Scar Night (44 page)

Ulcis waved a panicked hand at the archons. They backed off.

“Into the cell opposite,” Carnival growled.

The chain stretched just far enough to allow Rachel to pick up Mr. Nettle’s keys and lock the door.

“Now go,” Ulcis wheezed. “Leave me.”

Carnival grinned. “I won’t abandon you like this, Father.” She grabbed his wrist and forced it, struggling, to her mouth. “Tonight is Scar Night—or had you forgotten?”

The angel bit deeply.

T
he Poisoner shouldered several bowmen aside, then headed upstairs, past runners, warriors, and wounded, through the cacophony of booming drums and clashing metal, rumbling engines and screams.

When he reached the bridge, he was in no better mood. He glowered at the Heshette councillors assembled, batted their questions aside with his stump, then slumped heavily into his control seat to peer out of the cracked and blackened windows.

Dawn turned the scene outside into an inferno. A handful of churchships hung in the smoke, like angry red welts in a poisonous sky. Deepgate troops broke in waves against the now static cutters, falling over each other to scramble away from the advancing Tooth. Knots of Spine among them kept loosing off bolts in a concentrated assault on the bridge windows. Scores of men disappeared beneath the great machine. Some managed to jump up to the cutting arms and hang there. Many others tried and failed.

“Mow them down, you said,” Devon snarled.

Bataba did not answer. The shaman had withdrawn to the far edge of the bridge, his face pinched and ashen.

Devon slammed a lever forwards and the sharpened cogs began to turn. Most of the men on the cutting arms dropped quickly into the scoop below or were crushed beneath the Tooth’s revolving tracks. A few held on longer, but as the cogs quickened they too were thrown back against the hull or down into the panicked mass of soldiers desperate to escape. The Tooth drove mercilessly over them all.

He banked the great machine to the left to intercept an abandoned siege-tower. The whirring cutters connected and ripped the structure into a cloud of splinters. Men leapt clear or died; a bloody mist fell over the jostling infantry. Devon resumed his southerly course, steering the machine up the ridge surrounding the abyss. Iron groynes broke under the Tooth’s tracks with hollow booms, and all at once Deepgate appeared before them.

The city looked as Devon had seen it on countless mornings before: the dusty shambles of wood and tin of the League; the curved shadow thrown by the eastern scarp; the pool of smog over the Scythe, pierced by chimneystacks, cranes and mooring spines; clumped tenements furrowed by endless winding lanes. And above it all, wreathed in mist, rose the temple. Gaslights still glimmered weakly among the chains. Had anyone bothered to evacuate the city? Devon doubted it. Deepgate had always been a place to die.

The cutters were a churning blur beneath him. Cogs hummed and ticked and sent nervous vibrations through the bridge. Devon eased the Tooth to a halt, just yards from the edge, his eyes fixed on the city before him. He clicked a short lever back.

Bataba edged closer.

“This is what you want?” Devon asked.

“For Ayen,” the shaman whispered.

The cutting arms extended. Devon eased back another handle. Spinning blades lowered and ripped through a clutch of peripheral timber shanties. The houses exploded into shards of wood and tin. A soft ripping sound, and then the cutters bit into a foundation chain with a metallic shriek. Sparks geysered, cascading over the rooftops of the League two hundred yards away.

The foundation chain parted with a colossal crack. It collapsed and sagged among skewed streets and walkways, and then the League of Rope gave way like so much dry wood. Lesser chains snapped under the additional strain, cables broke and whipped free, and the great chain itself ripped a path through the city. Flames bloomed along both sides of the rent as gas lines tore open. Half a thousand buildings toppled, then slipped into the abyss. At the heart of Deepgate, the temple shook and tilted.

“Man or god.” Devon manoeuvred the Tooth around the rim towards the next foundation chain. “Whatever Ulcis may be, this ought to get his attention.”

T
hey left Dill’s cell and for some time followed a sequence of gloomy passages before emerging at the mountain of bones below the abyss. The hunger had left Carnival’s eyes; in its place shone something Rachel had never witnessed in the angel before.
Not peace, but perhaps…something akin to calm
. Carnival was drenched in blood, but she bore no fresh wounds. Her father’s death had not, it seemed, grieved her.

Of the scrounger there was no sign. Rachel hoped the big man was still alive, that somehow he had escaped the Palace of Chains.

Dill stood to one side, quietly regarding the city of Deep. The forges were now silent. Ulcis’s army had stopped making weapons and now seemed utterly confused, wandering listlessly through Deep’s sculpted hollows and passages. Thousands of tapers winked in the gloom, threw long shadows over the slopes of bones.

