Bridge Burner Hyperion by Jared Rinaldi
“Lady Magdala,” Hiro’s doublet is scorched, with several small tears running through the green spider sigil in its middle. “The enemy is ascending through Denala’s Pass. They’ve taken Mossbrook township, and will have made it to the Frost Bridge by evening, at the rate they are moving. Their leader_” A horn sounds from the other end of the long chamber, interrupting Hiro’s report. The note it holds out is sleepy and sensuous, quite unlike the war trumpets that have been sounding for the past two days. When it stops, the man removes the saxophone’s mouthpiece from his lips, and nudges his derby hat up from his hairline. Between the long waxed hairs of his red beard are a set of crooked teeth bent up in a smile.
“Thank you, Hiro. That will be all.” I raise my fist to the steward who has ridden with such haste all the way from Denala’s Pass, knuckles facing forward. It’s the sign of the spider, and dismisses the steward from the chamber. “Vindler, approach.” Vindler nods at Hiro as he saunters up to the throne, swishing the wooden reed from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyes are deep set and a brilliant hue of violet, his skin fair and freckled. He’s come seeking an audience, and since he is the watcher of the bridge which the enemy forces are moving towards, he’ll get it. “What news do you have from the bridge?”
“Frosty is just fine, my lady. The fighting has yet to reach it,” Vindler drops to one knee when he’s at the steps to the throne, revealing a pair of brightly striped socks that contrast sharply with his more subdued attire. His shirt is starched and ironed, hanging from his thin body with a modicum of breathing room and strapped with a pair of snug suspenders. While the rest of the kingdom wears hemp and chain-mail, Vindler is a jazzman, and dresses as such. “I think your steward had it right, though. These men will make it to the bridge by evening. They’re moving fast, with these bracelets on their wrists which project electricity. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even with their being just a handful of them, they’ll make it to the stronghold, of that I’ve no doubt. These men are brutal, and they’ve come here to destroy Qani Dariel.”
“I don’t think so, Vindler. They’ve come here for more than that.” I rise up off the wooden throne, fashioned out of the trunk of the first redwood felled in the Qani Dariel when I settled it many moons ago. The jazzman’s eyes widen as I stand, and his eyebrows, as thick and bushy as wooly bears, raise. It’s a reaction I’ve grown accustomed to. No one else in the Qani Dariel has six arms, or stands as tall as I do. My platinum armor draws awe as well, especially in the audience chamber, where the sunlight streams through a dozen stained glass windows and reflects off of it in brilliant colors.
“Forgive me, my lady. I don’t mean to stare.” He fidgets with his saxophone nervously. “Do you believe that this is part of what your brother prophesied?”
“It was not prophesy, Vindler. Time to my brother does not exist as it does to other beings. The past and the future exist in the present for him. He knows all as if it has already happened, the beginning, middle and end of all things.”
“Of course, Lady Magdala. He’s told me all about what he can do. Whenever I can get over to Arcadia with some of my brew, he likes to sit me down and tell me all manner of interesting tales.”
“Then you might know that he has a great plan. I believe this is part of it. He knew this moment would come, and that I had to be ready for it. Come, walk with me, and I’ll explain more.” Vindler follows as I make my way for the door he came through, trading the chamber’s dimness for the brightness of the day. The view from the battlements is expansive. With the stronghold being built at the top of a steep hill, the tops of the trees can be seen stretching for several leagues in every direction. To the south is a plume of black smoke. It’s a little farther off than the Frost Bridge and Vindler’s Mad Brigadier, the only ale house in the Qani Dariel. It’s the men who’ve come from the walking city at the end of time, destroying the forest with their gloves of blue lightning. Pilot told me they would come.
My brother, Pilot, sees things. All things. For this particular affliction, wine is his palliative of choice, though he also enjoys Vindler’s home-brewed mead. Pilot’s power of omniscience is one he wishes he did not have, one he is constantly trying to escape from. He’s lived at the bottom of a bottle since we parted ways long ago, he settling in Arcadia, and I in Qani Dariel. I don’t imbibe. I’d rather settle my problems in the open where they’re more manageable, and not sweep them under the rug where they could fester and grow. This plume of smoke to the south must not grow. We must stop them.
“There are five or six of them, we think,” Vindler tells me, his fingers absentmindedly tapping on the knobs of his saxophone. He came to the Qani Dariel before my stronghold’s foundation had even been laid. I was young then, and intrigued by this mustachioed man in his suit and polished tappers. He had been part of a forgotten song, he told me, and had ridden its melody all the way to Qani Dariel from somewhere far away. I’d heard talk of his battle prowess, and that he was capable of performing amazing feats with his instrument. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him do anything with his saxophone save for move crowds, which was no small feat in this world. “We have the numbers, but they move fast as hummingbirds. And those things they got on their hands, man, those are hot. They come out the woods, blaze us with that lightning, and then disappear as quick as they came out. It’s almost impossible to fight against these guys.”
“How is that? The forest should be working with us, not hiding them.”
“The trees are doing their best, but these men have electric bubbles around them. Anything that touches them goes up in smoke. They’re destroying the entire forest, my lady.”
I grind my teeth. “Who are these men?”
“The leader’s name is Drinkwater.” I know that name, but from where? Just then, there is a large explosion from down by the bridge. Even from this distance, I can see the detritus riding the fresh black plume into the sky.
“Aw, man, my pub!” Vindler knows, as do I, that the Mad Brigadier has just gone up in flames. “I’m going to kill these yaks with my bare hands.”
“No, you’re not, Vindler,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s like music to my ears, my lady.” He climbs atop the battlement and begins to play his sax, the song a powerful dirge for the destruction which has already come to the forest. When he’s done, we hold each others gaze for a moment. I slink away, back into the stronghold to get my sword.
The sword of light stands erect next to my throne, its blade about three inches deep into a large igneous rock, which I personally mined from the depths of Old Veera, the mother volcano of the Qani Dariel. It had been a smoldering pile of molten stone when I retrieved it, but that was thousands upon thousands of years ago. Now it is cold and hard, riddled with small air pockets. It reminds me that this world was born from flames, and it will return to flames as well. Pilot has said as much, a rare insight into his omniscience which he shared with me. I pull the blade from the stone, and the room immediately fills with an eye-squinting white light. I hope it is enough.
Vindler is still staring southward when I return to him. His voice is quiet and thoughtful. “They’re razing everything as they go.”
“Then we must move quickly.” I say. “How many have we left in the stronghold?”
“A hundred, maybe.”
“We’ll take twenty with us. A guard of eighty will be enough to man the cannon and catapults while we’re away.”
