Scar Night (35 page)

Devon felt like striking the old priest then. He felt the elixir thumping inside him; it whispered to him, darkened the edges of his vision. The councillors seemed to fade until only Sypes existed: a haggard old priest hunched over his walking stick, more dead than alive.

“I will cut your rotting city down for no other reason than to give your people what they want. Will they flee, priest? When the abyss reaches out to them, will they turn away?”

Presbyter Sypes met his stare. “There are innocents in Deepgate, children—”

“Let their parents evacuate them,” Devon snarled. “If they do not, then the crime is theirs…yours. The Church fostered their absurd faith—not me.”

He saw from the Presbyter’s pained expression that the old man understood that. But Sypes hadn’t lost his faith; he still believed in Ulcis. Devon knew then, with utter certainty, that his suspicions had been correct. The priest
was
afraid of his god. Suddenly he realized why Sypes had endeavoured to have the angelwine made for Carnival. It was such a ridiculous idea, he had never before considered it. The priest had actually hoped to convince Carnival to stand against his own god. Whatever waited in the abyss had clearly become a threat.

“Tens of thousands will die,” Sypes said.

“They’ll die happily,” Devon hissed. “I’m giving them what they desire, what they deserve.”

But what will rise from the abyss?
Devon could not wait to find out.

The shaman interjected, “How do you propose to accomplish this, Poisoner?”

Anger bruised Devon’s vision, pulsing and fading, and for a long moment he stared in confusion at the tall tribesman, trying to remember who he was. He finally shook his head clear. “I’ll awaken this machine,” he said, “this bone mountain, as you call it, and bring it to the abyss to cut the city’s chains.”

One of the councillors muttered, “The outcast god would be crushed, its keepers destroyed. Shaman, what retribution from Ulcis?”

Bataba’s brow furrowed in thought. “Ayen will protect us.” He nodded. “She will sanction this.”

“The Poisoner is a liar,” Mochet hissed. “This is a trick.”

“He has betrayed his own people,” Sypes said. “He’ll betray you too.”

“They were never my people, Sypes.” Devon’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears, as though he had spoken in a chorus of whispers. “They were never people to begin with. They’ve always been
dead
.”

Bataba rapped his staff on the floor. “Council, you have heard him. What is your decision? Do we delay our sport, ally with this man? Or do we finish this now? Deepgate’s skyships burn closer.”

“Kill him,” Mochet demanded.

But the other six were uncertain. They muttered among themselves. Eventually, an elder councillor approached the shaman. “We will delay our sport. For now.”

Devon breathed deeply. “Good,” he said. “But before we begin, there is something important I must do for you.”

“What’s that?” Bataba asked.

“Save your lives.”

T
hrough the viewing windows on the bridge of the
Adraki,
the armada stretched ahead over the Deadsands towards Blackthrone, like a long curving bank of steel clouds. Sunlight flashed across the great silver balloons and sparkled on the brass of the gondolas beneath them. Fogwill might have found the sight impressive, even inspiring, had he been able to look up from the bucket between his knees. The bridge lurched, a tremor ran through the carpet under his feet, and he retched again.

A whistle sounded and Commander Hael put his ear to a trumpet fitted to the portside wall. After a moment, he responded into another trumpet. “Aye, flag that news back to the
Kora
and the
Bokemni
.” He turned to the captain. “Fourteen degrees starboard. Stretch the formation to day-range limits. I want Clay notified of any developments.”

“Aye, sir.” The captain nodded to an aeronaut seated on his left, who relayed the message via a third trumpet to the signalman on the aft deck.

The aeronaut commander turned to face Fogwill. “They’ve spotted movement around the Poisoner’s ship. The heathens are evidently busy.”

“Cannibalism…or repairs?” Fogwill asked between spasms.

“Hard to tell,” Hael said. “The advance fleet is still circling high, beyond arrow range.” As they had been for most of the day.

The rest of the armada was strung out between Blackthrone and Deepgate, forming a continuous line through which information could be flagged back and forwards between the warships hovering over the stricken
Birkita
and those over Deepgate, where Captain Clay was busy organizing the regulars for a march across the desert.

