God of Clocks (40 page)

Anchor crouched, arms splayed, and met its charge with his own, slamming into the beast as it lowered its head to gouge him. It skidded backwards three paces and bellowed, but Anchor now had his arms wrapped around the creature's neck. He tightened his grip and lifted, heaving the beast up over his head and casting it down behind him. It scrambled in the bloody waters, snorting and huffing and trying vainly to regain its feet.

Anchor turned to see what came next.

The Icarates had so far held back their human slaves and machines, clearly unwilling to throw any more against the giant until they had to. Instead they now let the River of the Failed go forth.

It had adopted mostly the shapes of sword-wielding angels, a lesson learned from Carnival, and for the first time Anchor was worried. He knew he could not defeat this foe, and he wasn't sure if it would react to his orders as before. He called back over his shoulder to Harper. “You have something to hurt these things, eh?”

“Anything I do is more likely to piss them off.”

Anchor crooked his neck so that he faced the river men and yelled, “Stop there! Stay where you are or I'll beat you blue.”

The Failed did not even pause.

Anchor took a step back, glancing around for some way to evade them. He heard Isla's ship grumble to a halt behind him.

And then something in the skies caught his eye, a fleeting shadow.

Carnival landed hard in the channel between Anchor and the approaching warriors. Jets of bloody water leapt from the impact. She flexed her wings and straightened.

The Failed finally halted.

She watched them for a long moment, without speaking. Finally, she said, “Go back.”

The red figures hesitated.

She took a step towards them and snarled, “Or stay.”

Anchor felt the river pulling at his shins, drawing back towards the king's citadel. Red waters frothed and gurgled all around him, as scores of warriors simply collapsed back into the mire at their feet. A wave swept back up the channel, draining away from the scarred angel. Swelling as it retreated, it surged over the Icarates and their human slaves.

Carnival then strode forward.

And Menoa's priests turned and ran.

The mountain summit on the far side of Ayen's temple was not the same one Rachel had left behind. The black rock plateau looked identical, and the cairn behind her had not changed either, but now a sea of cloud hung below the mountain itself while the skies above it boiled with fire.

Great permanganate and silver blazes soared over her, undulating slowly against a vast black and starless void. She was still moving at unnatural speed, so she had no way to determine the true
frenzy of these heavenly flames. But her slowing heartbeat would show her soon enough.

In the center of the plateau, a withered old woman dressed in tattered sackcloth sat upon a three-legged stool. The hollows of her eyes stared intensely at the newcomer.

Rachel approached in measured steps, aware of the strain she was putting on her muscles, and desperate to maintain her heightened state for as long as possible. She had mere moments left before Time returned to its normal pace.

The old woman raised a hand. “You must not
rush,”
she said. “I won't allow human tricks. Not
here.”

Impossible.
The woman could not have spoken at this speed. Had the
focus
ing already worn off? Then why was Rachel still standing? She listened for her heartbeat and heard nothing. She opened her mouth.

“Ayen?” Her voice sounded normal.

“Did you really think you could kill
me
?”

A crash sounded behind Rachel. She spun round in time to see Hasp bursting through the temple door. Red eyes blazing, he rushed towards her.

She tried to
focus,
and failed.

“Wait,” Ayen said.

Hasp stopped. Halted three paces away from Rachel. He glared at the goddess, his face a hideous mask of glass and blood, his eyes like wounds.

“A parasite in your head?” Ayen observed. “How quaint. I could blink and extinguish it for you.” Her wrinkles parted to reveal small yellow teeth. “Shall I do that, demon?”

Rachel stared at her.

Ayen stood up. “Can't the demon speak?”

“He's not a demon,” Rachel said.

“Why else would Iril hide his mind from me if not to hide his murderous intent?”

“He's—”

The skies erupted in sudden blazing fury. Ayen screamed, “He is a demon and an assassin, and I can smell the Maze on his flesh.”

“No.”

Fires raged across the black void, bathing the mountaintop in a riot of clashing colours. The goddess shut her eyes and howled and thrust out her hands as if to ward the two intruders away.

