God of Clocks (23 page)

“To think people used to worship him,” Mina remarked.

“What people?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “He's a god, so somebody, somewhere, must have worshipped him. Otherwise what use would he be?”

“Look after him, Dill,” Rachel said.

They left Hasp lying there and climbed back outside. From this height, Rachel could see Menoa's arconites clearly. Six great simulacrums of angels towered over the palisade walls, their armour still scorched black and bloodied from the battle at Coreollis, smoke pouring from their Maze-forged joints. Thin wings disturbed the fog, their white bones shifting constantly through the veiled atmosphere. Slowly and steadily they were surrounding Burntwater on its three landlocked sides. And then, with a sound of crashing metal and shattered timbers, they broke through the town's useless defenses.

By now the streets below were crowded with people fleeing towards the wharfs. Units of Iron Head's men hurried in the opposite direction, heading towards the approaching enemy. Many of the town's defenders had already taken up positions at key intersections, but for all their bravado it seemed to Rachel that they would accomplish nothing.

“The fog is getting thinner,” she said, as they began to descend.

Mina had her arms tightly wrapped around Dill's thumb. “It isn't easy to maintain,” she protested. And then she fell silent, and did not speak again until they had stepped safely back onto solid ground.

“I'm doing my best, Rachel.”

“I didn't mean to suggest you weren't.” Rachel now realized
how the other woman's glass-scaled face disguised her exhaustion. The thaumaturge had been conjuring this fog ever since the battle at Coreollis. She could not keep it up for much longer.

Shouts came from the nearest wharf, where a throng of soldiers and civilians stood waiting for an approaching barge. The vessel bumped against the dockside, whereupon scores of men and women began clambering aboard its long low hull. Burntwater militiamen yelled orders to the pilot, and gestured to the captains of two more vessels further out.

By now, fires had taken firm hold of the nearby warehouses, and dense black smoke churned overhead. Frightened children howled and clung to their mothers, as militia pushed their way through the jostling crowds. Four armed men hurried along a lengthy wharf, rolling a huge barrel before them, while nearby an old man leaned against a mooring post and smoked his pipe and casually watched it all. Others raced back towards the town, clutching flaming torches, long poles, bows, and swords.

Rachel looked for Iron Head, but couldn't see him anywhere. She heard a distant scream and then a series of dull concussions originating from somewhere to the south. That meant Menoa's arconites were destroying buildings inside the walls.

“There's not enough time.” Rachel looked up and yelled above the surrounding clamour, “Dill, help these people get onto the boats!”

His great skull swung down to face the lake, the ground shaking under him as he moved forward. Another step took him into the churning waters, till the metal columns of his legs straddled the shoreline. Engines drumming, he stooped and picked up a barge in each hand and lifted them, dripping, out of the lake. As he moved, his wings swung across the heavens like some vast carousel. The refugees screamed and broke away all around him.

Dill set both vessels down on the promenade. Their hulls landed with heavy thuds and then tilted to one side. He turned back to look for more.

In the confusion, the town's refugees didn't know what to do. Many ran to the shore and tried to board the vessel now moored there, but it was already overloaded. The surging crowd pushed many unfortunates into the lake. Others clung to the sides of the moored barge and were dragged aboard by its passengers. Desperate cries filled the air, only to be drowned out by the sound of destruction increasing from the streets behind.

Rachel tried in vain to shout instructions, but the panicking masses ignored her. She spotted three of Oran's men shoving two whores towards the western docks, before a unit of town militia ran in between and blocked her view.

She grabbed a passing soldier. “Get your people onto
those
barges.” She jabbed a finger at the recently grounded vessels. “They're going back into the water as soon as they're loaded.”

The young man gaped at her and then at the grounded barges. And then he shouted over to his colleagues. Moments later they set to work herding the civilians up onto the sloping decks. Once the vessels were filled, Dill lifted them back into the water.

The warehouses were blazing furiously by now, smoke and embers billowing right above Rachel's head. She dragged Mina into the lee of a loading stanchion, and they crouched as low as possible to breathe some cleaner air. Booming sounds continued to resonate across the streets behind the dockside, where secondary fires had by now taken hold. Torrents of ash spiraled above the stricken settlement, and in that turmoil Rachel saw vast shapes moving, bones and metal limned in tremulous green auras. Most of the soldiers here had already boarded the town barges, and Dill was nudging those vessels out into deeper water. But she saw no sign of the men who had gone to confront Menoa's angels.