News of the
Birkita
’s sudden plummet to earth had reached the city just after dawn, whereupon Mark Hael had ordered the formation to hold as was while his own ship, the
Adraki,
was rigged for flight. The
Birkita
’s proximity to the Tooth of God could mean only one thing: She’d been holed. Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Now that the winds had changed in their favour, Hael would be able to reach the crash-site in just six to eight hours. He had elected to command the attack personally.

But Hael was not known for restraint when it came to unleashing ordnance, and Fogwill, desperate to see Sypes returned unharmed, had insisted he accompany the commander. With Carnival now off hunting angelwine, and Dill vanished, perhaps even dead, Fogwill’s brief moment of command had put the city in greater peril than ever. The Adjunct needed his old master back in charge of things. Clay had tried to talk him out of the excursion, of course—the temple guard captain did not trust airships. But Fogwill had been adamant. After all, he’d assured himself, they’d be safely above arrow range. What was the worst that could happen?

The contents of the bucket sloshed between Fogwill’s trembling knees. His stomach bucked again as the warship shuddered, thrumming a discordant rhythm in every one of the priest’s nerves.

“A fine breeze, Adjunct.” Mark Hael was grinning. “Perhaps Ulcis himself has sent it to aid us.”

Fogwill groaned. The same wind had been blowing fiercely since they’d left Deepgate three hours ago. Devon’s own ship had been forced to crawl through the night against a northerly gale, but the wind had swung to the south with the arrival of dawn and the
Adraki
had been able to thunder along the armada’s stationary flag-line at triple Devon’s speed. They were closing fast.

Provided the
Adraki
didn’t tear herself to pieces in the process.

Mark Hael didn’t seem to care. He’d ordered the engines to be cranked up full and appeared to relish the screaming wind, the pitching and thumping of the bridge, the groan of over-stressed cables.

And he’d claimed Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

Fogwill just wanted to get off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The talc had all smudged off by now, revealing his unhealthy pallor to all.

“You don’t look well,” Hael commented, his grin even wider. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy Fogwill’s discomfort.

“Why do these things sway about so?”

“Air currents. We’re pushing the
Adraki
hard. You’d feel better if you kept your eyes fixed on the horizon.”

But the Adjunct kept his gaze pinned to the bucket. “Standing makes me feel dizzier. How much longer must I endure this?”

The commander drummed his fingers on the control panel. “Another five hours. The advance fleet vessels are massing. We’ll circle and look for signs of Devon and Sypes once we arrive. With any luck the Shetties will have done away with the Poisoner for us.”

“Sypes must be protected,” Fogwill said. He then put his head in his hands and began to retch again. The stench from the bucket brought tears to his eyes.

“If those savages have him, it’s already too late,” Hael continued, unconcerned. “I know them. They won’t keep him for ransom.”

Fogwill looked up. His throat felt raw, saliva dribbled over his chin. “We need to…get the Presbyter back,” he managed.

Hael grunted. “There’s nothing I can guarantee. I don’t have enough men for mud-work, so a landing would be pointless.”

“What
do
you suggest we do, then?”

“What we normally do.” Hael stared out across the desert, the buttons on his uniform glinting in the sun. “We’ll gas them. This many ships against one Shettie stronghold should clear out most of them. Then Clay’s regulars can march out and mop up.”

“But Devon may survive.”

“Where’s he going to go?”

A
fter some discussion, Dill and Rachel had decided to abandon the spiral path—a route too slow and treacherous for them to keep pace with Carnival. Clasping her in his arms, Dill flew carefully, cautious of reaching the bottom of the abyss too abruptly. They kept the lantern burning low as they descended, and strained to see through the humid darkness, searching for some sign of Deep itself or the ghosts down below.

But whatever awaited them still remained hidden.

Carnival wouldn’t as much as hint at what she’d seen during her earlier reconnaissance. She circled them impatiently but kept her distance to stay out of the lantern light. Whenever Dill caught a glimpse of her, he saw nothing in her eyes but a glint of savage humour, as if she were savouring some cruel joke.

He knew better than to press her for answers. Not that he was overly keen to hear what she might say. Her malicious eagerness for them to reach the bottom unnerved him.

