The Third God

by Ricardo Pinto

  His heart leapt, forcing him to recoil back into his chair. ‘Send her forward.’

  He felt his Lefthand stirring. ‘Master?’

  ‘South along the road!’ he barked. ‘Fast as she can go.’

  Down the road thundered Earth-is-Strong. High in her tower sat Carnelian, unable to take his eyes from the ragged wave of dust rolling south away from him and that the low moon was lighting into a silver swell. That dust had risen only a few moments before and confirmed what he had feared. A battleline of dragons advancing southwards. His reaction had been to instruct his Righthand to have the flame-pipes lit. Even now the clink of the furnace men at work was being transmitted up to his cabin through the bone fabric of the tower.

  ‘Master?’

  Carnelian resented the intrusion by his Lefthand. ‘Well?’

  ‘Master, the lookout reports a message being sent from the tower we just passed.’

  Carnelian had forgotten his mission. ‘North,’ he said, resignedly. ‘North to Osrakum.’

  ‘South, my Master.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Carnelian asked, incredulous. He craned round to peer through one of the rear portholes, but could see no light. He straightened. ‘Check it was definitely south.’

  ‘Master,’ the Lefthand said and, leaning into his voice fork, began muttering. The man soon had a reply. ‘South, Master.’

  Carnelian fixed the dust wave with a baleful eye. Was the tower sending some prearranged signal to whoever it was commanding those dragons? He tried to work out what infernal trap he and Osidian had fallen into, but could form no shape of it in his mind.

  He was weary from anxiety. Three more times his Lefthand had informed him their lookout had seen the watch-tower behind them attempt to send a message south. All that time Carnelian had kept the tower ahead under his scrutiny. The orbits of his eyes ached, but he was certain it had signalled no acknowledgement. At least that part of their plan seemed to have succeeded. Osidian must have gained control of his tower.

  The dust wave he was pursuing had, for a moment, submerged the watch-tower up to its waist. As the dust subsided the watch-tower seemed to have swollen larger. Periodically, he wrenched his gaze from the wave to the tower, measuring his progress by its increasing size. He feared he was only imagining he was closing on the enemy dragons. He would have urged Earth-is-Strong to even greater speed, but a peculiar irregularity in the shuddering of the command chair betrayed her fatigue. He did not know how much more the monster had in her, but he dare not let her slacken her pace.

  Sniffing the air as best he could through the nosepads of his mask he became aware of a stronger reek of naphtha in the rush of air that was pouring into the cabin. The moon was finding dark shapes lumbering in the veiling dust. Dragons. If their pipes were lit they must indeed be pursuing some quarry.

  The cabin came abreast of the watch-tower and still the enemy line seemed far away, but, gripping the arms of his chair, he was finding it easier to convince himself he was closing on them.

  ‘The pipes are ready?’ he said, above the clatter of the cabin.

  ‘Yes, Master,’ his Righthand replied.

  Carnelian gazed along the mounding dust and saw how far it extended into the hinterland. His heart sank. What could they hope to do against such a preponderance of force?

  Suddenly he became aware the dust ahead was subsiding. At first he feared that somehow the dragon line was speeding away from him, but the creatures were looming larger, not smaller, their towers emerging frosty in the moonlight, trailing pale banners of smoke.

  ‘They’re slowing,’ he muttered. Then he understood. Fear gripped him. Osidian had been run down. Soon the line would open fire on him. Carnelian’s instinct was to order his own pipes to fire. Even though the flame was not likely to reach his enemy it might distract him. He held back, knowing he probably had but one chance. Also, he could see that the line ahead had slowed so much that, with every passing moment, they were catching up. ‘How long before we are in range?’

  ‘Moments, Master,’ replied his Righthand.

  ‘Tell me when.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  Carnelian waited and with every heartbeat he could make out more of the dragon they were now bearing down on. First the berg of its tower. Then the rump of the dragon upon which it sat. Until even the rigging became distinct, iced by the moon.

  ‘Now, Master,’ said his Righthand.

  Carnelian paused a moment, hardly breathing, one last time seeking to understand. Reluctantly he gave the command. ‘Flame.’

