Deep Echoes Read online

  ~~

  “We're here,” the drunkard said, hanging from her aching shoulder like a dead limb.

  The spot was unremarkable, a clearing that hosted only wild flowers soaking up what little sunlight fell between the Prime Trees. Yellow, purple, and blue, the flowers reached from diffident grass to entice the insects that buzzed around them. It was almost identical to several clearings they'd already passed.

  “Where is–”

  “Over there, sire,” he said, pointing. “We hid it between the trees, in case a passer-by happened by it.”

  Maya squinted. Something short, grey – possibly a statue – hid between two trees which were oddly close together for Prime Trees. Behind it was another tree. The effigy was protected from all sides though that didn't seem right as Prime Trees formed in rows, not in triangles.

  “Well, there it is,” she agreed.

  By unconscious consent, they walked round the flowers to the statue. A foot tall, crude, carved from coarse stone, it attempted to depict The Woodsman. Really, it could have been almost anyone. Something rested across the figure's broad, sloping shoulders, presumably an axe. The failure of a smile squatted on his uneven face, and his hair melted into his back. It looked cheap, weathered and should have been replaced long ago but the value of traditions often meant more than the values of taste.

  “There he is, my little friend, my passage to a new life, a new me. All I need do is place my plea beneath his feet, thank you for your kindness, and then sleep away my troubles. You have helped me greatly, such that I'll never forget what you have done. But we must now part: I would not want your presence to spoil your good work. No, not at all.”

  Maya shrugged him off her shoulder. He wobbled without her support, the morning's alcohol deep in his system.

  “All right then, friend. Good luck.”

  He collapsed against the tree, his left arm resting on the statue. With a smile, he said “I need no luck with The Woodsman, sire, but thank you anyway.”

  Keeping her thoughts blank, Maya left. She felt the drunkard's eyes on her, either watching her go out of gratitude or making sure she was definitely gone before he settled down. She forced nonchalance into her strides, practised casualness.

  When distance hid her, she turned right and arced back around, mapping the area, considering her options for observing the statue. Staying at least a hundred feet from the drunkard, she found several potential vantage points. After going full circle, she settled for a Prime Tree whose trunk forked about fifteen feet up because it granted height, a clear view and cover.

  As she went, she half-expected to see that green bird again. Thankfully, she did not.

  Gloves filthy with moss, she pulled herself up the Prime Tree she'd chosen. Maybe an hour had passed. The drunkard snored in the distance, curled like a puppy. The sun warmed her from above. Morning was almost over, and the glory of a bright spring day was heating up. Birds sang around her, squirrels darted between trees and bees floated from one flower to the next. If she wasn't waiting, ready, Maya could have enjoyed this vista.

  But she was. She watched, unthinking, patient.

  Time passed slowly. A patch of sunlight rolling across the drunkard's leg marked the passage of time. It was a slow, tedious death march that taunted, teased. If there really were gods, they were surely laughing at her.

  Maya blinked. In spite of her convictions, her knowledge, she had imagined gods. Was it her upbringing? Or was part of her still desperate to fit in? The answer, she decided, was somewhere between the two: she accepted her heresy but still craved company. In fact, she craved friendship. She missed Chain, righteous and odd Chain.

  There was a small rustle north of the drunkard. She looked round sharply. It sounded like something large was approaching from far away. Pressing against the tree, she listened. Surely it was a dog, or a wandering traveller.

  Maybe it was the bird?

  No, that was ludicrous. And the question proved she wasn't quite as good at holding back questions as she'd hoped.

  Slowly, the sound approached. It couldn't be another petitioner as the noise was coming from the north. Maya determined it was a rhythmic sound, the crunch of tall grass and fallen branches: the footsteps of a person then. To make herself safer, she put her hood over her face, casting it in darkness, and pressed herself behind the tree. Then she pulled her small mirror out again and watched the drunkard through that.

  The crunching steps continued until a figure stepped into the clearing. Maya couldn't believe it. This had to be an illusion, a trick of the light. That or her eyes had run mad. She closed her eyes and then looked without the aid of her mirror, but the vision wouldn't pass.

  Anger boiled over in her. This madness would not be allowed to stand. She would confront it and show her creaking mind that it was creating fictions. So she dropped to the forest floor, mud quieting her fall, and moved through the trees like a hurried insect. Five minutes, and she was by the clearing, but what she was seeing hadn't changed.

  Knelt by the drunkard, holding his letter to the light, was 'the Woodsman': long blond hair draped over his shoulders; a handsome but odd face, somehow old without wrinkles or marks; broad shoulders and a muscled torso covered by leather and woven grass; and, finally, a gleaming axe on his back, held in place with twine. As she watched, he nodded and shoved the letter between his wooden sandal and his foot.

  Maya could not accept this, just could not: it couldn't be her madness because it was affecting other objects. And there was no such thing as the Woodsman. So this... this had to be a trick, a scam. Maybe a genuine philanthropist... No, why would anyone do that? It had to be a scam.

  It had to be a scam.

  She pulled her short sword from its scabbard and snuck forward. He was taking advantage of Seed, feeding their beliefs in return for using their women or to take some perverse pleasure in judging their lives. It was sleeping in the Prime Woods that made people feel better, that, or they convinced themselves they had been aided. She wouldn't allow such blatant cruelty.

  Maya charged, moving almost silently, choosing her steps carefully even at this pace. Weapons readied, her battle mind set, she attacked.

  Just before she struck, the fraud turned, saw her. He threw himself aside, and her blow scraped the tree behind him. Unhesitating, Maya span and stabbed at him. Again he dodged, this time moving into her body. He was a fighter, a good one: he barged into Maya with the same movement, a perfect counter.

  Maya fell but landed on her hands. She kicked back at him, using the fraud's momentum against him. Fast, he crossed his arms before his stomach to block the blow and then grabbed her outstretched leg. With little effort, he threw her aside.