We take the winding stone steps down to the training yard, where young and old, men and women, are being handed weapons from the backs of carts. Swords, maces, scythes, the odd rifle or crossbow. Lorenzo DeGuille stands at the center of it all, issuing orders and urging his men to quickness, his furry forehead furrowed in consternation. He stands almost as tall as I do, his huge girth bulging against his plate-mail, his black and white fur sticking out in tufts from the exposed joints. When he sees me, he drops to one knee. “Lady Magdala,” He says, in a thick brogue. His voice is steady
, but I can see from his face as well as those around us that the general sentiment is this battle is already lost. From a quick glance at my reflection in Lorenzo’s armor, I can see that my old face seems even more lined, my long hair even grayer.
“Save the formalities for later, Lorenzo, and get these men and women armed. You will hold the stronghold should the force of these six men get past us. I’m meeting them head on, to save as much of the forest as possible. Should I fail, you are not to venture out, no matter how much is destroyed beyond these castle walls. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, my lady.”
“Good,” I say, whirling around. “I need twenty of your best men. We’re marching within the half-hour. We’ll need mounts. Have them gather at the west gate. We’ll march the dirt road.”
Lorenzo nods. “As you command, Lady Magdala.” Vindler has climbed atop one of the wagons, and has started playing his saxophone, the beginning of a frantic melody. He stops it on a dime, his eyes wide and clear.
“They burned the Brigadier!” He yells to the people around the training yard. The crowd starts murmuring, then starts to cry out to the wiry man. They’re demanding justice. “Do you want revenge on these murderers and marauders! Then fight! Fight them for everything you’re worth! Fight for that which you hold sacred! Should they win, the entire forest will be burned to the ground. There will be nothing left of this world but a smoking ruin. I won’t sit back and let that happen! I’m going to stop them!” The crowd cheers, and Vindler has another go at his instrument, another frantic run, before jumping off the cart and following after me.
“You ever turn that off?” I say to him, as we pass under a low archway, making our way deeper into the stronghold.
“What?”
“The performance.”
“It’s in my blood, my lady. That would be like asking the sun not to rise. And the people need as much encouragement as they can get. We might not live past today.”
“You’re right.” Though Pilot said otherwise. He said I could not die, as long as the sword of light stayed with me.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, where are we headed?”
“The Nucleus. We must see the weavers.” The weavers reside in the heart of the stronghold, which many refer to as the Nucleus. It is protected on all sides by four layers of stone wall. The weavers resided in a large chamber at the center of it, filled with tropical trees and shrubs. Once, when I was but a girl, my sister and I had threaded long tapestries of fabric from their hair, which we had used to shape the worlds. That was long ago. I traded the needle for a sword the day the spiral broke apart.
The guards to the Nucleus raise their fists to us as we pass through the archway, the plates of their armor alternating between a light brown and a soft green. “I’ve never seen the weavers before,” Vindler says, as we come to a set of large ivory doors, a tangle of thick tree roots growing through them. Without even a knock, the doors start to slowly swing inwards, smoothly on their hinges. A fresh gust of soft loam and wet leaves wafts out from within, beckoning Vindler and me forward. It takes a moment to adjust to the low light within the room, but the Aeons flitting about are easy to make out, as they shine with a soft blue light. I take it all in. This may be the last time I see them, that I see the Nucleus at the center of the Qani Dariel.
In the center of the room is a large tree, whose trunk resembles two figures intertwined in a loving embrace. One of the figures is a smooth dark brown, the other is white like birch but rough. It looks like two trees which have grown together to make one. There are only whispers of legend about the tree, and why it grew at the center of the stronghold like it did. The weavers revere it, though they never let on to why. It’s alternately referred to as the Lover’s Tree, or the World Tree. Some even just call it the Tree, and leave it at that. If you were to climb its boughs, you’d find the mecha of Helios, never used as it was intended, but guarded here. Even higher, you’d find yourself in Arcadia, my brother’s home. For the Lover’s Tree is the only bridge to the worlds deeper in the spiral, and I am its protector.
Lady Magdala, it is so good to see you. It’s the voice of the weavers, whispering through the rustling leaves of the Tree, barely perceivable. All their voices speak as one, a melodious harmony, like all the strings on a harp. Most can’t hear them. I can only hear them from time to time, and they sound so distant when I do. Kokole and Pilot, as far as I know, cannot hear them at all.
“It is good to see you too, my friends.” I say, as the weavers come out from behind the Tree and the smaller baobobs and ferns which surround it. They are ancient looking creatures, but with the small bodies of children. Their skin is wrinkled, and their deep-set eyes are as black as coal. The warm chamber they reside in is large and cavernous; you wouldn’t even know it had four walls and a ceiling were there not a door which you had to pass through to get in. So many weavers reside here, all coming out from the brush to meet us.
You brought the music man, They say to me. I nod to Vindler, whose mouth is agape. We welcome him Oh how we would love to hear his music.
“They say hello, Vindler. They want to hear you play something.”
“Oh.” Vindler hesitates. “Anything?”
Oh yes Oh yes
“Yes, anything,” I say. Vindler does as he always does, and flips the brim of his derby hat right down to his brow line. He squints his eyes real tight as he puts his lips to the mouthpiece. He shrugs up his shoulders, takes in a breath through his nose, and then he’s into it, just jazzing up the entire Nucleus with what he calls his Sally Sue. When he’s gone on for a minute, he brings his song to a close. The Aeons are cheering, I can hear them.
“They loved it,” I tell him. He smiles, and mops his brow with his handkerchief. The applause fades away, and all the little ones seem to grow disinterested with us. They’re looking up into the eaves of the Tree. A wind blows through the room, rustling all the leaves of the trees save for the one at the center, the Lover’s Tree, their bodies wrapped around each other in a sinuous embrace. The shaking leaves stop, and then only the bigger tree’s begin to flutter. They have a metallic sheen to them, but as high up as they are, they are draped in shadow. Their dark undersides look like a clear night sky, complete with twinkling stars and galaxies spread out like blankets.
“They’re pointing up at the mecha, my lady.”
“No, Vindler. I believe they are pointing past it, towards the stars. They’re pointing at that one in particular. Do you see it? The one that shines like polished bone?”
“I do, my lady.”
“They’re giving us a glimpse of what is to come. Those are other worlds up there, Vindler. Your forgotten song hails from one. See how they blink out, one by one? The Fade is consuming them all. Perhaps I must go to one after this. Perhaps your song is the bridge I will follow, from here to there, once this world is dead and gone.”
“My lady?”
“You’re confused. I understand. No one in the Qani Dariel really understands just what these men want, save for myself and the weavers.” I pet the head of one of the little ones who wraps his arms around my leg. “They are looking for a way to the center of reality, and they want the mecha. They want to find and imprison the lost god Helios, and wake the dozing Hyperion. There are innumerable worlds, all connected by my sister’s invisible thread. Some of these threads can be seen and travelled freely, like_”
“The Frost Bridge?”
