A Quantum Mythology (24 page)

Nolly stared at the lizard. ‘It’ll be for some cuntish reason,’ Nolly eventually answered.

‘Could you be more specific?’

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t.’ Then a look of horror crossed his face. ‘Maybe the Church has hired him.’

‘That sounds unlikely. He wants you for his own purposes.’

‘Then I don’t know. You’re one of them, ain’t you? A bounty killer.’

‘I am a hunter. If you want to get out of here, Mr Berger, then you need to cooperate. You were a bridge drive engineer, is that correct?’

Nolly looked exasperated. To Mr Hat, the expression was exaggerated, as if he was trying it out for the first time.

‘Yes, but even if they hadn’t mindfucked me in here, I couldn’t get at what I know, and neither can he, because the Church mindfucked me first. The conditioning can’t be broken.’

Mr Hat knew that the Alchemist was one of the few bridge techs ever to escape from the Church, which had to be significant. He wondered if Miss Negrinotti actually thought she had found a way to break Church conditioning.

‘You were apprehended for selling psychotropic drugs, is that correct?’

‘No, for cooking them, and I mean – who gets done for drugs? I didn’t even realise I was breaking any laws until they came through the skylight.’

Mr Hat had to concede he had a point. He could not recall ever hearing of a bounty on a drug chemist before. It seemed highly unlikely that Scab was interested in the Alchemist’s ability to make drugs. Scab was insane and as much of a junkie as everyone else in Known Space, but there was a definite method to his madness, even if it was nothing more than a psychopath’s requirement to get what he wanted regardless of the cost. It was only problematic when the psychopath in question was ex-Elite. What an Elite thought an acceptable cost was scaled far above what a normal criminal would consider as such.

‘Please,’ Nolly begged. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Of course,’ Mr Hat said, and then realised his mistake as he saw pathetic hope spread unconvincingly across the Alchemist’s now-human face. ‘I mean back to your job.’

‘Then kill me! Please!’ Nolly started to beg. The room began to distend. It looked like the lizard in the strange wheeled chair was moving further and further away from him.

‘Why would I do that?’ Mr Hat asked, genuinely confused.

‘Are you okay, Nolly, old fella’?’ Geoff asked. Nolly looked up at his boss and friend to the sound of canned laughter as his identity and memories melted away. He could see the smugness behind Geoff’s smiling facade. Nolly wanted to tear at Geoff’s face, he wanted to weep and scream. Instead he smiled until it hurt.

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Geoff. Will you be watching the local sporting fixture tonight?’ he asked in a gently mocking manner to the sound of yet more canned laughter.

As the AI drove Nolly back to his fake, loving family, he saw something very odd. Two building custodians were trying to clean writing off the side of the mall. Someone had scrawled the words
THE EMPIRE NEVER ENDED
on the wall. Nolly was mortified.

‘Who on earth would do such a thing?’ he muttered disapprovingly.

18

Ancient Britain

The water had washed much of the blood off her but left her freezing. The wounds that should have killed her were just fading scar-tissue reminders now. As she walked the cold left her. She stopped staggering and her stride became more purposeful. She felt the familiar, gluttonous hunger threaten to overwhelm her, but she felt something else, too – she felt the old power in her blood. She wasn’t as strong as she had been, perhaps, but then she didn’t have demons screaming in her head, either, and Crom Dhubh wasn’t whispering to her any more. She felt strong, fast and aware again. She had stolen Fachtna’s strength.

She heard them first: the sound of hoofbeats across the plain she had found herself on. She glanced behind her, knowing instinctively they had come from the south-west. They didn’t have to get much closer for her to recognise their ill-used steeds as the white-coated and red-eyed horses of the Otherworld. It took her longer to recognise the five riders as equally ill-used-looking Corpse People, their lime long since washed off by their trials. She placed her hands on her hips and waited for them to approach.

‘You!’ Ysgawyn spat at her. Britha understood the language like she understood her own.

The five riders circled her. Their mounts’ coats were covered in foamy sweat, their red eyes rolling, and more than one of them snapped at her with their wolf-like teeth. They used the horses to knock her around a bit. She understood it for what it was: intimidation, an attempt to establish dominance. She held her ground as best she could. She noticed Ysgawyn looking back the way he had come.

‘You should consider yourself lucky,’ he said, eyeing her naked body, ‘that we don’t have the time to take turns with you.’ He drew his sword. Notched, bloodstained and patchy with rust, the blade had obviously not seen much care recently. ‘We will just have to kill you instead.’

‘A choice all women would take rather than receive the ministrations of your cock, I suspect.’

He swung at her. Britha bent so the blade whistled over her, then straightened and grabbed his arm as he tried to pull it back for another blow. She yanked the arm hard, easily pulling Ysgawyn from his saddle and throwing him to the ground. The other Corpse People began to draw their swords. All of them appeared to have lost their spears.