“You know who he is,” Rachel said.

“I do not know him.”

Another, calmer voice came from behind Hasp. “Mother?” Alteus Menoa stood outside the temple door.

“Alteus?” Ayen opened her eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Mother.”

“Remove these people, Alteus.”

“You know who he is,” Rachel insisted. “His mind is hidden from you, but mine isn't. You know who he is.”

The flames in the sky diminished. Ayen sat down on her stool and stared at her hands for a long time. Finally she said, “How old is the world now?”

Menoa hesitated. “The world is still young, Mother.”

“No,” she replied quietly. “Tell me the truth, Alteus. I have been waiting here for a billion years, and now every soul in Heaven is dead.” Her tone became mournful. “Can't you see that?”

“Go back to sleep, Mother.”

“I won't wait for eternity again.”

Menoa walked towards her. “No time has passed since you purged Heaven,” he said, “not a single day. You're just confused. Go to sleep, and I'll close the door behind you.”

“No time?”

Hasp said, “You cast Time out of Heaven with the rest of us. Ulcis… Cospinol… Rys… Sabor… Mirith… Hafe… and me.”

She looked up. “Hasp?”

He nodded.

Menoa put his arm around the old woman. “I must go now, Mother. Time—”

“Time?”
she said, her voice hardening. “Time doesn't exist here, Alteus. I waited forever for your return. I watched Heaven wither and die. I…”

“Just a short while longer—”

“No!” The goddess shook him off and stood up again. “I can't take any more. You don't know what it feels like to spend eternity alone… with all that misery and regret.”

“Regret?” Menoa said. “They all betrayed you.”

“I forgive them.”

“No, Mother.”

“I forgive them, Alteus. I don't want to stay here alone anymore.” She started to walk away, but then faltered and almost fell.

Rachel rushed over to support her. The goddess felt as light as a cloud in her grip.

The old woman's thin fingers trembled on the assassin's arm. She lifted tearful eyes to meet Rachel's own. “Will you help me outside?” she begged.

Rachel put her arm around her. “Of course I will.”

The goddess of light and life sniffed. She glanced at Hasp again. “Let's see what's become of the world.”

Rebecca woke with a feeling that she was in deep trouble yet again. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window in the eastern wall of her cell. Her gluey eyes took a moment to focus on the smashed panes. It had been a charming representation of a field of flowers before she'd broken it. Motes of dust now drifted before the glass blooms, changing from pink to blue to gold.

She yawned and rose from her bed and flexed her wings. The
water bucket lay on its side next to a rumpled heap of her clothing. She dragged on the leather tunic and breeches, kicked open the door to the balcony, and strolled outside.

A hot afternoon. The flagstones warmed her bare feet. She gripped the iron railing and gazed out over the chained city.

Smoke rose from the smouldering remains of Bridgeview, where Deepgate's arsonist had been busy again. There would be a body down there, she felt sure, the corpse torched to hide the method of his death. Not that the Presbyter of the Church of Ulcis would do much to investigate the crime. They knew more than they would ever admit.

Town houses crowded beside the chains in Lilley and Ivygarths, their white facades dappled by the shadows of trees. Beyond that lay the industrial Warrens, encircling the wealthier districts like a fuming collar, all chimney pots and slate. The League of Rope looked tired today, racked with gaps and gashes and even more dilapidated than usual. The scroungers hadn't even bothered to repair the damage from previous months.

A rattling sound came from the rear of her cell, followed by a series of sharp knocks on the stairwell door. “Rebecca? Are you awake yet? Do you know what day it is?”

It was one of the priests, of course. They were always wanting her to do something else for the Church. Rebecca climbed up onto the railing and then spread her wings and leapt straight out into the blue sky, her dark hair streaming behind her. She didn't know what day it was, but she also really didn't care.

The goddess blinked in the bright sunshine and looked down the mountainside to where Sabor's odd castle flickered like a bonfire. So that was where she had left Time!

Heaven had seemed so endless without it. And lonely, too. One eternity spent there had driven that message home.

