The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  Hübner's warning caught in his throat as blood spattered across his mask. He fired his own weapon, but Talc's position between us saved me from the brunt of the spread. Talc seemed to collapse in two, falling like cut timber as I moved forward.

  My knee screamed and I ignored it.

  Hübner fired again, but I was behind the spread of his shotgun and the blast erupted in my wake. I was so close, I could see his blue eyes staring at me from behind his mask, feel the heat from his breath. He towered above me, staring down in confused horror as I shoved the Judge up under his chin, hearing the barrel scrape against his mask and feeling it meet soft flesh.

  "Wait. I ca—"

  I squeezed the trigger.

  Hübner's black mask flashed red as the bullet tore its way into his skull. He dropped to the tunnel floor as the crowd quieted. The sound of my gun blast seemed to echo around me. A fading reminder of what I had done.

  I had killed two people. Reality burst into flame around me. I exhaled all the breath out of my lungs in one long huff.

  Two dead. Two. Two lives.

  I collapsed to the ground. Staring at the Judge still grasped in my fingers. It looked so wrong, felt so foreign. My hands shook. My body shook. My intestines clenched.

  I have had my share of tussles. A fistfight here, a drunken brawl there, a disagreement every now and again. I had killed a cougar once as it sprinted toward one of my customers' cattle, fangs bared. I had seen people die around me. I had even drawn iron on the trail, fired my weapon into the air as a warning. But never had I killed a person.

  Never.

  "This was what had to happen," I growled to myself, partly ashamed and partly relieved at my own reaction. "It was them or Samantha. Them or Hagen. Them or you. Black murders innocents. These men were killers. They admitted as much as they walked. They would have gladly butchered you and your friends."

  I had brought this abomination into Lovat. An abomination that marked a trail of death throughout my city. It was on me to finish it. I knew there would be more bodies before this was all over.

  I breathed.

  I wondered if killing ever got any easier.

  Samantha and Hagen should still be alive, and the two dauger had said Wensem was too. Wensem would protect his son, he wouldn't let them take him. That meant Little Waldo was probably still alive as well.

  My mind hardened around what I had to do. Protect my friends. Stop Black. Stop these killings. Stop the Children.

  I reloaded the Judge and grabbed one of the corpses' shotguns, looting fresh shells from the other fallen thug until my pockets bulged. I slipped rounds into the shotgun's magazine. The Judge had five shots, but I was slow on the reload. It wasn't much of a backup plan.

  Moving was difficult enough, and I was making it harder by carrying a shotgun, but I could use all the armament I could get.

  I took a deep breath. I had to get back.

  Black's horned shadow played out on the ceiling of the tunnel as I carefully made my way back to my hiding spot. The scent of burning flesh and the metallic smell of blood seemed to cling to me. Shouts of "Mother! Mother!" and "Io Pan!" flooded over me as I moved, Black masterly building his crowd, kindling that religious fervor that burned inside each of his zealots. He was a seasoned orator, waiting patiently as cheers rose, a wide grin plastered on his handsome face. He was igniting the crowd as he spoke more words to build them up. He waited until the cheering was about to stop before raising his right arm, and turning in a showman's flourish, revealed the scene that emerged from within the belly of the ancient machine.

  A gasp caught in my throat as Wensem walked out from within the tunneler, slightly stooped as to not crack his head on a rusted girder that dangled too low. A bundle was clutched tightly in his arms. Behind him followed two burly figures, human and dimanian, dressed identically to Talc and Hubner, and armed with long knives strapped to longer poles. They jabbed at his backside, forcing him forward.

  My partner's face was bruised and bloody, his massive seven-fingered hands scratched and covered in blood. More blood was smeared around his crooked mouth and drew dark stains across the yellowed undershirt he wore.

  He wasn't defeated—he didn't move like a broken man, but like a defiant one. His crooked jaw was set. His eyes burned hotter than Zilla's ever did. He looked ready to snap anyone in two, even with Little Waldo clutched in his arms. Unlike me, Wensem was a slow burn. It's what made us good business partners. It took a lot to force his emotions, so it was rare Wensem became upset. He was the guy who would allow himself to be pushed, and pushed, and pushed until finally he would break, and when he broke, hell followed.

