This Is Gonna Hurt
—Dogfish Knights, title of their multi-platinum second album
They are everywhere!
An army of coldmen, arakid, and draconflies covered the Reaches in a carpet of shifting, rustling darkness for as far out across the plains as Enoch could see—or at least, for as far as the Ark’s hull-mounted optical docking sensors could see. He was down in the tunnels with the Core Unit, monitoring the Ark’s activity in preparation for the Vestigarchy attack.
The draconflies had been arriving for the past three days, some unloading their cargo of insectoid warriors and some circling Babel’s perimeter. There were now two dozen of them in the air, and the low humming of their wings had become a constant refrain in the city. Despite the incredible size, the massive presence of this force, Enoch couldn’t help but smile. He knew the power of this place. Knew it intimately.
And the bugs have learned not to land on the walls anymore.
The coldmen were now staying safely out of the range of the city’s cannons—a dozen craters peppering the battlefield in front of them bore witness to a hard lesson learned. The functionality of the Ark’s defensive systems had been a complete surprise to the Vestigarchy, even knowing of the Pensanden inside.
I guess they thought me too young, too inexperienced to have brought so much of this unfinished starship back to life.
However, Enoch did have to admit that King Nyraud’s leadership—the planning, the energy, the organization—had been vital to the confident situation he found himself in. Enoch knew that the tower could hold off an army like the one arrayed below indefinitely.
This is my gift to you, milord. And my . . . apology for leaving without a word.
Enoch wasn’t going to leave destruction in his wake like the Pensanden of old. But neither could he stay here. Not when he knew what the king really was.
The king only serves himself, only looks toward his own goals. His own . . . hunger. This is why Master Gershom wanted me to find the Nahuat. To train for something other than that. Here I learned to value myself, but . . . not like King Nyraud. Not like—
Enoch shook the regret from his thoughts. There wasn’t any time for that now. He keyed in the perimeter patrol checks and waited as the Huntsmen stationed around Babel’s walls sent in their reports. The king’s public Unit placement now made a lot more sense to Enoch—while it had been a costly and labor-intensive act of municipal generosity, the benefit of having instantaneous communication with the soldiers at key points in the city was vital. King Nyraud’s foresight was astounding.
Enoch made one last check to ensure that the cannons were fully charged and that the sensors were clear. He then powered up a line of access channels along the path he would be leaving through. He wanted to have his eye on this battle, on the weapon he’d resurrected, and on his father for as long as he could.
Mesha was pawing at the door. She was ready to go.
I don’t know if I ever will be ready to go. But I have to. If I don’t go now, I’ll never be able to bring myself to leave—no matter how many more dark secrets I learn. I’ll never find another time when Nyraud and his Huntsmen are so distracted.
Enoch pushed the pain away. He tried to remember the rooms he had discovered, the trophies. He tried to remember Sera’s words, her calm and tearful descriptions of the horrors of the Tower.
I have to go.
Setting the Core Unit to automatically collect reports from the perimeters, he glanced over the newly awakened tunnel cameras. He could see the liberated prisoners from several angles; he watched as they stepped out of his secret elevator and separated into the various tunnels which would lead them under the city, past the coldmen army, and out into the cover of swampland along the northern borders of Babel. Enoch had deliberately shortened the range on the northern cannons so that the Vestigarchy forces would move in close, past the tunnel exits. The Core Unit was programmed to open fire on those forces in thirty minutes, just when the prisoners would need some chaos to hide their escape.
And my escape. I don’t need anyone.
Enoch keyed in the final command, which would lock the door upon his exit—cover for at least several hours, enough to hide his absence. He picked up Mesha and left the room.
* * * *
Sera couldn’t believe that this boy—this shepherd boy—had been able to accomplish what he did.