“Yes, the Frost Bridge. Exactly.” I hold my sword above my head, its light illuminating the invisible threads between all the stars. “Do you see now? But what you don’t see is how all these threads are connected to Qani Dariel. To get to the worlds where Helios and Hyperion are, you must pass through here. It’s how my sister threaded the worlds, part of my brother’s great plan. There are some things, my friend, which were set in motion at the beginning of time. I will never see the Nucleus again, or the Stronghold, or even Qani Dariel for that matter. As my brother has seen, so it must be. The
se men are either taking me somewhere, or I’m taking a different bridge somewhere else. Pilot says that there are things we must do, or else all will be lost. And I believe him.”
“Why are you telling me this now, my lady?”
“I want you to tell them, Vindler. Tell them this story, and that it must be so, that we are part of something greater. That we may have lost the battle for Qani Dariel, but because of our stand today, the war will be won. Come. We must go to the west gate. Weavers, you all must be vigilant. Dangerous men are outside the castle walls, and they may mean to harm you.” The small folk all turn their attention from the stars above, and study me with their black eyes. If they are communicating, I can not hear them. But I see extra lines of worry in their faces, see that their mouths are pursed tight. We’ll see you again, I barely hear them say. I nod, then turn with Vindler and leave the Nucleus and the Tree, heading back towards the gate.
Lorenzo DeGuille has the leashes of two grub mounts in his paws, which he hands to Vindler and me once we’re near. The grub I climb is long and neon green, with a circle for a mouth in which are several rows of razor sharp teeth. Vindler’s mount is smaller and covered in a purplish fur. His has four sets of yellow eyes on the sides of its head, smallish orange dots freckled inside.
“Be careful, my lady,” Lorenzo says. “Scouts have brought word that the men are within two leagues of the stronghold walls. Our defenses must be failing.” He is tired and old, but duty is more important to him than water. He won’t let the stronghold fall, not before yielding his last breath. I push my heels into the grub, and lead Vindler and the twenty foot soldiers through the portcullis of the west gate. The mud road sharply bends and runs south in another hundred paces, but already I can smell smoke and burnt flesh. I unsheathe my sword from its scabbard on my back; who knows where Drinkwater and his men are hiding, or how close they’ve come since the last scout’s report.
“Be vigilant,” I tell Vindler and the men. The foot soldiers are armored lightly and can move at a swift jog. The trees are quickly edging in closer as the farm fields decrease in size, allies in our fight against these intruders. The trees can at most confuse our attackers by moving about and affecting the topography with their roots. They move too slow to be effective in combat. At the very least they’ll warn us when the men are coming.
“There! Look!” One of the soldiers drops down to the ground, his crossbow at the ready. I don’t immediately see what he does, until the foliage ahead glows with a blue light. It’s lightning, writhing around the trees like a gang of angry snakes. One tree suddenly bursts into flames. The other trees react, moving their slow limbs around to try and bat out the fire. The burning tree explodes, sending jagged pieces of wood through the air and setting the rest of the growth in the immediate area to flame.
“Get down!” I yell, too late to heed my own advice. A bolt of blue lightning sears through the underside of my grub mount, coming out right behind me. I’m awash with heat and green viscera before I lose my seating, tumbling through the air. I bring my arms up to soften my fall, but my face cracks into my armor upon impact. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, but all feeling has been numbed. The world is gyring around.
“Magdala!” Vindler rears his purple grub mount up and around to face the attacker. The man who walks out of the foliage is stern of face, with skin as brown as cocoa. His hair is white pearl, and his eyes crackle with the blue lightning that emanates from his wrists, the same that killed my grub mount. He wears a cape, and on the back of it is strapped an axe in the shape of a guitar.
“A bass-saber...” I hear Vindler whisper.
The tall man calls out to us. “Are you the Lady Magdala, spider sister of legend?” I hold my fist up to my men, halting their charge. I tighten the grip on my sword and spit out some blood before responding.
“I am.”
The man smiles. “Good.” He fires a bolt of lightning into the sky, the clouds above blinking with blue light. He has set off a signal. “Drinkwater wants to meet you. He has some questions to ask you.”
Vindler steps forward, his golden saxophone in his hands. “Sir, I believe you owe me a pub.” The lightning around the man in the white cape intensifies, bouncing off the ground and through his body. My score of soldiers shuffle their feet, nervously.
“Oh? Do I now?”
“Yes, you do.” He drops his derby down to his brow, then brings his lips to the saxophone’s mouthpiece. I’m taken aback by Vindler wanting to play music at a time like this, and I can see the men of the Qani Dariel equally dumbfounded. Then I hear the music. It’s a powerful warrior’s song, boastful and loud. After just the first few notes, the sky darkens and the earth begins to tremble.
“What are you_” Before the man with the cape can finish what he’s saying, he catches some movement out of the corner of his eye. With a speed belying his size, he grabs the guitar off his back, plucks a string as he swings it around, and cuts the flaming boulder that had been falling through the sky clean in half. The cleft stone goes to either side of the man, smashing into the ground. Once the dust clears, there’s an extremely low bass note ringing through the air, underscoring Vindler’s music with a foundation of dissonance.
“Vindler, did you do that?” I say, looking back and forth from him to the two pieces of smoldering rock. They fell from the air. Vindler, the smooth jazz-man in the crisp three-piece suit, who traveled in to the Qani Dariel on the wisp of a forgotten song, he did this. The man whom the stones almost pummeled stares at Vindler wide-eyed, looking just as incredulous as I probably do. The note from his bass-saber fades to silence, as the top-most of the four strings slows its vibrations. Vindler still plays on. So he can call rocks from space. Who knew? Another comes hurtling through the sky, followed by another and another. The man is each rock’s target, and though he’s able to deflect the first one easy enough with his bass-saber and blue lightning, the others prove more challenging. Each of the rocks crashes atop the one which came before, creating a pillar of smoldering stone. As the man dodges them, he climbs higher upon the pile. Vindler goes after him, his pace as casual as if he were performing on a slow night down at the Brigadier. His eyes are squinted shut and his tone never wavering. I’m so transfixed on them that I fail to see the short man in the white cape step out of the bushes and aim his arm at me. A pain seizes my body like I’ve never felt before. My field of vision is awash in blue light.
“Thurmond!” The squat man calls to his partner, who is by now high above the trees. He has the same hair as the other men the scouts reported seeing, only the white locks are wrapped into two long braids and tied together back behind his head. His eyes, already wide, look ready to burst from his skull when he fully takes me in. “Oh my god. Are you...? are you...?”
My men had been following Vindler up the stones, but most can’t climb the rocks as fast or effortlessly as the jazzman. Once they see me stunned on the ground, they all run back to try and help. Several drop to their knees, and let loose a volley from their crossbows. The pudgy man swats the arrows out of the air with quick wisps of blue lightning, and grins. “Such primitive weapons,” He says. “It’s like we’re gods, showing you apes fire.”
“For Qani Dariel!” I say, and cut up at him with my sword. The metal stops just short of meeting his fleshy neck, a blue aura suddenly appearing around the blade. I feel like I’m pushing against the resistive force of a magnet, which is somehow wrapping itself around my arm like an invisible blanket. It yanks on the sword, which flings from my hand and sails through the air, before landing tip first into the ground an inch or two from where another man stands, watching us. The man plucks the sword from the ground, and weighs it in his hand before smiling to himself.
