✥
THE WAREHOUSE SHOOK as though it were being battered by a giant’s club. Dust and ash rained down through the cracks in the wooden roof and Eremul the Halfmage came awake choking and spluttering. Monique, beside him on the floor, did much the same, except somehow she managed it with a lot more grace. As often happened, he tried to climb to his feet only for his brain to catch up with the fact that he no longer had feet, or indeed ankles or knees.
Thirteen years and still instinct overwhelms memory. Overwhelms rational thought. Then again, I am but a human. Not an immortal fehd.
‘Let me help you,’ said Monique, gently lifting him from the floor and assisting him into his chair. He blinked dirt from his eyes and squinted through the cloud of dust. Mard was sitting cross-legged amidst the detritus and staring at Monique suspiciously, possibly with some kind of cock-rot-related anxiety in mind. Ricker was passed out, so drunk that a direct kick to the face wouldn’t have woken him.
So, exactly the same as always. What then is that racket outside? The building began to shake again and now there was a loud roaring noise, as though a hurricane were tearing through the city. Eremul wheeled himself over to the door and peeped out. He wasn’t the only one. Dorminia’s many homeless glanced fearfully from the cramped doorways of the Refuge to see what latest terror threatened the city. Everything was coated in ash and dust – the fallout from the colossal cloud that had mushroomed into the sky the day the Breaker of Worlds was deployed to destroy the gholam. Even within the Obelisk, the heat had been near unbearable for a minute or two.
The Halfmage had been relieved to learn that none in the city had perished – at least not as a direct result of the weapon’s deployment. The coming days would doubtless bring complications, with the city’s water supply becoming polluted. Also, the trembling in the earth caused by the blast had weakened Dorminia’s structures, and several had since collapsed, burying their unfortunate inhabitants within.
The Halfmage shook his head. In the last year the city had endured war, a sustained bombardment from the First Fleet’s artillery, and now the unleashing of the deadliest weapon ever created.
The Grey City. An apt name for possibly the grimmest conurbation this side of a metaphorical hell. It was hard to conceive of a time when he might fondly reminisce about Salazar’s rule, but the Halfmage could feel the moment edging slightly closer.
Monique placed a hand on his arm and poked her head out of the doorway for a look. ‘Shall we see what the fuss is about?’ she asked. He glanced at her in surprise. Monique had seemed largely content to remain in the Refuge since seeking him out. Indeed, she was worryingly quiet most of the time. He imagined the stress and uncertainty of the times – not to mention their decidedly charmless room-mates – would have that effect on a woman.
When it comes to women, my imagination is all I have by way of experience.
‘Eager for some clean spring air?’ he asked wryly, gesturing at the sheets of dust blowing through the streets. It seemed as though the disturbance was coming from the Hook: the large plaza in which the city’s criminals were once executed and where Eremul himself had come within moments of doing the hanged man’s dance, or whatever the humorous equivalent for a man with no legs could be termed. ‘I suppose it is at least fresher than what comes out of Ricker’s arse on a morning.’
Monique gave him a scandalized look that quickly became a smile and Eremul felt the unfamiliar warm sensation spreading through him. To hell with your hashka. Forget magic. Love is the most powerful addiction of all. Or at least it was for those who had gone thirty-five years utterly starved of it.
‘Follow me,’ he said, wheeling his chair out through the door. ‘I can probably work a little something to help with the dust.’ He muttered a few words and summoned the meagre reserves of magic within him, shaping it into a warding spell that kept the airborne detritus away from him and Monique. Dirty faces watched them from half-open doors. Many revealed malice or anger, but the Halfmage was beyond giving a shit about the opinions of his neighbours.
Eremul and Monique made their way between crowded warehouses, skirted around heaps of rubbish, dead animals and piles of rotting sewage. The Refuge might provide a roof over their heads and a bowl of foul-tasting soup on an evening, but it was otherwise a lawless, filthy place. A year ago Eremul might have termed it ‘hellish’. Not any more.
Hell is defined by the limits of imagination – and imagination is defined through the limits of experience. True hell cannot be known until it has been lived.
The orphans in the Warrens, they knew true hell. The Pioneers who had sailed to the Celestial Isles had known true hell, every man and woman, at least for the short time they had remained in possession of their heads. What the homeless were suffering in the Refuge was but a trifling inconvenience in comparison.
As they neared the Hook, the drifting clouds of dust and ash grew thicker, the roaring louder. Eremul had to put his hands to his ears to block out the noise. Dozens of fehd were gathered around the edge of the plaza. Dust and ash swirled around the Ancients as they formed a circle, Isaac among them beside his sister Melissan. The siblings wore stony expressions. There was an air of tragedy about the two Adjudicators that was almost palpable. The agony Eremul had witnessed on Isaac’s face following the death of his half-sister Nym had shaken him for days. It may have been Isaac’s emotional projection that made him feel bad for the fehd officer – but Eremul had the oddest sensation that it could also have been simple empathy.
Isaac saw them approaching and gave a tiny nod of greeting. His obsidian gaze lingered on Monique for a second and he seemed to give a regretful sigh before returning his attention to the spectacle in the centre of the plaza. Melissan regarded the two humans as a woman might regard a fresh dog turd turning up on the bottom of her shoe. But she did not protest as they arrived at the Hook and both stared slack-jawed at the huge metallic bird hovering ten feet above the ground.
