The armsman brought up a torch and snapped it on, a little too quickly and awkwardly to have been lying in wait for them. Nathan slipped back round the pillar and out of sight so he didn’t hear what was said, but after a few muttered words the armsmen swung away, whistling a little ditty and heading for the far end of the gunroom.
‘Yeh can come out, lad,’ Kron called. ‘Ole Leopold won’t bother us.’
Nathan came forward. ‘I’d thought they would never stoop to fraternising with gunners, the armsmen I mean,’ he said.
‘Not while others’re about, but come sleep-shift they’ll talk and trade like anyone else – they’re crew just like us, just trusted enough to bear arms all th’ time.’ Kron seated himself on a stanchion and gestured expansively to another. Nathan took a last glance round before warily sitting also.
Kron gazed at him steadily while he got out his pipe again. ‘So what’s your story, young Nathan?’ he asked.
‘I don’t have a story,’ Nathan replied carefully. ‘If this is about Kendrikson, my business is with him alone and I’ll thank you not to intrude.’ That earned an arched eyebrow and Nathan suddenly felt he was mistaken, Kron hadn’t brought him up here to find out what was going on between him and Kendrikson.
‘No,’ Kron said, ‘I mean, tell a story. That’s how it’s done among shipmen. When we want to really talk we tells a story – that way we can tell our secrets without saying them right out so others might hear.’
When Kron said that, he looked meaningfully at the outer hull plates, which Nathan could see from here were covered with writings, layered one over the other, marching lines of faded Gothic script which continued up and out of sight towards the ceiling.
A sudden chill crept down Nathan’s spine. He was sure he heard a vague creak of metal up at the north end of the gunroom. ‘What do you mean? What “others”?’ he hissed.
Kron raised a hand to stop him ‘That’s jest what I mean. Let me tell you a story about how mankind got among the stars – a tale of ancient times.’
Kron began to speak clearly and surely, without the customary drawls and breaks in his speech. It was almost as if he were reading from a book, or reciting a tale told many, many times before.
‘Once, long ago, Man lived on just one island. The broad oceans surrounded him and he believed himself alone. In time, Man’s stature grew and he caught sight of other isles far off across the deep ocean. Since he had seen everything on his island, climbed every peak and looked under every stone, he became curious about the other islands and tried to reach them. He soon found the oceans too deep and cold for him to get far, not nearly a hundredth of the way to the next island. So Man returned and put his hand to other things for an age.
‘But in time food and water and air ran short on Man’s island and he looked to the far islands again. Because he could not bear the cold of the ocean deeps, he fashioned Men of Stone to go in his place, and the Stone Men fashioned Men of Steel to become their hands and eyes. And the Stone Men went forth with their servants and swam in the deep oceans. They found many strange things on the far islands, but none as strange or as wicked as the things that swam in the depths between them – ancient, hungry things older than Man himself.
‘But these beasts of the deep hungered for the true life of Man, not the half-life of Stone, so the Stone Men swam unmolested. At first all was well and the Men of Stone planted Man’s Seed on many islands, and in time Man learned to travel the oceans himself, hiding in Stone ships to keep out the cold and the hunger of the beasts. All was well and Men spread to many islands far across the ocean, such that some even forgot how they came to be there and that they ever came from just one island at all.’
Kron’s tale wound on, telling of how the Stone Men became estranged from humanity by their journeys through the void. This led to a time of strife when the Men of Steel turned against their stone masters and mankind was riven asunder by wars. A thousand worlds were scoured by the ancient, terrible weapons of those days before the Men of Stone were overthrown, and a million more burned as flesh fought against steel. Worst of all, the beasts arose and were worshipped as gods by the survivors. Once proud and mighty, Man was reduced to a rabble of grovelling slaves. Finally one came who freed man from his shackles and showed him a new way to reach for the stars. This path was forged from neither stone nor steel but simple faith. Faith guarded Man from the beasts of the void as steel or stone could never do.