“Now, now. We’ll have none of that.” He says. He waves his hand, and a wave of blue lightning rises up in front of each of my soldiers. They’re all violently thrown back, sickening crunches heard from the forest once they’re lost amongst the trees.
“Drinkwater,
I_”
“Save it, Nazbeth. And just what is Thurmond doing?” From high atop the pile of stones, now at least ten times as high as the trees, the man they call Thurmond slaps at his bass-saber, sending waves of deep noise at his assailant. Vindler, hopping from stone to stone in pursuit, counters with slicing high notes and more stones from space.
“He’s going after that man with the horn.”
“I see that. Leave him. We’ve got to get to the World Tree. That’s where the bridge to Arcadia is, isn’t it? Helios’s mecha is there as well. She’s to show us the way.” The man whom they call Drinkwater would be handsome were it not for his especially wide mouth. When he opens it to speak, he has a mouth like one of the biter fish from deep in the black lake to the north of Denala’s Pass, the anglers. He marches up to me and lifts me up by the hair, his strength uncanny.
“But sir, we can’t just leave him here. He’s_”
“Shut it, Nazbeth. We march now. Palios and the others are already waiting for us by the fortress walls.” Nazbeth doesn’t say anything more. He is very obviously scared by this other man, this Drinkwater. My brother said to fear an emperor of rags, who would come with an army of storms to burn the forest. This must be the emperor he spoke of, the blue lightning he wields his army of storms. And now he has your sword, you damn fool.
Drinkwater pushes me up the mud road, and I have no choice but to go before him. If I try to escape, he’ll kill me, without any doubt. And if he is to try to kill me, I need to have the sword in my possession. Only then will I not die. Only then will Pilot’s plan work. The only chance I have is the stronghold itself, Lorenzo DeGuille and the rest who I’ve left to defend it against attack should I fail to stop Drinkwater and his men. And fail I have. We meet with three other men along the road, within an arrows volley of the closed bridge to the south gate. Drinkwater hails them as Palios, Inchbald and Mai’il. Nazbeth tells them about what happened to Thurmond, to which they shake their head.
“We should go after him. Flay the bastard who is chasing him,” Mai’il says.
“No,” Drinkwater says. “He’s on his own. We don’t have the time.”
“Now that you see the stronghold, I suggest letting me go and leaving this world at once. My men will have no mercy on you should you choose to march, or harm me in any way.”
“I suggest you shut up,” Drinkwater says, backhanding me across the lip. That familiar metallic taste returns, but it’s a sensation that is quickly eclipsed by the burning in my cheeks. His men shuffle around nervously.
“Drinkwater, that’s a god,” Nazbeth says. “You shouldn’t be slapping gods.”
“There are no gods, you fools! They’re all like this, mere creatures. Do you not now see the folly of the universe, of what we’ve been brought up to believe? This is what the new ways would have us worship. To this we are to feel inferior, and shamed in our ambition. We are greater! We are stronger!” Half the men nod in ascent, but Nazbeth still looks nervous, and the lean, muscled one they call Palios seems angry.
“We didn’t come to harm anyone, you damn fool.” Palios says. “We came to put things to right.”
“Shut up, damn you!” Drinkwater raises his gauntlet up above his head, blue lightning sparkling madly from the orb at its center. All the others step in front of Palios, Nazbeth the front-most of the group.
“What has become of you?” Nazbeth says to his leader, shaking his head slowly. The others study Drinkwater with the same sort of disquiet in their eyes. Drinkwater can’t meet their gaze for long. He mutters a weak apology before stalking off to make water in the brush.
“Let me go,” I say to the men.
“I’m sorry, Lady Magdala.” The man they call Inchbald says. “Truly, I am.”
“As am I,” Palios says.
“But we have to put things to right again,” Nazbeth says. “We need the mecha of Helios which you have in the World Tree. We need to go Arcadia, and your world has the only bridge to get there. Do you know of Arcadia? It is supposed to be a world of fecundity, where death does not exist. Or where the bridge is to get there? Drinkwater is convinced you do. He_”
“That’s enough, Nazbeth.” Drinkwater says, a newfound calm in his voice. “Put the chains on her. We’re going to the castle walls. Watch for arrows. You have guns here, don’t you, my lady?” Using such a formal title seems to relax his men a bit, restores their faith. I can still see right through him though, can see the angler’s smile and the deceit that is measured in those teeth.
“Yes. We have guns.”
“Then watch for bullets, too. Let’s go.” We make our way through the well-spaced fruit trees surrounding the stronghold. Drinkwater has me hail to Lorenzo once we’re within ear shot.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Lorenzo shouts from behind the wall.
“Yes, but the magpie has flown.” The phrase is used between a small group of closely trusted allies, meant to communicate that something is not right, that there is treachery afoot. Lorenzo doesn’t respond, so I’m not sure if he has heard. We all wait a few moments, but there is no response. Then there’s a click.
“What was that?” Mai’il whispers. To answer him, two ancient rail guns spring up from the ground. They instantly spring into action, sending a relentless round of fiery bullets our way. I duck down, shrugging my head into my shoulders as best I can. I can feel the bullets ricocheting off of my armor, but then there’s a blue bubble that goes up around us. It stops the rain of bullets, freezing them in the air as they hit. The guns eventually cease their firing, wisps of ghostly smoke rising from their barrels.
“So, that’s how you’re going to play, hm? Flying magpies, hm?” Drinkwater spits the words out, a near froth on the sides of his mouth. He grabs me by the hair again, and marches us forward, the electric bubble moving with us. The men within the castle have all come to the battlements, to see what carnage the guns have wrought. I can feel the weight of their stomachs sink as they see a host unscathed by their best defense. We come to a blacksmith’s anvil in a row of clapboard shops by the edge of the wall. Drinkwater orders his men to bend me down and lay my head upon it. They do as they are told.
“My lady!” Lorenzo shouts from the wall. “Don’t hurt her! We’ll give you the stronghold! We yield to you, sirs!”
“It is too late for that!” Drinkwater shouts. “There will be no yielding. All in the castle will perish for defying us.”
“Drinkwater, no,” Palios says.
You can hear the tears in Lorenzo’s voice. “Don’t, sir. Please. Don’t harm her.”
“Hold her,” Drinkwater says, lifting the sword of light up above his head.
“I said no, Drinkwater!” Palios says, running forward. Inchbald, the biggest of the lot, holds him back. Before the blade comes down, all I can think of is how Pilot’s plan, delicately laid out at the beginning of time, will falter because of my failure. The stronghold will fall, and Drinkwater will make it to the Lover’s Tree, to the bridge at the top of its boughs. They’ll take the mecha, raze Arcadia and everything else that stands between them and the center of the spiral.
