“You may not have noticed, but there’s quite a few people here,” I snap. “It’ll take time to get them moving, if we decide we can trust you.”
“Bring only the Blessed’s Children,” he says. “The others can fend for themselves.”
It takes me a moment to even parse that. “The Blessed’s Children” is an old turn of phrase from a more pious time, a way to refer to the people of the Empire that emphasizes our devotion to the Blessed One. These days people tend to say “Imperials” instead, probably because loyalty to the Emperor and the government counts for more than theological commitment.
“If we go anywhere,” I tell him, “we won’t be leaving anyone behind.” I look around and get nods from Shiara and Meroe.
“But—” Veldi begins.
He’s interrupted by a shriek, and he immediately curls in on himself as though someone had kicked him in the gut.
“Too late,” he says. “They’ve arrived.”
“Deepwalker!” Zarun shouts. “People coming fast, a hell of a lot of them!”
Rot. “See what you can get out of him,” I tell Shiara. Then to Meroe, “We may need to fall back. Get everyone ready.”
“Fall back where?” she says.
“Still working on that!” I shout over my shoulder, jogging in the direction of the cries.
Up ahead, at the edge of the woods, I can see the flash and glow of magic. Myrkai fire spits into the trees, bolts blossoming into balls of flame on impact. The blue of Tartak force flickers through the underbrush, and then the brilliant green of Melos energy, with its characteristic hissing crackle. That has to be Zarun himself—there are precious few Melos users left among the crew.
I reach the scene to find a pack of a dozen crew retreating in the face of dozens of silent figures stumbling out of the woods. For a moment, I look at the newcomers with their shambling, drunken gait and wonder if they need help. That thought lasts until the closest of them grabs one of the crew, a young man, and bears him to the ground, twisting his arm the wrong way with an audible crack. He screams, and bolts of Tartak force batter his attacker, who hangs on to the shattered limb with grim determination.
Well. Score one for paranoia. I concentrate for a moment, letting energy from the Melos Well flow through me. Twin blades of brilliant green energy ignite at my wrists with a snap-hiss, sparks crawling over them and running up my arms. The air around my body hums, suffused by more Melos power, an intangible barrier ready to crackle to life. I charge, sprinting past the line of crew hurling bolts of fire. Heat from a stray blast washes over me, but I ignore it, trusting my armor. I reach the fallen crewman and bring a blade around in a horizontal sweep, slashing through his attacker’s neck. The head flies off into the trees, and I instinctively take a step back to avoid the gushing arterial spray.
Only it doesn’t come. There’s no blood at all, in fact. Nor does the attacker fall. By the light of my blades, I can see that it’s a desperately thin woman, her rib cage visible under dark, puckered skin, and—
Green light gleams on bones. Her ribs are visible, peeking through gaps in her flesh. And her body is still moving, dropping the poor boy’s arm to head in my direction.
This isn’t a woman at all. It’s a walking corpse, and the loss of its head doesn’t seem to slow it down. It lunges for me, long, splintery nails scraping against a flare of Melos armor. My body reacts automatically, spinning away and chopping the thing’s arm off at the elbow. I take off its other arm when it reaches for me again, and give it a kick that connects with a crunch of breaking bone. Even then, it writhes on the ground, the headless, armless body trying to regain its feet.
Oh, Blessed. Dead is dead. Dead is dead is dead, and there’s no such things as ghosts. So what in the Blessed’s rotten entrails is going on?
The sentiment seems to be shared by the crew fighting around me, who are giving ground rapidly as more and more of the things shuffle out of the woods. Several corpses are ablaze now, stumbling about wreathed in Myrkai fire, still trying to reach their prey even as they burn. I can hear the panic in the voices of the defenders as they call to each other.
“They’re just rotting puppets!” Zarun roars. He has a long Melos blade in one hand and a shield of green light in the other. One of the creatures lurches against him, a big man whose corpse shows signs of having been sewn back together. Zarun lets it throw itself against his shield, raising a shower of sparks, then cuts it in half at the waist with a single blow. “Tear them to bits if you have to!”