  "The feet of the Traveler!" Black shouted with a flourish toward Wensem.

  Cheers.

  "The pipes of the Newborn."

  Little Waldo—taking after his namesake—let out a loud baby's scream. His fat little arms pumped angrily at the heavy air. He wanted food. He wanted his mother.

  Laughter.

  I could see Wensem tense. More cheers. Shouts of "Io Pan! Io Pan! Goat god! Satyr god!" followed. A few Children danced.

  Wensem was stopped a few strides away from Peter Black. Out of arm's length but close enough that the two of them could read the expressions in each other's eyes. Wensem glared trails of hate at Black. The two burly Children with makeshift spears stood behind on either side, weapons at the ready, eyes twitching and nervous—as if recognizing Wensem was a lit powder keg.

  The blood around his mouth didn't fit. His face wasn't swollen. I wondered if one of the Children in this gathered throng was missing a chunk of flesh. I had seen Wensem bite into an opponent before, and it was never a pretty sight. With his crooked jaw, he could never bite anything clean off, always had to tear.

  I shuddered.

  Black turned from the maero and looked at the crowd, continuing his homily: "My friends, this is an auspicious occasion. The re-Aligning, as it were, and yes, we are its architects. We have heard the stories of those who had come before us, but now, now it is our time. Yes, the Mother, my dear Cybill, will usher our new world into fruition. She will bring the high priest and awaken the old ones. The Firsts. Yes, I have sired our movement. But it is so much more than me. So much more than the Mother. It's you."

  Screams of delighted joy.

  I felt sick.

  "We couldn't have done this without your love. Your worship."

  The cheers exploded in a rush. The sound louder than any gunshot in this empty, echoing place. Black motioned to the ten robed men standing near the crate. The brand of Wilem, Black & Bright was still burned into its side.

  "Our Mother!"

  Children produced crowbars and pried off the wood that surrounded the object held within. Boards fell away, shedding like a molting exoskeleton. Inside sat the object I had guided from Syringa's gates to Lovat's door. It was a stone carving. A massive idol. And it was horrific.

  Long and narrow, it was carved in the shape of what I could only assume was Cybill. I was shocked at the strangeness of it. Undulating like badly set clay, hundreds of globular eyes emerged from the surface at one end and cascaded across the sides like engorged ticks. They grew smaller near the middle and faded before meeting at the opposite end.

  The lower half was composed of fat, chiseled tentacles and odd, spindly appendages in relief that reminded me of the legs of harvestmen spiders. More tentacles moved up the side, sculpted as if they were tangled and knotted together like stone intestines. On the top of the slab, surrounded by a swarm of eyes, a jagged, parrot-like beak beveled out from the rock, wide open as if Cybill was shouting at the tunnel's ceiling. Around the mouth were carved hundreds of smaller limbs like some fleshy beard. A lolling tongue was carved upward, as if beckoning to pull objects inside.

  It was a terrifying idol. An ancient cult's vision of a First.

  "To the fire!" Black screamed, his face red with manic effort. The chanting began again. Rhythmic. In a harsh, guttural language I didn't understand.

&
nbsp; I peeked from my hiding place. Robed Children next to the stone drew poles through tentacles carved along the top of the object that served as brackets. They all lifted, struggling under the weight of the thing, and moved in plodding unison, half-dragging, half-carrying the idol to the bonfire. I didn't envy them. I had seen the weight of the thing break two axles and crack three cargowain wheels.

  The idol-bearers eased the stone into the center of the fire and withdrew their poles, retreating to the enclosing circle of chanting figures. A few of them had to beat out flames that had crept up their long robes.

  "Come, breath, from the four winds, and breathe into this slain avatar, that she may live." Black chanted and then laughed, pulling a bulging hopsack stained black from under his abandoned wheelchair. It dripped blood. I edged closer, hiding behind the nearest row of carts and watching the procession through the breaks in the crowd.

  Black moved into the fire. He seemed so unafraid of the flames, so unworried about the possibility of damage. The hair on his body burned away but his flesh remained unsinged. I expected to smell the scent of burning hair, but instead I got a whiff of wildflowers. Marigolds.

