The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  I can’t. Infernivore and the Beast thrashed against each other, and Winter felt as though she were trying to scream above a thunderstorm. I won’t!

  Jane’s voice shifted into the dark tone that was always lurking just beneath the surface. You will.

  Then, crashing down over everything, there was a wave of fear. Not from Jane, or any of the other fragmented personalities trapped in the Beast’s web, but from the creature itself. Its power was flowing into Infernivore, even as it wrapped itself around Winter’s mind. Winter had a sudden vision of the Beast taking her into itself, just as it was itself consumed, the two snakes consuming each other entirely until nothing was left. It would mean utter destruction for the Beast, the end of its thousand-year life. Infernivore and the Beast were too evenly matched, and their fight was spiraling toward mutual annihilation.

  This the Beast would not risk. In the real world, only a fraction of a second had passed. Red abruptly let go and shoved herself between Winter and Jane, pushing them apart and breaking the connection between the demons. In the instant before they were separated, Winter heard a thought/command ripple out from the demon to all its myriad selves—

  Keep Winter alive. Destroy the others.

  —

  “Winter!” someone screamed.

  Winter blinked. She felt as though she were waking from a deep sleep, her mind cold and slow. Someone stood above her—Maxwell?—but her vision was blurred.

  “Don’t get close to her!” the priest said. “The Beast has her now!”

  “No!” Bobby, eyes tightly closed, lifted Red off the ground and threw her across the room. The big sergeant slammed into one of the bookcases, glass shattering, and fell in a heap. “We have to help her!”

  The pontifex stood from behind the desk, moving nimbly for an old man. As he reached up to pull off his black mask, twin spears of darkness flashed out, punching through his chest one below the other. They held him in place for a moment and then withdrew. The leader of the Priests of the Black took a single, wobbling step forward, then collapsed at the foot of his desk, blood gushing from two neat holes. At the same time there was a pistol shot, and Winter saw the young priest who’d been their guide tumble backward down the stairs like a broken toy. Millie tossed her smoking weapon aside, eyes wide.

  Jane. Winter blinked and sat up. Jane lay by the desk, near the pontifex, not obviously hurt but not moving either. Maxwell, at Winter’s side, took a step back and fumbled for a weapon.

  “I’m okay,” Winter said, slurring her words a little. “It’s . . . my demon . . . fought it off. I’m . . . still me.”

  “You can’t trust—”

  Bobby stepped over, grabbed Winter’s arm, and hauled her to her feet. For a moment they were eye to eye, inches apart, and then Bobby turned away.

  “She’s fine,” Bobby said. “But we’re not going to be in a minute. They’re coming.”

  “Coming,” Winter mumbled. “They . . .” She felt herself return to full consciousness, as though she’d suddenly plunged into an ice-water bath. “Oh, fuck. We have to get out of here.”

  “Agreed,” Alex said, her hands still wrapped in black globes.

  “Focus on how,” Bobby said. She put her hands under the desk and, with a grunt, lifted the half-ton mass of ancient wood into the air. Winter hastily cleared out of her way as she took a few shaking steps to the doorway and shoved it through. The desk was nearly as wide as the stairs, and though it didn’t block the way completely, it made a formidable barricade. “We’re not going that way. Listen.”

  The admonition was unnecessary. There were footsteps on the stairs, hundreds of them, a dense crowd pressing toward the top of the tower in eerie, determined silence.

  “Windows, then,” Alex said.

  She ran to the window, with Winter right behind her. Here on the top floor of the tower, they were wide, many-paned things that looked as old as the cathedral itself. They weren’t designed to open, but Alex’s lines of shadow slashed through them, and lead and glass sprayed outward into the night. A gust of cold wind slammed into Winter like a hammer, and the room was suddenly noisy with creaking ropes and snapping flags. The rat’s nest of lines between the tower and its neighbor seemed to fill the world, with the peaked roof of the cathedral itself far, far below.

  “I could get clear,” Alex said. “But my lines aren’t strong enough to carry everybody. We’ll have to use the ropes.”