Drinkwater has a rabid, mad look in his eyes. I understand why Pilot does not want these men to ever come close to harnessing the power of Helios and Hyperion. Drinkwater is sick with power. It would be better for the whole of existence to be swallowed up by the Fade than to be controlled by someone so twisted. I hope Pilot will be alright, and my sister, too. The sword swings through the air, and the last thing I hear is Lorenzo saying the first bit of my name. There’s a thunk, and a shock that slows time to a snail’s crawl. The world then sizzles away, passing before me like a quick summer rain.
Chapter X: “Crack and Brack”
“Thank you, Hiro. That will be all.” I raise my fist to the steward who has ridden with such haste all the way from Denala’s Pass, knuckles facing forward. It’s the sign of the spider, and dismisses the steward from the chamber. “Vindler, approach.” Vindler nods at Hiro as he saunters up to the throne, swishing the wooden reed from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyes are deep set and a brilliant hue of violet, his skin fair and freckled. He’s come seeking an audience, and since he is the watcher of the bridge which the enemy forces are moving towards, he’ll get it. “What news do you have from the bridge?”
“Frosty is just fine, my lady. The fighting has yet to reach it,” Vindler drops to one knee when he’s at the steps to the throne, revealing a pair of brightly striped socks that contrast sharply with his more subdued attire. His shirt is starched and ironed, hanging from his thin body with a modicum of breathing room and strapped with a pair of snug suspenders. While the rest of the kingdom wears hemp and chain-mail, Vindler is a jazzman, and dresses as such. “I think your steward had it right, though. These men will make it to the bridge by evening. They’re moving fast, with these bracelets on their wrists which project electricity. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even with their being just a handful of them, they’ll make it to the stronghold, of that I’ve no doubt. These men are brutal, and they’ve come here to destroy Qani Dariel.”
“I don’t think so, Vindler. They’ve come here for more than that.” I rise up off the wooden throne, fashioned out of the trunk of the first redwood felled in the Qani Dariel when I settled it many moons ago. The jazzman’s eyes widen as I stand, and his eyebrows, as thick and bushy as wooly bears, raise. It’s a reaction I’ve grown accustomed to. No one else in the Qani Dariel has six arms, or stands as tall as I do. My platinum armor draws awe as well, especially in the audience chamber, where the sunlight streams through a dozen stained glass windows and reflects off of it in brilliant colors.
“Forgive me, my lady. I don’t mean to stare.” He fidgets with his saxophone nervously. “Do you believe that this is part of what your brother prophesied?”
“It was not prophesy, Vindler. Time to my brother does not exist as it does to other beings. The past and the future exist in the present for him. He knows all as if it has already happened, the beginning, middle and end of all things.”
“Of course, Lady Magdala. He’s told me all about what he can do. Whenever I can get over to Arcadia with some of my brew, he likes to sit me down and tell me all manner of interesting tales.”
“Then you might know that he has a great plan. I believe this is part of it. He knew this moment would come, and that I had to be ready for it. Come, walk with me, and I’ll explain more.” Vindler follows as I make my way for the door he came through, trading the chamber’s dimness for the brightness of the day. The view from the battlements is expansive. With the stronghold being built at the top of a steep hill, the tops of the trees can be seen stretching for several leagues in every direction. To the south is a plume of black smoke. It’s a little farther off than the Frost Bridge and Vindler’s Mad Brigadier, the only ale house in the Qani Dariel. It’s the men who’ve come from the walking city at the end of time, destroying the forest with their gloves of blue lightning. Pilot told me they would come.
My brother, Pilot, sees things. All things. For this particular affliction, wine is his palliative of choice, though he also enjoys Vindler’s home-brewed mead. Pilot’s power of omniscience is one he wishes he did not have, one he is constantly trying to escape from. He’s lived at the bottom of a bottle since we parted ways long ago, he settling in Arcadia, and I in Qani Dariel. I don’t imbibe. I’d rather settle my problems in the open where they’re more manageable, and not sweep them under the rug where they could fester and grow. This plume of smoke to the south must not grow. We must stop them.
“There are five or six of them, we think,” Vindler tells me, his fingers absentmindedly tapping on the knobs of his saxophone. He came to the Qani Dariel before my stronghold’s foundation had even been laid. I was young then, and intrigued by this mustachioed man in his suit and polished tappers. He had been part of a forgotten song, he told me, and had ridden its melody all the way to Qani Dariel from somewhere far away. I’d heard talk of his battle prowess, and that he was capable of performing amazing feats with his instrument. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him do anything with his saxophone save for move crowds, which was no small feat in this world. “We have the numbers, but they move fast as hummingbirds. And those things they got on their hands, man, those are hot. They come out the woods, blaze us with that lightning, and then disappear as quick as they came out. It’s almost impossible to fight against these guys.”
“How is that? The forest should be working with us, not hiding them.”
“The trees are doing their best, but these men have electric bubbles around them. Anything that touches them goes up in smoke. They’re destroying the entire forest, my lady.”
I grind my teeth. “Who are these men?”
“The leader’s name is Drinkwater.” I know that name, but from where? Just then, there is a large explosion from down by the bridge. Even from this distance, I can see the detritus riding the fresh black plume into the sky.
“Aw, man, my pub!” Vindler knows, as do I, that the Mad Brigadier has just gone up in flames. “I’m going to kill these yaks with my bare hands.”
“No, you’re not, Vindler,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s like music to my ears, my lady.” He climbs atop the battlement and begins to play his sax, the song a powerful dirge for the destruction which has already come to the forest. When he’s done, we hold each others gaze for a moment. I slink away, back into the stronghold to get my sword.
The sword of light stands erect next to my throne, its blade about three inches deep into a large igneous rock, which I personally mined from the depths of Old Veera, the mother volcano of the Qani Dariel. It had been a smoldering pile of molten stone when I retrieved it, but that was thousands upon thousands of years ago. Now it is cold and hard, riddled with small air pockets. It reminds me that this world was born from flames, and it will return to flames as well. Pilot has said as much, a rare insight into his omniscience which he shared with me. I pull the blade from the stone, and the room immediately fills with an eye-squinting white light. I hope it is enough.
Vindler is still staring southward when I return to him. His voice is quiet and thoughtful. “They’re razing everything as they go.”
“Then we must move quickly.” I say. “How many have we left in the stronghold?”
“A hundred, maybe.”
“We’ll take twenty with us. A guard of eighty will be enough to man the cannon and catapults while we’re away.”
We take the winding stone steps down to the training yard, where young and old, men and women, are being handed weapons from the backs of carts. Swords, maces, scythes, the odd rifle or crossbow. Lorenzo DeGuille stands at the center of it all, issuing orders and urging his men to quickness, his furry forehead furrowed in consternation. He stands almost as tall as I do, his huge girth bulging against his plate-mail, his black and white fur sticking out in tufts from the exposed joints. When he sees me, he drops to one knee. “Lady Magdala,” He says, in a thick brogue. His voice is steady
“Save the formalities for later, Lorenzo, and get these men and women armed. You will hold the stronghold should the force of these six men get past us. I’m meeting them head on, to save as much of the forest as possible. Should I fail, you are not to venture out, no matter how much is destroyed beyond these castle walls. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, my lady.”
