Iron Angel

sword and brought it over to the window.

Dill frowned. “You’re here to give me a sword? Who are you? How do you know me?”

“I’m Mina Greene,” she repeated. “And I know as much about you as anyone from Deepgate. More, probably. It’s my job to know a lot of things.” She weighed the sword in her hand. “But no, I can’t give you this. It’s from the Forest of War. Basilis would be furious if I just handed it over.” Instead, she placed the edge of the sword against her own chamber’s window ledge. Then she grimaced and slid the blade sideways, cutting loose a sliver of wood. Blood welled from the gouge she’d made.

Mina gasped. She hopped in place, her hands clamped together against her breast until the pain subsided. “Blood magic doesn’t work in Hell,” she said in a strained voice. “So we’ll have to do this a different way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Mesmerists want you,” she said. “Why else do you think Hasp risked his soul in that portal to find you and bring you here?” Her brows rose, and she smiled again. “And if what I’ve been told about King Menoa is true, he’ll find a way to get you. Old Hasp isn’t as strong as he used to be. I wouldn’t put all your faith in his ability to protect you.” Now she held up the splinter of wood she’d cut from her window ledge. “So I’m going to give you this.”

“A bit of wood?”

“A bit of me!” She managed to look cross and absurdly beautiful at the same time. “How else will I be able to find you if I need to? This is what I came here to give you.” She huffed. “Do you think we should just sit back while Menoa brings his version of Hell out into the world? We’re not all as weak and foolish as the gods think we are. Cohl’s Shades have come to Pandemeria, and John Anchor’s stomping about somewhere. And there are others, too.” She smiled. “Like me. Now hold out your hand.”

Dill reached for the splinter.

“No, not like that,” she said. “Like this.” She grabbed his hand and slid the thin needle of wood into his wrist.

When the pain and shock of what Mina Greene had done to him finally subsided, Dill found himself lying curled up and shivering on the floor. Someone had closed and locked the shutters, and three vases of fresh flowers had appeared on the sideboard, but otherwise his room looked unchanged.

At least it was now dry.

His wrist throbbed, and he could see a faint red mark where the young woman had inserted the splinter. He rose groggily, and threw back the shutters.

But the view beyond the window had changed. A second set of closed shutters now prevented him from looking into Mina’s room-these ones on the inside of her windows.

It seemed she no longer wanted to speak.

Dill sat on his bed, brooding. He thought he could still smell a whiff of perfume. He closed his eyes and pictured her: her soft dark eyes, her honey-coloured skin, and the deep curves of her dress. A creak startled him. The base of the bed, he noticed, had raised itself a little higher from the floor.

Should he knock on her window?

And embarrass himself? She clearly wanted privacy. Perhaps she was feeling awkward. The bond they now shared was unusually…intimate. He decided to wait until she was ready to talk.

Living inside an incarnation of one’s soul had a certain appeal, Dill continued to discover. As long as he didn’t damage himself-by dropping a vase, for example, or accidentally slamming the dresser door too hard. He quickly learned to change his environment by simply willing those changes to happen.

In time he learned how to control the pain, and he began to experiment by conjuring flames. If he wanted a fire in the hearth, he simply thought about it, and it sprung into being. Only afterwards did he realize that there had never been a hearth in the room. That had appeared, too. At first the leaping flames sent jolts of pain through the chimneystack, but by degrees he managed to overcome the discomfort. He fireproofed himself, and the pain dwindled. It was an odd feeling, sitting on a rug while part of your soul burned before your eyes.

But was it really burning?

Other things happened without his conscious thought. The window drapes often changed colour to match his mood. When he was frustrated, he noticed they had turned orange. This observation filled him with awe, which then changed the curtains to gold. They stayed gold for a long time. The windowpanes became larger, while the shutters on this side of the glass diminished, creeping back into the surrounding walls. Eventually they disappeared altogether.

Mina Greene kept herself sealed in the darkness of her own room.

Time passed.

Hasp never closed his door, although he had made Dill swear not to step through it under any circumstances. From the god’s castle came the constant thud of arrows striking wood. He had taken to practicing with a bow.

Dill studied the paintings: those thirteen people who now shared his soul. They watched him soundlessly. Sometimes their expressions changed, but only when Dill wasn’t looking. He thought he recognized a few of them: two of the younger lads from the temple kitchens, and a girl in a scullery apron. Of them all, only the assassin unnerved him. The man bore tattooed marks on his neck-the sign of a failed tempering procedure-and his painted eyes smouldered with madness.

Could Dill conjure his own painting?

He created a blank canvas surrounded by a heavy gold frame. But the painting itself eluded him. Should it be a scene from the Codex? The Battle of the Tooth? Perhaps he should just paint himself painting himself?

Too self-indulgent. He dismissed the idea.

He tried to clear his mind and think of nothing at all. The lights in the room went out.

Dill hissed in exasperation. I’m thinking too small. Everything in his environment was malleable. He could create anything he desired.

So what did he actually want?

When the lights came on again, he found himself looking up at a painting of Mina Greene.

Harper’s towering new form afforded her a good view of the open foundations below. She watched the scene through glass eyes. The great castle that was the upper section of this Soul Midden had crawled away, leaving a large open wound in the Maze itself. Blood from broken dwellings had leached into the chambers below, partially flooding them. The men and women in that pit, now fully exposed to the skies above, gazed up in horror.

“Clear them out,” Harper said. “And ask King Menoa to send us a Worm.”

Most of the Icarates hobbled down into the labyrinth of walled spaces, their pale armour crackling with blue fire. Instead of hammers they carried tridents, for there would be no further need to smash down walls. What followed now would be a simple matter of collection.

Only the Icarate high priest remained: a stooped figure clad in ill-fitting white plates. The protrusions on his back were larger than those of his warrior comrades, like the pale fungi found on the boles of dead trees. Verdigris crusted his copper mouth grille, but he did not require it, or even a mouth, to speak.

It is done. Menoa will send a Worm.

The Worm came as soon as Menoa’s armoured warriors had cleared the souls from the bleeding pit. It appeared as a black thread, snaking higher and higher up above the far horizon, and then rushed nearer until it was weaving through the hot red mists towards them. Massive and uncertain, this conduit of souls looped above Harper’s head and then plunged down into the pit before her.

It was not one demon, but many linked together for one purpose. Their black scales rippled, serpentlike, across the Worm’s skin, but all the claws and teeth were within. Waves of peristalsis flowed back along its length as it fed on the remains of the Middens and burrowed itself deeper into the ground.

Harper studied her sceptre, searching for a psychic disturbance in the ground below. If the archon felt the presence of the Worm, then he might panic and try to flee. And then she would know exactly where he was.

But as she watched the Worm feed, a sensation of dizziness came over her, as though something inside her own body had shifted momentarily, throwing her off balance. She heard a weak tapping sound.

Harper raised her mirrored shield and gazed at her reflection.

The manikin peered back from inside Harper’s own glass skull. This tiny manifestation of her former self already looked much frailer than it had been. It swayed unsteadily on its feet. Shadows had appeared under its eyes. It cupped one hand into the shape of a bowl, made a spooning gesture with the other.