  “They’re not strong enough, either,” Millie said, poking her head out. “Those are barely more than clotheslines.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Alex said. She leaned out and fired a beam of darkness upward. “Give me a minute.”

  “You may not have that long!” Bobby shouted as Alex swung out the window.

  She had her sword drawn. The first of the attackers had reached the jammed desk, and he scrambled up on it and came forward on all fours without a pause, his eyes glowing a gory crimson. Bobby shut her eyes as he came close and swung, blade catching him just above the ear. A normal person’s swing might have glanced off the skull, but with Bobby’s strength, the man’s head exploded in a shower of bone and brain.

  Two more men in black robes were right behind him, climbing over his body as it twitched in its final convulsions, hands reaching for Bobby. Her wild swing took off an arm at the elbow, but then they were on top of her, grabbing her sword, fingers closing over the blade even as it cut them to the bone.

  Winter glanced across the room to make sure Jane and Red hadn’t moved, then stepped up beside Bobby, drawing her own sword. She slashed down, severing another hand, but by then more black-robed figures were crawling through the doorway, pulling themselves along the maimed, still-struggling bodies below them. One, a heavyset man who might have looked friendly if not for the red light in his eyes, pushed off the one-armed man beneath him and came down on top of Bobby, arms around her shoulders, pressing her down with his bulk. Another man reached for Winter, and she backpedaled and stabbed him through the eye, his body jerking spastically. She spun to help Bobby, but the younger woman was already pushing back to her feet, throwing the heavy man into the ceiling so hard Winter heard the crunch of breaking bone.

  With a creak of straining wood, the pile of attackers pushed forward, even the dead ones. There were more of them behind, Winter realized, shoving on the bodies and the desk together. At the same time, another man slithered through the narrowing gap at the top and threw himself at Bobby, slamming a fist into her stomach. Bobby grunted and brought her hand down on his back, breaking his spine with an audible snap, but his hands still scrabbled at her. She was fighting blind, not daring to open her eyes in the red glare of the Beast’s gaze, and it was a few moments before her groping fingers found his head and tore him away.

  We can’t hold this. Ordinarily, Winter would have considered this an excellent defensive position, with one narrow, half-barricaded doorway. But ordinary defense relied on an enemy who was reluctant to die, and the Beast had a thousand bodies to throw away. Bobby’s strength would keep them back for a while, but even she would tire soon.

  “Alex!” Winter said. “Whatever you’re doing, hurry—”

  The pile of bodies that blocked most of the doorway toppled forward, shoved from behind. Bobby, unable to see it coming, flailed wildly as she was borne down by dead priests, gore spraying wildly. More attackers jumped down from the desk, two burly priests in the lead and then a wild press of flesh—priests, servants, and prisoners, all crammed together in the curving stair leading up to the top floor.

  “Bobby!” Winter hacked and slashed at the mob in front of her but made no progress—for every person she cut down, others circled around, forcing her to give ground or be grabbed from behind. Bobby was invisible, thrashing under a mound of enemies, living and dead.

  Millie, at the window, had her own sword out, but her first cut was tentative, and one of the priests grabbed th
e blade from her hands and wrenched it away. He reached for her with slashed, bleeding fingers, and she screamed and took a step back, onto the windowsill. She kicked her attacker in the face, looked over her shoulder, and jumped.

  “Millie, wait—” Alex’s voice came from outside.

  Maxwell slashed back and forth with his own sword until it was wrenched from his hands. The Beast’s bodies grabbed him, slamming him against the tower wall, arms and legs pinioned. He squeezed his eyes shut, but more hands pawed at his face, prying his eyelids apart as a black-robed figure leaned in close.

  “Help!” The young priest’s voice rose to a terrified squeak. “Winter! Alex! Help, please—”

  His scream died in a strangled gurgle as the red light washed over him. A moment later Alex appeared in the window, trailing a knotted mass of cords wrapped over and around one another. When she saw the swarming, grappling things in the tower, lit by the hellish crimson glow of their own eyes, her face went slack for a moment, and then a wild look came over her. She raised her hands, and the globes of blackness expanded, growing to the size of twin cannonballs.

