by Col Buchanan
Ash struggled to drag the armour to one side and the mine with it, so it would be less likely to be spotted.
His chest was bursting now. He kicked off for the surface, stars flashing in the edges of his vision. It took longer than the descent. He recalled his panic on the sinking ship; the weight of the world’s water pressing him down.
Ash floundered when he resurfaced, gasping with lungs that still did not seem to be working too well. The noise of the city returned to his draining ears, and he looked about and was grateful to find the side street still deserted.
In vain he tried to pull himself out of the canal, found he couldn’t manage it, couldn’t breathe hard enough to restore his energy.
He settled himself in the water. Calmed his breathing and tried once more. Ash rolled onto the boardwalk wheezing for air. He sat up, rested his arms against his knees and let his head hang between them. He stared at the little pools forming where the lake water dripped from his skin.
A man cursed not far away. Shapes at the dark end of the street, someone relieving himself while others waited, talking drunkenly.
Ash looked at the line of fuse hanging in the water. All he needed to do was slice through it and toss it in the water and run.
The knife suddenly drew his attention, standing as it was with its tip buried in the boardwalk. Its blade was stained dark with the blood of the priest he had murdered in the previous hour.
How many had he killed now in his pursuit of retribution? he wondered with a start.
He couldn’t recall; had lost count somewhere along the way; had made them something less than human, faceless, without worth. The two camp followers he had felled during the battle – simply to be clear of them – were nothing but vague impressions now, save for the crisp sound of a kneecap breaking.
Ash had come so far. In his revenge he had climbed a high pinnacle into the rarefied sky, forsaking the Rōshun order as he did so, the only home left to him, the only way of life where his anger had remained leashed by their code and by the better part of himself.
He felt as though all this time he’d been climbing upwards without a single glance behind him; and now, turning back to look, all he could see were corpses heaped along the steep track he’d been following; and past them all, Nico with his boyish laughter and a mother’s fierce love for him, and far beyond his apprentice, way down at the dim beginnings of the trail, his son Lin, throat-singing with the other battlesquires, and close by a whitewashed homestead struck by sunlight, his wife waiting for a husband and son who would never return.
The summit was almost within his reach. All he had to do was cut the fuse.
Sasheen deserved to die. All of her kind deserved to die.
With trembling fingers, Ash reached for the knife and plucked it free.
When Sasheen woke, the first thing that she saw was Lucian staring at her intently, and for the briefest of moments she thought they were lovers again, wrapped in each other’s arms.
But then she saw that he was only a severed head perched on the bedside table. She remembered how he had betrayed her, and her heart sank into bleakness.
‘I never wanted this, you know,’ she told him now.
His lips parted, spilling a dribble of Royal Milk down his chin. But he said nothing, only watched her.
‘I never even wanted to be Matriarch. It was my mother’s desire, not my own.’
‘I. Know,’ came his wet belching voice, and he glared with hatred in his eyes.
How to make him understand? The pain he had caused her, the loss of faith in the one person she’d thought she could finally trust. Sasheen had wanted this man like she had wanted no other, and he had cast her aside for the sake of his foolish insurgency and the fame that went with it.
‘I’m dying, Lucian,’ she told him.
He seemed pleased at that, for he smiled.
Even now he could hurt her.
‘Do you remember the time we spent together in Brulé?’
‘No.’
‘Of course you do. You hardly stopped talking about it. You said we should retire there. Grow olives, like simple peasants.’
‘I. Was. A. Fool.’
‘You were anything but a fool, Lucian. That was one of things I was attracted to, most of all.’ Wistfully, she said, ‘We were a good match, you and I.’
Sasheen could see it now, her life as it might have been, had she only found the courage to spite her mother’s wishes, to renounce her position as Matriarch, to live a simple life of luxury with her lover. What had it gained her, any of this? Only a lonely death in the damp innards of a rock; a few scratches in the memory of Mann.
‘I only wish . . . I only wish . . .’ and she closed her eyes, and felt a wetness on her cheeks, and an ache in her chest as if the whole awful world was standing upon it.
She fought for a breath, wheezing hard until sweat beaded her skin. She gasped, blinked to focus on Lucian again. Beyond him, through the glass of the window, the waters of the lake were a black nothingness waiting to engulf her.
‘What do I do?’ she panted, lost in herself. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
His stare possessed all the force of a thrust knife.
‘You. Die.’
A sudden flare lit the night sky over Ash’s head. Of their own volition his eyes were drawn to the brightly lit ground.
Ash saw, stretching out from the base of his feet, how he ended in shadow. He faltered.
For long heartbeats, he stared down at the knife and the fuse wire held in his shaking hands. A strange fellow, came the words in his head. Nico had said that once, about the Rōshun Seer.
Why did that come to his mind now?
The Seer had cast the sticks for them before they had set forth on vendetta to Q’os. He had told of a great shock in store for him, and of the paths that would face him beyond it.
After shock, you will have two paths facing you. On one path, you will fail in your task, though with no blame and much still to do . . . On the other, you will win through in the end with great blame, and nothing that would further you.
