiralling for it’s length nowt now but dingy tatters.
“Mate,” Dom leaned forward close as he could, “I were dead once, and when I come back, I earned myself a headful of anger and hate, and the strength to make the world suffer for it. Now, I don’t recollect no dreams, but I do suspect that aye, there were summat like dreams. Now fuck off and die, and if you do return, look for me on the field o’ battle and I’ll send you back down like I were supposed to.”
The beam snapped off so abruptly it left behind a brutal afterimage of itself, a bar so bright that Dom’s eyes ached. The Arcadian inspected the dead armor critically, poking his fingers here, putting them there. Nowt. Everything were dead, no sign at all of the woman as had once piloted the impressive armor.
Nowt but dead ghosts wrapped in ash left to confront poor old Dom.
Yet them little hairs on the back of Dom’s neck were still a'hoppin' to that unseen tune, hey, refilling him wi’ a sense o’ impending doom and this time, he chose to pay particular attention to the warning; his right arm from shoulder down to fingertips were a boiling mess of pain and irritation from that weirdly dull-yet-piercing shaft of light from the heavens and his mind were replaying the scene of Living Armor’s demise as a reminder o’ the true power the armor-wearers possessed.
Aloft in the sky, away from ill humors, the Armored Knave could do for him quite easily.
Dominic Breton, savage Insider, turned to look upwards at the tiny, flitting power armor and held his arms out to the side. If it were his time to go, he would accept it. After all, there weren’t nowt he could possibly do to protect himself from summat like that beam, hey?
One second became ten became fifteen. The wound in his arm grew plaintive at being held in such a manner.
“Well?” Dom demanded of his airborne enemy. “Time to…”
It was then, at that moment, that the cavernous level, all devoid of life save them few as fought to reach Book or struggled to keep Book from being reached did echo with a terrible report sounding as harsh and powerful as a God’s shouted word.
‘twere a racket similar in nature to them five as had swiftly followed Chevy’s rude appearance, but only just; where the quintet had been easily identifiable as shots from some kind of gun or other –after hearing Ickfordian weapons being fired ‘gainst Kingly beasts, you knew near about the sounds of all weapons, regardless of lineage- this burst were like all of the thunder from every strike as ever lanced down from heaven to earth, bundled up in one single strike and let loose.
Up high in the sky, unnamed Armored Knave blew apart at the seams, riotous lightning from said destruction ripping upwards, tearing through the roof of the place and into the level one step above. There was much of this obliteration, funnels and waves of the stuff, erasing everything it came into contact with. Wheresoever ceiling did tumble low to ground, ground gave way like a penny-whore revealing dark secrets, and all, all, tumbled down and down, filling the sky over yonder wi' dust thick as night.
“And there’s yet another thing.” Dom dropped his arms, took a quick peek at the wound and regretting it. The damned beam had gouged a King’s penny-sized divot into the muscle there! As of right that moment, there weren’t nowt that appeared to be affecting movement, but Dom knew that didn’t mean shite. Adrenalin and excitement and Knave’s skyborne destruction had his body literally fizzing and popping.
The moment he cooled down –which weren’t for a while yet, that much he knew for cert- it were likely that the whole arm were going to be down for the count.
But that were then, and this were now, and if Dom recalled correctly, there were one lass left as needed reminding that you simply did not abandon your post.
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…”
The Reluctant Matriarch and the Impertinent Herald
Ragar wasn’t especially happy with the look on Mirabelle’s ever-wounded face. He didn’t know exactly how or why he was becoming so good at determining what lay 'neath the surface of that eternally Weeping Eye, or how he could tell the different types of pain warring against each other in the tatters of flesh over the exposed cheekbone, but he could, and so, Ragar knew he was unhappy with the look of sorrow there.
“What is the matter, milady?” Ragar asked softly, though here, in the noisiest of all elevators, it wasn’t necessary; the noisiest of all the Clan could be stood right there beside him and they’d hear nothing but the clanking, groaning sound of metal on metal that roared around them on all sides.
“’tis nowt, Master Ragar.” Mirabelle replied softly. Though it were anything but nowt. In her mind, the other three Arcadians were near about the same place as she, arranged on the gaming board that was the level they quickly approached. Unseen on this board but nevertheless there all the same were these ‘Enforcers’ spoken of by Marshak, men and women and … and Offworlders … wearing suits of armor so powerful they were –if the warrior’s stories were to be believed- easily the match of Old King Barnabas Blake.
“If I believed all that, milady,” Ragar stepped closer still, nostrils inhaling the curious scent wafting off Lady Mirabelle’s pale skin, “I would not have asked in the first place. You have my ears and if you carry a burden, allow me the pleasure of carrying it for you.”