  Maya landed heavily, winded. As she heaved breath in, bruised, the fraud stepped toward her. His forehead creased with confusion. She regained her breath and leapt to her feet, putting him on edge.

  He did not expect what Maya did next: she spat at him. The fraud, the bastard, reeled, disgusted and shocked. Having made an opening, she went to break his knee with a furious kick. Again, somehow, he predicted that and stepped into the kick.

  The fraud's counter was to kick out her standing leg, but Maya hopped aside, and his snapped attack only glanced her shin. It still hurt, a lot, but she didn't fall. He was strong, able, and agile. Maya needed to end this quickly. But she had to free her foot first. So she jumped with her standing leg and pushed it against the fraud's stomach in one swift movement.

  This surprised him again, and his grip on her loosened. Maya sprang away, landing first on her hands then her feet, and jumped back at the fraud. This time, he would die.

  She snatched a dagger from her armour. Attacking with her short sword made him move into her body, the same trick again, but this time she stabbed at him with the dagger. The move was flawless, a well-placed trap for a considerable opponent. And the fraud was surprised. Too late to dodge, he could only watch as the blade approached his shoulder, aimed to dig deep through leather and grass into
muscled flesh.

  But it didn't. There was a flash, green and brilliant, and the dagger flew from Maya's hand. She watched it strike a tree hilt, moving with such speed that it embedded itself into the bark and stood perpendicular, like a vicious bough. Then there was another flash as her short sword was pulled from her hand.

  Finally, he clapped his hands together, and the green flash came again. Maya was knocked onto her back. Her will to fight drained. This could not be. It was impossible. She tried to get up, but her body felt too weak and she could only prop herself up on her elbows.

  “Who... who are you?” she asked.

  The fraud looked at her curiously and then kicked her in the temple. She fell to the ground unconscious.

  18

  On the Western Front, Contegon Castle shouted “Ready yourselves for battle!”

  The message was passed along the battleline by Contegons either side of her, so hundreds of men and women heard her order. And the Western Front came alive: Shields ran, trading shovels for crossbows; Launchers, the Shields who manned the catapults, ran around their apparatus, tweaking and preparing and stoking the all-important fires; and the Brawlers, vicious skirmish experts, marched to the edge of the Trap Field.

  From her creaking wooden watchtower, Castle picked out the twelve Disciples breeching the horizon. At her word, Geos stood firm, ready to fight them. She thanked Sol that the Artificers had finished work on their new weapon, the Halting, in time.

  Castle had always thought the worse thing about Disciples was how they looked: their impassive and ornate golden armour and the rigid dignity they carried themselves with. She gave a small shudder. If not for their vicious claws and the weapons attached to their arms, the Disciples could be mistaken for living testaments to long-dead heroes.

  Thank Sol for their Weakness.

  “Launchers,” she shouted, shaking the image to concentrate on defending her land, “you have one minute to start firing two kilometres forward, seven notches west!”

  Again, her words were echoed by other Contegons.

  This began frantic winding of taut ropes and the filling of the catapults' scooped metallic hands. The Halting was kept molten by bonfires that raged beneath these hands, and its reek wafted across the Front. Each blend was slightly different, so the nose couldn't acclimatise. It was the smell of death, of boiling green agony, and it could not be ignored.

  “Ready?” Castle asked, feeling Sol's barely-contained rage at this affront flow through her. Her question flowed down the line.

  “Ready, sire!” the Launchers below her shouted. Castle waited for the other Contegons to signal their readiness with fireworks, a process which started at the very edges of the Front, miles away. Like a celebration, the line of red lights approached, bringing gentle bangs with them.

  Castle watched, waited. When Contegon Spear to her left and Contegon Fury to her right shot screaming red lights into the air, she took a deep breath and gave a quick prayer to Sol. This was it, the battle, the fight.

  “Fire!” she roared.

  Her catapults fired, rattling on their incredible frames, and gallons of Halting shot through the air, spreading and hardening in the wind. Then the next catapults fired, and the next, and the next until Sol shone green through a translucent cloud of Halting.

  Dropping, the mass landed on the Disciples. Not every shot hit, but they were meaning to canvas an area, not strike individuals. Where it did hit, the Disciples froze. The Halting was like cement when it landed, the impact somehow setting it solid. And the Disciples not immediately struck soon stepped in the green mess covering Geos and became as trapped as their brethren.

  Castle heard Spear and Fury roaring at the success from either side of her. The battle line joined them. Contegon Castle held her tongue: this was where the hard work started. Halting was not permanent – it only lasted an hour under the greatest forces Geos' Artificers could muster – so they needed to finish the Disciples.

  “Brawlers, charge!” Castle ordered.

  Covered in thick leather armour, carrying all manner of reach weapons, the Brawlers ran forwards. They were the front-line, the Shields you could count on to face a Disciple. Her order reverberated again, so an attack like a mountain's peak launched, with Castle's Brawlers at the very tip. Traps lay between them and the Disciples, but training ensured the Brawlers only ran through narrow safe patches.

  Castle watched the Disciples, not the Shields, even though the creatures were helpless under the Halting. Something nagged her. All was not well. She leant forward, the rough wood of the tower scraping her robes, and tried to examine the Disciples closely. Maybe it was intuition, or worry about the Halting, but she scrutinised the monsters. They were too far away though, so she ignored this feeling for now.

  The Brawlers reached the Disciples and surrounded them, one man deep and then two. Their formation gained, they then tested the Halting with the ends of their spears or maces. It had dried enough to walk on so they approached, tight and rigid and trained. Those who could not fit into the first-comer's small circle dropped back, waited to provide extra support if it were needed, exactly as planned.

