Orb Sceptre Throne

And did we not know the sweetest lassitude there

bathed in such silken glow?

How sad we must part, for the stars command

and none can forestall their turning upon the great

immutable orbs

Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes

Since she had the dawn watch Blend made an early breakfast of fried rashers, eggs, the butt-end of a loaf of heavy black bread and a pot of herb tea, and sat down near the front to eat.

The smell of cooking roused Picker, who was asleep on a bench. She sat up and rolled her neck to get the kinks out. ‘Save me some tea.’

‘’Course.’

Picker groaned, rubbing her face where she sat. ‘You know — I really expected something last night under cover of all that mayhem.’

‘Me too. Haven’t heard from Spin or Fisher neither.’

‘True. Can’t believe those Moranth dropped in to take on the Seguleh.’

‘Must’ve had munitions up the you-know-what.’

Blend washed down a mouthful of bread then set down her cup. ‘You hear somethin’?’

‘What?’

‘Out front …’ She pushed back her chair.

The barrier at the door exploded inward with an eruption of flung splinters and boards. The heavy oak table that held heaped benches slid backwards, grating on the stone floor. Blend tripped on her chair. Picker threw aside the table before her and made for the bar.

A giant fought to force his way through the shattered timbers of the door.

Blend drew her long-knives and closed in a leap, arms drawn back to thrust. Both weapons hit home in the armoured giant’s chest. One rebounded while the other shattered into fragments. A sweep of one thick arm knocked her flying backwards.

Picker fired a crossbow from the bar but the bolt glanced off the creature’s inlaid armour. It stepped forward, pushing back the heaped benches and broken timbers. Blend ran for the kitchen. Picker reloaded. Duiker appeared from the hall then ducked away.

Picker fired again but the second bolt glanced off the creature’s closed full helm. She threw down the crossbow and headed out from behind the bar.

The giant batted aside benches and took another step. Blend came in from the kitchen; she carried their massive log-splitting axe. This she raised over her head in both hands and ran across the room loosing a blood- searing war howl. The axe crashed home against the creature’s chest and flew free of Blend’s hands. A great shower of stone chips clattered to the floor and the thing lumbered a heavy single step backwards. A crack now showed in its broad chest armour.

‘It ain’t human!’ Blend yelled.

From the hall Duiker appeared carrying a great two-handed broadsword. He shook it free of the sheath and advanced. Blend searched for the axe. Picker lifted one of the benches and swung it at the thing in an attempt to beat it back. It groped clumsily for the bench.

The broadsword hacked stone chips from arms and torso, yet still it advanced. It appeared to be making straight for the stairs down to the cellars. Picker hammered at it using the bench as a battering ram while Blend and Duiker chopped at the limbs. Nearing the top of the stairs it managed to get hold of the haft of the axe to wrench it from Blend’s hands. It snapped the thick haft in two and tossed the pieces aside.

‘Spindle’s munition!’ Picker suddenly yelled.

‘Right!’ Blend dodged one awkward grab to run for the bar.

Both Duiker and Picker gripped the bench and fended the thing off by butting it in the chest. Blend reappeared behind it, cut off. ‘Now what?’

‘Dive!’ Picker yelled.

Blend hugged the munition, hunched, then threw herself forward, sliding between the thing’s wide braced legs, and almost tumbled down the stairs. Duiker stopped her. The thing planted one foot on to the cellar steps. The three looked at each other, their close quarters. ‘Now what?’ Picker asked again.

‘I don’t-’ Duiker began, and then a skeletal hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him aside. A file of undead Seguleh came climbing the stairs, unsheathing their swords. Duiker, Picker and Blend slid down along the walls, dodging the swinging weapons.

The guardians, or whatever they were, held the giant off for a time. Their weapons hacked great gouges out of its armour, which appeared to be layered plates of solid stone or fired clay. Its finish of inlaid multicoloured stones had long since been scraped and bashed away. Yet it was destroying them; the clumsy stone hands grasped arms to wrench them from sockets; closed over heads to crush skulls like blood-fruit. The guardians were falling one by one. Their torn limbs and mangled bodies cluttered the stairs.

Down in the darkness of the first cellar level the three eyed one another. Duiker motioned to the cusser in Blend’s hands. She nodded.

They waited until the last of the pickled Seguleh fell. Duiker took a torch, then he and Picker lay down on the much narrower rough stone staircase leading down to the lowest cellar — the one they never used. From the top of this staircase Blend watched for the giant to make its appearance.

Its heavy leaden steps announced it. Each shook the stone beneath them. It turned the corner of the landing. Blend yelled, ‘Munitions!’ and threw, then jumped for the stairs.

They heard the cusser crack like a dropped pot. Then the giant took another step.

Duiker cursed under his breath.

‘How do you like that!’ Blend snarled. ‘It really was a dud!’

Another step sounded and the rock beneath them creaked as if under immense pressure.

‘Now what?’ Picker whispered, fierce.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Duiker said.

Picker climbed to her feet. ‘Damn right.’

They scrambled back up into the upper cellar only to find that the giant had reached the narrow aisle that led through barrels stacked ceiling tall. They were cut off.

‘Shit!’ Picker exploded, and she reached for her sheaths only to find them empty. ‘Now what?’

Exhausted, Duiker wiped his hot slick face. ‘We back up. It might widen out down below.’

‘That’s a plan,’ Blend growled and she motioned them back.

The stairs were uneven, roughly hewn and overgrown with mould — even something that felt like a kind of moss or thick lichen. Duiker hoped the thing might lose its footing and come tumbling down in a heap of wreckage. Then he thought — lichen? Growing on these cut stone stairs? Then that would mean … Burn preserve them … thousands of years!

The stairs lost definition until Duiker found himself sliding backwards down nothing more than a stone chute. Roots hung, clawing their hair. It had become hotter and far more humid.

‘We ain’t never come this low,’ Picker whispered, hushed. ‘I don’t know if I can go down any more!’

Duiker, leading the backwards descent, came up against a hard flat surface. In the dimming light of the torch he could just make out a rough-hewn granite slab. ‘End of the way,’ he called. ‘Looks like the entrance to a tomb.’

In the gloom Picker punched a dirt wall. ‘Fener take it! I can’t fucking believe it. What a goddamned place to die. Break it down!’

‘No! I think that’s what it’s here to do,’ Duiker said. ‘If we all charged it and hit it high we might trip it up. One of us might get by.’ He glimpsed movement up the narrow tunnel. ‘Here it comes.’ He jabbed the end of the torch high into a wall. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I’ll lead,’ Picker growled, and turned sideways, hunching a shoulder.