Iron Angel

gathered in pools. The Icarates had smashed through a full third of the nearest Midden, ripping out the consciousnesses and loading them into cages which now crackled with Mesmeric energy.

Bones and debris continued to fall from the sky, scattering across a wide area. And this was the problem. There was no way to tell exactly where the temple angel had fallen. He might already be buried somewhere deep inside one of the great, growing buildings. So far Harper’s sceptre had not been able to locate him, or any battle- archon.

The souls in this particular Midden had sensed the Icarates’ attack on their outer reaches. Now this mountainous building, this composite of individual manifested souls, had begun to change. The stubs of rude battlements and defensive towers were forming in places. Doors were growing reinforced iron bands across their planks, or simply shrinking and becoming stouter.

It was an unconscious reaction to the perceived threat. None of these souls had been in Hell long enough to learn how to adapt their surroundings with any skill. These battlements and towers would not be effective-they were merely affectations, a reflex display. And yet some of the souls were now working together in an altogether stranger way.

Three hundred yards away, one of the older Soul Middens had begun to creep away. This hill-sized mass of houses, balconies, and towers was moving, sluglike, across the bloody ground. Somehow, the thousands of souls within the Midden had contrived a way to flee.

Harper watched with fascination. Those dwellings at ground level had sheared away from the souls trapped below. Mortar crumbled and wood split as the Midden inched further away, leaving behind a nest of rooms without ceilings…and a trail of blood. The souls at the base of the Midden were sacrificing themselves for the good of those above. They were screaming.

And yet this painful separation and flight was doomed to fail. The cluttered mound of buildings could not move fast enough. The Icarates paid it no heed, aware that whenever they decided to take their hammers to the shifting edifice, it would be nearby for the taking.

While those souls trapped inside the Icarate cages moaned, the dogcatchers had returned to the basin to feed and to wallow. Like most creatures in Hell they drew energy from the red mire, the endless pools, canals, and gurgling channels within the Maze. Here they feasted on fresher fare than normal.

Harper’s sceptre hummed suddenly, and the lights within the glass orb pulsed. Icarates paused in their destruction to turn and stare.

Something…?

The engineer swept her sceptre across the scene before her. A ghostlike figure appeared within the glass: a powerful battle-archon. The image was vague, but the angel appeared to be clad in armour. He was striding through a long stone vault. He slotted a sword into a weapon rack, and then stooped to place a small glowing object inside a chest. The sceptre purred, and then the scene faded once more.

“An archon,” Harper said, pointing one of her glass limbs towards the ripped-open rooms left by the creeping Soul Midden. “He’s deep underground.”

“The ability to change,” Hasp said to Dill, “is everything in Hell. King Menoa has exploited the uncanny nature of this realm to forge demons. A soul can be persuaded to assume any shape and to serve any master, and the Mesmerists are very good at persuasion.”

They were facing each other through the open doorway between their chambers. Hasp had deemed Dill’s progress with the sword to be satisfactory, although the young angel suspected that the god was secretly pleased.

“These chambers are a part of you,” Hasp said. “So you ought to be able to change them. When the Mesmerists remove the core of a soul from rooms like these, they must bolster that soul with external energy or else it withers and becomes a shade. The rooms are left without the will to do anything but bleed.” He paused to gesture again at the paintings on Dill’s walls, the thirteen souls from Devon’s elixir who had taken refuge within the young angel. “Your chambers here are different. Most of the energy in this place comes from these interlopers. It ought to simplify the process of extracting you.”

“Extracting me?”

“Time is running out, lad. It would be better if you’re strong enough to move your environment with you, but if the Mesmerists find you before then, you’ll have to run for it.”

Dill’s nerves were threaded through the very floorboards and walls. The room’s stone and timber was his bones. The thought of leaving this place terrified him. “Show me how to change the rooms,” he said.

Hasp grunted. “You just need to concentrate. You want something? Then think it into existence.”

So Dill concentrated. He imagined a stack of parchment and some charcoals, much like the ones his father Gaine had given him as a child.

A vague white shape appeared on the floor. It looked rather like one of the temple candles. The moment this thought occurred to him, the shape solidified. It was indeed a candle, exactly like the one he had just imagined. He picked it up, unnerved as ever by the odd sensation of his own fingers pressing into this manifestation of self.

Hasp called over from the door, “I advise you not to try burning that. Don’t even imagine that candlewick on fire.”

Dill couldn’t help it. Hasp’s own words planted the image of a burning wick in the young angel’s mind, and suddenly the candle flared into life. He dropped it at once, but the pain did not diminish. He was burning.

“Get out of the rain!” the god yelled.

And Dill’s pain stopped as a sudden downpour of water engulfed him. Droplets of water cascaded from the ceiling, spattering against every solid surface. The candle flame had gone out. Dill felt the rain strike the floorboards and the furniture; he sensed it trickling down the walls and windows like sweat down his own neck.

The god laughed. “Forgive me for putting that suggestion in your head, but it’s better than the sensation of burning alive, is it not? I’ll leave you to figure out how to stop the rain by yourself. If you don’t you’ll drown.” Still chuckling, he wandered back into his own castle.

Dill stood in the downpour, feeling miserable. The water had already risen past his toes. He imagined himself turning off a tap, but it didn’t work. He pictured the Deadsands on a hot summer day.

But the rain still continued.

And then someone tapped him on the back of the head. Startled, Dill whirled round. There was nobody there. Water splashed off his fine furnishings. Already the ceiling plaster had begun to bow, a sensation Dill experienced as a soft ache in his skull. But the room was empty.

Another tap to the back of his head.

Again Dill wheeled. At first he saw nobody, but then he noticed the young woman standing outside his window. The glass panes had partially misted, but he recognized the rainbow dress. His neighbor! Dripping wet, he walked over and unlatched the window.

She smiled, showing dimples. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said brightly. “But this wall is leaking. I’m getting flooded in here.”

“Oh.”

Her large dark eyes shone. “I wouldn’t mind so much, but this water is…” She hesitated. “Well, the water is an incarnation of your soul. I’m afraid it’s giving me some odd thoughts.”

“Odd thoughts?”

She laughed. “Your thoughts. They’re very nice, but they’re spoiling my rugs.” She leaned closer, until her body brushed the window frame. “Dill, would you like me to put a suggestion in your head? One which might stop this silly downpour?”

Dill smelled perfume.

The rain ceased abruptly.

“That’s better,” the young woman said. “I’m Mina Greene.”

“I’m…” But she already knew his name. How much else did she know about him?

“Of course I know who you are,” she admitted. “You’re the whole reason I’m here. I have something for you-wait there.” She hurried back into her gloomy chamber, splashing through puddles. “I had to wait until that bothersome old god had gone. I doubt he’d approve of this.”

“Approve of what?”

“Just wait!” She rummaged among shelves of skulls in one of the alcoves. After a moment she withdrew a