  A Disciple moved, a twitch. The Brawlers halted. It moved again. Weapons readied, the Shields attacked.

  Contegon Castle heard gasps, even screams, all around her as the Disciple reached down and clawed at the Halting. The Brawlers swarmed it, but they could not kill it or stop it from getting free. Quickly it could move. And it could fight.

  The Disciple ripped through the Shields like they were rags. It was impossible. Disciples weren't that capable. No Contegon could have achieved such a thing. But yes, that one Disciple alone killed them all, hundreds of Shields. It was a nauseating massacre: its claws tore men in half, beheaded them, stabbed men through the throat. It even chased after those who had remained at a distance. The Shields were strong enough not to return through the trap field and lead the Disciples to the front and they died bravely. That was good, at least. But it was the only good thing amongst a few solid minutes of Lun's work.

  Contegon Castle couldn't pull her eyes away. She watched them all die. She whimpered and sickened. When it was done, the other Disciples roused and started freeing themselves. The Halting had failed.

  “What... what's happening?” a Shield below her asked, seeing her disgust. Perhaps she was short-sighted. If so, Sol had blessed her to not have witnessed this day.

  This brought Castle back. She turned to the Fury and Spear. “The Halting and the Brawlers have failed. Ready the catapults and fire Spheres. Spare Launchers must be ready with crossbows.”

  “Yes, sire!” they ordered.

  Castle turned to the Disciples and sighed bitterly. At least the trap field – deep bogs carpeted with grass that would cave under pressure – protected the Front. Still, it was worrying that the Disciples had developed such self-awareness, such intelligence. More than worrying, it was terrifying. Especially once the Disciples resumed their march towards her. Cold sweat gathered between her armour and skin.

  Then the fight-back started. Within a minute, Spheres, great slabs of heavy stone, shot through the air. Their accuracy at this range was limited, but they should have been effective. After more than a decade on the Front, Castle knew that the Disciples should have been crushed under the attacks. But they no more than slowed the Disciples, who dodged each Sphere with speed and poise. Each missed Sphere tugged at her mind, sent fresh spasms of fear through her. And soon, too soon, they were at the trap field.

  Castle prayed they would sink into the muddy abyss.

  Watching them, two things struck Castle, two things which almost drove her mad. She sank to her knees and thumped the floor, ignoring her duty and her charges. She wondered why Sol had forsaken them.

  The first thing, though not the lesser of the two, was that the Disciples now had armour covering their Weakness. This and their vastly improved self-awareness would have been bad enough if not for the second fact: the Disciples were fanning out and following,
to a step, the safe paths through the Trap Fields, mimicking the Brawlers who had recently passed through. For the first time, the Disciples had out-witted them. Which meant...

  Which meant she would die fighting.

  When Shields started to shout, mirroring her own terror, it took most of her strength to stand again. Castle then pulled a yellow firework from her robes, sealed for emergencies, and fired it. There was only one such firework, and she had it. Only under one circumstance could it be fired for it signalled the failure of the Western Front. Every Contegon now had command of the Shields around them as an emergency cadre. She was no longer in charge. Sol bless and save them, for what happened next was only His will.

  She took a breath once the yellow firework had fizzled and prepared herself for becoming one with Sol. “Everyone,” she shouted, “fire at will. Catapults, sever the safe paths, and Launchers... try to find a new Weakness! Fire! Fire at will! Fire now!”

  Call! Call had to be warned. Scar needed to know what had happened here. Castle looked below her at the scurrying mass of Shields. “You, can you run long distances?” she shouted at one who was barely seventeen. He looked wiry, fast. He would do.

  The young Shield cringed under the weight of her pointed finger. “I-I-I...”

  “Come on, boy! Spit!”

  “I can, sire!”

  “Good. Run back to Call. Inform Scar that the Disciples have lost their Weakness, gained tactical knowledge and defeated the Western Front. Go now, before the Disciples see the path through the other Trap Fields. No, no questions, go! This is a direct order: you will go, now!”

  Understanding the urgency of her orders, the young Shield sprinted south, ran as quickly as his pumping legs could carry him.

  The remaining Shields in his cadre looked at Castle with reproach: she had just foretold their death. Pulling her small hand-axes from her armour, she grinned at the Shields. “Any man who doesn't fight with everything he's got will answer to me. Then to Sol.”

  This had the desired effect: the Shields acquiesced and readied themselves to kill and die.

  Whilst she'd arranged her cadre, other catapults had killed two Disciples. Their golden armour was crushed by Spheres whilst they had to follow the safe paths, and their inner workings scattered across the trap fields like gems.

  The remaining ten were too close for the catapults, so the Launchers opened fire with crossbows and long bows. The Disciples marched through hundreds of bolts and arrows, oblivious to them. The projectiles hit every inch of them, searching for a new Weakness. They found none.

  “It's not working!” someone shouted.

  “Because your faith is wavering, you pathetic mongrel!” Castle replied. “Apologise to Sol, believe in His glory if you want to live!” She stood on the watchtower's guard rail and gestured towards the Disciples with one of her axes. “Fight until your last breath! Look them in their cold, unholy eyes and thrust your sword into their hearts. Even if you fall, Sol will protect you. Believe and fight!”

  Some small, self-aware part of her realised she was frothing and that her balance on the rail was precarious at best. The rest of her watched the oncoming Disciples and could see only a glorious death and eternal bliss.

  Either rallied by her speech or terrified by her conviction, her Launchers redoubled their efforts. When the Disciples left the Trap Field, Castle screamed “Lower your bows, collect your real weapons. We charge, now, to push them into the swamps! Follow–”

  A Disciple raised a hand and pointed it at the screaming, swaying white figure. There was a bang, clarion even amidst the hellish bustle of war, and a bullet flew through Contegon Castle's forehead. Death was instant and mid-sentence. Her body fell backwards. The Shields below just looked at the space she no longer occupied, shocked. Her silence was broken by the relentless mechanical march of the Disciples.