I force myself to focus and add my voice to his. “He’s right! Dead or not, they won’t hurt you with no arms or legs!”
When the next creature comes for me, a heavyset woman trailing long, tattered folds of skin, I’m ready. I sidestep its first rush, remove one arm, spin to cut off the other as it turns to face me, then cut off its head with a crossing slash of both blades. It’s a showy combination, but effective, and it puts some heart into the crew. Fire splashes out with renewed vigor, and blue Tartak bonds hold back the burning creatures until they collapse. Zarun and I take the lead, cutting apart the stumbling bodies one after another.
For a moment, I think we’re winning. But there are too many of them, the crowd emerging from the woods getting thicker. I can see the flare and crackle of fighting all along the perimeter now, but there’s no time to worry about the rest of the crew, no time to do anything but slash, sidestep, slash again, cutting apart the bloodless creatures like I’m chopping firewood. But it’s not going to work. They’re getting around me, hands grasping and scratching, and all I can do is keep moving. Beyond the oncoming horde, I see the boy with the broken arm take off running back toward the camp. A girl, spraying a torrent of fire from her cupped hands onto one creature, doesn’t see two more grabbing her from behind. She goes down, and her scream cuts off abruptly amid wet, gristly sounds.
Rotting scumsuckers. I spin away from the pack, bulling through the group that’s built up around me, blades slashing wildly. Cold, rotten flesh parts easily, but fingers continue to tear at me, sparks spitting and popping from my armor. I’m nearly clear when one of them gets a hold on my wrist, jerking me backward with inhuman strength. I can hear the creature’s flesh frying in the continuous discharge from my armor, a wild coruscation of green light and a vile stench, but it hangs on. Another of the things throws itself on my other arm, my blade punching through its chest even as it pulls me closer. Heat washes over me, building up under my armor, and I start to feel the first hints of panic. I stagger backward, brushing up against another straining corpse, and—
There you are.
The voice rings in my mind, carried on a wave of Eddica energy wafting out of the creatures that hold me. I can feel Eddica power everywhere, in fact, flowing out of Soliton, pulsing under the soil like blood through a vein, and curling up into these withered corpses. For a moment, a face hangs in the air, the same monstrosity I saw on the ship, with flyaway white hair and black holes for eyes. Skin cracks as its lips move, speaking to me.
You can hear me, can’t you? Yes, of course you can.
The world beyond the voice dims to vague shadows. I try to focus.
It has been a long time since one of us arrived, the voice says.
Who are you? I ask.
They call me Prime. There’s a note of humor in the voice, a barely suppressed chuckle. I wondered why so many survived the passage. No doubt you protected them.
Call off your monsters, I think at him, desperately. Tell me what you want.
Come to me, he counters. Leave the others. You don’t need them anymore. His withered face contorts into a smile. This is our place. I will teach you. You will never need anyone ever again.
Go rut one of your rotting corpses, I tell him.
Very poetic, he says. We’ll see if you still think—
The voice cuts off as a glowing green blade severs the arm of the creature holding me. I find myself on my knees, my armor flaring all over, so hot it feels like I’ve stepped into a b
read oven. It’s all I can do to gasp for breath as Zarun cuts down another creature and kicks a third away from me. I drop my armor and let my blades fade, and he takes my arm and pulls me to my feet. I’m drenched in sweat, and I can already feel the hot pain of powerburn running across my skin.
“Isoka!” he says. “We have to get out of here!”
No rotting kidding. I raise my head, and catch sight of waves of flame rippling out. I point, and Zarun nods. We head that way, ducking and dodging through the ranks of the dead. After a few moments, I ignite my blades again and keep Zarun clear as he hacks a path.
The crew have pulled back into a tight circle, the children in the center, an outer perimeter of Myrkai users directing continuous streams of flame into the darkness. Behind them, crew with spears and Tartak force shove the corpses back, keeping a narrow area clear inside a growing pile of burning bodies. I don’t even have to wonder who got them into formation.