  Some instinct made Winter throw herself flat. Ropes of darkness burst out from both of Alex’s hands, spearing outward in every direction like the thorns of a cactus. They punched through cloth, flesh, and bone, and wherever they struck they multiplied into smaller bursts of darkness, little balls of black filaments that ripped apart whatever they hit from the inside out. The room was suddenly full of intersecting lines of black, blooming like hideous flowers among sprays of blood and shredded flesh.

  When the lines of darkness vanished an instant later, there was a moment of shocked stillness. Alex took a deep breath, swaying, and Winter forced herself to her feet. She sprinted to the window, boots slipping on flesh and blood, and grabbed Alex just before she toppled backward off the tower. The girl blinked quickly, taking several rapid breaths, and then her eyes regained their focus.

  “Max,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Right here.” Maxwell stood up, shrugging off the limp bodies of the men who’d been holding him. His eyes glowed red. “Come over here, Alex. I had everything wrong. Let me explain.”

  “Oh. Oh, Karis, fucking God, no.” Alex was whimpering. “Please . . .”

  Other figures were rising from the carnage. Winter saw Red, her back studded with bits of broken glass, helping Jane to her feet. All around were dozens of priests and servants, some of them missing limbs or bleeding from long gashes, eyes still glowing maliciously.

  “It’s not so bad,” Maxwell said. “Honestly. I love you, Alex—would I lie to you—”

  Alex surged out of Winter’s grasp, and a line of pure darkness connected her for a moment to the man who’d been her lover. It punched into his skull and out the other side, cracking the stone of the tower wall behind him. The glow in his eyes died, and he fell without another sound.

  The pile of bodies heaved, and Bobby forced her way up, clutching her side. She was covered in blood, as though she’d bathed in the stuff, but her eyes were still firmly closed. She turned in a circle, and Winter screamed her name.

  “Bobby! Over here!”

  Bobby started to run, slipping and stumbling on the bodies. One of the mutilated priests grabbed her, but she shrugged him off and made it to the edge of the room. Winter took her hand, and nearly got her arm ripped off for her trouble before she gasped out a warning.

  “Sorry.” Bobby opened one eye a crack. “You okay?”

  Winter nodded. “We’re getting out of here. Just jump, if you have to.”

  “Use this,” Alex said, handing Winter the knotted cord. “It should take your weight.”

  “And then what?” said Jane, from across the room. “This is Elysium. Where are you going to run?”

  “Go,” Winter told Alex and Bobby.

  Alex swung out the window, hanging from her own line of darkness. Bobby took hold of the knotted cord, hesitated, then stepped out the window. The line creaked under her weight, but held. She gripped it in one hand and stood on the face of the tower, holding out her hand for Winter.

  “You can’t leave me,” Jane said. “Not this time.”

  Winter jumped on the windowsill and took Bobby’s hand. Just as she stepped clear, an arm shot out from the piled bodies at her feet, fastening around her ankle. For a single, teetering moment, she was balanced, pulled into the room by the grip at her feet and away by her grip on Bobby. Then her fingers, coated with blood, slipped from Bobby’s hand. More of the Beast’s bodies were closing in, running frantically to grab her. Winter took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let herself tumble forward.

  —

  There was a moment of free fall.

  Then something hit her around the waist, hard enough to bruise. It was Bobby’s arm—she’d jumped off the tower, one hand extended to catch Winter. Her other hand reached out for one of the spiderweb of thin cords that connected the two towers, which snapped instantly under their combined weight. There was another below it, and another, each supporting them for only a fraction of a second before giving way. Then they were through the web, hurtling toward the slate roof of the cathedral. Bobby curled up, rolling so her body was beneath Winter’s, and then—

  —impact. Winter’s head slammed hard into Bobby’s chest, slate crunching underneath them. The breath was knocked from her body, and for a moment she couldn’t take another. She sat up, gasping, and felt a flaring pain in her arm that turned her vision gray. Her left hand hung at an odd angle, as though an extra joint had been added to the limb, and when she tried to move it, pain and nausea welled up until she vomited.