Dill turned as Rachel approached, but his expression didn’t change.

She held up her lantern. “Are you strong enough to fly?” Physically, he seemed fine, but there was a faraway look in his eyes. One hand rested lightly on the sword at his hip.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Do you remember
anything
?”

“Something.” He studied the chain linking Rachel and Carnival. It lay in a blood-soaked coil between them. “Why are you two chained together?”

“Tradition.” Rachel shrugged. “Do you remember my name?”

No answer.

“Rachel,” she said. “And this is Carnival.” But if he recognized them, it didn’t show.

Carnival was staring straight up, her head tilted to one side.

A whine, a rush of air, and, thirty yards away, something huge fell from the darkness above and hit the mountain of bones with a colossal
crump
. Bones flew everywhere.

Rachel jumped, grabbing Dill’s sleeve, and scanned the darkness overhead. Her sword was now in her hand, although she didn’t remember drawing it. Strips of tin roofing floated down like enormous leaves. “Was that a house?” she gasped.

Carnival nodded. “More are on their way down.” She wiped blood from her mouth. “A lot more.”

32

DEEPGATE FALLS

D
ILL LIFTED RACHEL
upwards from the mountain of bones while all around them a city fell from the sky.

Stones and beams and mortar rained down. Entire houses dropped past, shedding slates from their roofs, before punching massive craters in the brittle slopes below. Spans of chain and cable tumbled like deadly gossamer. Arched bridges and chain bridges and fluttering walkways smashed to fragments amidst jagged sections of cobbled street.

Most of this debris was ablaze. Tangles of timber and rope trailed smoke and embers. Showers of sparks and burning coals fizzed and whined, burst and scattered off the abyss walls.

They struggled skywards through the onslaught. Rachel clung tightly to Dill’s shoulders, while Carnival shadowed them, as far as the chain between them would allow.

Dill watched it all with awe. Memories kept flashing in his head when familiar objects fell past, disconnected images that he couldn’t weave together into anything that made sense. He recalled stone corridors, worn steps, dusty stained glass; twilight lengthening over a vast desert of rose-coloured sand.

Had he seen this city before, from another viewpoint? Spread out in a great bowl below him, pale avenues and walled gardens, clumps of rooftops and chimneys? He was standing somewhere high, crisp morning air on his face. In his bones he recalled the sonorous clang of a bell.
The Church of Ulcis?

The chain at Rachel’s ankle snapped taut when Carnival jerked aside as an old cistern dropped past them, emptiness booming inside it. It brushed her wing dangerously close. She hissed, “The whole city is coming down.”

“Careful,” Rachel said. “I don’t need a feather trinket hanging from my ankle.”

Carnival grunted.

The falling debris grew thicker. A stone tower roared by, lights blazing in its windows as if the occupants were still busy within. Gas lamps and girders shot past like spears. A rusted bridge, dragging chains, tumbled into the depths, spinning end over end like a huge discarded toy. Pillars, arches, and chunks of wall, some with windows or chimneystacks intact. A horse, still harnessed to a merchant’s cart, whinnied and kicked the air as it plummeted.

Against this onslaught, they beat harder up towards the light, through clouds of dust and rainbow-laced curtains of water. Grit peppered Dill’s head and shoulders, brought tears to his eyes. While Rachel buried her face in his shoulder, he kept his gaze fixed above, alert for anything that might strike them.

The smaller objects were almost impossible to avoid. Shards of glass, falling in glittering showers, tore their clothes and their skin. Broken tiles and fragments of wood pummelled them. Dill spun and twisted, dropped back and weaved through this deluge, endlessly trying to avoid the worst of it. Carnival followed their progress, the chain dancing between herself and the assassin.

Deepgate?
Dill’s memories surfaced with the name. The foundation chains; the League; the Warrens. He saw himself on a high balcony ringing a turret, remembered his cell beneath the belfry.
A chipped tile floor. Sunlight glimmering through a glass angel
.

His home? He was going home.

“This dust.” Rachel coughed into his shoulder. “I can’t see anything through it until it’s almost upon us. Is there anything left of the city above?”

Dill squinted through the dust clouds. Chains hung like torn webs from at least a quarter of the city, leaving a gap through which he could discern blue sky. Flames flickered around the damaged edges and, even as he watched, another mass of buildings sagged toward them and broke free.

He shouted back to Carnival, “Head there, over there! Less dangerous. The districts there have already come down.” Then he whispered into Rachel’s ear, “Some of the foundation chains have gone. From the edge to the hub, everything around them has been lost.”

“The temple?”