  In the corner of his eye he saw his Righthand put his mouth to his voice fork. The device swallowed his command. Then, nothing. Carnelian was disappointed. Then he felt under his feet a gurgling stutter. Then the rush of fluid through the pipes that could have been his rising blood. Shrieking incandescence spat from the flame-pipes. Fire jetted an arc through the night. That narrow lightning was all he could see. Splashing upon the dragon tower, causing a molten flower to bloom in the night. Flame devoured the charring ivory. Rigging snapped into fiery whiplash. The mast toppled, burning. Fire poured down the dragon’s rump, curling crisping hide, cooking the livid flesh beneath. The monster, shuddering, let forth a scream like scraping brass. It veered away, its tower a bonfire on its back even as Carnelian’s own jets spluttered dry, their brightness dying. His eyes took a moment to see beyond the ghosts he was printing on the night with each blink. Around him the cabin juddered as Earth-is-Strong turned away, stumbling, slowing. He let her go, tracking the other dragon as it burned, trailing sparks and smoke across his vision. Suddenly a flash stabbed him blind. Even as his hands flew up to his eyes a detonation rattled the cabin. He felt heat on his hands and coming through the gold of his mask to his face. A dull, thunderous thud reverberated in his bones. A stench was breaking over him of naphtha and charring flesh. For a moment he feared his hands were on fire, but the heat quickly abated and, when he clasped one with the other, the leather gloves were smooth and there was no pain. He tried peering through the eyeslits of his mask. At first he could make no sense of what he saw. Shadowy miasmas, shifting, gave vague glimpses into a fiery world. Patches of smoulder spotted with fire. At the heart of this a mound veined with melting gold. The dragon, ruptured, fallen, burning.

  MAKAR

  The more intimately one knows a creature,

  the more perfectly one can design a snare to trap it.

  (a precept of the Wise)

  THE ENEMY DRAGONS FLED INTO THE NORTH-WEST. CARNELIAN WATCHED Osidian’s approaching in a ragged line, signals blinking between them, their chimneys beginning to smoke. He was trying to identify which one was Heart-of-Thunder when his Lefthand spoke.

  ‘Master, our lookout claims the third tower to the north has sent an acknowledgement signal.’

  For a moment Carnelian was distracted by the strange quality of the man’s voice. He realized every sound was coming to him as if he had his fingers in his ears. He focused on what the man had said. ‘Which tower?’ he asked, his voice sounding muffled so that it did not seem his own.

  The legionary explained he had been referring to the tower to the north of the one whose gate they had broken down. Carnelian realized the implication. Only a signal it was sending south would have been visible to the lookout. Thus it was an acknowledgement to the tower to its south. The watch-tower he had failed to make secure had finally sent a message northwards. Already it was speeding towards Osrakum faster than an aquar could run and so beyond all catching. Before the end of that day the Wise would know everything that had happened.

  One of Osidian’s dragons was heading straight for Earth-is-Strong. He was certain it was Heart-of-Thunder. He was composing a confession of his failure for transmission when Osidian’s tower began to wink. Carnelian stared at his Lefthand, impatient for the mirrorman above to relay his interpretation of the message. At last his Lefthand spoke. ‘From Heart-of-Thunder, Master. The Legate would like you to meet him for a conference on the ground.’

/>   Carnelian had Earth-is-Strong brought to a halt. For some moments he watched Heart-of-Thunder easing towards them like a baran. Then, with a glance past the burning dragon to assure himself the enemy was still moving away, Carnelian bade his Righthand dowse the flame-pipes, then he rose and moved towards the ladder.

  A dark figure appeared beneath the arch of Heart-of-Thunder’s belly accompanied by two men who seemed, by comparison, to be children. Carnelian recognized Osidian’s gait. ‘Are we safe from those huimur, my Lord?’

  Osidian came closer before he answered. ‘I believe our friend the Great Lord is in full retreat.’

  Carnelian knew to whom he referred and realized Osidian did not want to use his name. Their marumaga officers might not understand Quya, but the name Aurum was the same in both their languages.

