Penult (Book Four of The Liminality)

by A. Sparrow

  The strain on Kitt’s face did not ease. “I’ll take the point from you, James,” she shouted. “You got the left flank. Detmar’s got the rear.”

  I flexed my shoulders and my wings did the rest. I hopped into the air, though my trajectory was a bit low and I almost kicked Olivier in the forehead. Luckily he had the presence of mind this time to duck.

  I flew out to my position on the flank. Olivier roused everybody who had sprawled on the ground to rest their weary feet and got them all moving again.

  I could see why Kitt was concerned. The Cherubim behind us had reached the edge of the marshes a few kilometers back and were tromping through the reeds. They had split their force into seven columns, two on each side arcing wide in a pincers movement. At the rate they were moving they could easily encircle and entrap the ground party if they didn’t haul ass.

  But haul ass, they did. Oliver got them up and moving at a good clip, practically at a jog. Not as fast as the Cherubim but fast enough to reach the cliffs before the pincers closed, in only they could sustain the pace. With some dismay I noticed Lille and Bern in the rear of the group, struggling to keep up with others. I wished now that I had made a couple more wing joints.

  The cliffs ahead were slashed with diagonal fractures and fissures. I couldn’t spot any obvious routes up that wouldn’t require mad rock climbing skills and gear. I hoped that Olivier knew what he was doing and we weren’t just marching into a wall.

  The first terrace of the mountain was blanketed in a thick, viny cloud forest not unlike those I had seen atop the now fallen mesas in the lower valley. The second tier was studded with the ruins of an ancient city—the jagged stubs of towers, stoned builds, most without roofs though some were encased in wooden scaffolds.

  I knew this place. This was the lost city where I had accidentally awakened my first Old One—Mr. O.

  Three dragonflies bearing riders swooped off the upper terrace, skimming the tree tops of the lower tier—the first mounted insects I had seen since coming back after the invasion. They were a welcome sight after passing so many broken and empty exoskeletons on the march.

  More flying objects appeared on the periphery. I spun around and took inventory of everything in the sky with me. The speck off to my right was Tyler, the most conservative and deliberate of us fliers. He liked to hover at a constant height keeping pace with the marchers, so he was easy to identify in the air.

  Ahead of me, Kitt was half again as high as the rest of us, testing the limits of her ceiling. She liked being up high, that one. Detmar was far behind us, swooping low to buzz the middle three columns of Cherubim ploughing through the marshes behind us. He was playing with fire. All it took was the annoyance of a single Seraph to make them spring into action to blast him out of the sky.

  But there was something else just within the ring of mountains, cruising over the Cherubim armies that seemed to be waiting in reserve. It was too far to discern, and poorly contrasted, dark against dark, against the forested hillsides.

  A speeding blur came speeding at me. I flinched, but it was only Kitt, motioning for me to descend. Below us, Olivier stood atop a jagged boulder, waving his arms. Kitt and I landed simultaneously on either side of him. Tyler and Detmar dropped in moments behind us.

  “We just got word,” said Olivier. “We’re doing the swap right here. Petros says they’re bringing the prisoner in by air. I’m sending the group on ahead to get behind the lines.”

  “Those cliffs … I didn’t see a way up them.”

  “I know. The group’s gonna make for that gully on the right where the Dusters’ are holed up. Nobody’s comfortable going to the Frelsians.”

  “What do you want us to do?” said Kitt.

  “I want Tyler to escort the refugees to the Duster’s barricade. Stay close. Watch out for anything fishy. Kitt and Detmar, I want you to keep an eye on the Cherubs coming up behind us. Stay out of range. They do anything aggressive, hit them hard. But watch out, they’re deadly accurate with their projectiles. James, I want you to intercept the condor that’s coming in and make sure they’re bringing in our prisoner and that she’s okay. If everything’s cool, signal me with a loop de loop. If there’s a problem, you come flying straight back here. Got it?”

  “Condor?”

  Olivier pointed to a dark blotch in the sky behind my head.