‘I am a
dryw
!’ she all but shrieked at them in the voice of anger. She watched them shrink back and wondered how much of it was just nonsense, if what Fachtna had told her was true – that she’d had no magic. She did now, though, with his blood in her body. She pointed at Ysgawyn. ‘This one has already been punished for threatening a
dryw
. Who wishes to join him? Who would have woman, man and beast turn their backs on him?’

The other riders looked less sure, though they still had naked blades in their hands. Ysgawyn struggled to his feet, his fatigue self-evident. Every movement was a significant effort for him, but that effort was fuelled by his hatred. He swung the heavy blade at her two-handed. It was an easy matter for Britha to step to one side and he lurched forwards, off balance. Britha struck both his arms and he dropped his sword. She punched him to the ground and then reached down to pick up his sword.

‘You do not look after this as a warrior should,’ she said, examining the rusted, pitted blade.

Ysgawyn looked up at her. His animating anger was fading, but the burning hatred remained.

‘What are you frightened of?’ Britha asked. Ysgawyn just glared at her.

‘Andraste’s children,’ one of the other warriors said.

‘Is that why your numbers are so few?’

‘They are too numerous,’ the young warrior continued, ‘and even with weapons washed in the blood of heroes they are very difficult to kill.’

‘Not like running down unarmed landsmen and -women as they flee, then?’ Britha enquired.

‘Kill me, sacrifice me to your northern gods, just get on with it,’ Ysgawyn said, his voice so tired that Britha suspected he’d welcome death. She wasn’t feeling particularly merciful, however.

Britha ran the sword down her palm. The five men watched her nervously as a red line of blood appeared. Ysgawyn’s horse reared away from her. She wasn’t sure how she knew to do this, but she smeared the blood on the horse’s neck and then darted out of the way before it could bite her. The blood disappeared as if it had been sucked through the animal’s skin. In her mind she saw the horse calming, accepting her, and she thought of herself riding the horse. Finally she turned to Ysgawyn.

‘Take your armour off,’ she told him. She didn’t want his armour so much as the clothes underneath. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’

Britha gorged herself on what little food the five Corpse People riders carried with them but she still felt hungry. They watched her miserably. She was considering what they had told her. She had a mind to kill their horses, hamstring the warriors and then wait for their returned-to-life ancestors to find them. She found herself curious as to what would happen. These were the thoughts of a
dryw
, she decided. To seek knowledge, and power, and the Corpse People had put themselves well beyond any decent consideration with their own behaviour.

‘So what will you do now?’ Britha asked instead. Ysgawyn shrugged and looked to the south-west. He had been doing this since they found her. Britha followed his gaze. The sun was setting, just a faint glow on the horizon now. Britha squinted. She wasn’t sure, but she thought there might be movement to the south-west.

‘We’re going to find Bress,’ Ysgawyn said softly.

His name was like a dagger. She was overcome with absurd guilt as she thought back to lying with Fachtna. She pushed the feeling down. It was ridiculous. She owed Bress nothing but death. She wished she had taken Fachtna’s sword with her. Unless more had survived than she had seen, it looked as though Bress was responsible for all but wiping out her people.

‘Did any survive the wicker man?’ she asked quietly.

‘Horse, armour, sword, spear and brand,’ said Ysgawyn. ‘Our enemies fell before us like wheat to a sickle. We weren’t terrified victims kept in our own filth. If this is what has become of us, what chance did the people in the wicker man have? They are either dead or afflicted with the sickness Andraste spreads. To think otherwise is to lie to yourself.’

Britha took this in. She became aware she was touching her stomach. Thinking of her child, one moment part of her, the next gone, but she had felt it nonetheless. She moved her hand away. Ysgawyn was watching her carefully. It was becoming clear to her that he had been made the
rhi
of his tribe as a result of his mind and probably his tongue, but not as a result of his sword arm.

‘Very well,’ Britha said quietly.

‘Very well what?’ Ysgawyn demanded, but tiredly.

‘I will come with you.’ If Fachtna had lacked the magics to take her back then perhaps it was a secret she could steal from Bress’s corpse. One thing she had decided: she was sick of the Otherworld’s presence in these lands.

‘I had thought you finished with me,’ Bress said.

‘I had, but I want to know what came through,’ Crom whispered in his ear like a lover. He was standing behind, always just out of sight, little more than a presence.

‘Why should I serve you again?’ Bress almost flinched as he felt a hand brush against him.

‘What do you want?’ The whisper sounded sweet, or it would have if Bress hadn’t known of the corruption it promised.

‘You know what I want.’

‘You could do that yourself.’

‘There would always be echoes.’

‘Do you want to go home? I will murder a sun for you. Lay it out on an altar and sacrifice it for your return.’

Bress could turn around, he supposed. He knew, even in this darkness, that he would be able to make out Crom Dhubh’s form, little more than a crooked shadow, a dark ghost so malformed it would hurt to look at him.

‘It’s not my home, I … we … changed it.’