The tunnels weren’t as cold as Enoch had described them in his harrowing tale, and for good reason. Just a week ago, he had led a team of the king’s alchemists to seal off the ruptured tank of frostwater. Apparently, this was done with the excuse of conserving and rerouting the fluid into the tower, cooling the defensive cannons and allowing a higher rate of fire. It had certainly convinced Nyraud. But the result of a temperate and troll-free escape route was something Sera appreciated. Once committed to an idea, Enoch reasoned through every possible angle that idea could take. It was unbelievable how thorough and detailed the boy’s mind could be.
I know that he claims to be a Pensanden, but he’s so young.
This thought made her laugh—didn’t she hate it when the older Alaphim referred to her age with such condescension? G’Nor heard the sound and looked down at her, one tawny ear raised in question. He raised a massive paw and paused.
Sera shook her head. “No, I’m not laughing at you. I was just thinking about how unexpected our rescue was—and how unexpected the rescuer.”
G’Nor’s purring ratcheted up an octave, his equivalent of a laugh.
Sera couldn’t hear any of the other prisoners’ footsteps anymore—their paths had finally spread to the point of “numerically diffused danger,” as Enoch put it. Any one prisoner captured could never lead a guard toward the others. Sera wondered about the other prisoners. She had spent so much time with them, but their surgical muteness, combined with a general sense of fear and suspicion, kept her from learning much. She silently wished them well.
Sera lifted her hand to place it on the side of the beast’s peaked shoulder and smiled. She had grown close to the Ur’lyn in their weeks of confinement and already trusted the hunter to a surprising degree. G’Nor had initially been hesitant to speak, fearing that any human would betray him . . . Ur’lyn learned commonspeech in their travels, but it was a rough tool for those who used gesture and growls to speak to their own kind.
Sera had patiently coaxed G’Nor into speaking, patiently learning to read the gestures and throat sounds that added depth and context to his simple words. She had been fascinated by the insights that this imposing predator had on life—and the ending of a people. So much of what G’Nor said put into words her own feelings about the Alaphim.
Enoch had taken longer warming up to G’Nor due to the close encounter with his claw. When he had returned, ready to believe her about the king, Sera had explained to him that G’Nor had taken the swipe to make the boy aware that, although caged, he was far from helpless. She told Enoch that G’Nor could have done worse on the road back in Midian, killing or at least exposing the boy when he hid from the caravan. But the Ur’lyn had held back then and had sensed something unique about Enoch.
That memory sure stunned Shepherd Boy, and I think it pleased him. Enoch likes his unique status. And I think the memory helped him to move past his fear of the Ur’lyn—what was it that Enoch said to G’Nor? That the Ur’lyn reminds him of his master? Enoch seemed relieved to be able to say that.
Regardless, I’m glad he consented to freeing us both. Spending weeks caged next to that troll was enough for me.
At that thought, she quickly looked down the tunnel in front of her.
And in my current condition, I need this furry guardian in case we run into any more trolls.
She leaned against G’Nor’s warm flank and sighed. “What about our rescuer? Do you still want to kill him?”
The Ur’lyn turned his head to meet her eye but kept walking. “No,” he growled, soft and low. “Not now.”
Sera knew that G’Nor was bothered by Enoch’s ancestry. The Pensanden were the cause of much of his people’s suffering; he saw the Schism and the practical genocide of the etherwalkers as a painful but divine cleansing. Sera had stayed awake several nights trying to talk G’Nor out of killing Enoch—hours of odd, slow-moving conversation. She was almost positive that she could talk him out of it.
This was the thing Sera found most interesting: for a somber creature from a race of melancholy mystics, G’Nor was unexpectedly optimistic. Sure, he saw most things as absolutes, but he tended to place himself on the better, nobler, more successful side of those absolutes. Like his escape from Nyraud’s Gardens, for example. There, she was caged with manticores at the topmost level of the Hunter King’s tower, and G’Nor spoke of his “eventual escape” with a certainty that had at first made Sera laugh. Then, when she realized that the Ur’lyn wasn’t joking—something he seemed incapable of—she had asked G’Nor how he was going to accomplish this feat. The hunter had simply stared at her with those yellow-green eyes and purred.
