Timekeepers: Number 2 in Series (25 page)

He pulled his sword back, levelled at Thor’s heart.

‘Lucifer!’ screamed a voice in the darkness.

Sam turned. A darker figure stood at the end of the street, a drawn scimitar in one hand.

Seth.

Sam aimed the tip of his sword at Seth, feeling adrenalin and hatred give him new strength that couldn’t last.
Better not waste it, then?
‘You’re mine!’ he yelled. ‘If it has to end with your death, so be it! Everything else has been lost to me!’

And perhaps Seth saw that Sam meant every word, that he was bent on killing, because the dark figure at the end of the street turned and began to run. Sam hissed in hate and ran after, tossing a sphere of light and sending it ahead to orbit Seth’s head, showing his path up even though he tried to bat it away irritably with one hand. Sam didn’t know where they were headed. He simply knew that with Seth dead it would all be over. Cronus would sleep, the battle would be neither won nor lost and he could go free…

The black marble dome squatted in the fog. Sam saw Seth open the doors, and pelted after him. He ran into the dome, saw Seth look back, and heard the doors slam shut behind. He turned. Odin stood there, leaning heavily against the doors. Jehovah stepped out of a shadow, his face dark. Seth, panting for breath, grinned.

Sam looked from one conspirator to the other, before turning to Seth once more. ‘You,’ he hissed. ‘You brought it to this.’

‘Deal with him,’ snapped Seth to Jehovah and Odin.

Sam laughed. ‘Thor didn’t, and he’d sold his soul.’
But then, so has Jehovah, hasn’t he?

Seth simply shook his head and turned his back on Sam, walking slowly across the hall.

‘Stop!’ yelled Sam. Seth didn’t stop. Sam flung out a hand, catching him in magic. The effort left him exposed. He felt magic slam into him from Jehovah’s direction and staggered, struggling to clear his shields of the afterburn. Another ram of power from Odin and he fell to the ground, ice crawling across his skin.

Seth half turned in the doorway at the end of the hall and smiled. ‘I’ve won, Lucifer.’

‘You’re a fool,’ he managed to croak through his chattering teeth.

‘And I’ve struck gold,’ replied Seth.

‘Oh,
you’re
the stupid bastard who thought this was a good idea!’ said a friendly, expansive voice from the door. Every head turned, except Sam, who grinned a wild, manic grin.

Seth frowned. ‘Who are you?’

‘Me?’

Sam managed to crawl round enough to see Tinkerbell clearly. He was holding his ever-faithful crossbows, both bolts raised to point at Seth. ‘I’m the guy with the vengeance complex.’

For a blissful second, Sam actually believed Tinkerbell was going to shoot Seth and thought,
he’ll shield
. Then, in a movement almost too fast to see, Tinkerbell spun and pulled the triggers. Both bolts slammed into Odin, whipped him around, picked him off his feet and knocked him down on the floor, blood seeping through the two holes in his chest. Seth snarled, turning back and starting across the floor.

‘No!’ snapped Jehovah, stepping forward to block his way. ‘I’ll deal with these two.’

Seth hesitated, then nodded. ‘See that you do.’ He turned and ran across the floor. Sam saw a hand descend to his eye height. He took it gratefully and leaned on Tinkerbell. ‘Why’d you shoot Odin?’ he moaned. ‘You could have shot Seth.’

‘Odin,’ said Tinkerbell in a very quiet voice, ‘was the guy Loki went to for protection and safety. Odin sold Loki to Time.’

Sam looked down at Odin with the two bolts sticking out of his chest. The man was hardly breathing, his eyes were shut, but Sam could still sense life there. ‘Steel tipped?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yeah, but my axe is enchanted and should finish the job.’

Sam looked from the fallen Odin to Tinkerbell and finally to Jehovah. He staggered forwards a few paces, pushing Tinkerbell back. ‘Odin’s yours,’ he explained. ‘Jehovah’s mine.’

He saw a flicker of fear pass across Jehovah’s face.
Ah. For the first time you understand my power.

‘Let me pass, brother,’ said Sam.

‘You know I can’t.’

‘I’m going to kill Seth. Then there’ll be no one left to free Cronus. It’ll all be over. We can rest easy.’

‘You’ve lost, Sam. The Ashen’ia are dying, so is Seth’s army. Seth will free Cronus.’

‘I’ll stop him.’

‘You know you can’t.’

‘I
believe
that I can. So get out of my way.’

‘No. And I don’t think you have the strength to force me.’