  Black stopped, standing atop the blaze, above the stone, with his arms outstretched.

  The crowd drew closer.

  Even I leaned forward.

  Black reached into the rough sack and pulled out a pair of eyes, cut from the head of Lilly Westmarch. That poor girl. He held them aloft.

  "The eyes of an artist!"

  He shoved the parts down into the gaping maw carved into the stone. The crowd cheered.

  He repeated the process.

  "The hands of a healer!"

  Again more cheers.

  "The tongue of a supplicant!"

  I watched, horrified, as Black fed August's tongue to the stone.

  "The ears of a musician!"

  I thought of Fran. My breathing rasped against my gritted teeth.

  "The lips of a merchant."

  The shriveled piece of flesh Black had drawn from the hopsack didn't remind me of Thad. I wasn't sure if I had expected it to. If it was something like my friend's head, it would have sent me over the edge. This, this was unfamiliar.

  The scent of burning flesh began to fill the tunnel. At first I thought it was Black. Then I realized what it was: the body parts—the trophies taken by Zilla—were now cooking inside the stone idol.

  I was waiting for my moment to strike, watching intently from behind my overturned rail car. Fear and anger bubbled under my skin, ready to burst. I'd like to say it was wits and skill, but it was probably only exhaustion keeping me in my place. If I acted too early the Children would overwhelm me, but if I timed it right, I could send them into a panic.

  Black laughed atop the burning pyre. He tossed the sack aside.

  "Now!" he shouted. "I am sure Brother Talc and Brother Hübner will be here soon with the Guardian! But..." he said, pausing and turning, looking down from his post at Wensem and screaming baby Waldo. "...we're missing two other vital ingredients before we get to the Guardian's heart. What shall we do with you two?"

  He waggled a finger toward Little Waldo.

  The baby screamed.

  "Cut them!" shouted a female voice.

  "Burn them!" came a male's.

  Shouts mushroomed upwards, carried with the smoke. Each claiming a better way to murder Wensem and his son.

  I watched, dumbstruck. The Children were so wrapped up in trying to figure out how to murder my friend, that they were missing what was going on with the idol. It was glowing. The stone was glowing.

  When they had broken it free it looked like it was basalt or some other hard stone. There was no way the altar would be glowing this soon, no way the bonfire was hot enough, but it was glowing. Not red or ruddy orange like you'd expect from heated stone, but a deep, festering yellow.

  "Now," Black stated, clasping his hands before him.

  One of the Children lunged at Wensem, knife in hand, and I watched as Wensem clutched his newborn son in one hand and grabbed the attacking human's head in another and twisted it around in one smooth motion.

  A sickening crack silenced the raving crowd. The dead cultist fell headlong into the blaze. His jacket burst into flames.

  Black roared with laughter.

  "A fight then! Of course. It makes sense. You Bell Caravan boys always have a bit of fight in you. We could waste time trying to cut off your feet or tear out your boy's throat, but why bother? We can always just burn you atop of my Cybill!"

  The Children drew closer. I tensed as moments ticked by in my mind.

  It was almost time.

  "After all!" Peter Black continued. "It's the night of my wife's resurrection!"

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In the serials, the hero always does something clever. He swings in on a rope and grabs the girl, swinging away and leaving the dreaded pirate captain cursing, or he figures out a way to turn the villains against one another, allowing him time to rescue his friends with little bloodshed. Carter's cross, do I wish this was one of those tales.

  I didn't feel clever or quick. I felt trapped. My best friend and his kid were about to be sacrificed to a glowing rock. If I didn't act they'd be dead, and very soon. I breathed deeply, inhaling the heavy air, feeling it enter my lungs, and trying to let it calm me.

  The thought of Wensem's body aflame, clutching his son as they burned on Cybill's altar, was too much. Peter Black forced my hand and I had one option.

  I rose.

  My knee and ribs protested, but I ignored them. Leveling the shotgun at the back of the nearest cultist, I pulled the trigger, gritting my teeth as the rifle bucked in my hand. The sound of the blast boomed. It rolled down the tunnel like a volcanic eruption, echoing off the walls and hammering against my eardrums.