  Shortly, the air filled with screaming, and the Western Front fell. And far away, watching with a time delay, Babbage's avatar grinned in satisfaction.

  'During the day

  Sol rests in the sky

  and Lun sews darkness below.

  But then at night

  He undoes that work

  and leaves His own seeds to grow.'

  --A Solaric children's rhyme

  19

  Coming to was unpleasant. Panic and fear reigned as the world returned to Maya. Next came pain, a dull throb throughout her body that joined in and left her scared. Then she found her arms were bound, arced back round a tree to keep her back straight and make it very difficult for her to escape. Impossible even. What had happened?

  Then her thoughts clicked into place. She must have been captured.

  Her eyes watered as she opened them. Blearily, she looked up at a wall of leaves and branches. She hadn't left the Prime Woods. In fact, it looked like she was further into them, further away from civilization. That was not a good sign.

  Looking down, she saw the 'Woodsman' kneeling before a roaring fire. He was cooking a rabbit, skinned and ugly. The smell of it, though, was divine. Her empty stomach beseeched her to obtain some.

  “You're awake,” he stated without looking back.

  She did not reply.

  “Do you want some rabbit?” His tone was calm, confident, like an experienced Lord controlling a hysterical congregation.

  Maya decided she would rather starve than ask this fraud for food.

  The cooking rabbit held his attention, more interesting than Maya. Turning it twice, the fraud nodded to himself and lifted the cooked flesh out of the fire's reach to inspect it.

  Again, her stomach insisted it be filled. Her resolve held firm.

  Satisfied the meat was cooked, the fraud marched across to Maya. He held the dripping rabbit at arms length to avoid being splashed by grease. She leant forward and watched him like a hungry puppy, arrogance and pride forgotten momentarily.

  “I know you want to eat, so how about you earn it? The rules are simple: I ask a question and you answer it. If you tell me the truth, you get some rabbit. Okay?”

  Maya sat back against the tree. “I may tell you. It depends on the question.”

  The fraud nodded. “First question, are you from around here?”

  “No. Aureu.”

  He stared at her and then nodded. “Correct. A nice piece of leg for you.” He tore a steaming piece of the rabbit's leg free and held it over her face.

  She blinked then snarled, furious, when she realised what he was implying. “You expect me to catch it with my mouth?”

  “You expect me to free your arms?”

  She almost didn't do it, almost refused, but her hunger was almost numbing. She also had little choice, being a captive. And she was curious. She wanted to understand why this man was defrauding Seed. But most importantly she wanted to know how he had survived her attack. So she opened her mouth, let him drop the greasy food in. It was well cooked, warm, perfect, almost worth the humiliation.

  “Second question, why have you travelled so far from your home?”

  Maya looked away from him. “I was wandering. I failed as a Contegon and had nowhere to go, so I just travelled west.”

  Another long, appraising look. Maya hated this attention. It felt as though her worth was being weighed. It felt like when Contegon Ward had disciplined her. “What do you think?” he asked someone above her. He got no response but nodded. “All right, that was close enough. More rabbit for you.”

  She caught and chewed the slightly-larger lump. Her stomach bubbled, yearning for more.

  “Third question, what is a Contegon?”

  Maya frowned. What kind of game was he playing? “You don't know?”

  “Why would I ask if I knew?” His brow creased. He seemed genuinely confused at the question.

  He had to be acting. But she'd play along for now. “Who knows? What could drive a man to a life of dressing as a mythical being to have his way with women? Anyway, a Contegon is a warrior of Sol, a fanatic trained from youth to protect Geos from t
he Disciples. They demand only the best, most powerful warriors, and I... failed to make the grade.”

  “Religious fanatics?” he asked.

  She tried to hold her disdain, the anger which rose to her face, back. She failed.

  “Ah. Your martial expertise means you didn't fail on that account: your superiors can't be that choosy.” Standing up, he grinned. “And you accused me of being a fraud: not a creature of Lun, but a fake. That suggests disbelief, a rational mind. That's probably discouraged among Contegons. It also explains why you tried to kill me. Yes, that's it.”

  Maya shot him a look, a mix of anger, amazement, and vile shame.

  “Okay...” he said, looking... guilty, awkward. It didn't suit him. “I apologise: I thought your leaving would have been less recent... Look, I only need one more answer. I'll untie you then and you can have the rabbit.” He stepped round behind the tree, out of her sight.

  “All right,” Maya agreed.

  “Who are these Disciples?” he asked. “A rebel faction? Did the Sol Lexic split your people?”

  True to his word, he then cut her bonds. Maya considered running but decided this was too intriguing. She rubbed her wrists as he walked round the tree again, trying to unwind the tensed muscles within, and felt how tender the skin was. He hadn't been kidding when he tied the knots.

  The fraud then handed her the rabbit. She bit into it slowly, delicately. “The Disciples...” She started; then swallowed. “The Disciples are living mechanisms, armour brought to life. We are taught that they were created by followers of Lun to wage war on Sol, but I... doubt that. Geos has fought them for more than a century, but they're stupid, fall for the most basic traps. We'd have defeated them long ago if there wasn't a long line of turrets across... What's wrong?”

  The impostor stared at Maya for a long time, rapidly balling his fists then flexing his fingers. He looked ready to cry, scream, or do both. Maya felt uncomfortable, scared. She put a hand over her short sword and dropped the rabbit carcass.

  “What's wrong?” she asked again, slow, careful.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Another. His chest heaved, sweat gathered on his face. She was watching him go mad.

  “Hey, keep calm, it's okay,” something said. She recognised the voice. In the tree above her the green bird stood, bristling, twitching its head from side to side like it was dying. Maya jumped to her feet and drew her sword: maybe she would run after all...