Sam’s voice was on the edge of snapping, yet still he kept it level. ‘Odin lies dying, Thor too. You stand between me and survival.’

‘You never had a chance.’

‘Jehovah,’ said Sam, with a little sigh, ‘I’m going to be frank with you. I can’t win.’

Jehovah hesitated. He clearly hadn’t been expecting Sam to say that. Sam beamed. ‘But I can tell you something that may be to your advantage.’ Purposefully, he sheathed his sword, slid his dagger into its sheath and approached Jehovah. Jehovah shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, not sure how to react to this new side of Sam’s nature.

Sam leant forward and whispered in Jehovah’s ear. ‘Always fight dirty.’ He stood back, nodding at Jehovah eagerly, as if expecting feedback to this statement. When he didn’t get any he shrugged, sighed, and brought his knee up hard into Jehovah’s groin. As Jehovah crumpled with an indignant look on his face, Sam brought his elbow down across the back of Jehovah’s head and kicked his shin. Jehovah fell to the ground, red face and cheeks puffed up big with the pain. Sam squatted down next to him and hissed, ‘Sometimes it’s down to sheer common sense rather than
strength
, brother. Might is not necessarily right, and don’t forget it.’

He rose to his feet, glanced at Tinkerbell and smiled. ‘Jehovah’s weak spot. He always thinks in black and white.’

‘You don’t stand a chance,’ said Tinkerbell, awe in his voice.

‘I know,’ replied Sam brightly, opening the door at the far end of the dome and running through.

W
hoever built Tartarus had made it easy for the attackers to get to the key. Deliberately so, thought Sam. All you had to do was raze the city to the ground, sacrifice a few thousand soldiers and, in the confusion, slip through the back door. But then Time would have known that Tartarus wouldn’t keep a Waywalker out. He must have been counting on that fact.

Sam padded quietly down the long, dark corridors illuminated occasionally by a flickering torch, pausing here and there to push open doors as he passed. A few of the white people lay on the ground, dull red blood seeping from numerous wounds, but they weren’t dead. Merely regenerating, like a Waywalker. Unlike Waywalkers, it seemed, they could regenerate injuries caused by enchanted blades. It just took a lot of time.

There were other bodies too. Some Ashen’ia, and a few demons. Clearly Seth had sent troops into the corridors before he dared enter, cannon fodder to clear his safe passage. Sam felt bile and shame rise at the thought that one of his
brothers
could do this. The deeper he descended, the thicker the bodies became until the entire place reeked of death. Seth had sacrificed thousands to get into Tartarus and didn’t seem to care. Sam kept on walking, trying to shut his senses off from the bombardment of sights, smells and sounds around him, all of them dark.

A small, rather dull door was open ahead. He passed through it, and here the tunnels became more complicated, forking and dividing, twisting and turning like a maze. At every junction he came to, he chose the darkest, most foul-smelling one and ran down it with his eyes half-shut to try and not see what his brother had done.

He didn’t know how long he ran through the tunnels, which seemed to get smaller and narrower and more claustrophobic with each turn until he was squeezed between two dark walls that pressed against his shoulders and seemed to suck the breath from him. He ran on, heart thumping in his head.
Don’t panic, please don’t panic, stay calm, oh Time have mercy, I want to stay calm
…

‘Swing low, sweet chariot,’ he sung quietly under his breath.
That’s it. Music, calm, focus on singing.
‘Coming for to carry me home.’
Breathe, calm, relaxed, stay focused.
‘Swing low, sweet chariot –’

A door ahead. He pushed it open. Bright light beyond. Many torches burning with a pale cold flame. Wards on a heavy door torn to pieces, but Sam could see in just the afterburn of those wards that they had been thin, pale things to start with. Easy for a Waywalker to penetrate them.

And on a pedestal in a pool of still water, a single, small, brass key, tarnished by age. Seth leaning over it, reaching out hungrily.

‘Seth,’ said Sam, very quietly.

Seth glanced up and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh. You’re alive,’ he said, sounding disinterested. ‘Manage to kill Jehovah?’

‘Disable. Temporarily. You found the key, then?’

‘Yes. Not that impressive, is it? But then, the smallest things are usually the important ones.’