  The ranting voice of Peter Black and the noise of celebration from his followers died almost instantly. They turned in unison and saw me standing there murdering one of their members. Their silence intensified the sound of the kresh's body slapping against the floor. I felt its hot blood spatter against the cuffs of my jeans.

  A moment hung between us.

  We all stared at one another. The weary and wounded caravan master out of his element, armed with a stolen scattergun, spattered with kresh blood, and to my best guess…looking like a sack of shit. Across from me, Peter Black, now hairless thanks to the bonfire, and his red-coated throng of bloodthirsty cultists.

  "Stop," I barked in what I hoped was a firm tone.

  Mumbles of confusion bubbled from the Children. Eyes widened and mouths dropped open as they gaped at me.

  I had expected Black to spin around wildly at the sound of the gunshot. But ever the showman, working his crowd, he turned slowly, methodically. His back hunched in anger and his hands curling into gnarled claws. It was as if he knew what awaited him.

  I reloaded, shoving a shell into the shotgun's magazine to replace the one I had fired, and took a few painful steps forward. Advancing like a predator, trying to maintain the momentum. Something would flip, something in these people's heads would turn on, and they'd realize they could destroy me.

  The crowd murmured and drew together, huddling near their master and the bonfire, where the stone idol lay glowing its sickening yellow. My one move had worked, sort of: I had surprised them. Shocked them out of their revelry enough to cause confusion. I watched uncertainty spread through them. Looks of embarrassment chasing questioning glances like the shadows of clouds blown across the open plains.

  Black was different. He wasn't unsure or confused: he was pissed. The old satyr glared at me with a dark expression. The placid smile that he had worn in his office had been usurped by a curling snarl. His well-groomed goatee and white hair were gone, exposing a weak chin and a brow that sloped back too early. He bared rows of perfectly white teeth in a frame of fat pink lips.

  "Nice to see you again," I blurted, trying to fill the silence. I had spent my last move, my element of surprise was driftin
g away like bonfire smoke, and now it was Waldo Bell versus fifty crazy people and their weird demigod.

  "Guardian," Black spat the word as if it was poison. "I assume from your presence that Child Hübner and Child Talc are dead."

  I took a page from Zilla's book and said nothing.

  Black huffed out a long, frustrated breath, as if my silence was answer enough.

  "Now you kill another of my Children?" He motioned to the body of the kresh at my feet. "Here in this consecrated chamber?"

  My stomach sickened, thinking of the body count I was racking up, and trying not to imagine what ritual Black and his creatures performed to consecrate this part of the Humes tunnel. I glanced down at the kresh before looking back up to meet Black's gaze. I could deal with my guilt later.

  I remained silent.

  The crowd pressed around the base of the bonfire, forming a half circle facing me, and in the process blocking my view of Wensem and Little Wal. They looked to one another, then over their shoulders to Peter Black, as if waiting for a command. They'd have made terrible caravaneers. I expect anyone in my company to improvise, act without direct orders, adapt. A roader who can't think on their feet is a dead roader. Black's followers stared up at him waiting for his word, reminding me of stupid baby birds waiting for their next meal. Their faces had placid, sheep-like expressions.

  It was an unusual standoff. Fifty of them, one of me, by all odds I was dead. A few had rifles, shotguns mostly, similar to my recent acquisition. Must have been a sale. But they were few and far between and knives seemed to be the weapon of choice in this crowd. Almost all of them carried a blade; each different in shape, size and design. A few of the more inventive had tied their knives to poles with thick twine, forming crude spears. They held these makeshift weapons out, as if I was planning on rushing them. I wasn't.

  "Let Wensem and his son go," I demanded, taking a step to my left. Fifty sets of eyes followed me.

  Peter Black laughed. "From where I stand, you aren't in a position to make demands, Mister Bell."

  He was right. I looked at the shotgun in my hand and felt the weight of the Judge in the waist of my pants: two guns. I looked at the throng surrounding Black: more than two guns and a lot of knives. Also a whole lot of crazy.