  A third deep breath, and the fraud's body relaxed. The bird stilled. Then he looked up and lost himself: roaring, he punched the Prime Tree behind him. Maya drew her short sword to fight, guessing she wouldn't be able to outrun him if he'd fallen rabid.

  Even if she had run, she would have stopped dead in shock, in terror. For the fraud hit the Prime Tree so hard that the trunk cracked. His punch had almost killed a thick Prime Tree. Not even pausing for breath, he brought the tree crashing down with his other fist. It fell sideways and landed on the fire, crushed the spit.

  Sunlight, bright and glorious, now bathed him, casting deep shadows across his face. This man, this thing, was terrifying. Was he a Disciple? No, he seemed to have never heard of them before. So what was he? And why wasn't she running? Where were her self-protecting instincts?

  And why was she so curious, so desperate to know more?

  He took a deep breath and then shook his dark expression away like it were an insect. The bird stopped twitching and cleaned its stomach. It was so sudden as to be unbelievable, but he broke out into a faint smile.

  “Okay,” the fraud said, “I have a plan. I'm going to need help and it might as well be yours.”

  “My help? How can I help someone who can knock down trees with their hands?”

  “You're lost, right?” he asked, ignoring her question. “I could see that straight away. Your... anchor... has been taken away, and you need something to believe in, a purpose. I can give you that, quickly, but there'll be a price. Those... those Disciples need to be destroyed and so do the people who built them. I will show you how if you promise to do it.”

  “Good idea,” the bird said. It gave its eye-only smile then sang the long notes of a slow song Maya had never heard before.

  “You think you know a lot about me,” Maya observed.

  “I'm... perceptive,” he replied, enigmatic. He was trying to pique her interest, and he was succeeding.

  Maya considered her options: run away and stay adrift, or go with an incredible, powerful madman. Neither was appealing. She stood, hands on hips, and thought. He watched her, impatient, but she wouldn't be rushed.

  That green flash, though... It had been the same shade as this impossible bird. There was something here, something secret. It was that enticing fact that stopped her making the rational decision, stopped her running away and leaving this madman alone.

  Then she considered the drunkard, who she had used. Maya had come to the Prime Woods, had used him, to disprove the Woodsman. But she had found him real. And powerful. Having used that poor man, she decided she could only give one answer. It would be hypocritical of her to do anything else.

  “I accept. My name is Maya, by the way.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Maya.” The fraud stepped forward, offered her his hand. It was still covered in the fallen tree's bark. “My name is Nephilim.”

  20

  The Shield that Contegon Castle sent to warn Call was named Close. As he sprinted away, Close heard the massacre of the Western Front unfold behind him. Willpower alone made him listen: he couldn't ignore the deaths of those he had come to know...

  Travel, angry, scarred, old: he'd had a keen eye for distances. Red, the small woman who had mixed the Halting, quiet, serene. Wart, enormously fat, strong enough to wind the catapult alone. Their faces flashed through his head as he heard them die, and his tears were shaken loose by his unrelenting sprint.

  Soon all fell quiet. He was left with only the wind playing with a green field which stretched away into the distance, between mountains and the ocean.

  Drafted only months before, he had been terrified all through his training and as they sailed to the Western Front that he would die in his first battle. But it was this inexperience, his youth, which had saved him. The irony was not lost in him as he ran in silence.

  As he went, Close used the Gravit Mountains to mark his passage. Short grass brushed against his feet, jutting through thin trousers, tickling his legs. The air was thick with lazy pollen dancing between flowers. Bluebells waved as he passed.

  Running long-distances wasn't a speciality but he had done a lot of it in training. But that had been jogging, not the full sprint he was now engaged in. And no man could keep up that pace. When his legs tired, he ignored them, then swore at them for complaining after what he had just heard. But determination and fury could not sustain him. He slowed and slowed. Soon he could only shamble. As he lost pace, he moaned with bitter anger. There was no time for his weakness.

  Nor, he realised, should he waste his energy on frustration. So Close calmed himself and decided to take a break, recover. Falling to the grass, he sat. His legs cramped, their tired muscles screaming, but he was not running and that was enough for now. His mind closed, wouldn't let him think. He enjoyed the stupor, enjoyed the screams not ringing in his ears.

  Marching, a hundred feet bound to a rhythm, filled the air. Close stood painfully to see a small troop of Shields in the distance marched towards him. They came through the second trap field a mile ahead of him, moving like a strange and particular swarm.

  “Hey! Hey!” he shouted, delighted. He ran toward them, finding a second wind. “I have an urgent message! Where is your Contegon?”

  When he got closer, a Shield pointed to a figure halfway along the safe path. They did not break their march to do so, as though he didn't matter. But his target gave Close a tremendous sense of release: it was Contegon in pure white robes, a large scythe slung across her back. Here was someone who could help, who he could unburden hims
elf onto.

  Dark hair, flat face, the Contegon looked around her then sighed. “Thanks, you just couldn't keep a secret, could you?” She looked Close up and down; then grinned. It was then that he noticed how unkempt her robes were and the wild look in her eyes. “I'm Contegon Fine. What's up, kid?”

  “Contegon Castle sent me with an urgent message from the Western Front. The, oh Sol... It was a massacre.” Close could almost feel his mind cracking as the screams of his friends returned and excitement and shock span within him. “Or-order your men back! We must return to Call. Not that it will do much good: they're intelligent now! And their Weakness is gone, gone, gone like Red, who was quiet and pretty and... gone...”

  At a gesture from Contegon Fine, a Shield, grim-faced and bald, broke ranks and escaped the trap field. He approached Close; then slapped him so hard that Close fell backward. His ears rang and his face swelled.