‘Doesn’t it occur to you that it was a little easy to find, for such a small thing?’ asked Sam, circling the pedestal slowly. Seth moved round the other side with equal wariness, his shrewd little eyes sparkling. His weapon was a scimitar, and Sam knew that somewhere about his person there was also a very small, neat stiletto. He still had the gall to wear his crown, though. A lavish gold thing, with spiky points and everything.
Mine never had spiky points
,
thought Sam bitterly.
Bastard son
…

‘I don’t expect anyone thought I’d get this far,’ replied Seth loftily. ‘I admit the Ashen’ia were a surprise, but my army will deal with them. I thought Thor would slow you down, but I never had any illusion that he’d stop you. I know you far too well. You wouldn’t let yourself be hindered by a simple thing like a Greater Power in a Waywalker’s flesh. You’ve spent too much time learning how to fight.’

‘You’re an arrogant bastard, you are,’ muttered Sam. ‘But I’ll try anyway, Time knows why. Literally.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You were
meant
to find the key. It’s so that someone Cronus trusts will open the door to his prison.’

‘Excuse me if I’m not entirely convinced,’ said Seth in his urbane, easy-going drawl.

‘Oh, you really are an idiot, aren’t you? They
want
Cronus out, so that
I
can kill him.’

‘Can you?’ asked Seth mildly. ‘Or should I say, will you? Perhaps I ought to have asked that before.
Will
you
throw away your life on a random piece of guesswork, trying to stop a power that you can’t even begin to understand?’

‘You mean, will I throw away my life fighting, or will I let it be snuffed out while trembling? Daft question, really. But anyway, it’s hardly my choice. I’m just a part of the plan.’

‘Then I’d better make sure that I kill you first, hadn’t I? That ought to throw their plan slightly.’

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ muttered Sam, playing it as calmly as he could even though his fear was rising. ‘That key has been put there deliberately! You’re pawns in the puzzle, sacrifices to the enemy, just like me!’

‘We’re not sacrifices,’ corrected Seth quickly. ‘Those who die under my banner die fighting for a cause that we believe in. No more death. No more suffering. No more fate, no more destiny. You’re just a face without a cause, too weak to fight your own battles, easy to con into fighting another’s.’

‘This is turning into a really bad million years, you know that?’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t side with us,’ murmured Seth from his own little world. ‘You would have found freedom.’

‘I used to think I was having a bad day,’ continued Sam in the same easy tone, ‘but every time something happens I find myself growing more thoughtful, and after a lot of contemplation I’ve come to the conclusion that the formation of the planets in the first place was a policy that needed rethinking.’ He gave Seth a crooked smile. ‘And I wouldn’t have found freedom. For a thousand reasons that would take a French philosopher several hours and a particularly good bottle of wine to explain, I wouldn’t have found freedom. I don’t think I ever will. It’s how you appreciate captivity that’s the interesting question.’

A grin of triumph lit Seth’s face. ‘Ah. So you are your father’s child after all.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I found freedom.’

‘And on your grave they’ll write that you died free and happy, I’m sure.’

‘Will they give me a statue?’

‘I know they won’t give me one,’ remarked Sam conversationally.

‘They ought to give me a statue. I tried to change things. We’re all so afraid of change. Time’s universe is working fine, we say. Why bother to try a new system? Cronus is not the end, you see. He’s just the beginning.’

‘Is this the same Cronus who took possession of Thor and tried to educate me on the subject of being in two places at once?’

Seth wasn’t listening. His eyes had the glow of a madman. ‘We were always told that Cronus was the end of everything, but he isn’t. He’s the end of
everything as we know it.
A life prisoner is sometimes afraid to leave prison, because he doesn’t know about the world outside. Doesn’t know how wonderful it can be. Prison is all he knows. Prison is all he’ll die knowing. He’ll commit a crime the moment he’s out to ensure this, because the world is so big and large and full of possibilities that he doesn’t dare look, he’s afraid.’

‘Did you have a happy childhood?’ asked Sam suddenly. ‘Only you’ve got this nervous twitch in the corner of your eye…’

‘Why don’t you use the Light, Lucifer?’ Sam said nothing. This seemed to cheer Seth up. ‘Ah. You’re already slipping, aren’t you? Remembering things that are not from your mind, feeling things that you never felt, calling yourself names that are not yours, thinking thoughts that were born in another mind. You’re just an insignificant spark in a fire. You’re a pebble in the ocean. And you know it more than anyone else, because you’ve seen that ocean. You’ve seen the big, wide world and, like the prisoner, you’re afraid of it.’

They were standing a few metres apart. ‘Seth,’ said Sam, ‘I don’t think we’re going to be friends.’

Seth’s smile widened. ‘Neither do I.’