That purring. Sometimes it was a song, and sometimes it was poetry. G’Nor said it was the sound his people made to “warm the cold times.” Sera thought it was a great way to avoid answering hard questions, but she had grown accustomed to the thick sound. The Ur’lyn was doing it now, and she could feel it coming through the firm walls of muscle at his side.
My happy beast.
G’Nor claimed to be “slender” for his kind. Sera had a hard time imagining how a creature could get any larger, or more imposingly built. The wooden carving she had purchased at the market hadn’t prepared her.
On all fours, the Ur’lyn was a massive block of tawny fur and bulk reaching seven feet from paw to arching shoulder peak. His thick neck extended another few feet out and down from the peak, ending in a leonine face with a blunt, whiskered muzzle. Those feline eyes, sparkling from a mask of darker fur, held all of the wild and ferocious millennia of this creature’s ancestry. It was no surprise that Lamech had seemed so taken with the Ur’lyn. They shared a beauty with the angels, and Sera had said so.
Enoch had claimed that this dual beauty—the ethereal and the wild—was an obvious example of the Pensanden art. Sera had laughed. G’Nor had considered for a minute, then exhaled sharply through his nose—a whooshing sound more expressive than a slamming door.
“No,” he said, voice low and . . . predatory? “No, Enoch. Your people found the art. They took it. And they hung it on their walls, marked it with their urine. But the art was already inside of us.”
Enoch didn’t have a response for that, and he hadn’t come back for several days after G’Nor made the comment. Sera recognized hurt pride when she saw it.
I can tell that this arrogance is new to him. He is excited about it. He is still unexpectedly flattered when his competence is rewarded—and doubly hurt when it is questioned. What has Nyraud been teaching this boy to get him so caught up in his own worship?
Regardless, Enoch had made the right decision. The hard decision.
And I’m not just saying that because he saved my life.
Sera felt something—respect? Admiration? She was unsure. He looked a lost kid when she first met him in the market, but watching him plan everyone’s escape impressed her. He worried about every complex detail, and it lent him a more mature bearing now. He . . . he wasn’t that much younger than her . . .
No, no, no, Sera. Let’s not move our attention away from escaping the Hunter King. And the coldmen surrounding that tower.
She shook her head and was comforted to feel the touch of her growing tresses against the side of her face.
But I’m impressed that he is able to voluntarily walk away from all of this.
They had reached a point where the hallway split into two. Sera remembered Enoch’s instructions to take the left tunnel. G’Nor stopped, sniffing the ground in front of them.
“What? You smell something?”
The Ur’lyn pushed off the ground with his front paws and stood, filling the blue-lit hallway as he smelled the air. He extracted his ebony claws as silent exclamation marks:
“Trolls. They passed here . . . hmm, within the past two weeks,” he said. He wrinkled his nose and shot out another blast of hot air. Disgust. “They carried a corpse with them.”
The Ur’lyn gestured for Sera to climb onto his back. With a sigh, Sera grabbed onto the longer hair that ran along G’Nor’s spine—almost a mane. G’Nor dropped back to all fours and leaned toward her, lowering his shoulder peak. They had talked about doing this up in their cages but had never tried it. She was a little nervous—not for the height, obviously, but for the utter dependence that this position forced upon her.
Well, I wouldn’t have to rely on an Ur’lyn if I had kept out of Nyraud’s hunting camp. I wouldn’t have to worry about breaking my clipped and damaged wings if I had stayed on patrol . . .
Sera pulled on handfuls of mane and lifted herself up onto the broad, shaggy back. Her head almost touched the ceiling, and she winced as her wings brushed a light tube. They still ached, but the skin had healed over. She would need to find her people when this was all over. Maybe Sera would never fly again, but a boneweaver could at least straighten the twist in her carpal joint.
Enoch says he can’t fix my wings—says he doesn’t dare touch their “art” after so much time working with the crude guns in the tower.
