Etherwalker (14 page)

Enoch decided to ignore their teasing and instead scratched thoughtfully at the creatures’ pointed ears. Her eyes waned into slits.

“There was a statue in the commons at Rewn’s Fork. I . . . I don’t know if it even stands anymore, now that those monsters have passed through. It was nothing so grand as any of the monuments I have seen here in Babel, but I remember looking at it often as my master did business with the townsfolk. It was cut from the native stone—rough and blocky—but it was beautiful. I used to think it was an angel, but now I know it was an Alaphim, kind of like the one I just saw over in the market. But scarier. All dressed in armor, with a sword in one hand and a man’s head in the other. She was holding the head high in the air like a trophy.”

Rictus nodded his head in recognition, raising a finger in the air.

“Sounds like the Alaphim Princess Mesha Frost, also known as the
Blue Valkyrie
. She was the first to uncover the treachery of the Arkángels, and she killed the traitor who started it. He was her lover.”

“Master Gershom said that the statue was called ‘Mesha Triumphant’—and that it should remind me to always treat women with respect. Or else.” Rictus chuckled at that. Enoch cupped the shadowcat’s pointed face in his hand and looked into the deep, moonlight eyes.

“I’ll call you Mesha.”

“Alright,” remarked Cal, rolling his eyes, “let us move on to what is behind door number three!”

Enoch could see no other doors in the room other than the one they had come in through, but he decided to open the closet door anyway. A cool draft welcomed him as the door creaked open to reveal—nothing. The cluttered darkness of a forgotten closet. Enoch turned to face Cal, hands on his hips.

“Okay, I get it. More fun with the shepherd. There’s nothing here.”

Cal turned to Rictus, an impatient look on his face.

“Does he always jump to conclusions so fast?” He shot Enoch an irritated glance. “Pull the cord, foolish boy. Of course you can’t see with the light off.”

Enoch narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then turned back to the closet. He reached around until encountering a piece of twine dangling from the ceiling. With a click, yellow light filled the space.

Strange objects—broken odds and ends, refuse from the tavern, and some dust-covered shapes which Enoch suspected were abandoned prosthetics—were stacked against the walls reaching up to the ceiling. Enoch’s hair stood on end as another chill draft passed over him. It came with a metallic odor, oil-blue and tangy. At the back of the room was a staircase leading down into more shadow. This was where the draft had originated. Cal’s voice came from the other room.

“See that staircase, boy? Leads right down to the roots of the city. Who knows what we might find amidst Babel’s twisted toes, eh?”

Enoch turned excitedly around, almost dislodging a surprised Mesha.

“Is there a passage to the north?”

Infected by the excitement, Sal started jumping up and down in his hammock, hooting.

Rictus was shaking his head, arms crossed. Cal noticed and smiled.

“Slow down there, etherwalker. Don’t go jumping ahead of yourself again. We are going to have to wait until nightfall—I got business to take care of now. And don’t you think of taking off without old Cal. You’ll get lost after your first ten steps down there without me.”

Enoch slumped to the floor. “Well, what will we do until then?”

Cal’s smile broadened, the dry wrinkles on his face webbing up like shattered glass.

“Go back into that closet and bring out the long, black case marked ‘Fender.’ I think it’s about time Rictus made it up to me for bringing trouble to my doorstop.”

Rictus tilted his head as Enoch went to retrieve the case.

“It’s been a long time, Cal. I’m sure you can pipe rings around me with that flute of yours.” Rictus nodded towards the odd-angled conglomeration of flutes and whistles bolted to Cal’s harness. Cal rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“You think that the fine clientele of the Headsman’s Hole are going to pass up a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the return performance of the Dogfish Knights?”

Enoch set the oddly shaped case in front of the specter, watching with fascination as the bony hands caressed the black leather case and the bronze lettering. The clips holding the case closed flipped up smartly with little puffs of dust. Rictus let out a low whistle as he raised the lid.

“Now that is a fine axe, my friend.”