  “And watch out for the gunner in the front cage. Their ballistas are supposed to be disarmed. But if you see him arm the mechanism, you blast him. In fact, if he as much as lifts his finger to scratch his nose, you get that sword of yours ready.”

  “Please. That will not be necessary,” said Petros.

  “For your sake I certainly hope so because you, Mr. Seraph, are next on my hit list if anything bad goes down here.”

  Most of the marchers had veered off towards the Duster lines, but a few hung back, Bern and Lille among them.

  “Go! God damn it! What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

  Lille’s eyes sought and captured mine. “Be very careful, James?”

  “No unnecessary risks?” said Bern, leaning on his staff.

  “Get the fuck out of here! Now” said Olivier. I took off with the other scouts and the stragglers left only Olivier and Petros standing by the boulder.

  ***

  I gained altitude and flew toward the gangly mass of membranes and struts gliding towards us from the outer rim. It looked more like a bat than a bird with its angular joints and claw-like protrusions. There were was a cluster of seven cages attached to the craft, each with an occupant. The front-most cage bristled with spikes. I assumed that was what Olivier meant by ‘ballista.’

  I wasn’t close enough yet to discern the presence of any prisoner, but we were closing on each other fast. My sword’s hilt was slick in my sweaty palm. Olivier’s anxiety was infectious. He acted as if he expected something to go wrong with the transfer.

  I twirled around to check on the others. The ground party had hustled almost halfway between the boulder and the Dusters’ barricade. Tyler stayed low above the stragglers, drifting backwards, facing me. The hand-carved dummy rifle stock he used to focus his emanations was tucked under his arm.

  As they neared the barricade a swarm of man-sized ants burst out from beneath and raced out into the wash, brandishing their jagged mandibles, forming a protective cordon behind our people. A half dozen mantids burst over the berm and landed behind the line of ants I was relieved to see Bern and Lille thread their way behind this arc of defenders.

  When I turned back around, the condor was much closer and I could almost make out the occupants of the cages. One cage deep within the cluster held a single pilot. Even with three sets of wings so huge, the device only took one soul to operate. Another pod, below the pilot held an array of skids and talons that apparently supported the craft when it was on the ground. The rest of the cages, as far as I could tell were for passengers—one holding someone lying limp and prone. The prisoner? I refrained from signaling Olivier until I knew for sure.

  Kitt and Detmar patrolled above the Cherubim columns closing their pincers around Olivier and Petros. The scouts flitted to and fro, maneuvering evasively, harrying, almost to the point of taunting them.

  On the verge of achieving their encirclement, the Cherubim now seemed in no great hurry now. Their pace slowed. Their weaponized limbs remained slack at their sides.

  The condor swooped past me and I wheeled around to follow it in, staying in a position where the ballista gunner could not get a shot off against me. I found an angle that gave me a clear look at the passenger cage in question and glided in a little closer.

  As I did, the prone individual sat up and opened her eyes, piercing me with an utterly calm and sober gaze. Not a hint of fear or concern modified her expression.

  I knew this soul! This was Victoria, the master shape shifter who had once roamed the tunnels of Root to recruit souls worthy of Frelsi. Once, she had even made Luther believe she was his prisoner to toy with him, ma
king him look like an utter amateur. No wonder she was not flustered in the least.

  I broke off my pursuit and made several huge loops, signaling Olivier. I trailed behind the gently descending condor, which had extended its wings for maximum lift as it glided gently down to the sandy flat, where Petros and Olivier remained in wait by the boulder.

  The condor pulled up just before landing and the lowermost cage opened, dropping Victoria onto the sand from a ten foot height. She twisted around like a cat and landed on the balls of her feet. She then strolled past Olivier without a greeting or even a glance, heading straight for the cordon of ants and mantids.

  Two Hashmallim bearing crossbows left their cages and came forward to assist Petros. Olivier undid the Seraph’s binds. They shook hands. And Olivier handed over the pair of wings he had kept strapped on his back the entire march.

  An argument seemed to ensue. I hovered low to see what was happening. Olivier waved me away frantically.

  “Go! Get the hell out of here!” he said. “They want your wings!”

