The Heretic Land (48 page)

‘I should have helped you,’ he said, meaning what he had seen between her and her husband.

‘I could have helped myself, if I’d needed to. Besides, Sol would have killed you, and I would have never forgiven myself.’

‘I should have
helped
you.’

‘You have helped me.’ Leki’s tears touched his cheek.

The sense of the world being turned upside down and inside out settled, and in its place was a dreadful, foreboding silence.
Something is watching us
, Bon thought, and the skin on his arms and the back of his neck prickled.

‘It’s horrible,’ Leki whispered, because she felt it as well.

The fragment of Aeon’s heart was cooling between them. Bon shifted slightly to touch it, and Leki clasped his arms as if he were moving away.

‘I think now,’ he said. His voice quivered. The fear was terrible. What would he find remaining of Aeon? And what was staring at them?

Bon opened his eyes.

They had come to rest
against several dead Skythians, whose sightless eyes watched what happened. Perhaps they were the more fortunate ones.

He looked around the dawn-lit battlefield. It was taking on colour with the sun, and the predominant hue was red. The ground was sucking in the blood, the snow wet with it. Fires were still crackling, and beyond them he saw the body of Aeon.

It moved, casual and slow as ever. Alive!

But then, to his right, between where they lay and the river bridge still piled with bodies, he saw what had become of everyone else.

‘Bon,’ Leki whispered, because she had seen as well. ‘Are they …? Can they really be …?’

‘I’ve been so wrong,’ Bon said. ‘It wasn’t Aeon’s demise that made them, but Aeon itself. Aeon made the Kolts.’

The Kolts were standing, grabbing weapons, and all of them had changed, Spike and Skythian alike. They wore the same clothes and were the same shape, but were no longer the same people. They did not fight. Faces filled with hate, eyes with fury, skin glowing with red rage, mouths grimacing and teeth begging the feel of weak skin and wet flesh, the Kolts scanned the battlefield once, and then ran away towards the south. There was no organisation here, and no orders being called. These things had been born, and would live and die, alone.

One purpose. One aim.

‘They’re going to kill everything,’ Bon said.

‘What about us?’

Bon touched the object between them, cooling now. And he watched Leki, ready to hold her again should she crumple and descend into grief. He had seen her husband, changed from the soldier he had been to the mindless, driven killer Aeon had made him. Walking dead, Sol was gone from a man to a monster.

‘Why?’ Leki
asked. But already Bon was trying to see what might happen next.

Father
, Venden said in his mind. Bon gasped, and Leki looked at him.

‘He’s talking to me,’ Bon whispered.

One last request of you both
.

Bon looked past the battlefield and beyond the fires at Aeon, virtually motionless in the pristine snow. ‘It’s not over,’ he said.

Leki clasped his hand. ‘Then whatever comes, we do it together.’

Sol Merry ran, seeking something to kill. Others ran around him, but not with him. A woman with a bandage around her neck, a tall man. Some looked alike, others were shorter and wilder, different. But only on the outside. On the inside they were all the same, and the proof of that was not long in coming.

They came across the group hiding on the leeward side of a small hill. Twenty adults and thirty children, they quickly fell beneath sword and spear. Sol slashed and stabbed, the daemon within relishing the blood that bathed him and the gore that splashed in the snow at his feet. He felt the sting of weapons striking him and merely brushed others away, not even blinking as his arm snapped the arrow shafts, his roar bent swords – his fury exerted a terrible weight, but the ability was no surprise. He turned and went after the attacker, but she had already been taken down by two others like him.

Sol heard the screaming, the pleading. He mimicked the sound, his voice surprisingly high, and it rose into a bloodthirsty scream as he thrust his sword deep into a woman’s chest. He ducked a sword and fisted the swordsman in the face, then turned to gut him. Kneeling, hacking through the hot remains, Sol picked out the choicest morsel and pressed it to his mouth. His eyes rolled as he bit the slippery liver in half.

The rage was hot, the
daemon on fire. It thrummed through him, pulsing in his toes and fingers, head and knees, stomach and back, and he painted it across the landscape in blood.