Mirabelle didn’t know how to put what ailed her into words. Aye, some of what she carried in her sorrowful bosom was in fact directly related to the other Arcadians and the Enforcers that awaited them all ‘ere they departed the elevator. How could it be any other way? None of them as hunted Book knew she’d changed her ways, that witnessing the end of her world and the rebirth of old Arcadia into something new and wondrous had given her the power to be new herself, which meant that nary an Arcadian soul would believe her need for Book outweighed any and all other such reasons.
Truth be told, the Golem weren’t even certain it should matter. They all of them had their own reasons, didn’t they just? Book … that Book in particular … it were what Marshak called a ‘game changer’. Housing as it did all the knowledge and insights of New King Garth Nickels, he or she who held on to it would become as the man himself.
What a prize that would be, hey? Mirabelle could well understand why the others thirsted afte
r it, could e’en imagine the reasons behind their professed need. Her old Queen, Agnethea undoubtedly wanted it because before Nickels had owned it, made it his own, she’d possessed it for centuries, making it –as far as she were concerned- her property. And if there were one thing about Agnethea that any lad or lass needed to know, it was that if she decided summat were hers, it would be hers. Regardless of methods needed to gain it, or of how long it took.
Poor old Dominic Breton, golden-haired boy and so full of desperate need to impress garrulous Chevril Pointillier, him they all called ‘Pointer’ … he no doubt wanted Book because it were a way –no matter he might claim otherwise- to step out from behind the other man’s shadow. That, and of course the man’s claims to intellect beyond his years would have him slavering at the chance to see and learn all that King Nickels had ever known. Yet … something in Mirabelle whispered that young Dom’s reasons for wanting the tome might be different than all that, and of that unspoken-of difference, it were paramount he set no foot near't. No matter. He wanted it, so he needed to be stopped.
Then there were Master Chevril Pointillier himself. Not for the first time and certainly nowt for the last, Mirabelle, Lady of the Weeping Eye found herself wondering if any of that man’s friends and colleagues had e’er learnt the truth about him, and if they had, what’d arisen from that revelation. Certainly Dom knew nothing, else his attitude towards the end of Arcadia’s life would’ve been much improved. Now she were older and much wiser, Mirabelle supposed she could find it within herself to be pleased wi’ how old Master Pointer had dealt with her kind and all the beasts and monsters o’ King’s Domed World; where most Gearmen would simply start splashing about, the grizzled and gushing elder man of the cog and crank chose –on most occasions, at any rate- to discover the underlying reasons for ill behavior.
Granted, at the end of that detectiving, most times beasts and Golems and gearheads were still usually splashed because they were fiends and devils to a one, but the effort were still made, and therefore appreciated.
Of all of them, Mirabelle supposed that, were she to lose out, the only one she’d approve of possessing Book were Chevy.
“Milady?” Ragar didn’t like pressing the point, but they were coming close to the end of the road, as they said. Soon enough they’d be out and onto the ground, where –according to the ruffian Marshak and his brood of gangsters turned soldiers- there were not only others of Mirabelle’s kind but Enforcers as well.
They all needed to know what to do, but until then, they needed to know what was on their Lady’s mind.
Mirabelle found her words. “Marshak has spoken to me at length about these armored warriors you all call ‘Enforcers’. Surely they cannot be as powerful as all that.”
Ragar wished down to his weary fat toes that Marshak –who though he were now leader of an army of thugs and thieves carried himself forward as a man who, before falling so low, had been quite … high, figuratively speaking- had kept his damned yapper sealed tight when it’d come down to questions about the Enforcers. No good was coming from that storytelling session.
The old man wished he could simply lie to Mirabelle, to profess that Marshak’s treatment of Trinity’s right-hand warriors was more fiction than fact, more propaganda than proper truth, but he knew two things.
One, he could no more lie to the Lady than he could to himself and two, e’en if he could find the way to lying, she’d know, and her mood swings could see the inside of this elevator freshly painted with his insides.
“It’s as he said, milady.” Ragar caught sight of Marshak moving through the crowd that were his people, whispering words here and there. The ruffian thought he was going to be at the forefront of the conflict once they were set loose, which were a sorely imagined inclination. “Mayhap not as, er, colorful as the man depicts, aye, but close enough. I’ve never seen one, but … we’ve all heard the tales.”
Mirabelle tried imagining someone that powerful, mind's eye swimming with a fantastical mix of summat like old and new King merged with an ordinary-sized Big King. These images clashed back and forth inside of her, mixing her up and filling her stomach with ill ease. "It is amazing to me then, that this ruler you call Trinity is capable of controlling men and women who own such things as these Enforcer Suits."