  When her stomach was empty, she wiped her mouth with her good hand and looked down at Bobby. It was impossible to tell how badly she was injured, since she was absolutely covered in blood, but she wasn’t moving. The worse she was hurt, the longer it usually took her to heal. She saved my life. Jumped off the tower and grabbed me. She looked up at the web of fluttering flags and broken lines, and shuddered.

  Alex landed beside her in a crouch, a line of darkness fading away above her. “Winter? Saints and martyrs, are you alive?”

  “Bobby got underneath me.” Winter clambered unsteadily to her feet, fighting another vision-blurring spike of pain. “She’s not in good shape, and my arm is broken, I think. Help me lift her.”

  “But—”

  “She’ll survive,” Winter said fiercely. “We just need to find somewhere to hide before they catch up.”

  Alex nodded, her eyes wide and face pale. She and Winter hoisted Bobby to her feet, trying to ignore the way her head lolled, and with her limp body hanging between them they started walking. Winter let Alex set the course, concentrating on keeping her footing on the slippery slate and trying not to think about the sick tearing sensations in her left arm every time it moved.

  Another body lay on the slate ahead of them. Millie.

  “She tried to grab one of the lines,” Alex whispered. “But it wouldn’t hold her weight.” There was no need to ask if they should try to help her. Her head was the wrong shape, like a half-deflated balloon.

  Winter lurched under Bobby’s weight when Alex slipped out to open a trapdoor with a muffled snap as one of her shadow lances smashed the lock. Below it was a ladder, leading to a dark, dusty corridor. Alex went down first, and Winter had little choice but to push Bobby over the opening and let her fall through. She herself tried to climb down one-handed, but one of the rungs brushed against her dangling left arm and her vision went gray and spotty again. When it cleared, she found herself on the floor, with Alex underneath her.

  “Sorry,” Winter said. Her head was spinning, and she would have vomited again if there had been anything in her stomach. She swallowed acid and struggled to her feet. “Help me with Bobby.”

  They were in the upper story of the cathedral, a maze of passages and tiny rooms like its counterpart
in Vordan. Winter and Alex stumbled through them at random, dragging Bobby’s limp body. Winter’s only thought was to get away from the trapdoor—it would take the Beast some time to get anyone up to these attics, but it had undoubtedly watched where they’d fallen. After a half dozen identical-looking corridors and random turnings, she picked a room with a particularly dusty door and opened it, careful not to leave obvious streaks in the coating. Inside were stacks of moldering wall hangings, moth-eaten and forgotten. Perfect.

  Winter pushed inside and kicked the door closed behind her. What light filtered beneath it showed only shadowy outlines. She and Alex dragged Bobby to one of the stacks and let her down gently, and then Winter sagged against another.

  A light flared. Alex held a match up to Winter’s face.

  “Don’t,” Winter said. “The light. They’ll see it from the hall.”

  “I just need to do something about your arm,” Alex said. She bit her lip, examining the break. “It looks . . . not too bad. I can get it straightened and tied down.” She shook the match out, lit another, and started rummaging around the room.

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  “Only a little. I learned from Abraham.” Alex shook her head. “Where the hell is he when you need him?”

  “I . . .” Winter swallowed again. “I’m sorry. About Maxwell.”

  “Me too.” Alex’s voice was tight. She lit a third match and knelt by Winter. “Okay. This is probably going to hurt.”

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll pass out.” Winter closed her eyes. “Give me something to bite.”

  Alex put a leather sheath in Winter’s mouth. It tasted of dust and blood. Winter sucked in a breath through her nose, trying to get ready—

  Her left arm exploded, sending glowing lances of pain shooting through her body. She bit down hard on the sheath, but even so, a moan forced its way past before, mercifully, she passed out.