“Good,” I say, whirling around. “I need twenty of your best men. We’re marching within the half-hour. We’ll need mounts. Have them gather at the west gate. We’ll march the dirt road.”
Lorenzo nods. “As you command, Lady Magdala.” Vindler has climbed atop one of the wagons, and has started playing his saxophone, the beginning of a frantic melody. He stops it on a dime, his eyes wide and clear.
“They burned the Brigadier!” He yells to the people around the training yard. The crowd starts murmuring, then starts to cry out to the wiry man. They’re demanding justice. “Do you want revenge on these murderers and marauders! Then fight! Fight them for everything you’re worth! Fight for that which you hold sacred! Should they win, the entire forest will be burned to the ground. There will be nothing left of this world but a smoking ruin. I won’t sit back and let that happen! I’m going to stop them!” The crowd cheers, and Vindler has another go at his instrument, another frantic run, before jumping off the cart and following after me.
“You ever turn that off?” I say to him, as we pass under a low archway, making our way deeper into the stronghold.
“What?”
“The performance.”
“It’s in my blood, my lady. That would be like asking the sun not to rise. And the people need as much encouragement as they can get. We might not live past today.”
“You’re right.” Though Pilot said otherwise. He said I could not die, as long as the sword of light stayed with me.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, where are we headed?”
“The Nucleus. We must see the weavers.” The weavers reside in the heart of the stronghold, which many refer to as the Nucleus. It is protected on all sides by four layers of stone wall. The weavers resided in a large chamber at the center of it, filled with tropical trees and shrubs. Once, when I was but a girl, my sister and I had threaded long tapestries of fabric from their hair, which we had used to shape the worlds. That was long ago. I traded the needle for a sword the day the spiral broke apart.
The guards to the Nucleus raise their fists to us as we pass through the archway, the plates of their armor alternating between a light brown and a soft green. “I’ve never seen the weavers before,” Vindler says, as we come to a set of large ivory doors, a tangle of thick tree roots growing through them. Without even a knock, the doors start to slowly swing inwards, smoothly on their hinges. A fresh gust of soft loam and wet leaves wafts out from within, beckoning Vindler and me forward. It takes a moment to adjust to the low light within the room, but the Aeons flitting about are easy to make out, as they shine with a soft blue light. I take it all in. This may be the last time I see them, that I see the Nucleus at the center of the Qani Dariel.
In the center of the room is a large tree, whose trunk resembles two figures intertwined in a loving embrace. One of the figures is a smooth dark brown, the other is white like birch but rough. It looks like two trees which have grown together to make one. There are only whispers of legend about the tree, and why it grew at the center of the stronghold like it did. The weavers revere it, though they never let on to why. It’s alternately referred to as the Lover’s Tree, or the World Tree. Some even just call it the Tree, and leave it at that. If you were to climb its boughs, you’d find the mecha of Helios, never used as it was intended, but guarded here. Even higher, you’d find yourself in Arcadia, my brother’s home. For the Lover’s Tree is the only bridge to the worlds deeper in the spiral, and I am its protector.
Lady Magdala, it is so good to see you. It’s the voice of the weavers, whispering through the rustling leaves of the Tree, barely perceivable. All their voices speak as one, a melodious harmony, like all the strings on a harp. Most can’t hear them. I can only hear them from time to time, and they sound so distant when I do. Kokole and Pilot, as far as I know, cannot hear them at all.
“It is good to see you too, my friends.” I say, as the weavers come out from behind the Tree and the smaller baobobs and ferns which surround it. They are ancient looking creatures, but with the small bodies of children. Their skin is wrinkled, and their deep-set eyes are as black as coal. The warm chamber they reside in is large and cavernous; you wouldn’t even know it had four walls and a ceiling were there not a door which you had to pass through to get in. So many weavers reside here, all coming out from the brush to meet us.
You brought the music man, They say to me. I nod to Vindler, whose mouth is agape. We welcome him Oh how we would love to hear his music.
“They say hello, Vindler. They want to hear you play something.”
“Oh.” Vindler hesitates. “Anything?”
Oh yes Oh yes
“Yes, anything,” I say. Vindler does as he always does, and flips the brim of his derby hat right down to his brow line. He squints his eyes real tight as he puts his lips to the mouthpiece. He shrugs up his shoulders, takes in a breath through his nose, and then he’s into it, just jazzing up the entire Nucleus with what he calls his Sally Sue. When he’s gone on for a minute, he brings his song to a close. The Aeons are cheering, I can hear them.
“They loved it,” I tell him. He smiles, and mops his brow with his handkerchief. The applause fades away, and all the little ones seem to grow disinterested with us. They’re looking up into the eaves of the Tree. A wind blows through the room, rustling all the leaves of the trees save for the one at the center, the Lover’s Tree, their bodies wrapped around each other in a sinuous embrace. The shaking leaves stop, and then only the bigger tree’s begin to flutter. They have a metallic sheen to them, but as high up as they are, they are draped in shadow. Their dark undersides look like a clear night sky, complete with twinkling stars and galaxies spread out like blankets.
“They’re pointing up at the mecha, my lady.”
“No, Vindler. I believe they are pointing past it, towards the stars. They’re pointing at that one in particular. Do you see it? The one that shines like polished bone?”
“I do, my lady.”
“They’re giving us a glimpse of what is to come. Those are other worlds up there, Vindler. Your forgotten song hails from one. See how they blink out, one by one? The Fade is consuming them all. Perhaps I must go to one after this. Perhaps your song is the bridge I will follow, from here to there, once this world is dead and gone.”
“My lady?”
“You’re confused. I understand. No one in the Qani Dariel really understands just what these men want, save for myself and the weavers.” I pet the head of one of the little ones who wraps his arms around my leg. “They are looking for a way to the center of reality, and they want the mecha. They want to find and imprison the lost god Helios, and wake the dozing Hyperion. There are innumerable worlds, all connected by my sister’s invisible thread. Some of these threads can be seen and travelled freely, like_”
“The Frost Bridge?”
“Yes, the Frost Bridge. Exactly.” I hold my sword above my head, its light illuminating the invisible threads between all the stars. “Do you see now? But what you don’t see is how all these threads are connected to Qani Dariel. To get to the worlds where Helios and Hyperion are, you must pass through here. It’s how my sister threaded the worlds, part of my brother’s great plan. There are some things, my friend, which were set in motion at the beginning of time. I will never see the Nucleus again, or the Stronghold, or even Qani Dariel for that matter. As my brother has seen, so it must be. The
“Why are you telling me this now, my lady?”