  The Shield stood over him like an angry mugger, leering, sickened by Close's cowardice. “By Sol, Shield, you will pull yourself together or Lord Hand will be making another visit to Cheek Country. Do you hear me?”

  Some sense returned to Close. He rubbed his bruised cheek. “My apologies, sire.”

  “You'll have to forgive Toe,” Contegon Fine said, skipping across the field. “I mean, he was given a name like 'Toe.' I'd be pretty angry, too! Ha! No? Not funny? Noted. Anyway, either you're lying, a cruel trick and one I would punish quickly,” she gestured to her scythe with another wide grin, “or you're telling the truth and that means we have a matter that we must rectify.”

  “Boys,” Fine shouted, addressing the Shields, “I think we're in for some action. We've got... How many Disciples have we got?”

  “A-around ten. Depends on how many they took out. But they're not like normal–”

  “Ten.” Fine turned away, ignoring him. “Ten Disciples have taken the Western Front. We're made of sterner stuff than those ridiculous Launchers, though, aren't we?!”

  “Yes sire!” the Shields all replied.

  Somehow, she made Launcher sound like 'children.' Close coloured, appalled. “No! You're not listening to me! They took down two hundred Brawlers like they were nothing! We need to...”

  The Contegon sneered. “Shut him up, Toe.”

  Toe picked Close up by his neck. Choked, ragged breaths were all he could manage until he was on his feet, at which point Toe placed his rough, dirty hand across Close's mouth.

  “As I was saying, we will fall on the Disciples hard and fast. Those ridiculous Launchers must have fucked up their Halting, ruined the Brawlers, so we'll charge in as those Disciples celebrate their ridiculous victory, show them the fury of a true Brawler. Leave the trap field, be ready to march in two.”

  Terrified, breathing in shit and sweat, Close watched these people commit suicide by Disciple. “Yes sire!” they shouted, signing their death warrants.

  Instead of supervising her Shields in their preparations, Fine walked over to Close. “That was close to an offence, Close! Get it? Haha! But spreading lies, discontenting the troops... I could execute you for that.”

  Toe's grip on Close's head tightened. He screamed into the filthy hand.

  The Contegon nodded to Toe. There was a pregnant pause before Toe knocked Close to the ground and stabbed a dagger into his foot.

  Close screamed again, this time releasing his pain into the open air. Contegon Fine giggled. Toe grinned. The pain was overwhelming. His warm blood soaked his foot, and the cold blade made him feel sick. Nausea rolled over him, threatened to knock him out. Only his indignation kept him conscious.

  “What? Fuck!” Close shouted. “Why did–”

  “The summary punishment of a Shield who breaks the rules of Geos is subject to the discretion of the Contegon in charge of his cadre,” Fine said, laughing as she parroted the law. “In the event that an infringement occurs when a Shield is away from his cadre, or his Contegon is killed in action, then the duty falls to the next Contegon the cadre encounters. Punishments should be harsh but fair, and relative to the infraction committed.”

  Close swallowed as the Contegon started laughing again, a crazed sound that pierced like a needle. The pain in his foot suddenly seeming distant. He'd heard rumours of this, of Contegons driven mad by war. If he wanted to get out of this alive, he needed to get smarter very quickly.

  Fine looked back at Toe. “How many times did I warn Scar about that moron Castle?”

  “Fourteen, Contegon,” Toe said through his wide grin, eyes shifting from Close's agony to Contegon Fine's body. “You warned him fourteen times.”

  “Really? That many? Well, his loss, his fault, and his shame.” She shrugged, turned. “Right, Sol's fervent soldiers, if you've stopped fucking about like spare cocks at an orgy, then we can get going: those Disciples will quickly have their fill of Castle's pathetic blood. And if you die, make sure it's not with your back to them, or I will personally ensure Sol rejects you. Do you hear me?”

  “Sire! Yes sire!” The Shields all acquiesced. They were madmen to be following a thing like her. How could they not know they were marching to their deaths? How could Fine be a Contegon?

  Stronger even than the pain in his foot, Close felt sick.

  “Excellent. Move out!”

  Toe waited, spat in Close's face, and then followed Fine to die.

  Pulling himself to his elbows, Close watched them go, incredulous. They marched away in formation, rigid and mechanical, almost like Disciples.

  When they were gone, he tended to his foot. Taking his other boot off, he cut his sock into a bandage with a small knife; then took a deep breath, steeled himself. In a quick series of agonizing movements, he yanked the dagger from his foot, pulled the ruined boot off and bandaged his foot. Blood poured from the wound between him removing the dagger and bandaging it. It felt like he was dying in the grass. Nausea and light-headedness tried to take him, but he fought them.

  As a Launcher, he carried hoof glue, so he was able to tightly seal the bandage. But the world still span. Getting to his feet, Close gingerly tested his walking capabilities. 'Limited' was the best word: 'fucked' the most accurate. But he had to report to Scar so he ignored his pain and limping gait, put on his good shoe, and moved through the trap field.

  He moved with delicate deliberation. Not just because of the wound: he had to avoid the traps by memory: avoid this patch of daffodils; test that patch of mud tentatively. It had been some time since he'd passed through here alone: Shields always marched single-file, so the route was simple. Without that safety net, he had to move with Sol's own care.

  But such caution did not last long.

  A small rattle echoed from behind him, familiar, ominous. He looked around but could see nothing. Then the air filled with bullets, the Disciples handiwork. They were so close! He whimpered, not having the energy for a scream, and ran.

  Close fell several times, almost setting off whatever traps lay beneath him, but he had to get through before the Disciples saw him. So the blood flowing from his wound, his bitten, cracked lip and the bruising falls meant nothing to him. He was wailing as he went, a low moan punctuated with a shriek each time his right foot hit the ground, but he didn't care.

