Engines of Chaos, page 35
Was this how it would always be now? A harrying voice urging, suggesting, teasing him with promises of violence? And in return, what? His soul?
The carnage subsided, the cloud of dust settling to reveal a mess of corpses. Every bull and horse lay slaughtered. One of his fellow hunters dancing gleefully from one prone guard to the next, making sure they were dead before taking a grisly trophy—an ear, a finger, it didn’t seem to matter what.
Two of them threw open the back doors of a wagon, and Conall gazed into the empty confines. There was nothing inside. No prize of gold or even supplies. They had done all this just for the joy of killing. So many dead in such a senseless act.
Nylia stood silently to one side, watching with a smile. Nearby, Mikal had reverted to twitching and mumbling to himself. One of the others, a heavyset warrior whose eyepatch had slipped from his face, sat in the dirt and blood, rocking back and forth as he pulled at his receding hair. Another danced about the wagons as though he could hear a band playing its merry refrain. Most of the others just glared, empty-eyed, as shocked at what they had done as Conall.
“Children of Senmonthis.”
He turned at that weird voice that had plagued his nightmares. Orsokon was some way distant, not having lifted a finger during the fight. At his words, the rest of the fighters stopped their lamenting or their revelry, and moved closer to him.
“Let us give thanks,” said Orsokon, gesturing for them all to kneel.
The dozen or so still alive dropped to their knees, bowing their heads, only too eager to obey. Conall reluctantly joined them.
Orsokon cleared his throat. “Though you are still worms, you have been granted an auspicious victory. Such a passionate display has ensured your survival. Rejoice. You have been offered a great gift. Accept it as part of who you are now. This is just the beginning, but one day, if you are blessed enough, you might rise to become one of the most exalted. A warrior unbound by earthly limit. Arise.”
Obediently, the rest of the group jumped to their feet. Conall stood gingerly, feeling none of the vigour the rest of this mad cohort displayed. All he could do was stand and watch as they followed Orsokon on through the wasteland.
They had left devastation in their wake, and for nothing other than to prove they could kill. Was this his fate? To follow this Scion, and fight or die in its service? Conall tried not to think on it, as Nylia walked after the others.
“Thank you,” he said to her.
She turned to him. “For what?”
“For saving my life. If you hadn’t intervened—”
“Don’t thank me, Conall. Just accept what you are. Then perhaps next time, I won’t have to intervene.”
She walked away after the others, leaving him among the corpses with that blade in his hand. As he wiped the blood from it, he hoped it would be some time before he had to use it again.
FULREN
He was lost in the silent dark. Floating in an ocean, with nothing but a starless sky above. There was no pain at least, but was that a reason to be thankful? Pain would have given him something to feel, a distraction from the endless void he was thrust into.
A whisper.
Was that the women somewhere close by? Or was it something far worse beyond a door he could not see? Watching him. Waiting for its moment.
Fulren fought against the fear, against the isolation. He could feel the shade of his lost limbs. Ghosts haunting him, taunting him, reminding him what he had lost. At the end of his left arm he could still feel his hand. He clenched it into a fist, but knew there was nothing there but empty air. Likewise, he could wiggle his toes, his mind giving the order, his nerves and tendons responding, but in reality they were gone. He would never walk again.
So what now? Was he to give in to despair? Let it consume him, and eat away at what little remained? Or could he resist?
But how?
There was nothing left but a shell. A shadow of Fulren Hawkspur rotting in some bed. Death would be his only release. He had come to terms with that over the last few days, at least when his thoughts had manifested some kind of clarity. Despair was all that remained. He knew he had to end this, but how was he to do the deed in such a helpless condition?
You cannot die yet.
The words were whispered in his ear. He felt the breath of it against his cheek, and it made the gooseflesh stand livid on his skin.
“Who’s there?” he called to the darkness.
No answer. Nothing coalesced in his room, no shade of anything human or otherwise. He was alone in that ocean, adrift on the flotsam of his own misery. But deep down, Fulren knew he was not truly alone.
Was something coming for him? Something diabolical creeping through the black to devour him? Perhaps that might be a better fate than the one he was condemned to.
He lay back, trying to fight the fear, fight the misery. He listened out for another whisper, another fetid breath against his ear, but all he could hear were distant voices chattering. The two women who had fished him from the lake? Or was it something more fiendish? As much as he strained his ears he could not tell.
Fulren remembered the warning Wenis had given him what seemed a lifetime ago… It will open a door that can never be closed.
It had been a dire warning, made in the most serious terms by a woman who treated everything with levity. And she had been right. He was now experiencing those consequences, but Fulren would not shy away from them. Perhaps he should even embrace them—what did he have to lose now?
Closing his useless eyes, he tried to focus, fighting through the torpor imbued by whatever drugs the women had administered. As he did so he felt himself sinking further into that ocean of calm, listening, opening himself up to that voice. Something was calling from somewhere, trying to break through, and if he allowed it to come…
There. In the far distance.
He could not make out words, could not even tell if they spoke a language he understood, but he could hear them beyond the veil. The more he tried to focus, to comprehend what was happening, the further the voice seemed to slip away.