Nathan came to himself with a start. Kron’s sonorous voice had lulled him into a strange, half-dreaming state. He looked back at the wall and its inscrutable scripture. Faith. Faith kept the beasts at bay. Beasts that turned men into creatures like Fetchin. Each line of script covering the wall was a prayer to the God-Emperor for protection. Centuries of devotion layered like stratified rock to keep whatever was out there… out there. He could feel Kron’s expectant gaze upon him, the red eye burning like a ruddy star in the gloom. Nathan uncomfortably tried to ignore the scratching noises he thought he heard coming from the gloom. Just nerves, he told himself, or rats, of course. Still, no harm in watching the shadows.
‘I don’t know many tales,’ Nathan hedged, trying to recall one about the Emperor or the Great Crusade. He felt Kron’s tale must be a parable of ancient times, set before the crusades. They were spoken of only through the preachings of the Ecclesiarchy. In the Lethe System, a legendary time of righteousness and purity recalled in the Ministorum’s most reverential sermons, usually as a comparison to the immorality and irreverence of modern times.
‘Tell us about you and yon Kendrikson then,’ Kron prompted.
Inwardly Nathan cringed, but he sensed that Kron could be a big help to his chances of survival, let alone escape, and he had told a tale first. Warily, Nathan began.
‘Me and Kendrikson don’t go back far, but in the short time I’ve known him I’ve decided that I need to kill him. My youthful prospects were not exceptionally good – truthfully they were much given over to petty crime and associating with undesirables. However, thanks to Kendrikson I’m now an unwilling recruit in the Emperor’s Navy. That appears to mean lifetime incarceration in a steel cube twenty paces across until death by insane shipmate, starvation, disease or enemy action intercedes. This wasn’t my first choice in life.’
Nathan stood suddenly. There was no doubt about it now, someone or something was creeping towards them as stealthily as it – or they – could manage. He gently lifted a steel hookbar from the deck and held it ready. Kron, seeing his look and actions, similarly armed himself with a long spanner. All the while Nathan kept talking, so as not to alert their stalkers. He told Kron about how he and Kendrikson had both served on the Pandora, an ageing lugger hauling ore and oxygen between the outer mines of Lethe. He even told him about how they had both actually been in the pay of a businessman dedicated to transporting goods of a rare, valuable and illegal nature with no questions asked.
Nathan had just got to their last voyage on the Pandora, and how Kendrikson had sold him out to the pirates when their skulking stalkers attacked. They came out of the shadows in a rush, three pale shapes and one dun-coloured one. Nathan made a two-handed swing at the first to reach him. The steel hookbar caught it on the side of the head with a meaty crack and it dropped as if poleaxed.
It was a man. Pale, near naked, with a matted beard and bloodied shock of hair. A second leapt forward, jagged blade swinging, while Nathan was still recovering from his initial blow. He managed an awkward parry with the hookbar and the man pulled his blade back for another hack. Nathan followed through with his block and crashed the end of the hookbar into the wildman’s elbow, making him yell and drop his blade. The third dived in between them and drove Nathan back with a flurry of blows.
He blocked a few strikes with the ungainly bar, but gave ground and almost stumbled on a trailing pipe. In desperation he ducked under a cable conduit as his assailant made an overhead cut. The blade slice
d into the shoc-lines with a shower of fat sparks. The man convulsed and his face clamped into a rictus grin of agony as current flowed remorselessly between blade and deck through him. As Nathan dashed past him he was starting to smoulder, the blade glowing orange in his death grip.
The second man had retrieved his blade and made as if to strike as Nathan ran up, but the superior reach of the hookbar finally paid off. Nathan slammed it bodily into his ribs. The momentum of his charge skewered the man on its cruel head, splintering ribs and ripping open a gouting wound. Nathan abandoned the wedged bar and plucked the blade out of the man’s fingers, giving thanks that his enemies seemed disorientated and slow, as if they were half-starved or dim-witted.
Nathan sprang forward towards the last foe, a figure in shipman’s coveralls bending over the prone body of Kron. Nathan’s nape hairs prickled as the figure lurched up. Blue wych-fires writhed about his limbs like angry snakes and sparks poured from his fingertips. By some reflex Nathan ducked away from a hissing bolt of energy which lashed out from an outstretched hand. It still caught him across the left shoulder and sent fiery needles of agony lancing into his very bones.