The cherry red guitar gleamed silkily in the electric light, casting molten reflections up into the specter’s grin. Rictus lifted it gently, carefully, cautiously—as though it were babe in his arms. Or a scorpion.

Enoch had seen simple wooden guitars before, carried around by wandering minstrels that passed through Rewn’s Fork. But this instrument! It almost seemed a living creature, curved and gleaming. There was a slight popping noise as Rictus plugged the long black cord that hung from the guitar into his LifeBeat. A low, sinister hum filled the room.

Rictus looked up from the guitar, the strange grin on his red-lit face sending chills up Enoch’s spine.

“Show me to the stage, Cal. I’m gonna break this baby in.”

Chapter 10

“Then was Gucumatz filled with joy.

Thou art welcome,

Oh Heart of the Sky,

Oh Hurakan,

Oh Streak of Lightning,

Oh Thunderbolt!”

—Popol Vuh 1:15, Maya-Quiché Genesis, New Century Revised Edition

The war-drones were uncomfortable in these lofty passageways, betraying their nervousness with an absentminded clicking of mouthparts. Mosk gave them the claw sign of
Death for Cowardice
and the sound stopped immediately. The Silverwitch who followed him nodded in approval. Kai had been a wonderful and unexpected find, appearing at the end of their fruitless search with news of the Pensanden.

The entourage had been slowly winding up through the belly of this famed Tower for over an hour now, and the King regaled them with a seemingly endless supply of anecdotes and historical background for each branch and tunnel they passed through. The exotic tapestries and carpets which lined the walls and floor, signs of Babel’s position as the crossroads of this primitive land, did an admirable job of disguising the true nature of the Tower. As the group rose higher and higher up, evidences of the incomplete and decrepit nature of the edifice became more apparent. Entire walls were open to the sky. The King called them balconies, acting as though they were deliberate acts of architecture, and took advantage of each of these openings to admire the view of the sparkling city sprawled out below them in the darkness.

Kai finally spoke.

“King Nyraud, I begin to suspect that we are taking a less-than-direct path towards your council room. While we are not unsympathetic toward your concepts of hospitality and exhibitionism, our patience does have its limits.”

Several of the more foolish of the King’s courtiers gasped at the creature’s tone—
that one would talk so to the Hunter King!
Nyraud covered their sounds with laughter, and bowed to the Silverwitch and the Swarmlord with a flourish. The torches had gone out in this most recent section of “balcony,” and the gesture would have been lost in the wan moonlight if not for the King’s cape. The garment flowed over his shoulders in a cascade of pelts from a dozen rare and deadly beasts, scintillating indigo, silver, and cream.

“My apologies, august Hiveking. My lady. Your memory of this crumbling excuse for a castle serves you well—I am indeed taking a slightly more
scenic
route towards the council room. Your troupe, your . . . your
swarm
arrived in my city without warning and caught me entirely unprepared for such a venerable guest. Having been away at business in the east, I only returned this morning to learn of your arrival. Even now my servants are scurrying to prepare proper quarters befitting you and your—”

“It has been too long since blackspawn bled this rotted city,” interrupted Mosk. In the stunned silence that followed this, the dry rustling of the Coldman’s toothy mouthparts could be heard above the sound of the wind through the balconies. Nyraud took a step back. Kai put a slender hand on Mosk’s arm and smiled.

“King Nyraud, if the Swarm was indeed staying here, it would mean that your reign is ended and the Vestigarchy is again assuming control of Babel,” her eyes narrowed. “blackspawn do not stay unless they have first prepared their own ‘proper quarters’ with blood and fire. We are not venerable guests, and the only reason your stain of a city isn’t in embers right now is because we don’t have time to burn it properly.”

All pretense gone, Nyraud’s face lost the mask of noble congeniality and assumed a form more befitting his features. His personal guard recognized the hungry look—the Hunter’s Gaze—and in seconds had escorted the speechless courtiers from sight.

King Nyraud took a step back; not a retreat, but preparation for a pounce.