This was out of his control and that notion frustrated him most of all. More than the loss of his body, his sight. Would there be nothing he could harness to his advantage? Not even the cursed necroglyph at his neck was under his command.
He lay back, trying to relax, trying to let go of that resentment. The past few days had gone by in a whirlwind of fleeting sensations. Perhaps if he could piece together what had happened, bring his mind into focus, he could make some sense of this.
His mother’s tears were the last thing he remembered. Her grief so stark in his mind. Jagdor had stood beside her, that implacable guardian. Had they managed to escape? Were they even still alive?
And what of his brother and sister? In all this mess had they managed to avoid the attentions of the Ministry? Tyreta had been safe in the Sundered Isles, Conall in the Karna. Had the Ministry’s insidious influence stretched that far? If the Guilds had truly fallen, what fate awaited them if they tried to return? Fulren could only hope they would flee to somewhere safe, lest they share a similar fate to his… or worse.
But what could be worse than this? And how would he help them now he was little more than butchered meat?
Hate welled up, his teeth gnashing at the injustice, the betrayal. A tingling heat began to tease the nape of his neck. That old familiar feeling of warmth increased, burning, searing. The necroglyph began to spread its power, but where before he might have tried to stop it, now he allowed it to shine, to burn, to overwhelm.
Lights coalesced in his field of vision, a starfield of red, blue and yellow. Nearby he could feel the burgeoning power of a pyrestone light within its housing. A light bloomed, brighter than the rest, a sun amid stars. This was no dream, no illusion brought on by narcotics. This was oh so real, and Fulren almost laughed at the joy of it.
A light shattered.
He was sprayed with glass as quickly as he was plunged into darkness. The searing pain in his neck dulled to numbness as he lay there in that sea of black once more.
“What the shit is going on!”
The words spoiled the sanctity of the tiny bedchamber. Fulren heard footsteps, the door swinging open, sending a welcome billow of air across his perspiring body.
He saw light in the doorway outlining the image of a woman. Must have been a webwainer, her latent energy glowing bright against the dark. Was she afraid? He couldn’t sense it, but her reluctance to approach suggested she was wary of him, despite how unthreatening he was.
Another shape pushed past her, indistinct against the black. She entered the room, moving to Fulren’s bedside.
“The pyrestone has blown its housing,” she said, and he recognised her voice from what could have been a fever dream. Was she called Ashe? Yes, he remembered her telling him.
“Be careful,” said the one at the door. Her light was becoming agitated, that webwainer power coursing through her body, reflecting her temperament. She was powerful, and Fulren wondered if she could sense his power in return.
“Don’t be such a wimp,” Ashe said. “It’s only a bit of glass.” She leaned in closer to Fulren, so close he could smell her breath. Had she been drinking? “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m fine. It just…” But how would he explain this? How would he tell them he had been cursed in the land of Nyrakkis? He could already see the light within the woman at the door changing from yellow to red as her unease grew. What was her name? Verlyn, that was it. The last thing he needed was for her to be suspicious of him. He was lying here helpless—he could not make an enemy of these women.
“Go and find something to clean this up with,” Ashe ordered, already picking pieces of glass from the bedsheet. “This has made a right old mess.”
Verlyn moved back from the doorway, plunging Fulren’s field of vision back into darkness. He could still sense Ashe close by, muttering fretfully as she brushed off the debris.
“Must have been a faulty connection in the conversion chamber. I’ve tried my best to make everything as stable as possible, but we’re short on resources. I’m sorry if it frightened you.”
He tried to focus on her, but it was difficult in the blinding dark. “Are you an artificer?”
She stopped what she was doing, most likely looking at him. Was she impressed with his assumption? Was her face filled with pity? He could only guess.
“I was,” she replied.
“What happened? I take it you’ve no affiliation with the Archwind Guild.”
“No. Never did. I learned my trade the old-fashioned way—at the knee of my father. When he died, I fell in with a bad crowd, you know, the usual story. Ended up making dodgy devices for even dodgier people.”
“Is that why you ended up living along the Serpentspin, miles from anywhere? You’re running away from someone?”
She sighed, as though not wanting to be reminded of it. “I guess so. We needed to start a new life and here seemed as good a place as any.”
Light intruded on the bedchamber once again as Verlyn returned. Fulren noted the fiery red motes that whirled within her had dimmed to orange. He could only hope that was a good sign.
The two women began to clear up the mess, shovelling the broken glass and pyrestone shards into a bucket. While they worked, Fulren got a curious feeling from them—their affinity with one another, their affection. Simmering below it though was the unmistakable sense of Verlyn’s caution.
As they worked, Ashe pulled his bedsheet aside and it snagged on the stump of his left leg. He winced, grunting in pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Before he could tell her it was all right, she backed away. “I think he needs another one of my cocktails.”
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Verlyn answered. “You’d best be quick.”
Ashe hurried from the room, and he was left alone with the webwainer. She stood looking over him, and he wondered if she knew he could see her, or at least her fluid image.