Even from here, Rachel could see that Iron Head's diversionary tactics had failed. The six giants had not deviated far from their initial paths through the settlement. They now stood still, in a half-circle around Dill, no more than two hundred yards from the water's edge.

One of them spoke. “King Menoa wishes to negotiate a truce, Dill. His conditions are generous, and you need not join our cause. The Lord of the Maze simply wishes to avoid more bloodshed, and to prevent you from coming to harm. Your own free will makes you vulnerable to our attack. King Menoa would speak with you, if you will listen.”

Rachel tried to shout a warning to her friend, but her voice got lost in the chaos. In the same way that the
Rotsward
drew its strength from linked will of Cospinol and Anchor, so Dill drew his from his own convictions. Doubting his abilities would begin to corrupt those abilities.

Dill took a step backwards into the lake. He crouched and gently nudged one of the barges closest to him. A score of vessels now floated in the lake behind his knees.

“These people will not be harmed,” Menoa's angel went on. “Look around you. Have the king's warriors harmed any who tried to flee? Have they hindered this evacuation? Have we used our influence over Hasp? The king desires peace, Dill. He asks only that you listen.” The automaton's gaze moved over the shoreline, and then it lifted its head again. “All will be pardoned, Dill. All differences can be resolved. We will even repair the weakness in your construction, allowing you to function without the fear of breaking limbs and corrosion. We have no desire to cause further harm or distress to anyone.”

Dill dragged his cleaver out from underneath the Rusty Saw. The hammered metal blade was twice the size of any of the barges. Reflections of flames flashed across its scoured metal surface. He flipped it menacingly from one hand to the next.

“Observe the scratches on that blade,” Menoa's angel said. “The weapon lacks the will to maintain its own purity of form, a flaw that is also evident within you, Dill. If you fight us you will be destroyed.”

Rachel yelled up at him, “Don't listen to it! It's trying to plant doubt in your mind. You've already beaten one of these bastards.”
From the corner of her eye she glimpsed movement, as six of Iron Head's men came running around the corner of the Rusty Saw tavern, closely followed by the captain himself. They looked bloody, beaten, and exhausted, but they ran like men with witches at their heels. As they neared the wharf, the captain spotted Rachel and Mina, and signaled wildly to them.

She stood and spread her arms. “What is it?”

“… back,” he cried. “Going to blow!”

“What's going—?”

There was a loud crackling sound, and then a series of tremendous booms. A chain of orange flashes erupted in the streets behind Menoa's giants. Tons of debris burst skywards, pounding against the armoured figures. For a heartbeat they were entirely enveloped in thick grey smoke and grit. And then a second barrage of explosions shook the air. Enormous pillars of dust spiraled over Burntwater.

The concussion hit Rachel like a physical punch. Her ears rang. She stared in disbelief as two of the six arconites toppled backwards, arms flailing, into the mass of houses. A third giant lurched sideways and crashed into another, and both fell towards the earth. The ground shuddered under Rachel's feet.

Iron Head skidded to a halt beside her, and adjusted the position of the hammer on his back. “Coke and saltpeter,” he explained. “Sadly not enough sulphur, but we used whatever we had.”

A hail of grit peppered Rachel's hair, as she gazed up at the rising funnels of ash and smoke. “When did you prepare
that
?” she said. “That must have taken—”

“After we heard about Coreollis, we installed the powder kegs as a precaution. Didn't particularly want to use them, mind you, but they were there if we ever had to flee… Our sappers nearly set one off under your friend Dill, and I'd have let them if he hadn't behaved so strangely.” He frowned grimly at the devastation and
shook his head. “Not nearly powerful enough to do them much harm, though. These bastards are tough.”

He was right. Despite the blasts, two of Menoa's arconites remained standing, and the four who had fallen were already rising to their feet. Soot caked their armour and their massive blades, but they otherwise seemed entirely unharmed.

Iron Head suddenly waved his arm and shouted, “Here! Spindle!”

Soldiers appeared all along the promenade as scores of Iron Head's men left the smoke-filled streets and retreated towards the wharfs. Grey dust now covered their faces, boots, and armour. Barely half of the men who had gone off to fight the arconites now returned.