But I’ve caught him staring at them, doing his deep Pensanden look. He wants to try.
Sera reached back to run a hand over the rough edges of her shorn feathers.
Do I want him to try? Could he make it worse?
They didn’t encounter any trolls, or specters for that matter, as they moved lower into the tunnels. G’Nor’s rumbling purr seemed to warm the air around her, and Sera tried to ignore the ache in her wings. She found that as she overcame her claustrophobic fears of dependence, she actually started to enjoy her ride on the Ur’lyn’s wide back.
Soon they reached the portal Enoch had mentioned, a large steel disk marked with purple symbols. And Enoch was there waiting for them.
His eyes were closed, and he had his hand splayed against an outlet next to the portal. As soon as they were in earshot, he smiled, and without opening his eyes, he gestured and invited them to sit. The boy’s shadowcat pet purred a greeting to G’Nor and shifted color to a matching tawny brown.
G’Nor ignored her.
Mesha pretended not to notice, leaping off Enoch’s shoulder to explore the hallway behind them.
“You are late, Sera. G’Nor. The guns will be starting soon, and we have to be ready to move quickly.”
Sera climbed off G’Nor’s back, careful not to jostle her wings. “Sorry, Shepherd Boy. I had G’Nor unlock the manticore cage and hurry out before shutting the trap door—those clever beasts should be able to figure out how to open it eventually. It will be a nice surprise for the Huntsmen when they go up to prepare the king’s next foray.”
Enoch opened his eyes and looked at her crossly. He obviously didn’t like when his plans were changed.
“Sera, there is a good chance that the manticores will find a way out of that chamber. There is a vent shaft they could fit through, possibly alerting the tower security earlier than we had planned. And the trap door itself isn’t built to withstand . . . hey, you didn’t let the troll loose, too, did you?”
Sera let out a frustrated groan. “Have a little bit of faith in your conspirators, Enoch. I blocked access to the vent with my own cage. And G’Nor moved the troll pen in front of the trap door, not close enough for our slobbering friend to touch it, but close enough for him to grab any manticore which dares to approach.”
Enoch was quiet for a moment. He nodded, then turned back to the outlet he was monitoring.
He’s going to have to learn to trust us.
G’Nor rumbled at Sera. “Why does he wait?”
It was a good question. If things were as rushed as Enoch claimed, what had captured his attention like this?
“So what are you looking at, Shepherd Boy?”
He was shaking his head, and Sera watched a blue-white thread of electricity curl from the outlet and wind around Enoch’s scarred wrist.
Eyes still closed, he shook his head. “I’m watching the Vestigarchy front lines from the docking cameras—the lenses are old and cracked, and I can’t focus in as close as I’d like to. But the coldmen have just pulled back and . . . something has just come forward.”
Sera stepped closer. “Something?”
“It . . . it looks like a man. But he’s being carried by . . . no, they are metal, but those are his legs . . . hold on, let me try and see if I can . . .”
Enoch’s lips began to move in some sort of chant. Sera recognized it as the mantra he used on occasion to focus his powers and send his mind great distances. He had used this litania eteria to explore Windroost Spire after she had told him about her people’s home. And he had discovered the explosives Nyraud had placed on the supporting girders that ran up through the Gardens—insurance against the Alaphim’s disobedience.
Even after having learned of the king’s hunts, this new information shook him. Enoch still wants to believe in Nyraud’s goodness.
She placed a hand on Enoch’s rigid shoulder. His lips had stopped moving. The boy was deeply focused on the events of the battlefield below. Sera was still worried about her own people.
Luckily Enoch was able to send word of the explosives to Lamech in his navigation bridge-turned-perch. I’ll bet that old rooster was surprised to see one of his “bookshelves” come to electrical life—and then spell out the need for our Spire to be evacuated.
The thought made Sera sad, and she had to remind herself of its necessity.