“So what’s in this cocktail?” Fulren asked, keen to break the silence.
“Oh, the usual,” said Verlyn. “Touch of poppy essence, dab of sea snake venom, pinch of ground redstalk.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
She reached forward to pick an errant piece of glass from the bed and he reached out to touch her arm. She snatched her hand away before he could.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, eager to put her at ease. Perhaps too eager.
He could see those lights within her roiling in a sea of combative colours, shifting and turning. It was beautiful to watch.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
He could sense she was lying, and that only served to make him feel more guilty. These women had saved his life and here he was, striking fear into one of them. But what could he do? He would have run away, as far as he could get, rather than place either of them in danger, but there would be no more running for Fulren Hawkspur.
“Here it is,” Ashe said as she came back into the room.
The women helped him into a sitting position, Ashe fluffing the pillows so he was more comfortable. Gently she raised a cup to his mouth and he took a sip of the tincture she had prepared. It was like rancid oil at first, but the aftertaste left a honeyed sweetness on his tongue.
“Thank you,” he said.
Within a moment he felt the pain in the stump of his leg begin to dull, along with the numbness of the necroglyph at his back. He swallowed down the rest of Ashe’s cocktail, before settling back on the bed.
“We should let him rest now,” Verlyn said, only too eager to leave the room.
“I’m not so sure,” answered Ashe. “He’s awful pale. Maybe we should take him outside, get some sun on his face. Can’t do him any harm, can it?”
“What’s the point in getting sun on his face, he can’t bloody see—” Verlyn stopped, realising she was being insensitive.
“You could always just ask me,” Fulren replied, ignoring the awkwardness. “I’m blind, not deaf. And I’d love to go outside.”
“That’s settled then,” Ashe said. “Get these sheets off him and get him on the porch.”
She began to fuss with the bedding. Verlyn moved closer, but there was a reluctance there, as though she were still afraid to go near him.
Ashe helped him sit up, and with some difficulty he managed to position himself at the edge of the bed. With the cocktail numbing his senses, Fulren could barely feel any discomfort in his legs.
Both the women managed to pick him up, and Fulren realised how little remained of the man he’d been. He must have weighed as much as a child as they carried him with ease through the house. A light breeze brushed against his face as they made their way outside and placed him gently in a chair.
It was peaceful, a few birds tweeting nearby, the murmur of grass in the wind. There was also a pretty unpleasant stink of shit, which made Fulren screw up his nose.
“That’ll be the pigs,” Ashe said, seeing the look on his face. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Earthy,” he replied, and was heartened when she giggled in response.
As his senses became accustomed to this new environment, he began to feel another sensation. The essence of pyrestone drifted on the air, and he turned his head toward it. Through his murky vision, he could just make out the glittering of artifice in the distance.
“Where did you come from?” Ashe asked suddenly, breaking his connection with the stone.
He turned his head toward her voice, wondering whether it was worth lying. But what did it matter now? “I was born in Wyke.”
“You’re a long way from home, Fulren.”
Wasn’t that the truth. “I’m not sure I have a home anymore. Who knows what the Ministry has decided to do with it. Burn it to the ground more than likely.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, I know how you feel.”
“Why? Is this not your home?”
She let out a long sigh. “I guess it is now.”
Ashe squeezed his shoulder, and he felt suddenly grateful for the gesture.
“Home is where you make it,” Verlyn said matter-of-factly.
Through the dark he saw her move forward to touch Ashe’s hand. For a moment they stood in quiet reflection, and Fulren could only envy that intimacy.
He turned his attention back to the dark, where he could just see those distant pyrestones twinkling. Perhaps he was not so lost after all.
“You said you were an artificer?” he asked. “I assume you’ve got a workshop? Or at least something similar?”
“I still dabble,” Ashe replied. “Do you know anything about the art?”
“A few bits and pieces. How about you take me to your workshop?”
“What for?” Verlyn asked.
“Don’t be so miserable,” Ashe chided. “What harm could it do?”
She took hold of the chair Fulren was sitting on, and reluctantly Verlyn grasped the other side. Carefully, they carried him across a wide expanse of dark until Fulren could see those winking lights more clearly. When Ashe opened the door to a barn, he was hit full in the face by dazzling light.
The stench of oil and lubricant hung heavy in the air, along with the crackle and fizz of pyrestones in their conversion chambers. A long-forgotten memory of his own workshop flooded back.
“Trust me,” Ashe said. “If you could see this, I’m pretty sure you’d be impressed.”
But he already was. Even though he could not see, could not walk, was imprisoned in this broken shell, Fulren knew he could no longer despair.
There was work to do.
ANSELL
He gripped the edge of the bed, straining with all his might, trying desperately not to grunt as he heaved his legs over the side. The stitches pulled at his wound, teeth grinding as he quietly prayed for them not to tear. Sweat was dripping from him, breath coming in heaving gasps. This was not his first visit to the infirmary, not his fifth for that matter, but this time felt worse than ever before. Was the wound infected? Had he been stricken with fever?