  ‘Are you sure it is he?’

  Osidian gestured for his officers to wait for him, then indicated the smouldering mound of the fallen dragon to Carnelian and, together, they walked towards it. ‘Who else could it be?’ he said, not turning his head.

  Carnelian had no alternative to offer, but he found this flight untypical of the Lord he knew. ‘Why does he retreat?’

  Osidian swirled his hand. ‘Possibly he seeks to regroup. Your attack must have come as a nasty surprise to him.’

  Carnelian was unconvinced. ‘Still, he had your whole line at the mercy of his pipes.’

  Osidian half turned to him, then away. ‘A reaction to the shock of the explosion, perhaps . . .’

  Carnelian eyed the dragon corpse. The smell of its charring flesh was drifting on the air. ‘Perhaps . . .’ Doubt nagged him.

  ‘You failed to take your tower.’

  ‘I saw Aurum bearing down on you. Would you rather I had let him torch you?’

  Osidian turned, lifting his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘I am not accusing you, Carnelian. Even with your intervention, I had only just managed to turn my huimur. Less than half had managed to light their pipes. Even those were not ready to fire.’ He paused and his head sank a little. ‘Had you not slowed him with your attack, I would have been overwhelmed . . .’

  Carnelian sensed how hard it had been for Osidian to admit his debt to him. It was as close as Osidian would come to saying thank you. The nagging doubt emerged into Carnelian’s mind as a clear realization. ‘He was slowing before he knew I was there.’

  Osidian stopped in mid stride. ‘You cannot be sure he did not see you.’

  ‘His whole line stopped.’

  Osidian began a protest, but then understood. ‘He sent no signals.’

  ‘Though he may have seen me approaching, do you believe it possible his whole line should have done so and at one and the same time?’

  ‘What other explanation do you have?’

  ‘It was prearranged.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Carnelian squinted at the burning dragon. He was shaking his head. It came to him. ‘He wished to give you time to light your pipes. So that—’

  ‘So that I could repulse him! But why? Why set an ambush, then allow yourself to be defeated?’

  Carnelian tried, but failed to work it out. This behaviour, though still uncharacteristic of Aurum, was now more believable. ‘The trap he has set for us must be more subtle.’

  Both pondered this further as they came as close as they could bear to the dragon corpse. That burning hill seemed too vast to have ever been a living being. Rather it seemed an outgrowing of the earth itself, an abscess ripe to bursting. Carnelian was not sure whether it was this sight, the stench of cooking meat and blood, or unease that was making him queasy. ‘There is something else I do not understand.’

  Osidian turned to him, his mask reflecting the gory mess. For a moment Carnelian was mesmerized by that strange and lurid face that once again seemed to have come from his dreams.

  ‘What?’ the apparition said.

  The sound of Osidian’s voice jolted Carnelian. He marshalled his thoughts. ‘Before sending a message north the tower made several attempts to communicate south.’

  ‘You are certain it did not first send one to Osrakum?’

  Carnelian could hear the unease in Osidian’s voice. ‘Quite certain.’

  Both turned to look at where Makar was an encrustation on the edge of the land.

  ‘What could be there?’ muttered Osidian almost inaudibly.

  ‘Or who?’ said Carnelian.

  Osidian dismissed the city with a gesture as if he was trying to wipe it from the earth. ‘Perhaps the tower was responding to some earlier command of Aurum’s.’ He indicated the nearest tower with a contemptuous hand. ‘The creatures who operate these are slavish to their instructions.’

  Carnelian sensed Osidian’s conviction was hollow. A drumming in the ground alerted them to a rider approaching. An Oracle, by his robes. The man pulled the aquar up and quickly dismounted. By his movements it was recognizably Morunasa.

  ‘Why have you come?’ Osidian demanded. ‘I commanded you to hold the tower.’

  ‘I thought my Master would want to know that the tower further to the north—’ Morunasa glanced at Carnelian as if to accuse him. ‘It sent an alert to us, not once, but four times.’

  ‘We knew this,’ Osidian said in a cold voice. ‘I hope you have come to tell me what the message said.’

