God of Clocks

Anchor had encountered Non Morai before, but never in such numbers. On earth such phantasms often haunted scenes of violence, battlefields and places where men had been murdered. Human thaumaturges sometimes employed them to gather souls. “Why? Is Menoa behind this?”

The engineer looked doubtful. “Menoa uses Iolites for aerial work and his Icarates to collect souls,” she explained. “Besides,” she pointed down towards a point on the surface of Hell, “there's that to consider.”

Anchor looked. At first he couldn't see what Harper was indicating, but then he spotted it. The Midden on which they stood was creeping away from a strange object on the surface of the Maze. It looked like an iron funnel rising from a crush of bloody stonework. Its huge maw, almost large enough to swallow a house, expanded and contracted continuously like a mouth. He raised Harper's spirit lens again and saw a swarm of Non Morai flitting around that opening, guiding soul lights inside.

“Why bother to travel far across Hell when there are countless souls trapped in the walls all around here?” Harper said. “These Non Morai are capturing newly arrived spirits-the souls who haven't yet become part of the Maze.” She continued to watch as the queer opening consumed scores of lights. “When Menoa wants souls, his Icarates simply smash up swaths of the Maze and take them. Whoever or whatever built that funnel is being a lot more subtle. It's like they don't want to draw attention to themselves.”

Anchor grunted. “Then why drag us here?”

“When the portal broke, the Non Morai would have rushed to claim all those newly released souls. We just happened to be caught up in their gale.”

The tethered man lowered the spirit lens and grinned. As far as he was concerned, this could be regarded as an act of aggression against the Rotsward, and was therefore justification for a battle. However, he doubted that Harper or Cospinol would agree to a de-tour. They had bigger boars to fry. “Wouldn't take us long to go down into that funnel and have a look,” he said.

She looked away, shrugging, but to Anchor it seemed that she was feigning indifference. Did she actually want to go down there?

The Soul Midden jerked under Anchor's feet, and then tilted gently backwards. He peered down over the forward facade in time to see the base of the great creeping conglomerate flow up over another one of the low Maze walls. Stonework rippled, and broke into an irregular arched colonnade. The columns between these arches bent and then stepped, insectlike, over the wall, reforming into a solid facade on the other side. The Midden consumed a huge chunk of the wall and then moved on, ever further from the strange funnel.

A shudder ran through the great skyship rope, and Cospinol's voice entered Anchor's thoughts. No, John. As confident as I am in your ability to defend us, I see no reason to seek trouble. We don't know what's down there.

Anchor grunted. “Well, we can't ride this thing all the way to the Ninth Citadel.” He stomped a heel down. “At this rate, it could take centuries, even if we could be sure we're going the right way.”

“Time moves at different speeds here,” Harper said. “A century here might pass as a day on earth, or an eon. But you're right about finding the right direction.” She plucked one of the many silver and crystal Mesmerist devices from her belt and studied it. After a moment she looked up and nodded towards a point on the horizon, lying beyond endless whorls of black stone, broken temples, and conical ziggurats. “The Ninth Citadel lies over there.”

“Then let's go.” Anchor flexed his huge shoulders against the rope. “Breaking the portal gave us a good advantage, eh? King Menoa cannot even be sure we made it into Hell.” He grinned. “We can catch him with his trousers down.” He made to climb down the side of the Midden.

Harper stopped him. “John.” She inclined her head to some point beyond him.

Anchor turned.

The Rotsward filled the entire sky above, like an impossible wooden city, a vast crosshatched nest of rotting timber and ropes woven around the dark heart of the skyship's hull. Cospinol's gallowsmen hung there in the thousands, their queer assortment of armour shining dully in the riotous crimson light. Many had been slain by the Failed, and some ropes held naught but heads or torsos or pieces of unidentifiable flesh. Those few hundred who had been cut loose and survived the battle in the portal now clambered amidst the joists or hung onto upright beams to keep themselves from being blown clear. The Non Morai gales formed a vortex around the mountainous vessel, a raging torrent of air that seemed to be full of fleeting shadows.

“Not what I would call relying on the element of surprise,” Harper observed.

Anchor frowned. It was true-Menoa would see the Rotsward coming from some considerable distance away. After a moment he shrugged. “Ah… well,” he said. “Let the king prepare his resistance in advance. I suppose it is only fair.”

The rope at Anchor's back trembled, and he heard Cospinol's voice. Ask Harper how deep that funnel is likely to go. Could it lead us down to the River of the Failed?

The tethered man passed the question on to the engineer.

Harper avoided his eye, perhaps trying to hide something in her expression. “The River of the Failed flows underneath Hell,” she admitted, “and any pit is going to take us nearer.”

So be it, Cospinol said. John, take the Rotsward underground. We're going to parley with a river.

Anchor looked down into the gulping funnel. “It's going to be a tight fit,” he said. “Much destruction in our wake.” He slapped his big hands together and beamed.

Cospinol sighed in his servant's mind.

Harper slammed her Mesmerist device into her tool belt, then gestured angrily towards the surface of the Maze. “Hell is alive, John,” she said. “You'll destroy thousands of souls if you try to drag Cospinol's ship through its very fabric. Assuming such a feat is even possible.”

Anchor frowned. “Possible?” he muttered. “Strength is merely will. Anything is possible.” He gave a grunt of decision. “And if Hell is alive, then it can get itself out of my way.”

He leapt from the side of the Midden, dragging the great skyship down towards the funnel, and the living, thinking interior of Hell.

5

THE PRINCESS

Oran ordered his militiamen out of the Rusty Saw tavern, but most were already drunk, and some were off whoring and could not be found.

Oran regained order through threats and violence. He raged at them. He fought with two and broke one man's nose. His shouts of anger finally silenced the ruckus in the saloon.

“It is Lord Rys himself who commands you to stand and fight here tonight,” he yelled. “I have his authority in this and all matters.”

Rachel sensed resistance amongst the militiamen. Veiled glances and muttered curses passed amongst them. They had heard this speech, but clearly they did not fully accept his authority.

But they had even less liking for Rachel-and no respect. Their dark gazes evinced contempt for the assassin. After all, she had brought Menoa's Twelve upon them.

In a quiet voice Oran said to her, “They know this battle cannot be won. All of them expect to die tonight, so they would rather spend their new-won credit on whisky and whores.”

They're afraid. But Rachel chose not to voice her thoughts.

The men now assembled on that cold overcrowded strip of earth outside the log building. All were armed. A few had taken up coils of ropes and the iron hooks used to scale mundane defenses, palisades and the like, but these implements did not rest comfortably in their hands. Many still drank from bottles or simply stood in the glow of the upstairs windows, gazing mutely at their own shadows.

Mina came out of the inn a moment later, clutching her dog to her chest and stroking its ears. The troubled expression on her face was enough to tell Rachel the result of her latest consultation with Basilis.

“No great plan, Mina?”

Mina shook her head. “Basilis has no power to influence this thing. Its soul is hidden from us.” She hesitated,