If Enoch had risked deactivating those bombs, the king could have simply replaced them at any time. My people have to move on—I hope they listened to Lamech. And I hope that I will be able to find them again. I wonder where they will—
Enoch cried out and jolted away from the wall, his eyes popping open. He spun around and pointed an accusing finger at Sera. G’Nor surged forward with a growl.
“He’s one of you!” shouted Enoch, his teeth bared. “The leader of the coldmen is an Alaphim!”
“What? You’re wrong. That can’t be true!”
Enoch took an angry step forward, accusatory finger jabbing at Sera. “He has your bones. He’s one of you!”
There was a rush of russet motion, and Enoch was suddenly pinned to the ground beneath G’Nor’s paw. The Ur’lyn roared, and the walls of the tunnel shook.
Sera strained forward. “No! Don’t kill him! We need to know what he saw out there!”
G’Nor hesitated, then retracted his black claws. Five thin lines of blood ran down Enoch’s chest. The boy was staring at her still, his face a mask of anger and confusion.
“Listen, Shepherd Boy, I don’t know what you saw out there, but it doesn’t excuse you from courtesy. You chose not to be a prince anymore. Now you have to choose not to act like one.”
Enoch’s breathing calmed, and Sera could see him forcing down the anger. He looked up and placed his hands on G’Nor’s restraining paw.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Sera. Get your pet off—”
G’Nor’s roar blasted Enoch’s sable hair flat against his skull.
“Sorry . . . G’Nor, will you please let me up?”
G’Nor’s low growl was deep enough to feel through the floor. This was the last sound prey heard.
Sera shook her head. If the Ur’lyn killed the boy now, they would be lost.
“G’Nor, we need him to help us out of these tunnels. We need him to guide us through the coming fusillade and past the coldmen.”
Sera looked down at Enoch, who appeared to be calculating how to move out from under G’Nor. His hand started moving slowly toward the sword at his waist. The Ur’lyn’s growl deepened; his claws began to extend, slowly tracing back along their bloody trails.
Sera had to stop this.
“Please, my friend. We owe him our trust for setting us free. Maybe he will be different from his ancestors? Maybe . . . maybe he joins our pack and together we hunt a new path?”
Enoch’s hand stopped moving. He lifted his eyes to meet Sera’s, and then looked straight ahead into the Ur’lyn’s fierce gaze.
G’Nor lowered his muzzle to rest it against the boy’s chin and then opened his jaws wide. The white and yellow fangs encompassed Enoch’s entire chest. G’Nor licked the blood from the claw wounds he’d left. Then he lifted his muzzle and snarled.
“I taste your blood, etherwalker. I will watch you. I will smell you. I will know if you turn. And then I will kill you.”
Enoch reached up with his hands and grasped the shaggy sides of G’Nor’s jaws tightly. Sera could barely hear his whisper.
“Don’t let me become like them. Please.”
G’Nor pulled back and closed his mouth. He sat back on his haunches and regarded Enoch with surprise.
Sera bent over and helped Enoch to his feet. He couldn’t look her in the eye, just cleared his throat and tried to muster enough dignity to walk stiffly back to the outlet.
“Okay, so G’Nor has decided to trust you, Shepherd Boy. Now . . . tell me what you saw.”
Enoch, nodding silently, placed his hand against the outlet again. He spoke, and his voice was in the detached monotone of his pensa spada trance.
“The man who is approaching the front lines of the coldmen, the man all of the coldmen are bowing to, he . . . isn’t a normal man. At first, I thought he was some sort of monster, one of those Iron Ogres you hear about wandering the ice fields of the north. He is covered in thick plates of armor and suspended from six massive steel legs. Insect-like legs rooted in his back—”
Sera gasped. “His back . . . ?”
“Exactly. As soon as I looked closer, looked inside of his construction, I could see the truth. He is an Alaphim, Sera, just like you. Except his wings have been replaced by these automated insect legs, and the armor around his form is fused to the metal in his bones. And Sera—he’s old. The design of his frame, the weave of his metal, it is more primitive than yours. Even the metal itself is of a cruder substance, not the light ceramic alloy you have.”