Spindle stood a foot shorter than his captain, and dust and soot caked every inch of him, so much so that he carried a thin grey aura of the stuff around him. He hurried over to Iron Head, smacked powder from his gloves, and sneezed. “Not enough sulphur, Captain,” he confirmed.

“We're pulling out, fast as you can. You know what to do.”

“Aye, sir.” Spindle turned away and began bawling orders at his men. Soldiers from other units were still moving towards the wharfs, helping wounded comrades along, then unlashing the mooring ropes of the smaller skiffs and climbing aboard. Others had converged on a pyramid of barrels stacked under a loading stanchion. They were lifting them down and rolling them across the wooden decking, spreading them out.

Iron Head turned back to Rachel and Mina. “Can we rely on your big friend to cover our retreat?” He raised his chin towards the towering figure of Dill, still standing in the shallows. “That blade of his looks like it could do some damage.”

“I don't think you need ask.”

Evidently Dill had witnessed the soldier's efforts on the water's edge, for he now strode forward to meet the enemy. He stepped
carefully over men and boats, and up onto the promenade, landing with a massive metallic clunk. Torrents of water sluiced from his armour and rushed across the boardwalk. His head turned slowly as he studied his six opponents.

“Good man,” Iron Head muttered, then led Rachel and Mina towards a smaller vessel moored to the dockside. Many of the other skiffs were already moving out onto the lake. The three now crossed a gangplank onto the tiny pitching boat. The thaumaturge's little dog sniffed at the dockside one last time before padding after them.

The voice of Menoa's leading arconite resounded through the heavens once more: “Surely you see the folly of this, Dill? Why die here in defense of this wooden town? Look at what this violence has already accomplished. The town is in ashes, yet we six remain unharmed.” The arconites had all regained their feet and once again stood motionless amongst the boiling smoke. “We have attacked no one here,” the leading angel continued, “yet you continue to reject our attempts at diplomacy. Should we crush your bones right now, or will you stand amongst us and hear King Menoa's terms?”

Dill took two giant strides forward and buried his massive cleaver in the automaton's neck.

The sheer force of the blow drove the massive warrior to his knees. Its armoured shins obliterated the burning remains of two houses.

Dill smashed his knee in the automaton's face, hurling it backwards into three rows of houses. The ensuing shock wave reduced the surrounding buildings to powder. He flipped the cleaver over, turning it sideways, and swept it sidelong across the broken rooftops. The end of the blade struck another arconite, clashing against its armoured thigh with a hideous peal. Its leg buckled and it toppled too.

Now dust and smoke obscured the battle. Amidst this turmoil Rachel caught glimpses of vast wings moving, monstrous shadows,
and geysers of spinning debris. She heard thunderous booms and gut-wrenching metallic bangs, as Iron Head's men worked the oars and their little boat withdrew further into the mist.

“He can't beat them,” Rachel muttered.

Iron Head raised his head from the tiller. “What was that?”

“Menoa's warriors can't be destroyed,” she said. “They lack minds of their own, and so they are incapable of losing conviction in their own invincibility. But Dill is different.” She gazed back into the fog. “He can fail if he loses faith in himself.”

“Just like any other soldier,” the captain replied. “Confidence is good armour.” Then he grunted. “Pandemerian steel is better, of course, but who can afford it, eh?”

Rachel sat on a creaking bench between two militiamen with her arms wrapped around her knees. Mina's plan had fallen to pieces. Dill was supposed to have attacked the gates of Heaven, thereby provoking the goddess Ayen to destroy
all
of the arconites. Yet now they had no choice but to abandon him here and hope he bought them enough time to reach Sabor's castle. Everything now rested on the god of clocks.

How long could Dill keep fighting?

The town militia heaved at their oars, and the flotilla of skiffs moved out into deeper waters towards the waiting coke barges. Soldiers aboard these larger vessels were busy stoking the air-engine furnaces with shovelfuls of fuel, and the deck-mounted flywheels spun faster as the temperature differential increased. Black smoke trickled from tall funnels and looped over the heads of the women and children who squatted upon the loaded decks. Amidst the rasp and scrape of the militiamen's shovels and the hum of the flywheels, the refugees watched in silence as the ashes rose from their shattered homes.