“Witch, you haven’t burnt my city. You haven’t prepared anything with ‘blood and fire.’ And your threats, while frightening, are empty when your need of me is so obvious.”

Nyraud’s voice was cool and quick.

“Let me be more plain,” he continued. “There is only one thing that would bring the Hunt to Babel. Only one thing that would bring the Hiveking to me.”

He leaned forward, predatory and direct. Mosk tilted his head curiously.

“Who is this Pensanden?” Nyraud whispered. “Why would he be in my city? And do you need him alive?”

Chapter 11

“The sky, the wind, the rising thermals—we know a poetry that is new to man.”

—Keyden Roth, Alaphim Roostmaster

It was evening, with a few thin clouds scattered over the far western mountains like sparrow down. A gentle murmur of wind stretched through the Spire with familiar ease.

Several angels had perched on the western cornices with their wings outstretched, capturing the last moments of sunlight flowing warm and purple over the distant Edrei. Sera was struck by how
small
the Alaphim seemed against the jutting spires and girders of her home.

So small and so few.

She knew that the Alaphim were suffering, that the Nests had been empty for over a decade now. Even in her relatively short lifetime here at Windroost Spire, Sera had noticed the numbers dwindling—ancient perches, carved with family names stretching back to the First Hatching, now gathered dust. It made her feel sad. Hopeless.

And maybe a little guilty for risking our treaty with Nyraud just to spy on his Garden.

She reflexively reached back to the space where her ponytail had once hung.

Well, I paid for it.

Sure, the treaty with King Nyraud kept them free from hunter arrows, even allowed them access to the Babel markets. It was a good thing not to have to worry about their “downstairs neighbor,” especially when the rest of the world couldn’t seem to forget that Vestigarchy extermination order. Or the current market price for angel feathers. But the treaty didn’t solve the Alaphim empty nests.

The Spire felt emptier every year.

Meaning more responsibility falls upon young angels who should be allowed to play instead of patrolling.

After returning from Babel that morning, Sera had taken the metal scraps they had purchased over to the molting perch. She then forced herself to remain silent as Boneweaver Skek scolded and complained about the poor condition of the metals they had brought her. Skek, it seemed, took personal umbrage to the fact that fine metals, pure metals, weren’t delivered to her perch by grateful royalty every morning. Apparently, she had been listening to Lamech’s stories of “the way it was” before the Schism. For the first time, Sera understood why her father had warned her about spending too much time wrapped up in the old angel’s tales.

Because being Alaphim used to mean something. Because we used to have a place in the world.

Sera spread her wings and glided down to a lower platform. After unloading the scrap metal, her bag felt much lighter. She had one more delivery, the one she had saved for last as a personal reward for dealing with Skek. And the one that she probably wouldn’t tell father about.

I can be quick—Lamech’s perch isn’t far from here, and I can ask him to keep it brief.

Windroost Spire had not always been an angel sanctuary. According to Lamech, it was really the unfinished tip of a massive
spaceship
intended to travel to distant worlds. After the Betrayal, when the Arkángels brought the combined wrath of the Vestigarchy against their own kind, refugees from several of the fallen Spires had discovered this place. It was a discovery that saved their lives, and, as far as Lamech knew, had preserved their kind. Who would think to search for Alaphim in the tower of the king who had personally slain hundreds of them? Who, at the first word from the coldmen, summoned his own personal guard, rode at top speed to the southernmost corner of the Reaches, and toppled ancient Fullwind Spire? Nyraud’s grandsire’s hatred for the angels was famous, and it gave Sera a grim satisfaction to know that her people were brave enough and clever enough to use his own misunderstood “tower” against him.

And they didn’t just hide here. They discovered that much of the tip was inaccessible to those living in the platforms of the tower below. And
all
of the tip was inaccessible to a king unwilling to use the few mechanical lifts which still functioned in his palace.