“I can see it.” Right there in the centre, a burning halo surrounded the Church of Ulcis.

“We would have heard it drop,” Carnival growled. “That many wailing priests.”

Gradually the city grew nearer. Fresh showers of water occasionally drenched them, momentarily clearing the dust and smoke until it felt like they were flying through thunderheads. The air seemed to crackle and course with violent energy. Hairs rose on Dill’s arms and on the back of his neck.

A roar and, a hundred yards away, an entire street ripped past, its houses ablaze, disintegrating into plumes of rubble. An old stonewood tree tumbled after it, its gnarled branches reaching out amid flailing chains. Carnival watched its descent. In the fleeting firelight, Dill saw a look of grim detachment on her face.

“We have to move faster,” she said. “Ulcis’s archons are free.”

“How many?” Rachel whispered.

“Fifty or more,” Dill said, after gazing into the depths. “They’re gaining fast.” He beat his wings with all of his strength. Carnival groaned in protest and lashed after them in pursuit.

Rachel drew the bamboo tube from her belt and popped open its lid. A musty odour emerged from inside; accompanied by a strange scratching sound. She closed it again quickly. “Tell me when they get near,” she shouted. “I can’t see well enough.”

Now there were people visible among the debris: ragged men, women, and children, tumbling head over foot, garments rippling. Screams and cries filled the abyss. One woman clutched an infant in her arms; its wail tapered away to nothing.

Beneath them the archons had drawn their swords. They circled as they rose, sweeping like great grey hawks through the falling debris.

“How close now?” Rachel asked.

“Close enough,” Dill replied.

“Take this, then.” She handed the tube to Dill. “Open it and throw it in the face of the first one that gets near us.” Then, gripping Dill’s waist between her legs, she leaned outwards and pulled her sword free.

Dill examined the tube. “What’s in here?”

“Hookfleas.”

A battle cry went up from the archons, as the closest moved to attack.

“Above!” Carnival shouted suddenly.

Dill glanced up just in time. He dived aside to avoid an iron spike as large as a temple spire.

“The Scythe!” Rachel cried. “The shipyards are coming down.”

Massive iron skeletons thundered past. Mooring spines, gantries and cranes, huge winches and pulleys and rusted hooks, nets of blackened cable and chain. An iron funnel, belching smoke, thumped against the roof of a warehouse with a mighty boom that shook the abyss from side to side.

“We can’t—” Rachel broke off and cried out in pain as the chain confining her ankle tightened and her leg was jerked down savagely. Carnival had been forced to dive out of the path of a spitting furnace. They lost considerable height and suddenly were among their pursuers.

An archon with a cadaverous grin reached out and grabbed Dill by the ankle; sank its nails deep into his flesh. Rachel’s sword drove down, aimed for the attacker’s elbow. But the winged creature avoided her blow easily. It slipped away, leering, brought a scimitar up to strike.

Dill emptied the bamboo tube directly in its face.

Hookfleas burst from the tube with a chittering sound. The archon howled, dropped its sword, and began clawing at its face. The fleas had already burrowed into its flesh, were bubbling under its grey skin. Blood-smeared bone gleamed through rips opening in its cheeks and forehead.

“They’ll burrow on into the brain and nest there,” Rachel shouted. “It won’t die for a while, if it can still remember how to fly.”

A second archon threw itself at Carnival’s back, sword aiming for a point between her shoulder blades. The scarred angel spun, lifted a strand of the chain to parry. Steel struck iron. Sparks flew.

Rachel cried a warning.

Carnival recoiled as a brick wall plummeted between herself and her opponent. When windows rushed by, she lashed out half a dozen lightning blows through them, smashing glass each time. Then the wall was gone, leaving the archon hovering dazed and toothless. Carnival kicked the creature in the face and it tumbled away, snarling.

But the others were still closing, more than forty of them now. Huge wings pounding, they weaved through the onslaught of falling debris. The closest dived at Rachel and Dill, who drew his own sword. Did he even know how to use it? It felt so awkward in his hand. He threw the empty tube at the archon, but missed. The creature grinned triumphantly, then disappeared as a cargo hook slammed into it from above. Feathers skirled down after it.

“This is too much,” Rachel shouted to Carnival. “Stay close to us. The chain…If something hits it…”

Dill swerved again as the corner of a blazing building whoomphed by. Smoke engulfed them, and suddenly they were spinning, tumbling blind through turbulent, choking air.

“That was a warehouse!” Rachel yelled. Which meant the heavy industrial buildings that had once bordered the Scythe were falling now: factories and warehouses, foundries and mills, burning, booming, breaking apart. Monstrous chains thundered into the depths, slicing through clouds of seething smoke and dust. A knotted cluster of workers’ shanties struck a crane and burst into planks and coils of rope.