Why does it make me feel naked when he talks about me like that?
“But the legs, the armor—all of the unfamiliar elements that disguised his true nature from me—they are designed without the artistry of his inner structure. They are designed by the Serpent. Simple, rough, pragmatic; no thought toward beauty. Koatul’s work. I’ve seen it in the coldmen’s weapons. I know it.”
Enoch finally looked up at her, his eyes cold. “Why didn’t you tell me your people served the Serpent?”
Sera held back the urge to shout.
Remember he’s still just a boy. He doesn’t know.
“Enoch, you need to know a little bit of history. Originally, my people were the Pensanden’s greatest allies. And after the Schism, your kind deliberately ignored us; they were too worried about keeping their power and regaining control of the world. We had to find the most inaccessible places in the world—our Spires—to avoid the hatred that came from our association with you. A few of the Alaphim, a cursed few, were angry enough about the Pensanden abandonment to join the Vestigarchy. They were known as the Arkángels. We never knew what happened to them after the Hunt. Now . . . now I guess we can see that the Serpent kept them alive, or at least one of them. He must be very old. Centuries.”
Enoch took it all in, silently. Then he nodded, contrite as he turned back to the outlet.
“I’m sorry, Sera. I don’t know why I snapped like that.”
“I understand, Enoch. You’re still hurt from, well, from being surprised by someone you trusted. Next time ask before accusing.”
She could see him clenching up, holding back the pride and anger at her condescension. It was good that he was able to show this kind of control, but Sera couldn’t help but enjoy his turmoil.
Shouting at me like that!
“So what is the Arkángel doing?”
Enoch tilted his head, curious. “He is holding something. A . . . a metal staff. It’s a machine. The circuitry is incredibly complicated, but it looks like some sort of antenna, something meant to broadcast a pattern . . .
“He is walking forward—he is coming within range of the cannons! Is he trying to die? I can see Father’s Huntsmen bringing the front battery into position. The weapon is charging . . . He’s raising his staff . . .”
Enoch went quiet. He brought his other hand up next to the outlet.
The walls around them shuddered as the massive cannons fired.
“Enoch? Enoch, what happened?”
“He’s stopped right at the edge of the cannon range. Father sent a salvo into the earth in front of him, but the . . . the Arkángel seemed to know exactly how far he had to go. How would he know that?”
Sera shook her head.
Has the Serpent blessed him with Pensanden sight? It sounds like he is more machine than angel now. Did he willingly surrender himself for this power?
Enoch continued narrating as he watched. “The Arkángel’s staff . . . he has activated it. It’s broadcasting the pattern now . . .” Enoch turned to look at Sera. “I don’t know what he thinks that is going to do—I’ve changed the patterns on all of the cannons and entry gates to my own coded resonance. There’s no way he can affect . . .”
He turned back to his focus. And smiled. “He’s leaving now. He just gave a sign to the coldmen armies behind him. They are going!”
Sera couldn’t believe it.
“Enoch, they wouldn’t bring a force like that here and then allow a little artillery to frighten them off. They’ve got enough coldmen out there to swarm this place!”
Enoch turned to her triumphantly. “No, Sera. They’ve seen what I’ve done here. They’ve realized that my cannons can hold that perimeter indefinitely, or at least as long as it would take them to expend their entire force. They’re giving up!”
“Enoch,” Sera said, her voice low, “the Vestigarchy doesn’t give up. They’ve ruled for centuries upon centuries. I’m sure your cannons are impressive, but—”
Enoch interrupted her with a laugh, extending his hand to the portal. With a groan of rusting metal, the wheeled handle began to twist open. Apparently, the automatic functions were still intact.
“We better make our escape while my father is up celebrating with his men. My alibi, hours of concealment in the Core Unit, just turned into minutes.”
G’Nor was already nosing the door open, and a wave of humid swamp air washed over them. He growled encouragement.
Sera waved off her urgency and turned back to Enoch. There were bigger concerns.