So Windroost had stayed hidden for a time, at least until King Maloch died. The boneweavers had power to work their magic, and the refugee angels scoured the skies for any of their brethren who may have survived the Fourth Hunt. Those few who returned had to be instructed on the new rules, on how to survive and stay hidden. It had been a hard time.

Not that things are much better now. Maloch’s grandson is certainly a better king than even his father, more open to exploring and familiarizing himself with the dying tek of his tower—but nobody is fooled into thinking that his alliance with us is based on anything other than his own ambitions. Why else would he request patrols into the north, past Jabbok and skirting the Old Cities? We may have lost as many angels running his blasted scouting missions as we would have without the treaty!

These gloomy thoughts were quickly chased away as Sera neared Lamech’s perch. It was situated over the crown of something he called “the navigation bridge.” Shaped like a crescent moon, the space was more complete than much of the tip upon which Windroost Spire was located but because of its location and placement at the lowest wing, had been ignored until he settled there. It was fully paneled and had a complement of luxurious benches and desks—all anchored sideways to the wall that would become a floor after launch, but impressive nonetheless. Lamech used them as shelves for his metal books. With these books, he had answers to just about any question Sera could think of. And she had tried to stymie him.

Sera smiled to remember his perplexity when she asked why the Tzolkin Core had built (or tried to build) the Ark in this place. Lamech had frowned, ran an errant finger through his sparse primaries, and then stood in a rush. In seconds he had the right book, and the always-confusing answer:

The tower was only part of what would be a “colonization vessel.” Heavier elements had been constructed and assembled in orbit around the planet and would be attached after launch, but because of “necessary structural tests for gravity” and “high-volume storage of concentrated volatiles” much of the ship’s body had to be built and launched from this facility, which later became Babel. Apparently the complex natural cave system winding through the terrain here allowed for a more efficient adaptation of “subterranean heat-deflection and umbilical structures.” Sera didn’t understand much of the magical words Lamech used, but they were fun to say.

She pulled her delivery out of the bag and gave an entry whistle. A familiar shuffling came from inside the perch. Lamech was obviously in the middle of an exciting read, and was torn between leaving the book and seeing a rare visitor.

“Yes, who is it?” came the cracked reply.

“It’s Sera, Lamech. I’ve come with a gift and a question.”

There was a pause, a noise which sounded like fingers tapping against the wall, and then a sigh. The clank of metal against metal, a book being set against the floor.

Sounds like he’s decided the book can wait. I’m in luck.

“Come on in, child. Your father was here earlier. Very polite, your Hatchsire. Said something about not wasting your time. I’ll have to remember that. Only tell you the important stories now.”

Sera laughed. Lamech had a tendency to see any social interaction exactly as he wanted to see it. She followed the old angel into his perch, squinting in the dim light.

Lamech was well into his third century now, at a stage when the boneweavers no longer spent metal on “unnecessary upkeep.” He had lost many of his feathers, and Sera could see knobs of brass protruding from his curved spine. His hair had receded behind his ears, and the once midnight-blue was now threaded with bright silver. Lamech’s eyes were still quick, and the wrinkles around his ring-mounts accented every expression.

We are even beautiful in our waning years.

“Okay, fledgling. First the gift, then the question. This is how we do things now in Windroost Spire. Times are hard.”

Sera smiled—this was the same thing Lamech said on every visit. It made it sound like the “hard times” were a regrettable but temporary situation, and that at any other time Lamech would be willing to share his tales at no cost.

“Here you go. The gift is something I found in the market this morning, and my question comes tied to it.”

She handed him the carved wooden beast. It was a sandy brown and covered with exquisite detailing—tooled fur resolving into stylized curling locks which flowed across the toy’s stout form. Sera’s ears had perked up at the vendor’s pitch for “exquisitely carved toys in fine wood! Beasts from beyond the sandy seas! Manticores, Grems, and Ur’lyns, come buy!”

Now she could ask about these Ur’lyns without revealing her visit to Nyraud’s Garden. Now she could find out what sort of monster he kept.

