Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine

by James L. Sutter

  Then they were through the worst of it and charging toward the dais.

  The angel stepped forward, blocking their way. This one was clearly female, dark-skinned, her golden hair and eyes matching her brilliant plumage. Her armor was heavy gilded plate, the kind no sane warrior wore except when mounted, yet she moved as if it were no more than a summer dress. The spiked head of her mace glowed like a tiny sun.

  "Caramine," Bors said. "Go."

  Roshad hesitated, and across the bridge of their minds Bors could feel the smaller man's reluctance to leave him.

  "Go!"

  Roshad went, sprinting sideways toward the nearest wall.

  Bors brought his sword up to his steel-clad forehead in a salute. The angel looked momentarily surprised, then did the same, lips twisting in a little smile.

  Gripping his sword in both hands, Bors attacked.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Stupid stupid stupid. What in Hell's nine layers did Bors think he was doing facing down an angel alone? The man was skilled, and strong as a bull—and as stubborn—but that angel woman was a head taller than him, probably had better magic than Bors's cut-rate enchantments, and was quite possibly immortal. That wasn't the same as unkillable, but...gods damn it all!

  Not that Roshad was any better equipped to take out an angel. He'd gotten lucky with the fireball in the courtyard, and wasn't sure it'd done much more than distract the creature anyway. Behind him, the Freemen were finally having it out, hacking away at each other, but Roshad wasn't here to help them settle their debts. If he wanted to end this—and he needed to end this, as quickly as possible—there was only one person he could afford to worry about. Bors understood that, which was why he was busy distracting the angel.

  Roshad needed to make the big oaf's seconds count.

  He reached the wall and leapt at it, shouting the words of the spell and twisting in the air to land horizontally against it, belly flat against the stone, gripping it with hands and feet suddenly unnaturally sticky. He began to scuttle across it like a gecko, climbing up above head height and then racing sideways across the wall's surface. As he turned the corner, he saw Bors bring his sword down from a salute and leap blade-first toward the angel.

  Idiot. Beautiful, courageous idiot.

  Roshad reached the center of the back wall and dropped just as another lighting bolt crashed into the stone where he'd been clinging, blasting masonry into expensive shrapnel. He looked up and saw Caramine twisted as far around on her throne as her awkward umbilicals would allow, maneuvering for another shot.

  Roshad didn't give her the chance. Still on all fours, he raised a hand and shouted an incantation.

  Caramine froze as her entire body went rigid.

  Roshad smiled. After the fireball, this was his best spell—not strong enough to stop her breathing or heartbeat, but enough to make Caramine a prisoner inside her own skin, every external muscle seized tight in its current position.

  It would only last a few moments, but that was enough. He made sure to stay within view of Caramine's frozen eyes as he drew his knife and moved forward, crouching next to her chair.

  "Remember," he said softly, "if you really are doing the gods' work, you have nothing to fear. You'll be an angel like them in no time."

  Did those eyes widen slightly in understanding? Not possible, of course. He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear.

  "But you shouldn't have messed with true love."

  He raised the knife and slit her throat.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The angelic siblings moved apart like mirror images, holding their long-hafted warhammers in identical two-handed grips. In mortal hands, the weapons' oversized heads would have made them ridiculously unbalanced, yet the angels manipulated them with thoughtless grace.

  Salim and Maedora split as well, refusing to let the angels circle them. Salim matched Nemeniah stride for stride. "Glad to see you're not going to hide behind your creations for the whole battle."

  "That would be inefficient," Nemeniah replied. "We need these troops to fulfill our sacred mission. Better to cut the head off the snake ourselves."

  "Funny," Salim said, "that was our thought as well."

  The angels moved. There was no giveaway, no twitch of the eye or shifting of weight. One second the angels were standing tall, the next the warhammers were whipping in sideways. Salim jumped backward, out of the path of the swing—and somehow Nemeniah checked her momentum, stopping the hammer mid-arc and thrusting it forward. The flat top of the hammer's head, as large as a human shield, slammed into Salim's chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling.