There’s no way to alert them to open the circle and let us in, so I take a deep breath and raise my armor, wincing at the pain in already-burned skin. Zarun and I kick through a waist-high heap of charred and burning bodies, then sprint forward, and I pray the brilliant green flaring from our armor will keep the Tartak users in the crew from flinging us away. It works, thank the Blessed, and we skid to a halt on the other side of the wall of flames. Zarun drops his armor, steam rising from his body, and absently slaps at his shirt where a corner of it has caught fire.
“Isoka!” Meroe fights through the press. “Oh, gods—I thought—”
“I got a little toasted,” I say. My voice is a rasp. “But I’ll live. If any of us do.”
“We have to get off the beach,” she says. “The crew can’t keep this up for long.”
“The buildings inland,” I say. “There might be something solid enough to defend.”
“Maybe.” She chews her lip. “If there’s not, though—or if more of these things are in there—”
“Where’s Veldi?”
The stranger, in his old-fashioned clothing, is quickly dragged to us. He looks as terrified as any of the children, fire reflected in his wide eyes, and his ridiculous braid-knot is badly singed. I have to ignite my blade under his nose to get his attention.
“How far to your lady? Where you wanted to take us?”
“A couple of hours’ walk,” he says. “But—”
“Too far.” I point at the jungle. “I saw a building close by. Who lives there?”
“No one,” he says, and then seems to understand. “It’s empty. Most of the city is abandoned.”
“But it’s still standing?”
He nods vigorously. I glance at Meroe.
“Better than staying here,” she says. “Give me a minute to get everyone moving.”
* * *
The tricky part is making sure the retreat doesn’t turn into a rout. If we split up and lose ourselves in the jungle, the corpses will pull us down one at a time.
Meroe gathers the strongest fighters—me, Zarun, Aifin, Thora, and Jack—and makes them the vanguard. The rest, especially the less powerful Myrkai and Tartak touched, form the perimeter that keep the corpses back. Everyone else just needs to run and keep together, which is going to be no small feat in the woods.
I shed my crab-shell plates and most of my clothes, keeping only a chest-wrap and trousers, trying to cool off. Angry red lines crisscross my skin already, running underneath the blue cross-hatching left over from the first time Meroe used her Ghul powers on me. Zarun spares a moment to raise an appreciative eyebrow, and I roll my eyes at him.
Meroe gives the signal, and the wall of fire parts. The dead surge forward, toppling the pile of burning bodies in their eagerness to get at us, and we charge to meet them. Aifin and I take the lead, me slashing the corpses apart with my blades, him working with a short sword in a blaze of golden Rhema speed. Beside us, Jack fights with a long spear and her Xenos Well, shadows boiling all around her, reaching out with webs of darkness to snare the monsters. Zarun and Thora, both Tartak adepts, concentrate on clearing the path, shoving corpses to either side.
Other crew move in behind us, widening the breach. Step by step, we pick up momentum, battering a small section of the horde aside. Meroe shouts herself hoarse, directing her packs to follow us, keeping the dead from re-forming their ring. Through the narrow gap, the mass of the crew floods, those in the lead carrying swords and spears to deal with any straggling monstrosities.
In less than a minute, we’re through. The dead are thinning out in front of us, not because we’ve cut their numbers, but because we’re leaving the great mass of them behind. I plunge into the forest, slashing underbrush out of my way, and jog forward by the light of my blades. Fortunately, beyond the verge, the vegetation thins at ground level, so we only need to weave between the canted trees and cut down any corpses that cross our path. Zarun runs on one side of me, slamming a dead woman out of the way with his shield and cutting her in half, while Thora and Jack take the other side, fighting together with practiced ease. Jack hoots in triumph as she slashes a creature apart, then dissolves into a swirl of shadow and re-forms nearby as three more try to dog-pile her. Aifin darts in, almost faster than my eye can follow, and cuts the trio to pieces.