  Morunasa frowned. ‘There were none in the tower who could tell me.’

  Osidian angled his head in irritation.

  ‘When we arrived there we found all the silver masks already dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Osidian sounded increasingly exasperated.

  ‘How did they die, Morunasa?’ Carnelian asked.

  The Oracle turned on him his baleful eyes. ‘I don’t know, Master.’

  ‘Were their bodies marked?’

  Morunasa glared at him, then, slowly, shook his head. Carnelian and Osidian turned to each other. Carnelian knew they were both thinking of the quaestor in Qunoth. For some reason, rather than be captured, it seemed probable the ammonites had taken their own lives with poison. Both turned the sequence of events over in their minds. At last Carnelian admitted he was at a loss. Osidian did not seem any more enlightened.

  ‘What now?’ Carnelian asked.

  ‘With him out there we dare not leave ourselves unprotected. I shall have to remain here with the legion.’

  Carnelian noticed Osidian glancing towards the nearest tower. ‘I will help you find out what has been going on in the towers.’

  Osidian shook his head. ‘I need you to secure the city.’ He must have sensed Carnelian’s reluctance because he added: ‘We need its fortress as a base.’

  ‘What force shall I take with me?’

  ‘Your own huimur and as many Marula as I can spare.’

  Carnelian considered protesting that they did not know what awaited him in Makar, but realized they dare not further diminish Osidian’s strength in case Aurum should return.

  ‘Take Morunasa,’ Osidian said. He turned to the Oracle. ‘Obey Master Carnelian as you do me.’

  The black man glared at him.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Osidian said, an edge in his voice.

  Morunasa gave a reluctant nod. ‘As you command.’

  Carnelian gazed in the direction of the city, then back at Osidian. ‘What shall I do once I have the fortress?’

  ‘Send me enough render to feed my huimur.’

  ‘Very well,’ Carnelian said. He began walking back towards Earth-is-Strong. He stopped and turned. ‘Be careful.’

  Osidian gave a nod. Carnelian resumed his journey towards his dragon and could hear Morunasa’s footfalls following him.

  An umber stain on the horizon, Makar lay at the convergence of many gullies as if a fist, punching down from the sky, had shattered the land around it as if it were glass. In Earth-is-Strong’s tower Carnelian felt that, vast as she was, even she was too small a thing to take on such a city. From his vantage point he was able to see the cobbles of the leftway slipping by and kept e
xpecting to see a courier flash past to warn the city. Earlier he had stood looking back through the smoke his chimneys were trailing. He had quickly lost sight of Osidian and their legion. Only a haze indicated where the fallen dragon still smouldered. Of Aurum there was no sign. He was Osidian’s problem now. In his bones Carnelian had a feeling he would soon have problems of his own to deal with.

  From where the road crossed the outer ditch of the city, flat roofs of beaten mud spread away on either side like scales. Those close enough for him to see were crowded with jars and earthenware pots planted with small trees and shrubs. Washing fluttering on lines seemed drab flags. Crude tables and chests sat upon burnished earth floors spread with rugs woven from rushes. Each roof was a small world, giving down into chambers where people lived. He tried to imagine what those lives were like. Simple, no doubt, but though he would not pretend to know anything about such people, a part of him envied them.

  The empty road before him was headache bright. Dry, pale, peeling walls banked its gleaming river, pierced here and there by the tributaries of alleyways. Doors and windows were shuttered closed as if against a storm. He searched away from the road across the rooftops and there, at last, he saw some people. They were peering at him over wicker partitions, round urns and leather curtains. Seeing those few enabled him to spot more. Everywhere there were small dark heads. Shocked, he became aware a multitude was watching him pass. He felt an urge to wave, to show he meant them no harm. He could see himself doing that. He imagined them coming into the open and waving back. Foolishness. He was a Master concealed within a dragon tower. The naphtha smoke twisting its black banners into the breeze was a sign of the fiery holocaust at his command. Any glimpse of him could bring only terror. He gave a snort that caused his officers’ faces to turn up to him. Waiting for his commands they did not blink. What did he want? For all of these poor creatures to like him? For them to be warmed by his condescension?