Engines of the Apocalypse

As the first batch of guards kicked open the flue and examined its interior, Slowhand was already gone, having slipped out and replaced the grille the moment he'd released the arrow. Now he circled the crates, keeping out of sight but, as the opportunities presented themselves, unleashing more arrows in Fitch's wake, until a line of them dotted the wall of the passage along which he fled.

Turning with a look of horror each time one hit, Fitch made the decision that might make these his final moments after all. He ordered his protectors to guard his flank.

No problem, as far as Slowhand was concerned — he simply clambered up onto a stack of crates, leapt for a support beam and passed over the guards' heads.

Fitch, he thought, you really should have invested full gold and bought in decent mercenaries from Allantia. The kind with brains, because you only get what you pay for.

It was just him and the psychic manipulator now. As Fitch fled into the warehouse and distribution area, Slowhand followed, passing the Faith workers there unopposed, creating confusion as they hurried through. Once or twice Fitch looked to his rear, trying to defend himself by unleashing fireballs, but, born of haste and panic, they ricocheted wildly off the walls.

Querilous Fitch reached the other side of the central area and entered one of the railway tunnels that fanned off it, dodging between the couplings of stationary wagons. The expansive network of tunnels that spread far across the peninsula — beneath both Vos and Pontaine — were thought to be the remains of dwarven mines which the Faith had extended into a transport network, and the cable-driven, funicular trains which rode their rails simply developments of the ore-collectors once used. It was what the Faith did — purloined technology and then adapted it for their own insidious purposes — but it gave Querilous Fitch no advantage here.

Just the opposite, in fact. In his panic, Fitch had clearly neglected to take into account what lay some distance into the tunnels — and Slowhand knew what lay there because he'd had to bypass one to enter the Cathedral.

Since last Slowhand had been here with Hooper, security had been upped dramatically on the surface, and without offing every guard between himself and Fitch he would have had the pits' own job of reaching him undetected. But, as was so often the way, when security was increased on one front, it was often left vulnerable on another. Instead of heading for Scholten Slowhand had made his way to a tiny and purposefully underwhelming Faith mission some leagues east. The Church of Divine Intervention was more than it seemed, the fact that it had never been open for worship a clue that it had another purpose more fitting to its title. The mission was but a hollow shell concealing an access shaft to one of the Faith tunnels that led from Scholten to Volonne.

The mission also had only one guard, and he was swiftly despatched with an iron-tipped arrow to the helmet that concussed rather than killed. After that it had been easy to gain entry to the shaft and drop onto the first train heading back west. The train had been carrying naphtha for the cathedral gibbets, and he had used some of the oil mixed with grime to apply facial camouflage before he reached the complex.

But before the complex, of course, had been the shields.

Fitch had forgotten about the shields.

Slowhand smiled. The tunnel along which the psychic manipulator now fled was not the one through which he had rode the train — appeared, in fact, to be long unused — but that didn't matter, for its defences would be the same. He allowed Fitch his rein, letting him increase the distance between them, exhaust himself as he fled into the darkness. Slowhand followed at his own pace, knowing he had all the time in the world.

Fitch now gasping and staggering had negotiated most of a broad bend in the tunnel, and the blue glow that he could see illuminating the walls seemed to him to be some kind of salvation, a heavenly exit, perhaps, which would end this dark pursuit. It was nothing of the kind, of course, and as Slowhand appeared along the tunnel behind him, the stark reality of what he faced hit home.

The magical force barrier that sealed all of the tunnels against intruders into the sub-levels of Scholten Cathedral closed off the tunnel, its surface rippling gently. The only things capable of passage through its lethal charge were the trains, their front carriages embedded with crystals that momentarily nullified its destructive effects. Given time, Fitch might have been able to use his own sorcerous powers to break the barrier down, but time was something he no longer had. The psychic manipulator weaved left and right, as if trying to find some alternative escape route, but unless the first train in who-knew-how-long came through the shield in the next few seconds, there was no way out.

Fitch turned to stand against Slowhand, his brow darkening and hands dancing in an attempt to weave threads. Slowhand gave him no chance, rapidly loosing two arrows that nicked the tops of Fitch's hands and drew blood, breaking his concentration. Fitch tried again and Slowhand loosed more arrows, deepening the same wounds. The archer's message was clear: he was in absolute control. Any of his arrows could be solidly embedded in Fitch's forehead in an instant, if he so wished.

That, though, would be far too quick.

Slowhand didn't want it to be quick.

The archer sighed and closed on the man responsible for Jenna's death, Suresight now slung casually by his side. As he came, Fitch fell to his knees, tearing away parts of his robe to wrap around his bloodied hands. He stared up at his nemesis, trying and failing to disguise the fearful bobbing of his adam's apple, and was wise enough not to raise his hands again. He studied Slowhand intently, working out his identity through the smears of camouflage the archer still wore.

'The brother,' he said, with disdain. 'So it was you all this time.'

'The brother,' Slowhand confirmed. 'But isn't that a redundant term?'

Fitch smiled coldly. 'From what I've heard, she died at your order, not mine.'

Slowhand paused. For Fitch to know that meant there had to have been a survivor of the Makennon and he'd thought all hands had gone down in the battle with the airship above the Crucible. Not that a survivor was necessarily a bad thing. News of the Faith's comprehensive defeat might very well serve to deter them from taking to the skies again anytime soon. In any case, it didn't alter the facts — Jenna would not have even been aboard the Makennon when it crashed in flames, were it not for Querilous Fitch meddling with her very being.

Speaking of which, the bastard was trying it with him, right now.

Slowhand recognised the slight dip of the head and pulsing of the temples that signified Fitch was trying to influence his actions as they spoke, but he wasn't going to be turning his bow on himself today, thank you very much. He tutted and raised Suresight, aiming an arrow directly at the manipulator's head.

'Don't try it, stick-insect. If I feel the slightest scratching in my mind…'

Fitch capitulated but, Slowhand got the impression, not wholly because of the warning he had just received. The man seemed confused, troubled somehow, as if he had been trying to gather the mental reserves to pull off his insidious little trick but had, for some reason, failed.

'Maybe you should try to talk me round, instead,' Slowhand suggested. 'Though I can't really guarantee that will work.'

Fitch glared up at him, but there was an element of desperation in his gaze.

'There's something…' he began, then shook his head, unable to grasp what. His mind was, in any case, on other matters. 'So what happens now, brother? Do you plan to execute me in cold blood?'

'Actually it's running a little hot at the moment. But yes, that's the plan.'

Fitch began to laugh, softly at first, but then with a volume Slowhand knew was designed to unnerve him. It was exactly the type of tactic he'd have expected — mind games of a more prosaic nature than Fitch usually played, but mind-games nonetheless. And he knew what they were about. Fitch didn't believe that Slowhand had it in him. He saw him as one of the good guys who, when it came to it, wouldn't actually murder someone in revenge.

Fitch didn't know Slowhand at all. Didn't know what had made him not really care.

Slowhand drew the bow tauter still, pressing Fitch's head down with the tip of his arrow. The creaking of the weapon was the only sound in the silent tunnel.

'Say goodbye, Querilous Fitch.'