Or at least it resembled a metallic bird; on closer inspection Eremul concluded it was some kind of fehd relic. It was forty feet from nose to tail, with a wingspan at least twice that.
‘It flies,’ Monique said breathlessly. ‘It must be magic.’
‘Not magic,’ said the Halfmage with a frown. The roaring seemed to come from somewhere beneath the wings. ‘It’s a machine.’
‘The oldest of machines,’ said Isaac behind them. The Adjudicator had quietly joined the couple. ‘It is one of the last surviving relics of the Time Before – a smaller brother to the great ship that brought us to these lands. Prince Obrahim has arrived.’
The flying machine was slowly lowered to the ground. The roaring died and the billowing clouds of ash and dust slowly settled back to the earth. A small portal on the side slid open and a short flight of steps was lowered. A moment later a fehd who could only be their mythical prince stepped out.
He was of equal height to General Saverian, and in fact looked similar enough that none could mistake them for anything but brothers. The prince wore a golden cloak and carried a great metal sceptre topped by the largest diamond the Halfmage had ever seen. Unlike the white-haired general, Obrahim had hair as golden as the dawn. It was topped by a silver coronet.
Saverian stepped from the circle of fehd and lowered himself to one knee, the point of his crystal sword resting on the ground. The rest of his kind immediately followed suit. Isaac nodded at Monique to kneel and she quickly obeyed.
Eremul glanced around, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and a little self-satisfied. I am the only man present, human or fehd, who is not expected to kowtow to this prince.
‘Saverian,’ greeted Prince Obrahim, in a voice just as ancient and just as utterly assured as his brother’s. ‘I crossed the ocean immediately when I heard the news. Seven of our kin have been lost to us, including your own betrothed. We will mourn each of them for a decade. You may all rise now.’
General Saverian rose and sheathed his sword and a moment later the two brothers embraced. ‘The gods-forged construct that attacked our kin in the Demonfire Hills has been Reckoned,’ said the white-haired commander. ‘The gholam is destroyed.’
Prince Obrahim nodded gravely. ‘I understand it was kin to the gorgon and the gargantuan. You warned me about them, brother. That they could threaten even us were they ever to be unleashed against our kind. I should have intervened when the gods first thought to release them upon this continent.’
‘Yet more confirmation that this crusade is necessary,’ Saverian grated. ‘Humanity should never have been permitted to flourish unsupervised. Their wickedness cost us two of our kin. Now their recklessness has robbed us of a further seven.’
Eremul saw that Monique’s face had taken on a distant look, her eyes strangely vacant. He gave her arm a squeeze and she seemed to snap back to herself. Men and women from the Refuge were beginning to arrive on the outskirts of the plaza, curiosity getting the better of fear.
The prince frowned at the city folk making their uncertain way towards the Hook. ‘Tell me, brother. How goes the conquering of this place humans call the Trine?’
Saverian’s jaw clenched angrily. ‘We have yet to breach the magical barrier the White Lady has placed around her city. The Breaker of Worlds was to offer a solution.’
Prince Obrahim raised his sceptre and the diamond tip flared, so blindingly bright that Eremul had to look away. ‘We shall see if this barrier can withstand me,’ he pronounced. ‘Come, brother. I wish to familiarise myself with this land we abandoned two thousand years ago.’
The prince and the general left the Hook, the rest of the fehd slowly filtering out behind them, returning to their enclave in what was formerly Dorminia’s Noble Quarter.
Eremul watched their departure. He waited for Isaac and Melissan to leave and then turned to Monique. ‘Are you well? You seem distant.’
Monique removed her reading lenses and tried to blow away the dust that coated them. When that failed, she attempted to use a sleeve, which did little save add to the grime. Like Eremul’s own robes, her clothes were thick with dirt. ‘I’m worried, beloved. I do not wish to die in this place. I travelled north from Tarbonne looking for a better life. All I have found here is misery.’
Eremul tried not to let the pain he felt show. You found me, he wanted to say. But he knew that wasn’t enough. He had been foolish to believe anything he could have offered her would ever have been enough.
No. There is something.
He took a deep breath. ‘I may be able to get you of the city,’ he said, watching Isaac’s departing form and remembering a ploy he had used to sneak him, the barbarian Brodar Kayne and the rest of his companions out of the harbour in similar circumstances. ‘It will be risky and exhaust what little power I have – but if I can save a single life, I wish it to be yours.’
Monique stared at Eremul for a moment, eyes wide. Then she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You are a good man.’
‘I’m not sure about “good”,’ he replied drolly. ‘Or even “man”. But considering the paucity of compliments I receive, I’ll take what I can get.’
Monique giggled and even without her perfume, and smelling as ripe as everyone else in the Refuge, the Halfmage felt himself responding to the woman’s presence. He summoned his courage; steeled his nerves and decided to take the plunge. ‘I believe there is a washroom in the east part of the Refuge that offers some privacy. Perhaps it might be a good time to relieve ourselves of the city’s accumulated filth.’
Oh, shit, he thought. Oh, shit.
Monique appeared to hesitate for a moment. Then, ‘Thank you, but I want to go back and rest now. It is cold and I miss the comfort of walls around me.’
Shit.
‘Of course,’ he replied with a bright and utterly fake smile. ‘Why, I, too, cannot get enough of Ricker and Mard.’