their backs, or in little handcarts. The noise was intense, the mood morose. Behind them, the destruction of Villjamur was clear to see.
Not one bridge was still standing. At their ruined edges, figures were waving down for help. Some — incredibly — were jumping to escape the horrors behind them. People screamed intermittently. Bass groans occasionally marked the collapse of a distant structure. Dust clouds from fallen architecture were coughed out as if the city was on fire. And all the while, the presence in the sky continued to emit shafts of light that delivered savage creatures down to the higher levels.
Villjamur was no more.
*
But from the chaos, came order. Surprisingly, it was people she had seen fighting for the anarchists who were now helping out their former enemies. They were steering people, guiding and directing. Groups had been organized to remove rubble from the main avenue out of the city, and from around the gates of the city. The elderly were helped onto horseback, two per animal, then guided through the throng. Soldiers, too, had joined in with the anarchists, suddenly putting aside their official orders because of the new priorities.
A fight broke out between Shelby Corporation soldiers and the regular military. All she could glean from the situation was that the Shelby soldiers refused to help out with the evacuation since it was not in their remit, and they hadn’t the training to cope. They skulked out through the gates, protecting no one.
Lan passed them. She moved through the towering metal gates, burned and melted back around the edges, through enormous city walls, and she could smell the tang of the open countryside, the mud and the rank odours from the refugee camps. People were fleeing in one direction for the most part, along the sanctuary road, though smaller groups peeled off across the snow-covered tundra. And children — so many children were here.
Lan felt as though a part of her had vanished, that she no longer possessed the ability to aid these people. Lan turned towards the direction of Villreet, and prayed that Fulcrom was already there: he was her only hope for salvaging something from this wreckage.
THIRTY-EIGHT
A hamlet with a population of about a hundred suddenly found itself swelling in numbers — thousands were now travelling through on its narrow mud road, on foot or horseback or bundled up in blankets in the carts.
Sleet fell strangely by the coast. The warmer onshore breeze forced it horizontally, and it was loaded with a salty tang, drenching the citizens who, wrapped in wax cloaks, shawls or furs, tromped the already muddy road into a quagmire. A village of two streets, or what approximated to streets, had been silently besieged. Locals peered out of their doors, either outraged or confused. Seagulls screamed along the beach and, in the distance, the sea fizzed its way onto the sands.
Late afternoon, and the sun suddenly revealed itself, creating rainbows — in one direction, that was. In the other lay the crippled ruins of Villjamur, and the landmass above it, which Fulcrom still couldn’t believe could actually hang there — in the sky — without any columns or chains holding it up. Every time he saw a piece of the city fall, and a dust plume rise, he prayed — though he was not a religious man — that Lan and Vuldon would be all right.
‘What’s the plan now?’ Tane asked.
A good question, that, Fulcrom thought.
Someone had recognized him as an investigator, and even though he claimed he no longer worked for the Inquisition, he found that word instantly spread to dozens of people, and they looked to him for leadership.
The cloaked figure to one side, Frater Mercury, was hidden from view. Fulcrom didn’t want any suspicion drawn to the figure. He needed to interview the man — if that was indeed possible — to find out what his purpose was. But not yet — not until he had found Lan.
He stood by the entrance to the village on an upturned crate, and scanned the masses for Vuldon: he would tower above these people by a good foot, but Fulcrom saw only the dreary faces of those who had lost their homes or loved ones.
And they came in vast numbers, crying or shivering or simply expressionless.
He stood there for a good hour, his body aching from the bruises. He was aware of a wide open wound on his thigh, conscious that it could become infected, but there were no medical supplies here, no cultists. Frater Mercury, possibly upon seeing the pain in Fulcrom’s expression, moved nearer, his weird half-face showing beneath his hood. Those eyes seemed ageless. He hobbled towards Fulcrom’s leg, and some connection transmitted between their minds, something Fulcrom was barely aware of. Frater Mercury slowly leant down and with a whip of his finger split the material above Fulcrom’s thigh, exposing the crippled flesh to the air. Within a minute, the newcomer’s fingers were at work within his flesh, and they moved at lightning speed. Using no materials other than the thick rumel skin, Frater Mercury patched up Fulcrom’s thigh — and then rested a hot palm to the surface, cauterizing the wound, but Fulcrom felt no pain. After the act, the hand withdrew, leaving the flesh as good as new.
‘That’s a miracle,’ Fulcrom said, his breath clouding the air.
Without saying a word, Frater Mercury backed off and resumed his motionless stance.
‘Tane,’ Fulcrom said, ‘would you head out there to see if you can spot Lan?’
‘Indeed,’ he replied, and went into the throng.
‘There’s no need!’ shouted a voice. Tane turned back to see Lan file in alongside him.
Fulcrom stepped down from his crate. He overcompensated, expecting some signs of strain in his leg, and immediately slipped in the mud, falling to one knee when that didn’t happen. Lan came over to him with a wry smile. ‘It’s a bit early for a proposal don’t you think?’
She lifted him up and pulled herself in to embrace him. Fulcrom’s heart thumped. He didn’t want to let her go — not any more. Her cheeks were cold, and she wasn’t wearing any outer layers — just her stained Knights uniform. Tane had found a shawl and placed it on Lan’s shoulders, and Fulcrom nodded his thanks to him. They must have been there for a good minute before anyone spoke.
‘Where’s Vuldon?’ Tane asked.
Lan bowed her head and didn’t reply.
‘Is he still there?’ Tane pressed.
‘Later,’ Fulcrom cautioned, and held up his hand.
They all turned to regard the explosion in the distance, too late to see whatever blast caused the remains of Villjamur to turn to fire. Clouds had recently drifted away from the city, exposing the landmass above in its full glory.
It was something quite macabre, a ragged floating island of black spires, around which creatures were fluttering — he imagined them to be immense.
‘The gods help us. That floating fortification — it’s moved, I swear. It’s simply so large and moving so slowly, I haven’t noticed until now, but its position has moved.’
Frater Mercury began pulling Fulcrom’s sleeve, and he untangled himself from Lan.
Gods can’t help. Maybe I can. We need to talk. The words seemed planted in his head. Fulcrom nodded. ‘Come on.’
They walked to one of the nearest houses, a one-storey wooden shack painted bright green. There was a measly excuse for a front garden, full of dead or decaying flowers, and a small porch. Fulcrom marched them all up the steps and banged on the door.
There was no answer, so Lan moved in and kicked it open. A wiry looking fisherman stood up from his table and issued expletives.
‘Villjamur Inquisition,’ Fulcrom announced, and gestured for him to get back. The man meekly stood aside and they commandeered the table. Frater Mercury followed them in.
The room was basic: a round table, a few wooden chairs, landscape paintings, an old iron-framed mirror and a rust-encrusted stove.
Sitting down carefully, Lan looked at them, meeting Tane’s searching gaze with a sad frown, ‘Vuldon’s dead.’
‘Impossible,’ Fulcrom gasped.