  A gooey and elastic strand came whipping up from the condor. It wrapped around one of my spars. In a flash, without having to think, I swept my blade and cut myself free just as I was wrenched out of the sky.

  I almost crashed into the gravel but I caught my balance and darted away, as Olivier struggled with the Hashmallim who seemed to be attempting to take him prisoner know.

  That feeling in my belly that sometimes took so long to conjure flared up this time without effort. My indignation over-ruled any hesitation and cowardice I might have felt and a blast of blue plasma came swirling out of my sword tip, carving a deep rut across the gravel, knocking one of the Hashmallin into the dirt.

  Olivier freed himself from the other Hashmallim and went running after Victoria who strode calmly towards the Duster lines, oblivious to the altercation. Petros in the meantime, tucked himself into the vacated cage in the condor’s undercarriage while the gunner cranked the loading mechanism of his ballista.

  Kitt and Tyler came screaming past, unloading blasts of their own from their weapons that carved up the ground and raised dust clouds around the condor. A barrage of spikes came blasting out of the condor. They converged on Olivier as he fled and one impaled the back of his thigh, dropping him to his knees.

  I roared with anger and let loose another blast from my sword. This one smashed into the ballista cage, shattering its mechanism and scattering its spikes across the gravel.

  The Hashmallim re-boarded the condor just as its six wings lifted and pumped and thrust it into the air. Kitt and Tyler circled it, peppering it blasts that tore holes into the wing membranes that healed almost as quickly as they were created.

  The ground party had now reached the barricade and I could see Bern clamber on top and help Lille up. A mantid had leapt forward and its rider hopped down to help Olivier while the ants rushed forwards to chase the condor which was slow in gaining altitude and barely kept out of reach of the snapping mandibles. The other mantids had taken to the air on pursuit.

  “Falcons incoming!” Tyler shouted.

  I maneuvered around to find a formation of smaller flying craft, each equipped with a beak and claws and manned by two Hashmallin—one controlling the wings and the other handling the ballista.

  “What the fuck?”

  The falcons came in fast and hard. Two peeled away from the formation and went after Kitt. Detmar came zooming up from the barricades to assist her.

  She managed to dive away in time to elude one’s grasp but the other slammed straight into Detmar, shredding his wings and smashing its frame. Detmar went tumbling straight down from a horrible height, his body slamming onto the rocky riverbed.

  Tyler came hurtling towards the Duster lines as a third falcon came winging after him. This falcon was met by a barrage of Duster plasma erupting from the barricade and went crashing into the tangle of stumps.

  I had a falcon on my tail as well but it weaved as I swerved, anticipating my movements. I could not get a clear shot off. I maneuvered erratically hoping to shake my unseen pursuer.

  The Dusters on their mantids, in the meantime had joined the fray. All six of them, with Olivier riding the back of one. All set their scepters blasting and forced two of the falcons to retreat.

  But the fourth remaining on my tail, resisting my efforts to elude it. The condor, meanwhile, lifted slowly like a crane down the river valley, it powerful wings beating slowly, membranes stretching and filling like the sails of a clipper ship.

  Victoria stood atop the barricade and placidly watched the battle unfold like some spectator at an air show. She made no attempt to participate or intervene. A Duster had to grab her arm and drag her towards safety. I wondered if she had been drugged.

  Something slammed into me hard. The wing frame crunched. A talon pierced my shoulder and I was suddenly hurtling perpendicular to my original direction. The fourth falcon had found me, plucking me out of the sky with its powerful talons.

  Chapter 28: New Axum

  Blood poured down my arm and dribbled off my fingertips. The falcon’s mechanical talons had crunched into my shoulder, jutting between my bones, prying them apart. I screamed like I had never screamed before.

  The falcon veered away from the friendly lines of the resistance, carrying me off towards the edge of the basin where the main Cherub army had massed. A silvery blur came flying up from below. Kitt! Dodging ballista spikes, she swooped in close beside me. Latching on, she tried to pull me free of the talons, but its grip was firm.

  “My wing’s cracked. Even if you free me I’ll drop like a stone.”

  “I’ll hang onto you. We’ll glide.”