  Nemeniah whipped the hammer high, bringing it down again in a deadly curve designed to pulp Salim's skull like a melon. Gasping, he threw himself forward, inside the hammer's range, and took only the impact of the haft on his shoulder. Even that was enough to drive him down to one knee, his collarbone screaming in protest. Ignoring it, he grabbed the hammer's haft with his free hand and used it to pull himself farther forward, slashing at the angel's unprotected legs and scoring a red line across smooth ankles.

  Nemeniah yanked the hammer back and Salim held on, letting her lift him to his feet. She reversed the motion, breaking his grip, then pinwheeled the weapon to bring the spike on the butt end of the haft over and around in a vicious stab. Salim danced sideways, the spike lancing the air over his shoulder, and scrambled backward as the angel whirled the weapon right-side up once more.

  This was no good. As much as Salim's ego wanted him to be able to finish these two on his own—or at least with Maedora's help—he was only human. Beneath Nemeniah's smooth features lay something far stronger and older than any mortal woman.

  Maedora. Salim glanced over and saw the psychopomp locked tight with Malchion. Two of her webbing tentacles had wound themselves around the angel's hammer and were holding it steady while she brought her own staff around in a blurring series of blows on the angel's arms and head. Malchion, bloody and snarling, refused to let go of the hammer, accepting each hit as he tensed every muscle in an effort to tear his weapon free.

  At least someone might have a chance against these two, Salim thought.

  Nemeniah apparently reached the same conclusion. Ignoring Salim, she shot sideways and swung her hammer in a hundred-and-eighty-degree horizontal arc.

  The blow caught Maedora flat on the back, crunching bone. Maedora stumbled forward, tentacles convulsing and releasing Malchion's hammer. She managed to catch herself with her staff to keep from falling—and then Nemeniah swung again. The psychopomp half-turned, and the hammer caught her in the side, folding her like a sheet of paper and throwing her to the ground.

  Nemeniah raised her hammer a third time.

  "No!" Salim charged Nemeniah, sword high. The angel turned, saw him coming, and brought the hammer down in an easy block—but of course that was the point. Salim took it, the impact singing down his blade and up through his forearms, then ducked past. He stood over Maedora's limp form, sword flicking back and forth, doing his best to menace both Nemeniah and Malchion at once.

  The angels flanked him. Salim drew his dagger with his off hand and settled for standing sideways over the psychopomp, arms extended to point at each angel.

  Malchion stutter-stepped forward and Salim readied himself to block, but the blow never came. Knowing what must be following, Salim ducked sideways and brought his sword around just in time to deflect Nemeniah's swing. Then he was staggering back the other way as Malchion's hammer completed its original swing, clipping Salim's wounded shoulder and spinning him around.

  Malchion chuckled, and Salim caught sight of the angel's face. Through the blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, the angel was grinning.

  Not good. Not good at all. Salim nudged Maedora with his foot and hissed. "Get up, damn you!"

  Maedora groaned and stirred, her hands moving in feeble, spasmodic gestures.

  "So noble," Malchion laughed. "Standing guard over the body of a fallen comrade. Do
you think you're one of us, Salim?"

  "I'm nothing like you." Salim spun in a slow circle as the angels began to stalk around him.

  "Of course you are, Salim." Nemeniah looked sad once more—her features seemed made for a particular brand of long-suffering, maternal regret. "Me and Malchion, you, her"—her hammer dipped to indicate Maedora's limp form—"we're all just trying to serve our own understanding of the greater good."

  "The only thing you're serving is chaos," Salim snapped. "Every moment this conflict goes on weakens both Heaven and the Spire."

  Nemeniah nodded. "We agree. Which is why we need to end this quickly."

  She stepped forward and raised her hammer.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The angel brought her weapon down.

  Bors didn't dodge or parry. Instead, he stepped in and caught the morningstar's haft on the strong of his blade, then wound around it, bringing his sword to bear on the angel's neck. The angel jerked back in surprise, shoving hard against Bors's blade and pushing him backward before he could do more than scratch a shrieking line across her golden gorget.