Great blame, Ash reflected. Nothing that would further you.
He blinked. Tears stung his eyes. His hand dropped to his side, and the knife clattered to the ground.
The flare faded, taking his shadow with it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Rendezvous
Curl stood on the rooftop of the warehouse while men scrambled up the rope-ladders onto the waiting skyship. The vessel was badly damaged, its hull scorched by fire and its rigging in tatters. Another ship was already climbing into the air in a sluggish lift-off, turning in a long curve towards the south with its deck crammed with soldiers.
It was the second run the ships had made since she had arrived there. Greyjackets and archers manned the edges of the roof, firing down at the imperial forces moving in on their position. More enemy forces were converging along the marina. It was clear it would be the last trip out before the building was overrun.
‘Who are you waiting for?’ asked a passing Volunteer, a man so haggard in appearance he could have been twenty years old or forty.
‘A friend!’ she shouted over the noise of the gunfire.
‘Girl, we have to go now – there isn’t time to wait.’ And he tried to pull her towards the ship.
‘Let go of me!’ she yelled in his face, breaking free from his grip. He looked startled for a moment, but then he gave up and ran for the ship.
Curl scanned the skies and could still see no sign of enemy skyships. She took a few steps closer to the edge, to look down at the surrounding streets and the marina, at the Imperials closing in. Some Khosian troops were still filtering towards the warehouse, many sprinting for it, others in squads performing fighting retreats.
Where are you, you idiot?
Curl didn’t know what to make of this man whom she had only just met, yet he seemed to pluck all the right strings within her. Certainly their lovemaking had been memorable in the long hou
rs they had shared together, free-spirited and playful when not intensely passionate. Beyond that, though, who was he?
He was a mystery, and a dangerous one at that, she sensed.
Curl was well aware of how she’d fallen twice already for such men in her life. She was beginning to suspect that it was a trait not entirely good for her, for in hindsight they had both been selfish bastards.
Yet this was war, and she found that it was true what the soldiers said. War created exceptional circumstances. You felt a responsibility to live recklessly and fully, only too aware that you might never see another sunrise.
As though proof of this, her heart suddenly leapt when she glimpsed his face on the edge of the roof. Ché was being helped along by a female Volunteer.
‘Ché!’ she yelled as she ran to meet him. He was drenched in blood, and barely conscious. ‘Ché?’ He lifted his head and tried to focus on her.
Get me out of here, his expression said.
Curl threw his free arm over her shoulder and helped the Volunteer drag him towards the ship.
One of the small scuds took off from the roof. Another fired its tubes, manoeuvring into the empty position. Men backed away to give it room.
‘Any sign of the old farlander?’ he croaked.
Curl shook her head. ‘He’d better hurry, wherever he is, if he wants to get off this island.’
The young man wheezed as though in laughter. ‘That old bastard? He’ll have a way out of this. He’s likely gone already.’
Ash charged the war-zel straight towards the front door of the house, slapping its rump hard with his sheathed sword.
He ducked low in the saddle as it burst through the door and clattered along the wooden floorboards of a hallway, hearing the shouts of pursuit behind him even as his mount bore him out through an open door at the back.
The animal snorted and took three great surges across an open yard. Ash kicked hard to urge it on, and it vaulted a fence with a leap and landed on the other side. The zel stumbled once, recovered its footing, then skirted a deserted plaza as crossbow bolts whined through the air from behind them.
Ash glanced back. Saw men pouring over the fence and riders emerging from the side streets around it.
The gunfire was closer now. He wasn’t far.
The animal’s flanks were bright with lather, its breath rasping in its throat. It felt good to be riding like this again, with the wind in his eyes and a recklessness in his blood like a reminiscence of youth.
‘Come on!’ he encouraged as the zel skipped over a mound of scattered baskets, took a street on the other side of the plaza with its hooves thundering along the boardwalk. He could see the marina at the end of the street now, its long quays supporting wooden poles with lit lanterns, entirely deserted of boats.
A cannon boomed, the sound of it rumbling along the street.
They emerged from the street right into a squad of imperial infantry. The zel burst through them without slowing. Ash spotted a warehouse to the right along the waterfront, with a skyship hovering over its broad roof lit by flashes of gunfire.
Men were sprinting over the roof towards the ship, climbing rope-ladders dangling from its hull. It looked familiar to him, that vessel. He squinted and saw the wooden figurehead on its prow. It was a falcon in flight.
I don’t believe it.
He yanked the reins and aimed for the building as he kicked for speed. With the zel racing beneath him, he glanced at a scud to their left circling the marina, firing rounds of grape-shot. A smatter of plumes rose up from the nearby water, splashing down on the boardwalk as they charged along it. Ash shook his head dry and looked for a way onto the roof. He spotted a stairwell on the side of it, a few men still clambering upwards. He wondered if Ché and the girl had made it.
Suddenly the zel screamed and pitched forwards.
Ash spilled from the saddle and rolled on the hard boardwalk with his sword still in his grasp. He leapt to his feet and looked back at the animal as it reared on its side. Blood ran from a wound in its flank. He saw the Imperials racing towards him.
