Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 206 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

‘Pull up a chair. Diera will furnish you with a goblet, I’m sure,’ said Sol.

He tried to catch her eye but she would not humour him. Instead she walked behind the bar and stooped to get a goblet for Denser.

‘I’m here because Diera believes you have finally taken complete leave of your senses.’

Denser sat next to Sol and stared at the merchant, nodding minutely.

‘But you don’t think so, Denser. Do you?’ said Sol.

‘It is hard to know what to believe.’ Denser glanced over at Diera. She was watching, listening, reluctant it seemed to come closer. ‘Your wife was very upset. She didn’t say much about why, just that you had caved in, just like she feared you would.’

Denser sucked his lip and turned to glare at Hirad.

‘You know, I don’t appreciate total strangers grinning at me like they’ve known me all my life,’

‘Don’t you recognise me, Denser?’

‘No. I would have thought that was obvious.’

Sol found himself smiling and tried to cover it.

‘Well, it’s no surprise,’ said Hirad. ‘This isn’t my original body after all. But I have to be honest, Xetesk-man, the years haven’t been kind.’

Denser gaped. ‘What?’

‘Beard’s gone grey, you’re looking a bit paunchy in the cheeks and you’re probably bald under that skullcap. Mind you, I see you’ve been promoted. Congratulations. Good to see you finally made something of yourself.’

Hirad pointed at the embossed bronze circle on the front of Denser’s skullcap, which denoted his position as Lord of the Mount of the College of Xetesk.

Denser’s eyes had narrowed and his cheeks were pointed with red.

‘Clearly, you’re angling for a matching wound on your right-hand side. Who is this cretin, Sol?’

‘You ought to recognise the lack of tact if nothing else,’ replied Sol. ‘This is Hirad. Or rather, Hirad’s soul in the body of a dead merchant. ’

‘God’s falling, it’s pathetic,’ muttered Diera from the bar. ‘See what I mean, Denser?’

But Denser didn’t hear her. He was staring at Hirad, one hand absently scratching at his beard.

‘It is technically possible, you see,’ he said as if to himself. ‘How are you doing it? Is the heart beating?’

‘Not yet,’ said Hirad. ‘If it was, I’d die again, pushing blood out of this wound.’

‘Well, we can soon fix that. Tell me how it works?’

‘One soul leaves, another enters. Mine in this case. I was attracted to the body and filled it. I don’t know how. Ilkar probably does. But it isn’t too badly damaged or sick inside so I can hang on. Just about. But it hurts. I can make it move as if it were my own. But I need to get the heart to beat soon or Ilkar says I’ll decompose.’

‘Bloody hell, you smelled bad enough when you were alive,’ said Denser.

Hirad chuckled. ‘This body is altogether more fragrant.’

Denser stretched out a hand and felt Hirad’s neck for a pulse.

‘Amazing,’ he muttered.

‘Are you all right, Denser?’ Sol put a hand on Denser’s arm.

‘You see, the thing is,’ said Denser, ‘I’ve got about fifty reports from around the city of dead people walking and talking. That’s just in the last day or so. It’s making people nervous, as you can imagine. And there’s something a little closer to home too. I’ve got a five-year-old girl up at the Mount claiming she’s Erienne.’

Chapter 4

The heat intensified still further. Steam billowed under the canopy. The orange glow of fire stretched in a broad arc east to west. Thick dust blew on a scorching wind. The flat clang of the Garonin harvesters thudded across the sky and under the earth. The roar of great beasts meshed with the crash of falling trees that signalled the death of the rainforest.

A face appeared in front of Auum’s. Streaked with ash, eyes white and wide in the fire-backed half-light.

‘They have breached the outer ring. We have had to fall back.’ The Al-Arynaar warrior gripped Auum’s shoulders. ‘We have barely given them pause.’

‘Yet every moment buys time for our people. What of the Temple of Ix?’

The warrior shook his head. ‘Gone before those inside even knew what was upon them. Behind the fire, all is scorched and ruined. Auum, we cannot stop them.’

‘I know that. We all know. Our task is to fight, die if we must, and pray our souls find the path to Shorth, though our enemies stand before us after death as they do in this life. Keep moving, keep hitting. We need to try and take down at least one of the machines. I will join you.’

Auum took the warrior’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. ‘Faith, my brother. We knew this day would come.’