  Then the rattling stopped. The Shields and Contegon Fine were dead. The Disciples would be close. A further surge of energy ran through him. A patch of tulips signified the edge of the field, close, closer, almost there...

  He jumped into the flowers, crushing them, bruising his ribs. That didn't matter. He had done it. He had crossed. He was safe. Close started laughing through gasping breaths and tears. Safety, pure safety. Despite the massacres and the death, this was the happiest he'd ever been.

  His laughter died when the darkness mugged him. Merciless, unforgiving and debt-wielding, working with his shock to take back what Close had borrowed from his injured body. With tulips for cushions and a nation on his shoulders, he snored.

  21

  Maya told them all she knew over the next hour, starting w
ith the basic contents of a Contegon's manual, but eventually she was just dredging small scraps of lore she couldn't trust from the recesses of her mind. Almost all Geos had recorded about the Disciples was conjecture – no thorough research was allowed by the Bureau – so she had to warn them they couldn't trust most of what she had said.

  “It's all right: we'll bear that in mind,” the bird tweeted, flying above them as they walked.

  Nephilim looked at it, smooth forehead creasing, then at Maya. “You two know each other. How?”

  “I'll let... him... tell you,” Maya replied, curt. She didn't like that she could be read so easily. It felt invasive.

  “I found her being chased earlier, Nephilim,” the bird said, “and I... helped.”

  His expression flattened. So did his voice. “You 'helped?'”

  “Well, there were ten men chasing her and she–”

  “You... Gah, I've no word for you! How could you be so reckless, so stupid? Don't you remember the agreement?! You could have killed us all.”

  “I'm sorry, she was-”

  He held a hand up, and the bird vanished mid-sentence. Shaking his head, he looked at Maya over his shoulder as though none of that had happened . “So it's been a stalemate all this time.”

  She waited for more. Various emotions crossed his face during the silence, but they were alien, unreadable. However, his body language gave away his state of mind: his fingers flexed and unflexed, his eyes shifted constantly, and he barely looked where he was going. Whatever he was feeling, it involved some degree of terror.

  Maya didn't want to play a guessing game, so she asked “Why are you scared? Is it this 'agreement' or the Disciples?”

  Nephilim stopped, every movement halting suddenly. “Things aren't as you see them,” he said, each word rolling from his mouth like a boulder. This careful diction revealed his astonishing, white teeth: pristine, like a child's. Concentrating on what he was saying was hard as she'd never seen teeth so white on an adult. “The Disciples' presence means that something I did, something I gave everything for, was unsuccessful. That would be the agreement.”

  His speech quickened “Maya, you left everything behind because you don't believe in Sol. How would you feel if, at the very end of your life, Sol appeared and proved his existence incontrovertibly? If everything you've given up was for nothing? That's how I feel. Add the danger to Geos and scared is a shallow word, especially coming from one as young as you.”

  Nephilim set off again.

  Blushing, Maya followed. “Young? You're, what, ten years older than I am?”

  He burst into laughter. He half-turned, walking crabwise, and gave Maya a wide smile, handsome and honest. “That's a good one. Thanks, I needed that.”

  “You're welcome.” Nonplussed, what else could she say.

  “Come on, let's get going. Randomly, you feel most confident when you're wielding a short sword, don't you? That one you attacked me with in particular.”

  “Yes...” Maya reached into her robes and pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was unremarkable, of usual design. Less than two feet long, the blade was strong, tempered, with two dips in its edges to provide an uncomfortable exit for its victim. “Maybe because my... I was taught to use them from a young age, so yes. Why?”

  He ignored her question again - that habit was getting annoying – and instead gestured at her sword. “But you've had that one for a while. Years, right?”

  She passed the sword from one hand to the other. “No, less than six months. What are you getting at?”

  “That's a good sign. Six months... a very good sign. Hold your sword until I say otherwise.”

  They walked on. Maya considered her short sword. Holding it felt good, reminded her of Dad teaching her to fight. Holding it made her remember the pride on his face as she bettered him. Grandpapa had been a Shield and had taught her Dad how to protect his family. This skill was what he had wanted to pass down to her, not having any other keepsake. Holding the weapon, leather grip and brass pommel, she realised he would never look at her with that pride that again.

  She wouldn't cry. Her eyes watered, but she shook her head, banished her tears. Thankfully, Nephilim's perception failed him: he continued walking, ignorant of her pain.

  “We're here,” Nephilim said as they entered a small clearing: wild flowers, poisonous mushrooms, and heavy insects buzzing around fallen trees. Maya shivered as she remembered Nephilim's fury. Trails wound through the grass, going in all directions. They'd apparently been walking a well-trodden a path for at least fifteen minutes.

  “You sleep under the stars?”

  “Not exactly. This way.”

  Maya followed him into the clearing. Something was wrong: the grass was disturbed, shorter, in a patch shaped like a square. You couldn't tell until you got close, but there was a... there was something beneath it.

  Nephilim knelt and pressed this square patch. There was a momentary squeal just on the edge of hearing, a click, and then the square of earth rose. Nephilim slipped his fingers beneath what appeared to be an elaborate trapdoor then pulled it up. This revealed a smooth, rounded tunnel, like a mineshaft, dug into the ground.

  “Impressive?” he asked, holding the entrance open.

  This was getting weirder by the moment: there was something like this hidden in the Prime Woods? Did the Bureau know? Is Nephilim part of some secret organisation? And, if so, how many other secrets lie beneath Geos?

  Her mind whirled at the possibilities, but she didn't let this show. “Quite.”

  Nephilim grinned “Go on, squeeze under.”

  “It won't be a squeeze.”

  Maya lay down and wriggled under the gap. Her foot brushed something solid, hung in the air, then found another solid impasse: the rungs of a ladder, she decided. Guiding her feet down, glad of the security, she dropped until her fingers caressed the edge of the soil.