Ash turned and sprinted for his life.
The skyship was starting to move under its tremendous load of rescued men, the propulsion tubes burning ever louder along its hull. Below it, the warehouse roof was in the final stages of being overrun. Some Khosians hadn’t made it. They were making their last stands back to back.
Men still dangled from the rope-ladders of the rising ship. One fell off, landing amongst a group of Imperials, who stabbed and hacked at him in a frenzy. Soldiers shouted down at their comrades who clung desperately to the ropes with their legs kicking air, reaching their hands out to them.
Ché sat with his back to the starboard rail while a medico tended to his leg. Curl crouched next to him, not seeming to mind the odd bolt or shot that clattered against the hull. The girl had her arm around him. Her touch felt good to him; warm and vivid. He did not want to look at the rooftop below.
‘Look!’ Curl suddenly shouted, pointing down to the warehouse roof.
He turned his head to see what she was pointing at.
It was Ash, stopping short as the ship nosed away.
‘Trench!’ the old man bellowed.
Ché struggled to his feet. He pushed away the medico as the man cursed and tried to hold him down.
‘We can’t just leave him,’ Ché snapped frantically, and looked around for someone to shout at, to tell them to turn back. But he could barely see beyond the heads of the men pressing around him, and he knew in his sinking heart that it was useless.
In impotence, he turned back to watch.
They were high enough now for the entire warehouse roof to be framed in his vision. The streets around it were alive with Acolytes and soldiers, the rooftop itself an island awash with them.
In their midst, the lone farlander’s black skin was a stark contrast to their white robes.
Ché saw the old man’s blade glitter silver in the darkness, the Rōshun stepping into the spaces he was cutting through their masses.
‘Merciful Mother,’ Curl said, and she gripped the wooden pendant around her neck.
Ché barely heard her over the roar of the tubes. The ship banked sharply towards the far shore, and the lone figure of Ash grew smaller in size, a dot that vanished amongst them.
Ash’s instincts took over. For a time his attention was focused so intensely on what he did that no part of him was aware of his own self in the midst of the carnage. He knew no fear, nor conscience, nor even spite, as he moved freely without distinctions of mind and body and blade in a performance of one, weaving their patterns as he ducked and darted and killed in a gradual movement towards the very edge of the rooftop.
Around him his opponents fell shooting blood – without feet, hands, arms. They fell without heads. They fell with their stomachs unravelling into their cupped palms. They fell in silence as though asleep. They fell in shouted protest.
They did not stop falling.
‘Back!’ Ash snarled as he spun from the edge of the roof, his feet tottering dangerously over the side.
‘Back!’ he spat again with a shake of his blade, gore sheeting off it.
They listened, at least enough to hesitate, to pull up short. Ash gulped down air as men joined them with crossbows, a few pistols. He wiped the blood from his face, spat it from his mouth. Every part of him drenched in it.
They panted and eyed the crimson-soaked vision with something approaching awe.
A soldier pushed quickly to the front, an officer by the tattoos on his face. ‘Who are you?’ the man enquired.
He sounded genuinely curious.
Ash took in the ragged assembly around him, the crossbows and guns aimed at his body. They looked scared, most of them. Scared and tired.
‘Drop your weapon,’ ordered the officer. ‘Do it now, or die.’
Ash thought it over for a moment, then straightened from his fighting stance and lowered his sword. A flight of geese were crying somewher
e in the night sky. He looked up, but couldn’t see them for all the clouds. He felt the breeze run across his face like a breath from the World Mother. His expression softened.
‘You should know,’ he said, looking up at the officer as he sheathed his sword. ‘That I would take my own life first.’ And with the guns and crossbows aimed squarely at his chest, he did the only thing left to do.
Ash jumped.
CHAPTER FORTY
Lonely Ends
It was the water that saved him, not only in breaking his fall but in helping him escape.
Flush with the success of his supreme dive from the warehouse roof, Ash swam beneath the surface until his lungs were burning from lack of air. When he resurfaced the Imperials took some pot shots at him, but he ignored them, and submerged again, kicking hard.
He swam in that way until he was clear of the marina, and continued to swim along the littoral of lakeweed until the sights and sounds of their searching faded away behind him. It grew darker as the clouds massed even thicker overhead. For a time he lay on his back and floated there as the sickness of exhaustion slowly diminished.
Out over the lake the flares continued to rise and fall. It would be risky, trying for the far shore; snipers were no doubt watching the surface for signs of escaping Khosians.
What are you worried about? he asked himself. In your condition you’ll most likely drown first.
Ash trod water and breathed calm breaths until he felt ready. He looked back at the island city. He looked at the far southern shore.
The old farlander began to swim for it.
It was raining now, and the fat drops were bursting against the surface all around him, the chorus of it deafening his ears to all else. The water seemed aglow wherever the drops collided with it.
Ash spat and chanced a look ahead. His last strokes had brought him past the dark mouth of the Chilos while the current had tried to sweep him into it. He could see fires on both sides of the river mouth, and lanterns strung along its banks, throwing their light across it. Men hunkered down next to upright rifles, gazing out at the passing flow.