"It's true all the same." Ragar saw -and felt- that the elevator was grinding to a halt. All around him, the people of the Clan of the Weeping Eye were readying themselves. Marshak's brood were all flashing teeth and wide eyes, and more than a fair share were testing their blades on bare thumbs or priming ill-made handguns. The regular folk were mostly huddled at the back end of the giant elevator car, ever mindful that they were very ill-suited and ill-equipped to deal with anything waiting for them on the other side of the doors.
"I cannot imagine to what purpose these Enforcers would be put to, save destruction, or subjugation." 'neath her feet, the rumbling motors for their elevator car were shutting down now. Soon enough, the battle would be duly engaged and the Golem caught herself wondering -even as Ragar and Marshak eyed her thoughtfully- if she would be up to the task.
Killing ordinary folks here and there were easy enough. 'twere a thing she'd been doing since she'd woken up Golem. Killing Big Kings and the other beasts may not have been as easy for her as it'd been for some others of her kind, but at the end o' the day, she'd always managed to bring about the end of any enemy.
All that were nowt more than a matter of trusting the resilience of her Golemnic flesh.
But these warriors, these Enforcers in their armor and armed with weapons capable of bringing ruination to entire worlds … it did strike her in the belly that she might not be up to the task.
And 'ere she failed, all the people stood around her would be unfair game for anyone, and it did sound to Mirabelle's ears as if Enforcers didn't make much distinction between foe and fool.
And that weren't summat she could handle. Not so soon after choosing to live a different life.
Marshak's deep voice rumbled out of the body of warriors. "Enforcers are Trinity's heavy hitters, milady. They are used explicitly against enemies that offer either too great a challenge to It's regular forces or when the destruction of said enemy would result in too much collateral damage."
"So then." The elevator's heavy engines finally ceased completely, leaving nowt for sound but the quiet whispers of many people in close quarters who were filled with fear. "Should I consider it an honor then that Trinity provides one Enforcer for each of us? That four Arcadians represent a threat so great to this Outside that It treats us like giants?"
Marshak stepped through the crowd to stand beside Ragar. As he did so, he flashed the older man -who was acting as seneschal for the Lady- the briefest of winks. For his efforts, he detected the slightest stiffening. "From the whispers amongst the ranks of those we were forced to crush rather than enjoin, the one you call Dominic Breton is a brutal savage, milady, stronger and faster without implant or augment. Then there is you yourself. I've been around and I've seen a lot, Mirabelle," Ragar stiffened again, but Marshak ignored it this time, "and you … you move faster than possible. Faster than anyone wearing combat armor, faster than anyone full of implants and augment. If two of you are like this, then the other two must be as well. So, in my opinion…"
"Do tell, Master Marshak, so you can draw your chattering to a close." Ragar didn't much care for Marshak and at the particular moment, he didn't give a damn if everyone knew it.
Marshak flashed the irate old man a sly grin and resumed without missing a beat; there was a gleam of interest in Mirabelle's eyes, and that was all that mattered. "I think it's really fucking likely that Trinity has underestimated your threat level."
Mirabelle put a hand on the device that would open the huge doors. "Think you so?" she asked wistfully. "Think you so, truly?"
Marshak nodded, unsurprised that Ragar was nodding along in agreement. "I do, milady. We all do, else we wouldn't be here alongside."
The
doors started rumbling open.
"Let us hope so, Master Marshak." Faint light fell in through the widening crack. "Let us hope so for all our sakes."
***
Abercoign watched the elevator doors grind open slowly, wondering how things were going to play out; from the sounds of things, none of the other Enforcers were having an easy time of things, and they'd only just begun.
"Show me the data again." Abercoign couldn't resist. He'd been through it several times already and no matter how many times he sat through it, he simply couldn't believe his eyes. The 'woman' identified as Mirabelle was a thing of nightmares made flesh, her ruined face a mere reflection of the tempest contained within that innocuous-seeming frame. Her escape from captivity was a thing of swift and certain violence, her eternally seeping eye-wound giving her the appearance of remorse, but Abby had a hard time believing that anyone capable of such ruthlessness could ever feel anything like regret.
These Arcadians were the worst thing Abby had ever seen!
Prior to their arrival in Zanzibar, Enforcers the Universe over had always viewed wardogs as the most dangerous and villainous beings to stroll around as free men, but … they were nothing but pale shadows.
"Thank God there's only four of them." Abby's Suit detected motion on the other side of the doors and began prepping all of it's weapons. They'd tried prying information from the systems on the other levels, hoping to gain more intelligence on the Arcadians, but the alien tech had pulled quite a number on everything.
There was no knowing what lay on the other side.
"One thousand one hundred thirty three individuals have been identified and recorded." Suit whispered into Abby's ears, the HUD quickly flashing through thumbnail pictures of each man, woman and child. Distressingly, the further down the list Suit went, the more frequent and varied the list of crimes became.