  Maya looked around before descending further. The entrance was a smooth, varnished wooden drop lit by strange spheres. It felt like a portal to another world, childish though that was. She felt a thrill, a kernel of excitement at going into the unknown. It felt like an adventure to be climbing down a secret tunnel.

  Nephilim slid under the trapdoor effortlessly. When he was clear of it, the displaced earth depressed and cut them off from the sunlight and the above-ground world. With the crux of his elbow holding him aloft, he pressed a seemingly-random place in the polished wall until there was an audible click. They were locked in.

  “Keep going, Maya.”

  “I was hardly planning on staying here.”

  The descent was long, dull. The mindless repetition of hand under hand, foot under foot, lulled and calmed her so much that she jumped when her foot touched solid ground. Looking beyond Nephilim, who wiped each rung clean with a rag of as he passed it, Maya guessed that they were a mile under Geos' skin. She could not comprehend the artifice, the craftsmanship, that had built this place. It had to be pre-Cleansing. Nephilim must have found it. Or inherited it, especially if he were part of some organisation.

  She held that thought for consideration later.

  Not that she could have done much with it: wild wonder erupted within her and overcame all rational thoughts when she turned from the ladder.

  In an enormous domed room, trees, bushes and herbs grew in vats of soil. Bathed in bright artificial light, a paradise stretched before her: lemon, apple and cherry trees to her left, their fruit bright and vital; dominating the centre were row atop row of herbs – medicinal, culinary and ones she did not recognise – with tomatoes and grapes loitering amongst them; and berries, a rainbow from bright yellow spheres she'd never seen before to the humble blackberry, grew to her right.

  Delighted, she laughed. Hundreds of the light-casting spheres hovered overhead like birds feeding their hatchlings, warming the room. The air was sweet too, fragrant with the combined scents of all this life. But below this all was a low hum coming from the walls: interesting, but nothing to worry a
bout for now.

  Maya tiptoed inside and picked an apple, green and perfect, from its tree. It was cool, smooth to the touch. She bit into it without a second thought, savouring the sharp but sweet taste which greeted her.

  “By all means, help yourself Maya.”

  “Oops, sorry!”

  Nephilim snatched the fruit, far too quick for her, and then bit into the uneaten half. “Mmm,” he said. “Come on, there are things I need to do.” He walked between rows of trees and threw the apple back over his shoulder.

  Maya caught it and shook her head. She decided to enjoy the apple and the moment: she wouldn't just follow Nephilim if he needed her as much as she needed answers. This... relationship had to be two-way. So she looked around, enjoyed the scenery, ate, and pondered the room's secrets.

  Her apple was down to the core when Nephilim reappeared. “Are you coming?”

  Shrugging, Maya threw the spent apple to the dirt then followed, satisfied.

  22

  Bullets woke Close. He screamed, rolled over. Golden forms with dead faces stood on the edge of the trap field. He watched in shock as the Disciples fired into the ground, hoping to set off the traps inside.

  Their weapons burned as they riddled the grass with holes, assaulting the structures beneath with hundreds of bullets, until they were white-hot. Smoke plummeted in great torrents from each gun and the air above warped from the heat. Eventually, probably at the point just before the heat melted the strange weapons from their arms, each Disciple stopped and examined the trap field, looked for any weakness in its integrity, any failing.

  They found none as the Artificers had accounted for such attacks. Close didn't understand how, but he knew they had.

  His shock broke at that. Slowly, he got to his feet. The Disciples ignored him, stared at the ground to discern something more. He wondered what they thought, how they connected what they saw with what they knew. So little was known about them, and this lack of knowledge engendered fears that were probably worse than the truth.

  Probably.

  He jumped when they looked up, again acting as one. With a screech he fell back, landing on his wounded foot. He screamed again and almost fainted. The world swam black and agony filled the gaps.

  Then red beams fired at his body, coming from the Disciple's faces. He flinched, but the light only painted him with a small dot. After a terrifying and too-long moment, the dots disappeared. He didn't know why.

  Close rolled over so he could see the monsters. Impassive as corpses, they stood still. Silent, they observed him. He sat up, swaying slightly, and watched them back. Through his dread, he thanked Sol for the trap field's protection. Those creatures' every instinct must have screamed at them to tear him apart. He was nothing more than prey. But the trap fields made him a curiosity, a problem.

  No, he told himself, he would be nothing more than prey if not for Sol. And how they must hate that. Slowly, he backed away, not wanting to incite them but needing to make progress and get to Call as soon as possible.

  Their thinking was taking some time: Close hobbled more than a hundred feet during their... planning. Maybe they weren't as intelligent as they'd seemed? Maybe they had spent centuries forming the plan which destroyed the Western Front.

  Such a hope was small, fleeting, but Close cherished it like a son.

  Then a Disciple twitched. It had made a decision. It lifted its leg and stepped forward, still holding his gaze. The ground beneath it caved in, taking the Disciple with it. Sods of earth struck the pool below, then the Disciple landed with a roaring splash. Close heard it sizzle, thrash about, and then silence reigned.

  It had killed itself. Why?

  Another twitched then bent down and fired its red beam along the rim of the newborn fragile hole, tracing the gap. After a moment's pause, it turned, walked several yards east... Then stepped into the trap field. As with the previous Disciple, it fell, sizzled, and died.

  And, as before, another Disciple stepped forward and cast their crimson beam into the hole.

  Close gasped: they were measuring the traps, finding a way across. The paths were winding and contorted, but such methodical searching could unveil the beams that supported them. Even if it took all ten of them, the way would be... would be open for another group.

  His first reaction was to run but his foot, caked in drying blood, swollen and painful, screamed at him when he tried. Call would have to make do with a delayed warning. So Close hobbled away, his ears filled with the splashes and sizzles that heralded Geos' potential doom.