“Are you sure that they are leaving? Are you sure that we are safe going out now?”
Enoch, still unbearably sure of himself, smiled and motioned for her to exit with G’Nor. Mesha was already outside, and Sera wondered if the shadowcat would leave them now that it was home again.
“Just let me shut down my planned barrage of the northern swamps—it would just be wasted energy. The draconflies have already moved beyond range, are already past our own exit. You know, it was a good thing you showed up late after all!”
With a laugh he turned from Sera to put his hand on the outlet. Sera gave him a worried look and then followed G’Nor out the door.
The swamp spread out before them seemed so open, so alive after her long weeks in a cage. Gnarled trees grew up around the metal exit, and the ground in front of them sloped forward a few feet before sinking into still, mottled water.
I think I’ll ride on G’Nor’s back for this part of the journey.
They had agreed to follow Enoch out of the city, at least until they were far enough away that neither the king nor the Vestigarchy would find them. There was no telling where Sera’s people had evacuated to when they got Enoch’s warning. With her injuries, she’d never be able to find them on her own.
G’Nor had agreed to travel alongside the Shepherd Boy as well. He claimed that he had found his calling but didn’t care to elaborate on that. Sera suspected that he still wanted to keep an eye on Enoch, but there was something more as well. Mystery notwithstanding, Sera was comforted by the idea of traveling with her new friend.
Sera snapped the distance ring down on her cheek mounts and looked into the gray morning sky. Sure enough, the retreating forms of black draconflies were spread across the horizon.
Is it possible that this shepherd Pensanden boy has done what scores of his own people never could? Has he driven the Vestigarchy away?
A cry came from the portal behind her, and she scrambled back through the opening. Enoch was horrified, staggering back away from the outlet.
“Enoch? Enoch! What is it?”
Enoch turned, his eyes wide.
“Are the coldmen coming back? Should we go—”
Enoch stumbled, pushing her out of the portal, and then followed. He turned to close it.
“Enoch?”
He leaned into the heavy iron doorway, and Sera could hear the machinery inside tightening with a brutal strength. The border around the door began to glow with the heat of friction, and steam rose from the surrounding damp earth. There was a shriek of metal, and sparks flew from the hinges.
Sera grabbed Enoch and spun him to face her. “Enoch! What are you doing?”
Enoch avoided her eyes again, shook her hand from him, and trudged down the path and into the water. Mesha leapt up onto his shoulder, and he absently stroked her tail. He was heading north.
“I sealed the portal. It will never open again.”
Sera gestured to G’Nor, and the Ur’lyn lowered down so that Sera could clamber up onto his back. As she mounted, she noticed that the fur on G’Nor’s spine was standing stiff. The hunter growled.
“Screams, in the tunnel behind us. Just before the Pensanden closed the door.”
Screams?
She looked back as G’Nor stepped into the water behind Enoch. The portal was solidly welded into place, the red metal cooling to black as steam wound around its form. As G’Nor moved nearer to Enoch, Sera could hear the boy mumbling to himself:
“The coffins. Entire rooms of those electric coffins, and I never looked inside them. I . . . I assumed they were for space travel. Why didn’t I check the coffins?”
Sera leaned down to place a gentle hand on Enoch’s shoulder. He flinched.
“Enoch, what coffins? What did you see?”
He turned to look up at her, eyes wet and darkly wrought.
“Silverwitches. The Arkángel woke them with his staff. He brought his army here to keep our eyes focused on the walls, to keep our forces with their backs to the real danger.”
Sera recognized the look. He was ashamed.
His voice broke into a whisper. “Platabrujas. Hundreds of them.”
Enoch turned his attention back to his pace through the stagnant water in front of him, whispering the last part almost to himself.
“They will kill everybody.”
Sera put her hand on G’Nor’s shoulder, directed him to fall behind by a couple paces. The Pensanden prince needed space to grieve. He had just lost his kingdom, his tower, his father, and his pride.