The slaughter was soon over, and Sol and the others ran on.
Kolts!
he heard some of their victims shouting. He knew the word and felt its comfortable fit. He nurtured the killing and the rage, along with the daemon settled within him. Running south, he soon lost sight of anyone else like him. But sometimes, from left or right, he heard an occasional shout of surprise, and a scream, and then silence as another Kolt made a kill.

His mind was red, and nothing else. A blind purpose drove him on.

Juda walked across the
frozen landscape and felt watched every step of the way. Sometimes he thought he caught sight of the man he followed – the man he knew was him – but other times he thought perhaps it was only a shadow. Never close, always half hidden from view, the wraith drew him south.

Deep, thunderous sounds echoed in from the north. They were so much a part of the landscape that they did not register with him for some time. There were snow and ice, trees and rocks, small birds and an occasional larger creature. There was a grey sky and high crags, a smudge of sun in the east, and that momentous cracking sound, like giant rocks being crushed together many miles away. Juda paused until the noise rumbled in again, and he thought he felt a slight shock through his feet. He could not be certain. It was very cold. He wondered at the size of the impact to be felt through the ground. Glaciers cracking, perhaps. Ice cliffs falling.

How far away?
he wondered. He glanced back at the mountains in the hazy distance. They looked like a memory.

Juda walked on, disconcerted
rather than afraid. It was hard going, because his feet sank into the deep snow, and soon he had to rest. He was already exhausted. The shadow he followed rested as well, leaning against a tree and not moving at all while Juda stared at it. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, welcoming the weak sunlight on his face. When he looked again, the shadow had moved position.

I’m following
, he thought, talking to the shadow from his dreams.

And then he remembered his dreams, and for the first time in years they were a long way from nightmares. There was repetition in following the man up hills and down, as if he were remembering the same walk again and again. There was constant cold, ice caves containing unknown things, and the ground opening and giving birth to huge glaciers. But his half-Regerran blood must have frozen in Skythe’s sudden winter, because the dreadful nightmares that had haunted him for so long seemed to have withered away.

Something was driving, and luring, him south. A compulsion he could not quite identify, and a sense that everything important was happening there, not here.

As the sun painted the eastern horizon a gorgeous array of reds and oranges, there was also the shadow following him. It was more obvious than the shape he pursued, though further away. He recognised his own gait, and his own shape. He saw himself.

Wondering if the man before and the man behind were thinking the same things, Juda hurried on towards something momentous.

‘Oh Venden, my sweet son,’ Bon said, and he could not tear his eyes away from the terrible sight. He had seen this once before, but now his son’s agony was plain to witness as he manifested from Aeon’s hide, squirming and writhing against the god’s embrace. As his mouth formed his scream came, a gargled, distant thing at first, then something that roared to life across the silent battlefield. It brought sound to the grisly scene.

‘Be strong,’ Leki
said, holding Bon’s hand. ‘Be brave. He’s come to tell us something important.’

‘Why can’t Aeon tell us itself?’ Bon asked, and just for that moment he hated Aeon. ‘It spoke to me before. Why can’t it just let us
know
?’

‘I think it’s tired,’ Leki said. ‘It’s barely moving. You heard Venden in your mind, but perhaps that takes great effort. This way must be easier.’

Easier to torture and mutilate what is left of my son
, Bon thought, but he did not speak what was on his mind. Torture and mutilation was often the way of humankind. He only had to look around at the scene revealed by the dawn to acknowledge that. Perhaps it was the same for a being like Aeon.

Venden drew out and formed, rising up from a squat to the tall boy he had once been. ‘Nothing is won,’ he rasped. ‘Aeon has raised daemon-shadows from the depths, and tasked them, and they will surge southward to take away the Alderians’ means of controlling the Engines.’

‘You mean to kill them all,’ Leki said.

Venden’s eyes did not change. His expression was empty.

‘And will the Kolts go back down?’ Bon asked.

‘That is no concern,’ Venden said. ‘Halting the rise of Crex Wry is everything.’

‘You’re not only here to tell us that, son,’ Bon whispered. Venden’s head turned, just slightly.