The Al-Arynaar nodded, turned and ran back towards the enemy, shouting others to his side. The din of conflict, screaming and fire was an assault on the ears. Auum looked about him. Everything they had was here. Every TaiGethen cell, every Al-Arynaar warrior, every ClawBound pair that answered the call to muster. And it was not enough. Ysundeneth, capital of Calaius, was only two days travel north. Beyond it, nothing but the southern ocean and seven days sailing to Balaia.

‘Rebraal!’ called Auum.

The leader of the Al-Arynaar was striding towards him. Blood matted the side of his face and leaked from beneath a bandage wrapped around his head.

‘Auum, I thought you gone to oversee the Harkening.’

‘Be assured, I will arrive there at the last possible moment. There is still damage to be dealt here. Listen to me. The Temple of Ix is gone.’

Rebraal closed his eyes briefly.

‘Then we are silent,’ he whispered. ‘Balaia will not know what is coming.’

‘They may already have arrived there,’ said Auum. ‘Tell me your news.’

‘Everything we could retrieve from the remaining temples is nailed into crates and on wagons. All headed for the docks. The statue of Yniss at Aryndeneth has been lifted successfully and is already aboard ship. At least the Elfsorrow will not return unless the statue is broken again. All that could not be moved can only be lamented because it will inevitably be lost.

‘So much of ourselves will be gone. And the people are confused and scared. They do not understand why Yniss will not act to save them. Many will perish unless the teachings of the ancients excite them to do what they have to do in order to survive. The ClawBound are doing all they can to bring the words home but I fear not all our ships will be fully laden. And there is tragedy in that.’

Auum inclined his head. ‘Tragedy lies all around us already. Go to the ships. I will bring our warriors to you when we can do no more but die.’

‘Do not overstay your welcome in the faces of our enemies.’

‘Tual will guide my hand; Yniss will guide my mind. I will not fail.’ Auum turned to his TaiGethen cell. ‘Tai, we move.’

The three TaiGethen flowed over the parched ground and out of the forward camp that now lay less than a mile from the invasion front. Ahead of them through the withering rainforest were the orange glow of the burning canopy, the stultifying heat that pushed on before it and the last desperate defence against the Garonin.

Auum ran slightly ahead of Ghaal at his left shoulder and Miirt at his right. It had been hard learning to trust a new cell but he had chosen well, he believed. Now would be the test to end all others.

The land they trod was no longer their own. Auum knew they were moving south but no scent, no trail and no recognisable set to the foliage remained. He could no longer read this place. It had ceased to be their home, more alien than Balaia, to where the survivors would flee. Yniss had surely turned his back on them, unable to assist.

Smoke choked their lungs. Ash lay heavy in the air and crumbled underfoot. The green beauty was gone along with Tual’s children, the forest denizens, replaced by a churned, dead land. The war had been lost the moment that Garonin had landed. All that was left now was survival.

The fight against the Garonin was confused and it had to be that way. The warriors of the TaiGethen and Al-Arynaar used the density of the canopy as best they could, keeping the enemy guessing. But with every Garonin pace forward, that density lessened and the fire that came in its wake took more lives.

Auum ran past an elf lying prone, his back a mass of charred flesh. Another tended to him but it would be hopeless. Not even magic could save him, and magic was being taken from them.

‘Keep tight,’ he said. ‘Strike in, turn out. No hesitation.’

A series of white lights flashed through the trees at just above head height. Like teardrops but slicing horizontally, ripping through bark, sundering timber to pulp and bringing down mighty trunks. Fires leapt up where the teardrops impacted. Fire dampers ran in, those that still lived.

Warrior elves in deep green and brown camouflage clothing and paint criss-crossed his path. They were close now. The thud of the machines, the roar of the fires and the steady crump of beasts treading the ground filled the air.

‘Do not be afraid to die,’ said Auum. ‘Our souls are promised to Shorth and he will find them.’

But images of the priestess in the temple of Shorth crowded into Auum’s mind and he found himself doubting his own words.

‘Yniss protect us,’ he whispered. ‘Your servants.’

And there they were. Garonin.

Auum stopped in his tracks, feeling a unique sense of fear. Just like before. Ancient history repeated.

‘It’ll never be over, will it?’ said Miirt, her voice steady.

‘They may not have changed. We are different,’ said Auum.

‘They do not need to change,’ said Ghaal, who had stopped a pace ahead of him.

Auum followed his gaze. An arc of soldiers protected three harvesters, each pulled by two of the great beasts. Hanfeer, the elves called them. Created for this single purpose. The harvesters were huge, bulbous skins taut with the pressure of the gas they contained. Their funnels belched waste into the sky, sensors sought new pockets of mana to exploit and the rumble of another detonation cloud built above.