The laughter was low and sickly. Bress knew that Crom Dhubh was weak now. What had happened inside the Muileartach had lessened him.

‘The Muileartach sleeps again. Her energy is spent. It will be years before she wakes again, millennia, but during that time, the sickness that infuses the human mind will leak into her, poisoning her, driving her mad.’

‘Why don’t you tell the others? Whisper it to their poisoned minds?’

‘They are too far beyond madness to hear me.’

‘And I find myself asking again – what do you want from me?’

‘What do I want? I am a servant, just like you—’

‘Of an idiot god stinging itself—’

‘Rail against it all you want, but we serve the same master. You were born for this.’

‘I don’t think I was born—’

‘If it’s someone from the
Ubh Blaosc
, if we can get to them before they are destroyed—’

‘We can find out where the
Ubh Blaosc
is. Why?’

‘Because they oppose us.’

‘For the Naga?’ Bress asked, spat and then wondered if he had spent too long in this land.

‘They are tools, nothing more. This wouldn’t have mattered if we had succeeded.’

‘Nothing would have mattered. I have a condition.’

‘The bargain is an illusion.’

‘Leave the woman be.’

‘Do you think she’s alive?’

‘Yes,’ he said simply. She had struck him as someone who wouldn’t stop fighting.

‘But she wants—’

‘I said, leave her be.’

‘You are a fool, but I agree.’

He felt the task he had been charged with settle into him like a weight. Initially it did not seem as bad as his previous task, but if he succeeded he could be responsible for so many more deaths. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to that. He just couldn’t see the point.

‘I tire of slavery,’ Bress said quietly.

‘That is a pretence, a lie we all tell ourselves. If we didn’t like it we would do something about it.’

Bress awoke in his cot. He sat up and saw his moulded ‘leather’ armour hanging from the framework of the skin tent. He pushed the fur blanket aside and stood. He had to find one or two people in this whole, empty land. He would have to ride to the stones and try tracking them from there. That said, if they had access to the stones, there was a good chance that whoever they were would be coming for him. The age of gods was over, and there weren’t many with the blood of ‘heroes’ in this part of the world.

Still
,
he thought, at least he had something for his army of blood slaves to do. Though first he’d have to find some horses.

She made Ysgawyn ride behind Gwynn, the youngest of the Corpse People, and she took his horse after mastering it with her blood magic. They found a well-trodden road, one that looked like it had been used much for trade, judging by the grooves wagon tracks had dug in the hard-packed dirt. There was nobody on the road today. The road climbed up onto a ridge line looking down on woodland, farmland and patches of swampy lowland.

Behind them was the plain. Britha could just about make out the large circle of stones. She assumed it was where she had appeared. Beyond that the land looked wrong, dead, stunted, twisted and strange. She could see shapes moving across the plain. They looked larger than anything not living in the sea had any right to be, and their movement was all wrong.

The land before the creatures appeared to be normal but behind them was sourland. They were changing it, turning it from good, rich earth that could be sown and harvested by people into material for some other purpose. She saw smaller shapes as well, scattered over the plain, but always heading inexorably north.

The road on the ridge was taking them east. The beleaguered Corpse People did not know where Bress and the Lochlannach had gone, but they had last been seen sailing east away from the Isle of Madness. Ysgawyn’s plan was to head north and east, try to distance themselves from the Muileartach’s spawn. Where Bress went there would be stories for them to follow.

They travelled for weeks, finding only abandoned settlements and villages. Britha shamefully joined with the Corpse People in scavenging for supplies.

They came across a hill fort guarded by spear-carriers. All their warriors had ridden east to fight the army of giant serpents coming from the south. Britha and her companions were refused hospitality because someone from within recognised the Corpse People who had raided the Atrebates for many years. Ysgawyn cursed them, and told them there was no fighting what was coming, and that they were all dead anyway.

As they followed the road further north and east, they started to see more people using it. Nearly all of them were warriors who had either missed the chance to do battle with the Lochlannach or, shamed by running and hiding, were heading south. The warriors came from disparate tribes and there appeared to be an uneasy truce among them.

Britha and the others were cursed for cowards when it became apparent they were heading away from the spawn, which resulted in a series of challenges being fought along the road. Ysgawyn made sure they picked their victims very shrewdly, and each new victory meant that the dead warrior’s horse, armour and weapons were forfeit to the Corpse People. They took what they could use and traded the rest.

Ysgawyn made one miscalculation and another of the Corpse People died. Now only four remained: Brys and Gwynn – both of whom Britha was starting to like despite herself, Ysgawyn and Madawg. Madawg looked too frail to be a warrior, particularly after the ravages of the Corpse People’s flight. He was nearly silent, and his odd, narrow face had a complexion so sallow he looked ill. His dark hair was thin and receding. Despite his appearance, however, he was a cunning, vicious and very fast fighter. He’d won the challenge he fought because the other warrior had woefully underestimated him.