If he could have shouted in pain he would have, but his lips only parted in a soundless gasp as a wave of numbness washed through him. Nathan fell to his knees on the deck and fought his unresponding body as it dragged him down, down. The figure stepped closer. Through blurring eyes Nathan could see the complex weaving of tattoos beneath his skin, glowing through it with lightning-brightness. Even the coveralls were rendered translucent by that glare, and bones stood out coal-black as he raised a spectral hand in a gesture full of menace.
With his final ounces of strength he struck back at his foe the only way he could, hurling the blade stiff-armed as he slid to the deck. Before he blacked out he felt a thunderclap of pressure and a wave of heat before blackness closed over him.
Nathan’s eyes flickered open. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and retched. Only moments had passed. Smoke was still rising from the corpse beside him and the sweet stench of cooked flesh hung in the air. The thrown blade protruded from the corpse’s larynx, and Nathan knew he should never gamble again after fluking that shot. But, despite the blade, the massive burns across the body looked like they had been just as fatal. Vagrant flickers of static still trailed along rigor-stretched limbs. Nathan mustered his courage and stared into the blackened face. It was Kendrikson, patently no mere smuggler after all. He stepped well clear of the corpse as he staggered groggily to where Kron lay.
Faint breath sighed from Kron’s lips and the burns on his body didn’t look fatal. Nathan paused at this, his head throbbing and mouth dry with fear, and considered how he might be able to judge such a thing given his lack of experience. Regardless, he could not simply leave Kron lying insensible so he decided to follow his instincts and attempt to revive him somehow. By shaking him and calling Kron’s name, Nathan was soon rewarded with a moaning and stirring. Seconds later Kron’s real eye flickered open; his red gem-eye remained dim.
‘Wh-wh-what? Wh-where am I?’ he whispered with trembling lips.
‘On the gun deck,’ Nathan replied. ‘There was a fight…’
He broke off. Kron had raised his hands and was touching his metal half-skull and dim jewel-eye. ‘It’s still on me!’ he suddenly yelped. ‘Get it off before it can crash-start!’
Nathan stood in shock. Kron’s voice was different and he was starting to thrash around in a most un-Kron-like fashion. Nathan snatched for his wrists in fear that he might injure himself and the strange voice grew shrill with panic. ‘No! Don’t let it take me… Don’t let it…’ Kron’s new voice trailed away and his body slackened in Nathan’s grip. As Nathan lowered him gently to the deck he noticed Kron’s jewel-eye was flickering back to life.
‘Ai, Nathan,’ Kron said, his voice normal. ‘Lost my way there for a sec. Ye were about to tell me how ye escaped from the pirates?’
Nathan stared at him. Kron seemed to have no recollection of the fight or his bizarre behaviour. Nathan squatted down, watching Kron carefully as he slowly looked about, taking in the carnage around him.
‘There was a fight,’ Nathan explained again. ‘Kendrikson and some new friends tried to kill us, well, perhaps just kill me and capture you.’
Kron stood with no apparent signs of pain or weakness, and walked over to Kendrikson’s corpse, where he bent down and retrieved a half-melted spanner. ‘I struck him with this,’ he told Nathan. ‘I didn’t realise he was a Luminen.’ Kron fell silent, staring down at Nathan with that red, cyclopean eye for a long, long minute.
Nathan had a greasy feeling of fear in his stomach as he gazed back. Kron was obviously not entirely whole or sane. He had called Kendrikson a Luminen, a word which stirred disturbing memories in Nathan’s mind. It might be best not to remind Kron of his equally disturbing words and actions. Better now to find out about the Luminen Kendrikson and his allies. Kron was holding Kendrikson’s scorched head in his hands now.
‘Why do ye think they were out to catch poor Kron?’ the old man asked. Kron turned away to hide the act, but his hands still made an ugly cracking noise as they crushed Kendrikson’s skull.
‘I have absolutely no idea who they were,’ Nathan snapped, ‘let alone what they wanted with you! Kendrikson was… was... I don’t know, possessed? What is a Luminen?’