The massed hundreds of warrior elves faced no more than sixty of the enemy and yet they were losing the fight here and on four separate fronts of which Auum had certain knowledge. The rainforest was being laid to waste.

‘This is not as before,’ said Auum. ‘This level of destruction. This number of soldiers.’

‘They come not just to harvest,’ said Miirt. ‘Their memories are long and bitter.’

God’s Eyes castings struck at three enemy soldiers advancing on the left flank. One went down. The other two staggered and were driven to their knees under the force of the assault, their armour flaring a blinding white. Immediately, two TaiGethen cells sprinted in, backed by a number of Al-Arynaar warriors and mages.

Every Garonin head turned. In every hand, weapons were brought to bear, raised to the eyes and their power unleashed. Streams of white teardrops fled away. Vegetation from ground to ten feet in the air was obliterated, a path of energy driven towards the attacking elves and into their midst. Auum turned his eyes from the impacts but his ears could not block out the screams.

Elves ran in from all sides.

‘Diversion,’ said Ghaal.

Auum was already running. ‘We are TaiGethen. We do not stand and watch our brothers die. Tai, to my mark.’

He made a curving run. Ahead and right an Al-Arynaar exploded under the weight of white tears thudding into her chest. Another lost an arm even as he raised it to strike. Auum kept his head down, pushing his legs to more speed, dragging hot, painful air into his lungs.

His target hadn’t seen him yet. The soldier was moving steadily forward, his weapon still facing the initial attack point.

Auum’s head cleared. He could hear his every breath and the sound of his feet on the cracked ground between the trees. He used what remained of the immediate cover as best he could. The world slowed around him. He closed on his enemy, his Tai at his heels. The Garonin saw them eventually, weapon beginning to come to bear. Auum planted his right foot and used it to launch himself. He twisted as he came off the ground and brought his legs together. He spun in the air, his body a spear, his heels its tip.

Auum struck the soldier in the neck just above his weapon. The enemy could not absorb the blow and crumpled backwards. Auum raised his arms for balance, straightened and landed softly, coming to a crouch and drawing his twin short swords from their back-mounted scabbards. He turned.

Ghaal and Miirt were there before him, blades hacking and stabbing into gaps in the Garonin armour. Auum knelt across the enemy’s neck and ripped away his helmet. The white lettering across the armour faded. What stared back at him was not human. Black orbs bulged from bony sockets. Flat nostril slits flared. The huge mouth clacked together, toothless ridges sampling the air. There was no fear in that face.

‘We will find your weakness,’ said Auum. ‘And we will stop you.’

‘Auum, you know better than that. You cannot beat us. Not in this world, nor in the next,’ replied the Garonin. ‘Yours will be the race extinct. None who escaped us once will do so again.’

The Garonin growled deep in its throat and vanished, leaving Auum clutching at empty air.

‘The hanfeer,’ he said. ‘We can give them pause. Tai, we move.’

‘He knew you,’ said Miirt while they ran towards the great beasts. ‘How did he know you? You cannot be so aged, even for an Ynissul.’

‘My time is longer than you think,’ said Auum. ‘And it is not done yet.’

Precious few had broken through the protective arc to run towards the harvesters, their beasts and the Garonin who marshalled them. Auum tried to shut out the sounds of pain behind him. God’s Eyes arced in overhead, splashing harmlessly against the shielding the harvesters possessed, doing little damage. The rumble was deafening here. The crushing of age-old timbers under the hooves of beast and runners of machine was an ugly symbol of death.

The fires at the rear of the machines ate at the dead ground and gorged at the excess gasses in the air, torching tree stumps and incinerating anything living that came into contact. Nothing would be left in the wake of their passing. Nothing.

Auum ran directly at a trio of Garonin in front of the centremost machine. His Tai were level with him. That the Garonin saw him was not in doubt, but their confidence was such that they did nothing to halt his advance. Theirs was millennia-old information. And it told them the elves would turn aside. Ten yards from them, Auum saw the first flicker of concern in the slight turning of a head.

‘Split,’ he ordered.

His Tai stepped aside left and right. Two paces later, all three dropped and rolled below the sweeping fists of the marshals, coming up behind them. Auum drove his blades into the gaps between boot and calf armour. The Garonin shrieked, anger and pain clashing as he pitched forward. Auum leapt on to his back, dragged his head back and drove a blade into the eye slit of his helmet. The Garonin jerked and disappeared.