It was the old routine. Thrust, parry, slash, feint, duck, skip back and forwards like a Morris dancer on hot coals, search for an opening, aware of nothing but the regular rhythm. Clack, clack, hiss, scrape, clack. There was no magic, no fancy fireworks, no screams of rage, no cursing and no praying. Just the endless monotony, one, two, one, two.

Sam was fighting without a cause and no real passion. He felt so tired, physically and mentally, that he was hardly aware of anything but the weight in his arms and the scrape of his breath as it dug its way down his throat. He didn’t know why he was bothering. One, two, feint to the left, slash to the right, lock, up, parry to the middle, turn, dodge, turn, thrust, one, two. He felt very detached. It wasn’t him fighting, it was someone else. It wasn’t him on the edge of death, it was someone else. It wasn’t him dancing for things he didn’t believe in, dancing with a partner who liked to dance with snakes as well as people. He’d been dancing all his life, and the steps were now automatic. He wondered whether he was going mad. He wondered whether it was physically impossible for a Waywalker to go mad, or whether, as a sadistic twist of fate, they’d been designed so that their brains were wired for sanity only. He wondered whether he could regenerate madness, like he could regenerate a burn. He looked at Seth and decided with a sigh that perhaps madness could touch even the great. He wondered whether he fell into that category.

One, two, cut, parry, thrust. Six basic moves taught in England, elaborated on in France, tweaked in Russia, expanded on in China. A hundred basic moves from a hundred countries were brought against Seth. Sam imagined that it was an impressive fight, to look at. But inside the wall of sharp silver he’d created for himself, it seemed only endless and futile. One, two, one and a half, if you count the feint, two, only by dint of a hasty step back and thrust down to catch a well-aimed blow from Seth on the tip of his sword. One, two, never a third step, because three was breaking the rhythm and meant someone else was counting the beat. Or if there was a third step, then you had to have a fourth already prepared, reading the other’s mind without hearing their thoughts. One, two, three, four. Moves growing more complicated, a third meeting a second, where before the two would break after just a thrust and a parry and return to an opening move. Like chess. Heading away from the opening game, heading into the more difficult middle game. Thrust meets parry which turns to push which meets slash which meets block which meets stab. Rhythm picking up, growing faster, more risks being taken. One, two, three, four, five, six. Breathe. Always remember to breathe. Moves he’d never learnt, coming from memories that weren’t his. Sensations that weren’t his filling him, coming from feelings from previous battles that he’d never fought. Flow like the water, chop like the axe, stab like lightning, dance like the wind. Methods he’d never learned put into words he’d never heard, but he
knew
them nonetheless.

He looked at his own emotions with a feeling of detachment, and wondered. Should he discharge the Light? It would give him a break from his own morbid thoughts, at least.

He looked at Seth, and saw that his brother’s face was pale and sweaty. But then, so was his. He was bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, and so was Seth. He hadn’t even felt the pain. Seth had, at some stage in the affair, drawn his stiletto, and Sam realised with a start he had his own dagger out. He looked at Seth. Seth looked at him. Sam felt the urge to laugh, and didn’t know at what.

‘Hi, brother,’ he said, for want of something better.

‘Hi,’ said Seth.

One, two, three, four, five, six, step and duck and thrust and turn and stab and lunge. Reverse the grip on your dagger, bring it down as you turn, finish spin, sword up, bat aside blow, smash lunge away, kick, breathe, one, two, three, four…

There might have been sounds outside, but he wasn’t sure. All that mattered was the silence, the peace of listening to his thoughts and feeling his feelings and wielding his weapons. Who cared that Seth was lunging down like that, and like that? The arms that belonged to Sam Linnfer were also coming down like that, and like that, and like that, and soon the left hand that contained
his
dagger,
his
, would come up like this, and like this, and like this, and
his
mind would think
his
thoughts and
his
eyes would see things only
he
could see and
his
heart would pump
his
blood through
his
body faster, and faster, and faster.

And Seth was staggering back, and opening his mouth and hissing, ‘Why don’t you die, bro —?’

And
Sam’s
dagger was slicing through the air, guided by
his
calm mind, held in
his
trembling hand, and digging itself into Seth’s heart. And Seth was staring at
him
, with wide, astonished eyes. And the scimitar was falling from Seth’s hand, and Seth was grasping
his
arms, leaning on him for support and falling to the floor. Sam went with him, sword falling from his grip. Seth opened his mouth to say something, coughed, looked at Sam, looked past him, and smiled faintly. ‘Well done,’ he whispered softly. ‘You’ve learned.’