In the silence Dill heard his blood drumming in his ears. Rachel’s arms were heavy about his neck, her breath hot against his cheek. The antique steel of his mail shirt began to feel like pig-iron, becoming heavier until it felt like he was carrying the weight of a city on his back. And everywhere now, that smell.

Of war.

Of weapons.

Feebly, he shook his head. He couldn’t place it, and yet some part of him knew what it was—the pungent odour howled to be recognised.

War. Weapons.
Something…?

Rachel interrupted his thoughts. “Listen,” she said, “can you hear it?”

Dill listened hard.

A tapping sound, metallic, very faint.

“What is it?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

Deeper into the abyss, and gradually, the strange clamour grew louder. It reminded him of the Poison Kitchens—the familiar distant sounds of industry, factories, and forges. The odour intensified too, but its cause still eluded him.

There. Just for a moment he thought he spotted a grey shape in the void beneath them. He pulled up sharply.

I know this
. A shiver of fear brushed up his spine.

Rachel sniffed, frowned. “That odour—what the hell is it?”

Dill peered down. “I thought I saw—” He broke off. “Maybe it was nothing.”

But as they continued to drop, the blackness below began to lighten. Further vague outlines appeared, dissipated. Down to one side he spied a dim smudge like a pall of almost invisible smoke. He tried hard to focus but could not define its shape. What if it was just an outcrop of rock? Had he seen anything at all?

“Dill, look up there,” Rachel hissed. “A storm is blowing over the Deadsands.”

He lifted his head and his breath caught. From down here, Deepgate appeared to be no larger than his fist, but the distant city seethed. Glittering clouds of dust and rust fell from the agitated chains and neighbourhoods so far above, while spikes of sunlight punched through in countless places. An angry corona surrounded the outline of the city itself—and in the very centre, a bright ring flared around a black speck.
The Church of Ulcis
.

“It’s brighter now,” Rachel murmured. “The sun is high. It must be close to noon.”

“It looks so far away,” Dill said.

Deepgate seemed as distant as the sun, and as unreachable.

Gazing up, he didn’t notice the ground approaching until they were almost upon it. When he glanced down, he saw what looked like a steep, chalky slope rushing towards them. Beyond the lantern light, the slope sank away into the distant gloom.

“Dill!”

“I see it!” He thrashed his wings to slow their descent. Sudden wind whipped at Rachel’s hair.

“My God, Dill, look!”

Dill couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Where was the city of Deep? The buildings, streets, gardens? Where were the soul-lights? The army of ghosts? Where was Ulcis?

What
was
this?

He landed hard. The ground surface gave way beneath him, cracking, snapping. He lost his footing and tumbled wings over heels, pitching Rachel into the dark. Hundreds of hard edges jabbed him, punched the wind from his aching chest. The sword hilt pummelled his ribs. The lantern threw dizzy circles of light. Desperately, he thrust out his arms to slow his fall, but his hands sank into something crumbly and he slid forward again. Thick, sour dust choked his lungs.

Weapons? War?

Dill came to a halt, facedown, in a cloud of dust. He groaned and lifted his head.

Bones.

He was lying on a mountain of bones. Femurs, fingers, clavicles, ribs, spines, as far as he could see—an impossible slope of dry and shattered skeletons. Fleshless hands reached up from gullies and mounds of brittle remains. Screes of skulls and teeth shifted, trickled, and rattled further down into the dark.

Dill had sunk to the elbows in broken bones. He coughed, blinked.

That smell.

Not of weapons or war, but of the Sanctum corridor, the Ninety-Nine: the long-dead archons that inspired his dreams of battle.

He rose unsteadily, smacked bone-dust from his clothes.

But these were not the bones of angels, but of people. Thousands of people. Millions. Discarded in this pit, heaped like the feast-pile of an eternal banquet.

Rachel scrambled down to join him, sending a further landslide of bone fragments down the slope.

Dill couldn’t speak. He stood gawping at the crumbling mountain, gasping in the chalky air, still searching in vain for some sign of Deep. But there was nothing here. Only bones. Three thousand years of bones.