A scarred archon in rusted half-plate armour engaged Carnival briefly, its spear flickering like a snake’s tongue. Carnival was grinning back through her own scars. She fought with an arm span of chain, first snapping it taut to deflect the blows, then whipping it into her opponent’s face. Three blows to counter every thrust her attacker made, soon reducing his face to shreds. She grabbed at the spear and kicked the archon in the shoulder, spinning it round. Carnival flipped the spear point over, drove it deep between the archon’s wings.

An arrow hissed past Dill’s ear. “Archers!” he warned, pointing wildly in the direction the arrow had appeared from.

Carnival flung herself away in that direction.

“Wait,” Rachel cried—but Carnival was too lost in the frenzy of battle to remember the chain. Before Dill could react, Rachel was pulled free from his grip. Suddenly he was weightless. Alone.

Carnival shrieked as Rachel’s weight yanked her from her course, and dragged her a dozen fathoms down before she adapted to the strain and clawed back some height.

Ulcis’s lieutenants attacked as one.

Those level with Dill, a dozen or more, dived at Carnival herself. A score more beat up from below to where Rachel swayed like a pendulum. Swords, spears, cutlasses, and sabres closed in like fangs.

“Spine,” Carnival yelled, “make yourself useful.” She grabbed the chain at her ankle, then shifted her weight back, her wings thrashing at the air. Then she began to circle slowly, swinging Rachel beneath her.

Rachel looped her free leg around the chain, thrust out her sword.

Carnival increased her speed, circling over the assassin, then she dropped lower and leaned back into her wings. The muscles on her neck corded as she strained against the weight of the chain.

“Faster!” Rachel cried from below.

Wings lashing, quickening her rotations, Carnival pulled even harder on the chain. Rachel gained speed, drew level, and began to spin around her like a living mace.

From fathoms above, Dill watched them breathlessly.

The assassin’s sword carved a bright circle through the surrounding darkness, once, twice, thrice around Carnival before it found the first of Ulcis’s archons. As Rachel’s blade ripped through it, the grey-skinned creature did not have time to scream. A cloud of blood and feathers followed the divided halves of its corpse into the abyss.

Teeth set grimly, Carnival was now using Rachel’s momentum to increase their speed. Round and round the assassin spun, faster and faster, until the links taut between them sang and her sword seemed like a ring of steel.

Rachel clove another angel from shoulder to stomach, severed the wing of a third. Above, below, around, she whirled, her blade trailing arcs of blood. And all the while she was
parrying,
deflecting blows with astonishing speed. Steel clashed and sparked and flickered around her.

But it wasn’t enough. Her opponents were faster. They swooped around the assassin, searching for a way past the whirring chain and blade. A hulking dust-coloured angel threw its spear, managed to catch Rachel’s shoulder. As she cried out, Carnival bit hard against the spin, and swung Rachel over her head and back down with brutal force. The assassin smashed into the same archon, impaling it on her sword, and then she was torn free again.

Dill watched, rapt. At the end of the chain, Rachel was spinning so fast he couldn’t see her clearly. How could she still remain conscious? Blood flew in circles from her blade. Sparks and embers spiralled in a raging vortex behind her. Ulcis’s angels were everywhere, thirty or forty of them, swerving, veering, circling. Parrying her blows, wounding her, they were going to tear her to pieces.

And, all around, the city fell. Great smouldering beams and crosses of iron. Chains, buttresses, turrets, and scaffolding. Catwalks and stairwells, gutters and gables. Houses that spewed smoke, roared, and split apart among fizzing torrents of glass, cobbles, and tiles.

The darkness deepened. And Dill glanced up.

A pendulum house the size of a warship filled the sky, three storeys of chain-wrapped stone and buckled iron plate. It would hit them full on.

He screamed, “Carnival!”

She saw it, too.

Carnival heaved Rachel around one more time, and then folded her wings flat against her back. The assassin’s momentum threw her beyond the circling archons, jerked Carnival after her. She only just made it as, inches behind, the pendulum house smashed into Ulcis’s archons—and they were gone.

T
he city of Deepgate listed above him, torn open from edge to axis. Buildings swung below the temple from a score of foundation chains, still wrapped in tangles of lesser chains and cables. Fires raged across half the sky and motes of soot and embers fell like burning snow, but the sun was still visible through the dust-shrouded rent.

Ulcis’s angels were nowhere to be seen—one way or another, they had returned to the depths.