Her two boys each held one of her arms to help her along, and she pretended not to notice the way they glared at each other. Alteus was young, and the young were moody. The boy would learn in good time. As for Hasp…

She squeezed his glass hand gently. Hasp had always been strong. Looks, after all, were just looks, but pain was much harder to heal. She had
Time
now to think about how to deal with that. All could be fixed in Time, and the assassin would help her, she felt sure.

Rachel Hael.

She suited that name.

How odd these people were! There was the ghost of an angel, a handsome and sturdy-looking fellow, though rather insubstantial in this daylight. That little man in the rumpled suit could hardly stand straight. Those soldiers would not even look her in the eye. And there was a girl with skin to match Hasp's own, and a hideous little dog who looked vaguely familiar.

It took the group most of the morning to descend the steps leading to Sabor's castle. Ayen stopped several times to sit and admire the view—the silver lake, the sunlit plains beyond. Her pretty flowers hadn't changed at all. But, of course, for her no time had passed. She made a subtle gesture, lifting the breeze from that faraway meadow, and the air instantly filled with a luxurious scent. Rather too overwhelming, she decided. Perhaps a forest would look better there instead?

As they approached the castle doors, she said, “So many universes created from a single mistake. We must allow them to die out naturally, of course. There's only room in the continuum for one to survive.”

“This one?”

“If you like.”

Rachel gazed up at the castle. “How long will the other timelines take to die?”

Ayen shrugged. “That depends on the damage done to them. Most will wither away quite quickly, but others might survive for millennia.”

“So anything can still happen in those other worlds?”

“For a while, at least.”

H
arper could hear Anchor's roars of laughter from the back of the bar, even over the ruckus made by the other patrons. They had been here for about three or four months now, she reckoned, but then the passage of time was hard to judge in Hell. She had just ordered another drink when she heard a shout from the door.

“We found another one!” A wiry little man with three days of stubble was leaning into the main saloon. Harper recognized him as one of the submarine captains from the battle of the Ninth Citadel, but couldn't recall his name.

The surrounding crowd all scrambled for the door in their haste to get outside, but the engineer waited until her drink arrived before joining them.

Outside, a broad terrace overlooked the Maze. The tavern itself was still creeping over a vast area they had started calling The Chessboard on account of the regular patterns of quadrangles found here. Dividing walls constantly crumbled under the building's foundations as they moved from one flooded square to the
next, leaving a series of gaps in their wake. A bloodmist rolled across the landscape half a league away, heading for the remains of an Icarate temple.

The bar patrons had crowded along one edge of the terrace, all jostling and arguing cheerfully with one another, but Harper couldn't tell what it was they were clamouring to see. Recently they had rescued all sorts of strange refugees from the surface of Hell: men, demons, angels, ghosts, and machines. The barman, Tooks, and his new hook-fingered apprentice ran a sweepstakes between them, but Harper hadn't participated with the other clientele. The objects they threw into the pot as bets were not always things she wanted to win.

This time it was just a man. The crowd made way for him as he climbed up onto the terrace. From his bronze armour shoulder guard, she guessed that he had been another one of the gladiators who had escaped the Soul Collectors' arenas after Menoa's great fortress fell. He possessed a lean, hard-muscled frame, and quick blue eyes. One of the tavern patrons slapped him on the back, and led him towards the bar, while the others roared and argued over their sweepstakes winnings.

Harper went back inside.

The gladiator was sitting on a stool at the bar counter. She went over and sat down beside him. He turned his head and leered at her, then snorted and faced the bar again.

“Can I get you a drink?” she said.

“Get me some of that black stuff.” He pointed to a jar of the vicious brew Tooks had made from smashed and boiled Maze wall. More often than not, it left the drinker insane.

“That's rotten,” Harper said. “I've got something better for you.”

She took out a small bottle from inside her jacket and set it down on the bar.

“What's that?” the man asked.

She smiled. “That's the good stuff.”

Alan Campbell was a designer and programmer on the vastly successful Grand Theft Auto computer games.
God of Clocks
is his third novel.