Miirt and Ghaal had followed his lead, but to either side none of the other attacking elves had got any further.

‘Strike and turn,’ said Auum. ‘Hesitation is death.’

He led them to the two hanfeer yoked to the vydosphere. Dull eyes peered from beneath heavy brows. Bone stood proud from flesh, natural armour against predators. But the beasts were weak in the legs, just like their masters. Auum moved in for the crippling blow.

This close, beast and machine were a sight to take the heart of even a strong elf. The hanfeer stood almost twice Auum’s height, their massive shoulders straining against the yokes that they bore. Hawsers as thick as his thigh ran from the yokes to the machine, tensing and relaxing with each measured pace forward.

The vydosphere was a towering monument of creaking metal, raging heat and thrumming malevolence. Auum had no idea what much of it was made from. Its skin was not hide, more like expanding metal. The whole was as tall as a three-masted elven cutter, twice as broad as the ocean-going vessel and set on runners that barely settled on the ground, as if the hand of some giant were holding it just in contact. All that he saw, he logged for the future, for the time when they could strike back with an eye to victory, not to mitigate defeat.

White tears ripped up the earth in front of them. Auum threw himself to his right, the ground at his feet blistering and bubbling in the heat of the strike. He rolled and ran into the lee of the hanfeer pair. His Tai were still with him. Ghaal had fear in his face, Miirt was burned down her left leg.

‘Strike and turn,’ he repeated.

Auum’s blades whipped down into the lower leg of a hanfeer. The beast bellowed, a primeval sound, and fell forward, its ankles collapsing under its weight. Immediately, an alarm rang out from the vydosphere. With a squeal, it halted, belching smoke. Miirt struck at the second beast, Ghaal with her. Blood gouted from deep wounds. Another scream of bestial agony.

‘Run,’ said Auum.

He led them right, away from the Garonin attacking them and briefly into the shadow of the vydosphere. Above him, its skin groaned and protested. He saw bubbles appear beneath its surface and a rippling that ran along a seam. Steam escaped.

The fires were close, the heat unbearable. He turned to run back into the rainforest. The remaining Garonin were all staring at the stricken hanfeer and the machine halted behind them. Some were moving, hurrying even, towards the beasts. Tears fled from weapons held high. Flesh ripped from the beasts, heads caved in. In that same moment, two more hanfeer blinked into existence. So did another thirty Garonin.

Auum glanced over his shoulder as he ran, free from attack for the moment. All the vydospheres had stopped. Every Garonin worked to shepherd the new hanfeer towards the yoke of the stranded machine. The corpses of the dead beasts were fading, taken back by their masters. Al-Arynaar and TaiGethen surged back to the attack, seeing opportunity.

But Auum knew they had already achieved what they must.

‘Break off!’ he yelled.

ClawBound heard him if no others could. The calls of panthers echoed across the battlefield. Warriors turned at once.

Auum raced back into the relative safety of the deep canopy, not pausing until he had reached the forward camp. Rebraal was issuing orders. Carts were rattling away towards the docks at Ysundeneth, three days distant. Squads of warriors were forming up, ready to join the attack.

‘I thought I told you to leave for the docks,’ said Auum. ‘I need you standing with me at the Harkening.’

Rebraal smiled. ‘Too many still left behind. I will leave with the last of them.’

‘That time is now,’ said Auum. ‘We have stalled them for the moment. Precious time is ours. Use it. Evacuate the rest.’

‘We can strike further. Damage them more.’

Auum shook his head and leaned in to whisper into Rebraal’s ear.

‘No, my friend. More have come. And not merely to harvest this time. To destroy us. More machines are arriving too. Enough to lay waste the entire rainforest. They mean to destroy us and our lands.’

Rebraal stared at him, not believing. ‘They will not let us go?’

‘And they will pursue us. They have not forgotten.’

Scant hundreds of yards to their left, a huge detonation. Flame swept across the horizon. Trees cracked and fell. Elves and animals screamed, broke and ran.

‘How long have we lived here?’ asked Rebraal.

‘Three thousand years and more, and now we have no time,’ said Auum. ‘Miirt, have that leg healed. There is more work to do. Tai, we move.’

Chapter 5

There was an acid taste to the air. It was the sort of taint that signalled trouble for delicate grapevines.

Baron Blackthorne trusted that whatever caused it would not travel south to his burgeoning slopes. He was expecting a supreme harvest, much as Baron Gresse had been. And indeed the evening before there had been no hint of any problem. But this morning that aftertaste to every breath lingered.