  The angel looked more serious now as she approached him. The sun-headed mace came up and around in a slow weave, spinning easily in the angel's hand, a display no doubt intended to intimidate—but then, that's what the litchina was for. Bors refused to move, hoping his blank-faced silence would unnerve the angel in return.

  The mace swung in and he blocked it with the flat of his blade, binding and stepping through to sweep her leg. It was like trying to trip a tree stump. The angel backhanded him with her free hand, her armored gauntlet ringing off the side of his helmet and spinning him sideways. He got his sword up in time to deflect the next mace blow, and despite the slight wobble to the room, he launched a counterattack, stabbing down at the crack where the tasset guarding the angel's hip met the cuisse covering her thigh. He felt the blade bite home and saw the shock and rage on the angel's face. He ripped his sword free as the angel shouted and lashed out, her mace grazing his side as he whirled away.

  Instead of pressing the attack, however, the angel withdrew a few steps and raised her mace in both hands. Holding the sunburst at head height, she began whispering, words both musical and meaningless.

  There was a flash, and then six identical angels stood in a cluster where before there had been only one. Eyes blank and golden, they spread apart and drew back their weapons to strike.

  Under the litchina, Bors grinned. He'd always expected to die gloriously in battle, but this might prove even more impressive than he'd hoped.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The machine continued to hum.

  Roshad had hoped that killing Caramine might have miraculously undone all the sacrifices she and the machine had performed together, but it had only been a faint hope. Clearly, the machine was designed better than that, with fail-safes to keep it running in the event that Caramine was incapacitated—or needed to get up and take a piss, he supposed.

  The paralysis spell had worn off, and Carmine now slumped forward on her arcane throne, the wound in her neck still leaking prodigious amounts of blood as her body slowly shriveled down to a more normal size.

  Roshad wrinkled his nose. No matter how much power these bloatmages got from all the extra blood, it'd be a cold day in Calistria's bed before anyone caught Roshad pumping himself up like an overripe berry.

  Still, no time to be squeamish. He took Caramine's right hand, being careful to note the locations of each tube's insertion, then slid the tubes free, adding new tributaries to the lake of blood pooling in the bloatmage's lap. He did the same with the left hand, then grabbed her shoulders and rolled her forward out of the chair. She landed on the stairs to the dais with a wet thump.

  He heard new shouts rise above the general din as members of Carmine's congregation caught sight of his blasphemy. He ignored them. The floor of the great hall was a swirling mass of combatants, and Vera and her people would keep them off him for the time being.

  Even with its creator unplugged and discarded, the machine continued to hum.

  Grimacing, Roshad sat down in the chair and gingerly picked up one of the tubes. It was slightly smaller around than his pinky, and hollow like a reed. Most of it was flexible, but the last several inches tapered into a hollow steel shaft like the biggest leatherworker's needle he'd ever seen. Caramine's blood wept from the hole in its tip.

  "Magic blood, eh?" Roshad glanced over at the corpse chained upright to the machine's altar, the steel point still protruding from his chest, then back at the needle in his hand.

  At the foot of the dais, the angel Bors was fighting suddenly divided into a half-dozen copies of itself. Roshad had seen similar illusions before—at least, he hoped it was an illusion—but it still wouldn't make it any easier for Bors to fight. More concerning still, the angel Roshad had burned in the courtyard now loomed in the entrance to the room, plumage blackened and worse for wear but still clutching its flaming sword.

  Right then. No time to waste.

  Roshad took a deep breath and stabbed the needle-tube into his forearm, sliding it under the skin in a clumsy attempt to follow the vein. Pain shot through him, burning as he slid the tube deeper, but he didn't give himself time to think, instead grabbing the next needle and inserting it. Then the next. His hand spasmed and shook as he switched hands, driving the remaining needles into his unmarked wrist. He hoped he hadn't nicked a nerve, but no time for that now. A buzz like an electrical current rose above the fire in his arms, climbing up his shoulders, into his neck, and—

  He saw.

