Engines of the Apocalypse

stared back into the disaster area, a hopeless mass of uncontrollable landslides now, and bit her lip. Long, long seconds went by but then, bursting through a cloud of debris, a white, if somewhat soil-stained, horse appeared at full gallop. The farmers she had rescued clung to her saddle in much the same way Kali's had clung to Horse's horns, and a moment later they were with their own.

Kali watched the woman dismount, nodding modestly as the farmers thanked her for what she had done, but seemingly more interested in tending to the welfare of the animal she had ridden. Kali dismounted Horse and walked to the white horse, casually palming between its gravestone teeth one of the bacon lardons she kept for sentimental reasons, and then, without a word, the two women stood side by side to stare up at the strange, rotating machines which had come to dominate the whole sky.

All three of them now fully inverted — or perhaps the right way up, who was to tell? — their rotation appeared to be speeding up. The sound of their sirens faded to be replaced by a strange and very deep thrumming that seemed to be produced by the rotating eaves. The faster the machine turned, the more intrusive and painful the thrumming became, and all in the fields were forced to press their hands to their ears to block it out. The painful effects seemed to last no more than a minute, however, although both bamfcat and horse snorted in protest a little longer. As the animals calmed, Kali guessed the thrumming had passed beneath the range of anything's hearing, leaving the machines to rotate in apparent silence.

Kali glanced at the woman beside her. She still stared up at the machines with narrowed eyes and a steely set to her jaw, as if these things were an affront to her. There was also the same determination on her face that she felt herself — to find out just what these bastards were and what they would do next.

'Hells of a morning,' Kali said.

'Not exactly what I expected when I got out of bed,' the woman said.

'Kali Hooper.'

'Gabriella DeZantez.'

Kali studied her more closely. With her bone structure and fiery red hair she looked like a younger version of the Anointed Lord, Katherine Makennon. Kali didn't usually notice such things but it was also clear to her that the hair had been cut by her own hand rather than the prissy fingers of the primpers and preeners who'd begun to appear in the cities. She could tell immediately that Gabriella was different, like herself having little time for people's expectations or normal conventions. Her attitude was reflected in her clothing, too, the woman dressed for practicality rather than fashion, in a dusty surplice and working trews. Unfortunately it was the surplice of the Order of the Swords of Dawn, the Final Faith's warrior elite, bearing the faded crossed circle of the church. Kali had no idea what had caused Gabriella to end up as she was in a backwater such as this but she knew instinctively that she liked her. Which made it all that more of a shock when, with no preamble at all, the woman's next words were, 'As the Enlightened One of the town of Solnos, I am placing you under arrest.'

'What?' Kali protested. 'Why?'

Gabriella DeZantez turned to face her directly for the first time, and Kali started slightly. Gabriella's eyes were unlike any she had ever seen, one a clear sapphire blue, the other a striking almond flecked with gold.

'I should have thought that was obvious,' she said.

Kali surveyed the devastation. 'You mean this? I had nothing to do with this.'

'There is evidence to the contrary.'

'Evidence? What evidence? Now wait one farking minute!'

But before she could argue her case further Gabriella DeZantez quickly unsheathed her twin blades, whirled them full circle and slammed their hilts into her temples.

Kali dropped to the ground like a stone.

'Treave, Maltus, bring her,' the Enlightened One said as she strode by two of the farmers in the direction of what was left of the town. 'As the Overseer has decreed, this 'Kali Hooper' must answer for her crimes.'

Chapter Three

For the last hour the archer's aim had been unwavering, the tip of the arrow pointing precisely where it had pointed when his wait had begun. It had not moved a hair's breadth in any direction. In the hands of any normal bowman, the strain of holding it so would have long ago become too intense. The bow would have begun to shake and skew, the shaft unstable and tremulous between two crooked fingers of the right. The nock of the arrow would, by now, have begun to buck spastically on the bowstring, and the strain would have transformed the tendons of the arms into agonising webs of red hot wire. Under such circumstances the bow would have to have been relaxed, lowered, and the trembling, cramped limbs exercised and massaged. The intended target of the bow might, as a result, have been lost.

In the hands of this archer, there was no such concern. The bow remained steadfast and its aim true. Everything was perfectly still, the only sounds in the flue where he hid the subtle creaking of wood and his soft, measured breathing. His concentration was sublime. Where others' gaze would have long ago started to wander, their vision to blur and lose focus, his blue eyes remained focused and alert, waiting for the moment — the one, fleeting moment — that he knew would eventually come.

Man and weapon were the best there were.

It was why the bow was called Suresight.

And why the archer went by the name of Slowhand.

The moment arrived. A small flicker of shadows betrayed motion some twenty yards outside the flue, framed in the one inch square formed by four bars of the iron grille through which his arrow was aimed. Despite the imminent arrival of his target, Slowhand's breathing remained calm. All that changed was that he smiled.

Smiled because this was not the first time in the last few days he'd waited for the perfect shot, and depending on how things went it might not be the last. For the last thing Slowhand intended was to kill the man whose shadow approached — that would be far too easy. He did not want Querilous Fitch to die quite yet.

Oh, Querilous Fitch. Slowhand so much wanted the psychic manipulator to suffer. He wanted him to suffer in the same way the corpse-like bastard had made Jenna suffer, stripping from his sister everything that had made her who and what she was. It might have been Slowhand himself who had given the order to fire upon her airship, and consequently end her life in a flaming crash, but in truth it had been Fitch who'd ended it long before. Independence, spirit, freedom of will: Fitch had taken them all until Jenna was nothing more than a puppet of the Final Filth. Slowhand did not have the abilities that Fitch possessed, of course — to literally stick his filthy little fingers in unspeakable pies — but he had his own, and so far they were working just fine.

During the past days, wherever in Scholten or beyond Fitch had been, he had been also — unseen, undetected, undetained. And on each occasion he had sent Fitch a message to let him know he was there, an arrow despatched from whichever hiding place he had used which could almost, but not quite, have dropped him dead where he stood. By these means he had gradually robbed Fitch of the very same things the bastard had taken from Jenna, reducing him to his current state — a furtive, quivering hostage to mortality, unable to do anything or go anywhere without the presence of the living shield of bodyguards he had so desperately employed.

There the bodyguards were now, Fitch huddled in their midst. The passage along which he walked was one that rose from the cells and torture chambers beneath Scholten Cathedral to the central level of the Final Faith's sprawling underground complex. It was a route Fitch followed daily at roughly the same time, depending on how thoroughly he had attended to his 'guests.' The fact that he had not varied his routine was probably reflective of the fact that he considered himself safe in the bowels of the secret stronghold, but the time had come to prove him wrong.

Slowhand waited until Fitch was outlined in the dead centre of the one inch square and let his arrow fly. It cut perfectly through the grille, flew through the narrow gap between supply crates that blocked the flue from view and then embedded itself solidly into the wall next to Fitch's face. The psychic manipulator and his guards fell into immediate, blind panic; Fitch, clearly torn between gathering them more closely about him or sending them in search of the origin of the arrow, settled for half and half. Some guards pounded towards the flue, while others bundled Fitch away, swords raised defensively as they attempted to get their charge out of sight.