“I want you to tell them, Vindler. Tell them this story, and that it must be so, that we are part of something greater. That we may have lost the battle for Qani Dariel, but because of our stand today, the war will be won. Come. We must go to the west gate. Weavers, you all must be vigilant. Dangerous men are outside the castle walls, and they may mean to harm you.” The small folk all turn their attention from the stars above, and study me with their black eyes. If they are communicating, I can not hear them. But I see extra lines of worry in their faces, see that their mouths are pursed tight. We’ll see you again, I barely hear them say. I nod, then turn with Vindler and leave the Nucleus and the Tree, heading back towards the gate.
Lorenzo DeGuille has the leashes of two grub mounts in his paws, which he hands to Vindler and me once we’re near. The grub I climb is long and neon green, with a circle for a mouth in which are several rows of razor sharp teeth. Vindler’s mount is smaller and covered in a purplish fur. His has four sets of yellow eyes on the sides of its head, smallish orange dots freckled inside.
“Be careful, my lady,” Lorenzo says. “Scouts have brought word that the men are within two leagues of the stronghold walls. Our defenses must be failing.” He is tired and old, but duty is more important to him than water. He won’t let the stronghold fall, not before yielding his last breath. I push my heels into the grub, and lead Vindler and the twenty foot soldiers through the portcullis of the west gate. The mud road sharply bends and runs south in another hundred paces, but already I can smell smoke and burnt flesh. I unsheathe my sword from its scabbard on my back; who knows where Drinkwater and his men are hiding, or how close they’ve come since the last scout’s report.
“Be vigilant,” I tell Vindler and the men. The foot soldiers are armored lightly and can move at a swift jog. The trees are quickly edging in closer as the farm fields decrease in size, allies in our fight against these intruders. The trees can at most confuse our attackers by moving about and affecting the topography with their roots. They move too slow to be effective in combat. At the very least they’ll warn us when the men are coming.
“There! Look!” One of the soldiers drops down to the ground, his crossbow at the ready. I don’t immediately see what he does, until the foliage ahead glows with a blue light. It’s lightning, writhing around the trees like a gang of angry snakes. One tree suddenly bursts into flames. The other trees react, moving their slow limbs around to try and bat out the fire. The burning tree explodes, sending jagged pieces of wood through the air and setting the rest of the growth in the immediate area to flame.
“Get down!” I yell, too late to heed my own advice. A bolt of blue lightning sears through the underside of my grub mount, coming out right behind me. I’m awash with heat and green viscera before I lose my seating, tumbling through the air. I bring my arms up to soften my fall, but my face cracks into my armor upon impact. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, but all feeling has been numbed. The world is gyring around.
“Magdala!” Vindler rears his purple grub mount up and around to face the attacker. The man who walks out of the foliage is stern of face, with skin as brown as cocoa. His hair is white pearl, and his eyes crackle with the blue lightning that emanates from his wrists, the same that killed my grub mount. He wears a cape, and on the back of it is strapped an axe in the shape of a guitar.
“A bass-saber...” I hear Vindler whisper.
The tall man calls out to us. “Are you the Lady Magdala, spider sister of legend?” I hold my fist up to my men, halting their charge. I tighten the grip on my sword and spit out some blood before responding.
“I am.”
The man smiles. “Good.” He fires a bolt of lightning into the sky, the clouds above blinking with blue light. He has set off a signal. “Drinkwater wants to meet you. He has some questions to ask you.”
Vindler steps forward, his golden saxophone in his hands. “Sir, I believe you owe me a pub.” The lightning around the man in the white cape intensifies, bouncing off the ground and through his body. My score of soldiers shuffle their feet, nervously.
“Oh? Do I now?”
“Yes, you do.” He drops his derby down to his brow, then brings his lips to the saxophone’s mouthpiece. I’m taken aback by Vindler wanting to play music at a time like this, and I can see the men of the Qani Dariel equally dumbfounded. Then I hear the music. It’s a powerful warrior’s song, boastful and loud. After just the first few notes, the sky darkens and the earth begins to tremble.
“What are you_” Before the man with the cape can finish what he’s saying, he catches some movement out of the corner of his eye. With a speed belying his size, he grabs the guitar off his back, plucks a string as he swings it around, and cuts the flaming boulder that had been falling through the sky clean in half. The cleft stone goes to either side of the man, smashing into the ground. Once the dust clears, there’s an extremely low bass note ringing through the air, underscoring Vindler’s music with a foundation of dissonance.
“Vindler, did you do that?” I say, looking back and forth from him to the two pieces of smoldering rock. They fell from the air. Vindler, the smooth jazz-man in the crisp three-piece suit, who traveled in to the Qani Dariel on the wisp of a forgotten song, he did this. The man whom the stones almost pummeled stares at Vindler wide-eyed, looking just as incredulous as I probably do. The note from his bass-saber fades to silence, as the top-most of the four strings slows its vibrations. Vindler still plays on. So he can call rocks from space. Who knew? Another comes hurtling through the sky, followed by another and another. The man is each rock’s target, and though he’s able to deflect the first one easy enough with his bass-saber and blue lightning, the others prove more challenging. Each of the rocks crashes atop the one which came before, creating a pillar of smoldering stone. As the man dodges them, he climbs higher upon the pile. Vindler goes after him, his pace as casual as if he were performing on a slow night down at the Brigadier. His eyes are squinted shut and his tone never wavering. I’m so transfixed on them that I fail to see the short man in the white cape step out of the bushes and aim his arm at me. A pain seizes my body like I’ve never felt before. My field of vision is awash in blue light.
“Thurmond!” The squat man calls to his partner, who is by now high above the trees. He has the same hair as the other men the scouts reported seeing, only the white locks are wrapped into two long braids and tied together back behind his head. His eyes, already wide, look ready to burst from his skull when he fully takes me in. “Oh my god. Are you...? are you...?”
My men had been following Vindler up the stones, but most can’t climb the rocks as fast or effortlessly as the jazzman. Once they see me stunned on the ground, they all run back to try and help. Several drop to their knees, and let loose a volley from their crossbows. The pudgy man swats the arrows out of the air with quick wisps of blue lightning, and grins. “Such primitive weapons,” He says. “It’s like we’re gods, showing you apes fire.”
“For Qani Dariel!” I say, and cut up at him with my sword. The metal stops just short of meeting his fleshy neck, a blue aura suddenly appearing around the blade. I feel like I’m pushing against the resistive force of a magnet, which is somehow wrapping itself around my arm like an invisible blanket. It yanks on the sword, which flings from my hand and sails through the air, before landing tip first into the ground an inch or two from where another man stands, watching us. The man plucks the sword from the ground, and weighs it in his hand before smiling to himself.
“Now, now. We’ll have none of that.” He says. He waves his hand, and a wave of blue lightning rises up in front of each of my soldiers. They’re all violently thrown back, sickening crunches heard from the forest once they’re lost amongst the trees.