‘The Kolts will not end the Engines. They will kill the Alderians. But two of the Engines are alight. One more, and the magic will come through, and Crex Wry will rise to claim its wretched soul. The land will grow
dark
. The world will
shudder
. Time itself will fall.’

There was urgency
in Venden’s voice, now. And perhaps fear.

‘What do you want us to do?’ Leki asked.

‘Three Engines are needed. Destroy the one not yet alight, and the others will die.’

‘How can we destroy an Engine?’ Bon asked. ‘Leki?’ He turned to her, hoping for an answer, or support, or some sign that she understood.

She stared at Aeon, seeming to witness something else.

‘Leki?’ he prompted.

‘You allow us to retain Aeon’s heart?’ she asked.

‘You must,’ Venden said.

‘Then we’ll follow the path of the Kolts, and find the Engine,’ Leki said. She turned to Bon. ‘We might not have much time.’

Aeon groaned. It was a terrible sound, like a huge edifice crumbling and collapsing, and the thing the Skythians called a god slumped to the ground. It touched so gently, yet an impact wave washed out from its bulk and kicked Bon’s feet from under him. He stumbled and fell, catching sight of Venden’s dissolution as he did so. A scream hung in Bon’s mind. But he was not sure whether he had truly heard it, or imagined it.

‘It
is
exhausted,’ Leki said, picking herself up. ‘Whatever it did to raise the Kolts …’ There was something strange about her voice now; heavier, lower. She carried a weight.

‘What is it?’ Bon asked.

‘We have to go. It’s all coming together for me, Bon. It’s all … I may know how to destroy the Engine. But time is short, so I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘We can follow the
trail of the dead.’

One of the shires had collapsed and died from exhaustion, the other had fled. So Bon and Leki started running through the snow, following the footprints of Kolts. Murderers, monsters, daemons, and things not of the world.

It started snowing again. Sol ran alone now, others having drifted apart from him as they raged southward. Occasionally he heard distant sounds of brief battle, and once or twice he caught the faint whiff of blood. His mind processed these sounds and smells, and little else. Personality was a nebulous thing, and he was all but absent from his own mind. Only the driving need to kill remained.

He came across a group of soldiers, all dressed the same and bearing weapons and sigils that he recognised. There were six of them. Surprised, they formed into defensive postures, then seemed to relax when he emerged from the swirling snow. He killed them all, a fury-filled daemon slashing and stabbing and spitting blood, screaming aside arrows and avoiding serious injury. The brief fight over, he started hacking at one of the female corpses. Armour and clothing discarded, skin and flesh and ribcage rent, he plucked the prize from its still-warm resting place.

The liver was rich and healthy, and Sol sucked it dry before chewing it into soft chunks.

Waving flies from the pouting lips of a wound across his chest, he ran on shirtless. Snow stuck to his chest hairs, ice formed across his cheeks and eyebrows. He saw others like him, and though they did not acknowledge each other, somewhere deep in his ruined soldier’s mind Sol recognised a confluence of routes, and a single aim that must be drawing them.

For the first time since being blasted into something new, Sol slowed down. His senses still raced, a frantic sprint that set him twitching as he stalked beneath low-hanging trees towards something hidden within the confines of the next valley. His mind raced ahead too, but some need, and a comprehension his lessened mind could not understand, urged caution.

Like hive ants closing on
prey, Sol and the other Kolts drew closer together.

Still wet with the blood of slain soldiers, Sol crested a rise and saw many more. They were arrayed protectively around a wagon, on which sat a strange construct. It was metallic, spiked with protruding parts, asleep yet sickly aware. A man in a grey robe sat close to it.
Engine
, Sol thought, and he was repulsed. But he would not turn and run when so many victims stood before him.

Someone screeched to his right, and the Kolt with a bandaged neck pounded downhill towards the soldiers. Arrows and crossbow bolts whistled at her, but she waved most of them aside. A rifle hissed and shot shattered her shoulder, but her pace did not slacken. She dodged a thrown spear, tripped, rolled, and then she was amongst them, slashing and furious as they fought back.

Sol uttered his own scream as he charged the small army. He could smell their livers, and he had only to open bodies to find them.