Behind us, there are shouts, screams, and blasts of fire. I turn to look for Meroe, and spot her in the first rank, waving the others on. The fighters on the edges of the crowd try to keep everyone together, directing bolts of flame at the pursuing corpses. I see a girl stumble, sprawl, then lift into the air in a nimbus of blue as a Tartak user sets her back on her feet. Farther back, a young man runs the wrong way, heading to grab a screaming boy who’s fallen behind. He blasts one corpse with flames to reach the boy, but the great mass of dead swarms over them before he can get clear, and they both vanish under a tide of desiccated flesh.
“There!” Zarun shouts, gesturing with a glowing Melos blade. A hundred yards ahead, stone walls thickly carpeted with vines rise out of the jungle.
I gulp a breath. “Jack! Take Aifin and find us a way in!”
“Aye-aye, fearless leader!” she crows. “Clever Jack will break the path.” She taps Aifin and points—he can’t hear, but he gets the idea. He speeds up even further, blurring into a fading trail of golden light, and Jack follows in a shifting mass of shadow.
There are few corpses ahead of us now, and we spread out to either side, keeping them from working around the main body of the crew. I catch Meroe’s eye and point, hoping she understands. The wall of flame guarding our rear is ragged now, Myrkai users stumbling in exhaustion, and Zarun and I join them, slashing apart any creatures that get too close. We back up, step by step, half my attention on treacherous, root-strewn ground. Trip here, and the horde will drown you.
Time seems to blur. My skin is getting hot again; I drop my armor, letting the splintered nails of the corpses rake my skin, but even using my blades continuously for this long is draining. Zarun is breathing hard, exhaling a dragon’s plume of hot steam. Meroe’s voice cuts through the mêlée, cracked and ragged.
“Isoka! Fall back! We’re inside!”
Music to my rotting ears. I cut the head off a one-armed woman in the tattered remnants of a kizen and turn my back on the others, sprinting toward the dimly visible outline of the building. I catch sight of Thora, gesturing to us in between slapping corpses away with bolts of Tartak force, and head in her direction. An ancient stone staircase leads up a steep slope to an archway. I have a vague sense of a much larger structure stretching out around me, but my eyes are fixed on the arch, and I skid through it just ahead of Zarun and Thora.
We’re the last, except for the dead. They come boiling up the stairway behind us, climbing over one another in their eagerness to reach their prey. But Meroe has crew waiting, and the monsters have to press into a narrow space to try to crush into the doorway. Waves of fire slam out, turning dry, cracking flesh into boiling ash, incinerating dozens of the things at once. I laugh with giddy relief—fighting s
urrounded in the open is one thing, defending a narrow gap like this quite another. They can try all rotting day and they won’t make it through.
What’s more, they seem to know it. After that first rush, the dead pause. Then, as though they’ve suddenly lost interest, they turn away, stumbling back down the steps and into the forest. Within minutes, they’ve slipped into the shadows, and the only corpses in sight are those still burning.
We’d made it. But not all of us. Exhaustion and rage war in my chest. I push through the crowd of crew, looking for our hapless prisoner.
Veldi has a lot of questions to answer.
5
TORI
Once I knew the Ward Guards were on the watch for draft-dodgers, it was relatively easy to avoid their checkpoints. The closest thing the Eleventh Ward has to a main road is Orchard Street, which connects the High Market (centered on the gate to the military road) with the Low Market (centered on the gate to the Sixteenth Ward), running roughly north-south through the district like a spine. Move away from this artery, and the cross streets quickly splinter into a hundred interwoven lanes, impossible for most outsiders to understand.
I’d had a hard time navigating, the first time I came here. Now I move with confidence, ducking around sharp corners and taking the occasional shortcut through a ground-floor shop. The buildings closest to Orchard Street are the most respectable, offering lodging for those on the upper end of the Eleventh Ward’s scale of poverty and shopping for people who don’t want to brave the crush of the markets. Head west, as I am now, and the tenements are old and run-down, sagging façades patched with boards and flaking whitewash.
My destination is a large, dilapidated block of a building that stands on its own, as though even the surrounding architecture wanted to give it a wide berth. It’s eight stories high, with a gray shingle roof that’s missing so many slats the top floor has been abandoned to mold and damp. Stairways zigzag up all four sides of the building, each of them broken in places.
City of Stone and Silence Page 5