The two men stood on the wide, decked veranda of the plantation lodge hidden among the hills, terraces and valleys of the Gresse vineyards. They had enjoyed a fine dinner the night before and had broken fast well this morning. But now coffee was growing cool in mugs and frowns weighted the brows of both men.

Gresse wrinkled his nose yet again.

‘Stinks like old magic,’ he said.

His voice, gruff for as long as Blackthorne could remember, was further deepened to a painful phlegmy rattle .

‘You should have someone check out that throat of yours.’

‘Hardly, Blackthorne. Damn mages have done enough damage to my land and people over the years. I’m not going to start entertaining them in my house now. Too old for that sort of thing.’

‘You’re what, sixty-five? A few years older than me, anyway. Never mind damage; you might even get saved.’

Gresse waved a hand impatiently. ‘Cancer is just nature’s way of telling you to step aside for your sons.’

‘And you think that’s what it is?’

‘If the blood I cough up and the pain when I swallow are anything to go by.’

Blackthorne sighed. He couldn’t help himself. He stared at Gresse and those sunken brown eyes stared back, the hanging skin on his cheeks quivered and the pale small mouth tugged into a smile. At least he had the decency to blush a little.

‘Stubborn old goat,’ said Blackthorne.

‘It’s the progression of life, my friend.’

‘Yes, and I’ve lost enough to war, disease and demon to last two lifetimes. I don’t need to lose any more unnecessarily. Certainly not those with a part to play while we try and climb out of the mess the demons left behind. It’s not burning martyr I can smell but it surely should be, shouldn’t it? What by the Gods falling is this defeatism?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I am, as it happens, seventy-two, Blackthorne. Twelve years older than you. And I can’t be bothered any more, I really can’t. Look at you. I know the effort it takes for you to travel these days but you still haven’t gone grey. Just a few flecks in that sculpted beard of yours. Hardly a crow’s foot around the eye and think what you endured. Think what you still endure when the night releases the worst of your memories.’

Blackthorne reached for his coffee mug and found the tremble in his hand that usually only came on waking from his nightmares.

‘So what’s your point?’ he asked a little more sharply than he intended. Gresse didn’t seem to notice.

‘Can’t you feel it? It’s not just the stench of old magic in the air. Something’s on our skin. It’s absorbing through every pore. I’d had enough of fighting when The Raven beat the Wytch Lords. And when was that . . . fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? When the demons were defeated I thought we might actually see a lasting peace.’

Blackthorne spread his hands. ‘Well, we have. Ten years and counting.’

Gresse shook his bald head. ‘You know better than to believe it will last. You’ve had the visions and you’ve heard the voices. I can see it in your eyes.’

There was no hint of age or his illness diminishing his mind. Indeed Gresse seemed particularly sharp this morning.

Blackthorne studied the vines growing along the valley to the south of the lodge.

‘I have nightmares, not premonitions,’ he said.

‘It comes to the same thing,’ said Gresse. He coughed and put a hand to his lips. Blood stained the back of his index finger. ‘And I can’t fight any more. I just don’t have the energy. Nor the passion.’

‘So what is this smell in the air then?’ asked Blackthorne.

‘It is the start of whatever is to come. We’ll know soon enough.’

Blackthorne drained his coffee, set down his mug and leaned on the veranda.

‘If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people being mysterious and oblique. Do you know something or not?’

‘It’s just a feeling, Blackthorne. I’ve had them before and I’ve always been right. This is just worse than all the others and I don’t have the will to face it.’

Blackthorne rounded on him. ‘So you’re just going to sit and rot in your rocking chair, is that it? You think any mage will rethink their morals and ethics merely because you choose to die rather than let them heal you?’

Gresse was staring right past him though, not hearing him.

‘Told you,’ he said.

Blackthorne followed his outstretched hand. Miles to the east, towards the mountains of the Burrs and away across rolling acres of vineyards and rich arable farmland, there was a shimmering in the air. Accompanying it was a very slight vibration beneath the feet as if the Earth itself was trembling. Up in the sky above the shimmering, cloud spewed to brief life and then burned away. A bleak foreboding settled on Blackthorne.

‘We just never get a break, do we?’ he whispered.

‘I may not want to fight it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it,’ said Gresse. ‘Care to ride with me?’

Blackthorne nodded. ‘Why not? Sight of the enemy brings with it the comfort of knowledge, so they say.’