Lamech lifted the carving and held it up to the waning sunset light which trickled orange into the room. He nodded his head.

“Not a bad representation, but the pose is all wrong. The Ur’lyn don’t stand on their hind legs like a man. They are largely quadrupeds, but have been known to pull back onto their haunches when fighting.”

Sera smiled. Of course Lamech knew this.

“What is an Ur’lyn, Lamech?”

Lamech turned the carving in the light, admiring the way the textured fur caught the sun.

“Like many of the ‘monsters’ of our world, the Ur’lyn are merely a misunderstood remnant of the times before the Schism. You remember the story of the blackspawn, don’t you child?”

Sera nodded.

“They were originally bred to fight in the gladiator pits, right? For the entertainment of the Pensanden?

“Oh, not just for the etherwalkers. The entire world enjoyed these bloodsports. And while there were strict, civilized rules against humans competing in such events, the Pensanden had their gene-crafters create warriors who
almost
seemed human, at least in their cleverness. Their sadism.

“The Ur’lyn were a combination of several distinct predatory animals—animals which are now long gone. Their names: Lion. Tiger. Bear. Names which bore the legendary sound of fear and nightmare for most of mankind’s history. And now they are summed up in a race which is, like our own, falling into extinction.”

For some reason, this made Sera sad. The beast she had seen in the Garden was rare. Was special.

Like me.

“Why is it . . . I mean, why are they going extinct?”

Lamech put the carving down on the table beside him and turned to look at Sera. One eyebrow raised, he continued.

“In all my years of patrolling through the southern deserts, south of Midian and beyond, I only came across a single pack of Ur’lyn. I took the chance to land and speak with them, and, as I am prone to do, question them about their own history. The creatures speak using their forepaws, Sera, since their mouths are too full of fang to form words we could understand. I spent the better part of a year learning their language. It is simple and poetic—the language of a noble savage.”

“They speak? The Ur’lyn are intelligent?”

“Oh yes, much more so than their later rivals. The blackspawn were only given cunning, only given the part of human thought which could scheme to fill hungers. This was done as a reaction to the Ur’lyn, who many thought had been given too much of the human sensibilities. Why would a gladiator need to empathize with his opponent? Or consider the morality of his battles? These were not things that the gene-crafters
deliberately
included in the Ur’lyn psyche, simply an effect that they lacked the skill to control in their early creations. They learned control with the blackspawn. None of the angst, just quick and decisive bloodshed.”

Lamech brought the toy Ur’lyn up to his eye and flipped down a magnification lens. The detailing on the creature’s face made him smile.

“As murderous as they were, these new insects-come-gladiators still couldn’t compete one-to-one against the ferocity forged over millennia. It still took an entire Clot of the coldmen to down a mature Ur’lyn. Why, I could read you some tales of incredible battles—”

“You were telling me why they are dying out.”

“Yes, yes, I was. Did I mention that I learned their paw-language?”

Sera tried not to be impatient. This is how talks with Lamech tended to go lately.

“Yes, you did. You said it was simple and—”

“Poetic! A beautiful way of speaking! And it allowed them to hunt while conversing, to silently compose an approach from which no prey could escape. The Ur’lyn were consummate hunters—”

“ . . . and are now dwindling because . . . ?”

“Yes! Dwindling. Oh yes. Because they became mystics.”

“Mystics?”

“Quite. The Ur’lyn carry the bloody memories of their ancestor-races—something they call the Red Instinct. These memories will seize hold of an Ur’lyn when hunting, or in battle, and transform the creature into an unstoppable blur of claws and fangs. Very effective in the arena. But when the instinct fades, and the blood cools, the Ur’lyn have to face the death they have wrought with a moral consciousness which nature never meant for them to have. This contradiction harrowed the poor creatures to the point of despondency. It is one of the reasons the blackspawn were created in their place, for the short ‘battle life’ of an Ur’lyn before this hopelessness set in was highly inefficient. The Pensanden dislike inefficiency.