Kron clicked his tongue a few times, a curiously mechanical sound like that of the Pandora’s clattering old logic engine. Before he could reply there was a flicker of lights at the south end of the gunroom; echoing shouts followed. Kron turned and scurried towards the north end without a word. After a second’s indecision, Nathan followed, struggling to keep sight of Kron’s disappearing back while not tripping on a cable or cracking his head on a stanchion.
He caught up with Kron as he bent over a thick pipe in a shadowed corner beside the script-marked outer wall. The pipe was made of many rings of metal half the height of a man. Kron pulled apart two of the rings and slipped inside, turning to hold the rings apart and jerking his head for Nathan to follow. He ducked within, realising as the rings creaked back into place that he had heard the same noise before Kendrikson and his allies had attacked.
They belly-crawled along the pipe in silence, the way lit only by Kron’s cyclopean eye. Bundles of wires ran along the bottom of the pipe, most filthy and blackened but some more recent, their bright colours encarmined by Kron’s unflinching gaze. Dozens of dog-eared labels clung precariously to the different bundles. Many were torn off or unreadable, others bore legends such as Lwr diff, aaz/3180 or Ar.ctrl 126.13kw in careful Gothic script.
The pipe gave out into a black crack, chasm-deep with cabling spilling off into its depths like a frozen waterfall. Kron led Nathan onto a short bridge of pipes that crossed to the other wall, which was splotched with bright blobs of enormous silver like soldering marks. At the far side Nathan stopped, unnerved by Kron’s continuing silence and the cold, lightless spaces he was being led into. Time for some answers.
‘Kron,’ he whispered, ‘where are we? And where do you think you’re taking me?’
Kron turned to face him before replying. ‘She’s an old ship, lad. She fought and sailed the void for nigh eighteen centuries in the Emperor’s fleet, an’ before that she slept in a hulk for another twenty. That’s where I–’ Kron clamped his mouth shut and his eye blazed. He gazed round warily before speaking again. ‘We’re between the hull plates here. Yon weld marks are from when she took a salvo in the flank during the assault on Tricentia.’
‘And where are we going?’
‘Somewhere that’s safe, where we can hide ‘til the armsmen finish their search – hide an’ talk in peace.’
‘Won’t the armsmen follow us down here?’
‘Nay, lad, wi’out a fully armed servitor crew an’ a tech-priest they couldn’a use their guns for fear of cracking somethin’,’ Kron said.
‘Not ten strides yonder.’ Kron pointed.
Nathan took a long, hard look at the narrow ledge of rotting cables that ran along the wall from the end of the pipe bridge. His burnt and aching body already throbbed from the efforts he had forced it through after the fight. Now, as the flush of adrenaline left him and the icy chill in the air replaced it, he doubted his arms and legs could carry him on such a precarious path. He hesitated and swayed involuntarily on the bridge, which suddenly seemed rather precarious in itself now he came to think about it.
‘Kron, I don’t think…’
Too late, the old man was swinging off along the ledge with the agility of a monkey. With him, the wan red light that served as the only illumination was vanishing fast.
Nathan hesitated only a moment before a hot flush of anger drove him forward onto the ledge. He’d be damned if he would let this walking enigma disguised as an old man abandon him to the dark and potentially more of Kendrikson’s feral allies. He grasped a shoulder-high seam of wiring and pulled himself firmly over to get a foot on the cabling, trusting his weight to it as he pulled his other foot into place. Bloody-minded determination hauled him along three paces of the ledge. He made two more with his heart in his mouth and fingers fumbling blindly for purchase on the wires before his foot slipped off the cables.
His body swung out alarmingly, and only his recently gained handholds on the wiring-seam stopped him pitching off the treacherous ledge. He desperately scrabbled to get his foot back on it. His hands were as weak as water and his heart was thumping so hard his arms quivered. After a few seconds of naked terror he got his foot back on and hugged himself to the wall, teetering as his legs shook. He couldn’t let go of the wiring now, his legs were too weak to trust and his hands couldn’t hold his weight for much longer. He couldn’t go forward, he couldn’t go back. Every iota of his strength was necessary just to hold him where he was, with the blackness below sucking at his remaining scraps of vigour.
On Wings of Blood Page 36