‘They, whoever they are, must be idiots. It’s always struck me with dread.’ Gresse clicked his finger at a servant. ‘Have our horses saddled and ready at the north paddock on the instant. And we’ll be needing a guard too. Half a dozen or so.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘More coffee, Blackthorne? It might be a while till your next one.’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

The riding was easy and would have been pleasant but for the dark thoughts Blackthorne could not keep from his mind. There was a noise in the back of his head too. Like a distant voice, familiar yet disconcerting. It became a persistent itch as they trotted and cantered up and down slope over Gresse’s well-maintained vineyard trails.

It was a shame the glorious smells of sweet vine and young grape were obscured by the strengthening odour blowing over them from the east. Gresse was right. It did taste like old magic and more particularly like the product of something violent.

‘It’s a particularly painful way to go,’ said Blackthorne. ‘And before the end you won’t even be able to eat, or drink your best reds and whites. Imagine that.’

The two men were some way ahead of Gresse’s guard. Both barons wore light trail clothes and had cloaks tied to their saddles. Gresse hadn’t even bothered with a weapon. Blackthorne couldn’t face leaving a place of sanctuary without one even now.

‘Trust me, it won’t come to that. I shall sit in my rocking chair with a glass of the decade vintage and salute our enemies as they torch my vines.’

Blackthorne shook his head. ‘Balaia never lies down.’

‘Ah, but back then we had The Raven. Now what do we have? A grumpy man with an arthritic hip who is still unsure if he should be king or innkeeper. And a Lord of the Mount who has become far too deeply embroiled in college politics to see what is in front of his face. I’ve nothing against either of them personally. Sol has done some great work but the responsibility weighs too heavy on him. And he doesn’t like the attention. “King” is too grand a term and Sol was right when he refused to adopt it. It’s just a shame the populace didn’t accept his decision. Whatever, the two of them are hardly saviour material. Not that it would matter if they were. Nothing can stop what is coming.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Blackthorne. ‘You don’t even know there is an enemy. All we’ve got so far is a heat haze and a rumble in the earth.’

But that was not entirely true and he knew it. Gresse had heard, just as he had, the clank and thud of machinery. It sounded much like someone perpetually raising and dropping a portcullis, though there was a wheezing undertone, like ten thousand Gresses drawing in pained breath as one.

‘I’ve had the visions and the voices. And, deny it all you like, you have too. I just paid attention.’

They were riding up a steep valley side into which terraces had been cut for red grapevines. The path wound through the terraces, ascending gently. The morning was hot and the vibration under hoof combined with the shimmering air and the clanking of chain and metal to bring unease.

Beyond the valley edge, the land swept steeply down to rough grassland and, further east, fine farming territory. If whatever was coming was on the fields or open ground, they would be afforded a peerless view. Blackthorne was not convinced he wanted one. Looking to his left, he could see that Gresse was nervous. His tongue flickered over his front teeth and licked his top lip. His hands were white on the reins.

‘We’ll be plenty far enough back,’ said Blackthorne.

‘I do not share your confidence,’ said Gresse.

They crested the rise.

‘What in all of mighty fuck is that?’ breathed Blackthorne.

Gresse would normally have chastised him for the use of language he attributed to Blackthorne’s friendship with the lower classes. This time he was mute, merely shaking his head in reply.

Two miles away and advancing across the farmland, came, well . . . men, beasts and a machine, if such terms could be applied in this instance. Blackthorne had seen interesting plans for machines before, wine presses and the like. And Denser had once shown him the drawings for a machine designed to trap and hold demons. But they were nothing like this, whatever it was. Those had been relatively small devices. This was more akin to a ship on a sled being pulled across the land by beasts of burden. And whatever the beasts were, they weren’t oxen or mules.

It was a while before they could see absolutely clearly, until the figures and their contraption had materialised from the shimmering in the air. Blackthorne wished they had remained indistinct. The machine was simply incomprehensible. The size of an ocean-going trader, it was principally a long, slender oval from which jutted multiple funnels, each angled differently from the next, over thirty of them and yet maintaining a sculpted poetry. From a raised spine, what looked like five masts fled skywards. Each held four spars and from these spars drifted dozens of lines that probed at the air as if seeking something.

It was a striking piece of work, and while Blackthorne had no idea what it was actually doing, the effects of its passage were as clear as they were devastating. The land in its wake was burned and ruined. Buildings were levelled and trees torched such that only broken blackened stumps remained. Flora and fauna were simply smoothed from existence as easily as Blackthorne might blow dust from a book. Man and animal eliminated without a cry. And for what purpose?