  “No! Then they’ll get you too!”

  Another falcon came buzzing by, holding its fire to avoid hitting its comrade.

  “Get the fuck away! Go! Get out of here!

  She released and flew alongside me. The second falcon made another pass and this time unleashed a barrage of spikes. They tore through her wings but somehow missed her body. But then came another flurry and a spike tore into her wing joint, partially jamming her hindmost set of wings.

  It threw her off kilter and she veered away. She shared one last sad and hopeless glance before she turned around and fluttered back to the safety of the Duster lines.

  With Kitt gone, the falcon set down behind the foremost line of Cherubim, a wide and sparse screen of skirmishers. They dragged me across a patch of rocky ground before coming to a halt.

  A Hashmal clambered out of the ballista cage. He barely glanced at me, more interested in the wings. Puzzlement creased his face as he inspected them. Luther and Olivier had not copied their membrane material precisely. Their membrane was stiffer, more like Tyvek than skin, and was not capable of spontaneous healing. Only the elastic engine of the joints was a perfect copy. The Hashmal now knew what his Lords had denied. Our wings were copied not stolen.

  I wondered what they planned to do with me. Did they even know who I was? Did it matter?

  I dreaded being someone’s prisoner again after my experience in that basement dungeon in Edmund’s church. Maybe I had some value for some future prisoner swap. They had returned Victoria in fairly good shape, physically at least.

  I wondered if I would be brought in front of their mysterious Lords. Probably they would just make me the responsibility of some underling Hashmallim. In any case, I was about to learn a lot more about the Liminality. I felt no fear, just a little uneasiness over what was to come next.

  I gained solace in knowing that as a Hemisoul, due to fade at any time. That gave me a good chance of escaping since I doubted these fools would hang out and wait for me to come back. And maybe, if I was lucky, I would never return to this shit hole. God knows I had extra incentive now to stick around the living world.

  The Hashmal climbed back into his cage. The talons retracted from my shoulder and regathered my wings with me still harnessed in, but this time without impaling me. Blood gushed freely from m
y wound, but not as much as I would have expected if an artery had been slashed.

  It took some vigorous beating to lift off the ground with my dead weight dangling from the harness but those six gangly wings were up to the task. We banked along the wall of hills lining the basin, heading for the gorge leading down into the lower valley.

  In a panic, the pilot and gunner shouted at each other in some unfamiliar and incomprehensible language. A swarm of ballista spikes went spraying out. Something thudded into the falcon, instantly blunting its forward momentum. I squirmed around to see a giant dragonfly with a rider latched onto the ballista cage. The rider left her saddle and clambered over the dragonfly’s head to attack the ballista gunner, stabbing through the gaps with the pointy end of her scepter. She wore the scaly garb of a Duster but her face was far from gray.

  The pilot struggled to keep the falcon in the air while the dragonfly chomped and clawed at the cage and framing, tearing away the ballista housing while helping keep the falcon aloft with its own wing beats. The rider swung down onto the talons that held me.

  It was Urszula.

  “You strong enough to climb?” she said, her expression calm and focused.

  “I think so.”

  She pulled me free of the harness and helped me maneuver back to the dragonfly. I knew those patchwork wings, its cells and veins mended and spliced after many battles.

  Lalibela.

  With the falcon skimming and scraping along the hillside and about to flounder, we scrambled onto the raised saddle mounted high on Lalibela’s thorax. With a tap of Urszula’s foot, the dragonfly released and we soared away just as the falcon smashed hard into a ledge, scattering wing fragments, cages and crew across the scrubby slope.

  ***

  I slumped forward in the saddle, feeling all giddy and dizzy and weak. I hugged the front horn, which carved from shimmery burl wood, mesmerized by the facets of Lalibela’s compound eyes. It was like staring at a thousand polished opals. Nothing about this moment felt real.

  With a buzz and a rattle, Lalibela accelerated across the basin, over ranks of Cherubim, advancing in chevrons, obliquely approaching the terraced mountain. No longer statuesque, this time they were quite alert and aware of our presence and challenged us with barrages of projectiles that Lalibela deftly avoided.