  No, that wasn't quite accurate—his eyes still watched the melee in the great hall and, more remotely, Salim's battle on the Spire. It wasn't even precisely that he understood. It was more like he felt the machine, sensed its function like an organ he hadn't known he possessed, a second heart beating in time. He could feel the pull of the machine's magic, the invisible ties stretching out across space and planar boundaries—the trailing tails of hundreds of transformed souls. Kites on a string.

  He couldn't cut them. That much was immediately obvious. These links were the machine, wrapped up in the spells that bound it together and made it function—he could no more cut those ties than he could will his own heart to stop. And destroying it...the first time Roshad had seen the machine, in those few moments as they rescued Bors, he had sensed the incredible power of the engine, unstable reservoirs only barely contained. This machine was a coiled spring, an armed catapult—start trying to disassemble it and it might just tear itself apart, taking everyone around with it.

  He couldn't cut the strings. But maybe he could pull.

  Mentally, like a man feeling blindly for something inside a pack, Roshad reached out and fumbled for a string, picking the first one that came to hand. He tugged, gently.

  Across the great hall, the burned angel gagged and stumbled mid-charge, sagging to its knees. It clutched its chest and turned startled eyes on Roshad.

  Grinning, Roshad began gathering threads by the handful.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  This was it. There was no way that Salim could defend against both of the angels at once—their teamwork was nothing short of telepathic. As soon as he focused on one, the other would take his head off.

  For an instant, Salim wondered if Pharasma would actually let him die this time—if getting mashed to paste in defense of the Spire would at last fulfill his obligations. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Then there was no time to think as Nemeniah moved, hammer coming in low and sweeping up to—

  Silver-white tendrils shot out from beneath Salim's feet and snagged the hammer, pulling Nemeniah off balance. Salim didn't question, simply spun and got his blade up in time to deflect Malchion's matching overhand blow.

  He felt something slap at his ankles and leapt aside as Maedora rolled out from beneath him, coming to her feet just as Nemeniah ripped her hammer free of the webbing.

  Salim didn't take his eyes from Malchion. He put his back to Maedora's, s
avoring the comforting weight of her presence. "I thought you were down for good."

  "I would have been," she said, voice ragged, "if you hadn't given me time to cast a healing spell." A cold hand reached back and touched his side. "Thank you."

  "Thank me by dealing with these two."

  "Oh, you'll deal with us," Malchion growled, stepping forward once more. "Don't worry about that."

  Before he could attack, however, there came a shift in the sounds of combat. Angelic voices rose in confusion, and Salim looked past Malchion's shoulder to see several angels drop spontaneously to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

  Malchion's eyes grew wide. He glanced frantically around at the unexpectedly turning tide of battle, then back at Salim. "What's happening?"

  Salim didn't need to consult the telepathic bond in his mind to know what it meant. He smiled. "That's the end, Malchion. Roshad's found a way to reverse your machine and break all your new toys."

  "Impossible!" Yet the angel sounded uncertain, as brilliantly burning combatants fell from the sky around them like shooting stars.

  "It's over," Maedora echoed from behind Salim. "You can't fight the inevitable any longer."

  "Maybe not," Malchion agreed. Then he raised his hammer and sprang forward. "But there's still time to take you with us!"

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Another of the fake angels popped like a soap bubble as Bors's greatsword cleaved through its phantom neck. Knowing that he'd gambled and lost, that there was no time to defend against the true angel behind him, Bors braced himself for the inevitable impact of the sun-headed morningstar crashing into his back, perhaps piercing his armor and spearing a ray into his kidney.

  Yet the attack didn't come. He spun and saw that the two remaining angelic clones were down on their knees, maces forgotten on the tile, clutching at their heads. They looked up at Bors in unison, golden eyes seeming dimmer, pleading.

  Bors didn't question his luck. Instead he thrust quickly and lightly at the one on the left. When it tinged off steel instead of popping another magical bubble, he grinned fiercely behind his mask and brought the sword around in the same flat arc that had dispatched the illusion.