“Drinkwater,
“Save it, Nazbeth. And just what is Thurmond doing?” From high atop the pile of stones, now at least ten times as high as the trees, the man they call Thurmond slaps at his bass-saber, sending waves of deep noise at his assailant. Vindler, hopping from stone to stone in pursuit, counters with slicing high notes and more stones from space.
“He’s going after that man with the horn.”
“I see that. Leave him. We’ve got to get to the World Tree. That’s where the bridge to Arcadia is, isn’t it? Helios’s mecha is there as well. She’s to show us the way.” The man whom they call Drinkwater would be handsome were it not for his especially wide mouth. When he opens it to speak, he has a mouth like one of the biter fish from deep in the black lake to the north of Denala’s Pass, the anglers. He marches up to me and lifts me up by the hair, his strength uncanny.
“But sir, we can’t just leave him here. He’s_”
“Shut it, Nazbeth. We march now. Palios and the others are already waiting for us by the fortress walls.” Nazbeth doesn’t say anything more. He is very obviously scared by this other man, this Drinkwater. My brother said to fear an emperor of rags, who would come with an army of storms to burn the forest. This must be the emperor he spoke of, the blue lightning he wields his army of storms. And now he has your sword, you damn fool.
Drinkwater pushes me up the mud road, and I have no choice but to go before him. If I try to escape, he’ll kill me, without any doubt. And if he is to try to kill me, I need to have the sword in my possession. Only then will I not die. Only then will Pilot’s plan work. The only chance I have is the stronghold itself, Lorenzo DeGuille and the rest who I’ve left to defend it against attack should I fail to stop Drinkwater and his men. And fail I have. We meet with three other men along the road, within an arrows volley of the closed bridge to the south gate. Drinkwater hails them as Palios, Inchbald and Mai’il. Nazbeth tells them about what happened to Thurmond, to which they shake their head.
“We should go after him. Flay the bastard who is chasing him,” Mai’il says.
“No,” Drinkwater says. “He’s on his own. We don’t have the time.”
“Now that you see the stronghold, I suggest letting me go and leaving this world at once. My men will have no mercy on you should you choose to march, or harm me in any way.”
“I suggest you shut up,” Drinkwater says, backhanding me across the lip. That familiar metallic taste returns, but it’s a sensation that is quickly eclipsed by the burning in my cheeks. His men shuffle around nervously.
“Drinkwater, that’s a god,” Nazbeth says. “You shouldn’t be slapping gods.”
“There are no gods, you fools! They’re all like this, mere creatures. Do you not now see the folly of the universe, of what we’ve been brought up to believe? This is what the new ways would have us worship. To this we are to feel inferior, and shamed in our ambition. We are greater! We are stronger!” Half the men nod in ascent, but Nazbeth still looks nervous, and the lean, muscled one they call Palios seems angry.
“We didn’t come to harm anyone, you damn fool.” Palios says. “We came to put things to right.”
“Shut up, damn you!” Drinkwater raises his gauntlet up above his head, blue lightning sparkling madly from the orb at its center. All the others step in front of Palios, Nazbeth the front-most of the group.
“What has become of you?” Nazbeth says to his leader, shaking his head slowly. The others study Drinkwater with the same sort of disquiet in their eyes. Drinkwater can’t meet their gaze for long. He mutters a weak apology before stalking off to make water in the brush.
“Let me go,” I say to the men.
“I’m sorry, Lady Magdala.” The man they call Inchbald says. “Truly, I am.”
“As am I,” Palios says.
“But we have to put things to right again,” Nazbeth says. “We need the mecha of Helios which you have in the World Tree. We need to go Arcadia, and your world has the only bridge to get there. Do you know of Arcadia? It is supposed to be a world of fecundity, where death does not exist. Or where the bridge is to get there? Drinkwater is convinced you do. He_”
“That’s enough, Nazbeth.” Drinkwater says, a newfound calm in his voice. “Put the chains on her. We’re going to the castle walls. Watch for arrows. You have guns here, don’t you, my lady?” Using such a formal title seems to relax his men a bit, restores their faith. I can still see right through him though, can see the angler’s smile and the deceit that is measured in those teeth.
“Yes. We have guns.”
“Then watch for bullets, too. Let’s go.” We make our way through the well-spaced fruit trees surrounding the stronghold. Drinkwater has me hail to Lorenzo once we’re within ear shot.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Lorenzo shouts from behind the wall.
“Yes, but the magpie has flown.” The phrase is used between a small group of closely trusted allies, meant to communicate that something is not right, that there is treachery afoot. Lorenzo doesn’t respond, so I’m not sure if he has heard. We all wait a few moments, but there is no response. Then there’s a click.
“What was that?” Mai’il whispers. To answer him, two ancient rail guns spring up from the ground. They instantly spring into action, sending a relentless round of fiery bullets our way. I duck down, shrugging my head into my shoulders as best I can. I can feel the bullets ricocheting off of my armor, but then there’s a blue bubble that goes up around us. It stops the rain of bullets, freezing them in the air as they hit. The guns eventually cease their firing, wisps of ghostly smoke rising from their barrels.
“So, that’s how you’re going to play, hm? Flying magpies, hm?” Drinkwater spits the words out, a near froth on the sides of his mouth. He grabs me by the hair again, and marches us forward, the electric bubble moving with us. The men within the castle have all come to the battlements, to see what carnage the guns have wrought. I can feel the weight of their stomachs sink as they see a host unscathed by their best defense. We come to a blacksmith’s anvil in a row of clapboard shops by the edge of the wall. Drinkwater orders his men to bend me down and lay my head upon it. They do as they are told.
“My lady!” Lorenzo shouts from the wall. “Don’t hurt her! We’ll give you the stronghold! We yield to you, sirs!”
“It is too late for that!” Drinkwater shouts. “There will be no yielding. All in the castle will perish for defying us.”
“Drinkwater, no,” Palios says.
You can hear the tears in Lorenzo’s voice. “Don’t, sir. Please. Don’t harm her.”
“Hold her,” Drinkwater says, lifting the sword of light up above his head.
“I said no, Drinkwater!” Palios says, running forward. Inchbald, the biggest of the lot, holds him back. Before the blade comes down, all I can think of is how Pilot’s plan, delicately laid out at the beginning of time, will falter because of my failure. The stronghold will fall, and Drinkwater will make it to the Lover’s Tree, to the bridge at the top of its boughs. They’ll take the mecha, raze Arcadia and everything else that stands between them and the center of the spiral.
Drinkwater has a rabid, mad look in his eyes. I understand why Pilot does not want these men to ever come close to harnessing the power of Helios and Hyperion. Drinkwater is sick with power. It would be better for the whole of existence to be swallowed up by the Fade than to be controlled by someone so twisted. I hope Pilot will be alright, and my sister, too. The sword swings through the air, and the last thing I hear is Lorenzo saying the first bit of my name. There’s a thunk, and a shock that slows time to a snail’s crawl. The world then sizzles away, passing before me like a quick summer rain.
Chapter X: “Crack and Brack”