For A Few Souls More (Heaven's Gate Book 3) (23 page)

Perhaps it was best to stay together. The more they walked, the more he became unsure of how reliable his grip on the geography was. He had secured a map a few towns back and had begun the process of transcribing their progress, trying to form a clear route back to the Dominion of Clouds. After a few hours he had all but given up on the exercise because their route appeared to bear no actual relation to the map. Either they had repeatedly doubled back on themselves (and at one point somehow skipped a whole set of lakes and a forest) or the landscape shifted around. This seemed ludicrous but Arno wouldn’t put anything past the Dominion of Circles.

Luckily they still had the orb that had led them here and he was sure that if asked, it would lead them back. That night, he decided, once they had made camp, he would announce his intention that they were going to return to the Dominion of Clouds. If that didn’t improve the mood nothing would.

It was not an announcement he would ever make.

2.

P
REACHER REINED HIS
horse to a standstill and stared into the forest ahead. To avoid it was likely a detour of days rather than hours, the tree-line extending as far as he could see on either side of the trail. It was getting late in the day and the horse was tired, the only bed he was likely to find tonight would be at the foot of a tree. In the Dominion that worried him, the trees here could be unruly. Still, that could be said about most things and after a terrifying night being woken up by aggressive rain, the drops slapping him six ways from Sunday, he had vowed to never bed down in the open again.

He rode on. The forest was dense and filled with evergreens. Their needles were silent, which was some consolation given the talkative nature of much of the foliage around these parts. It was hard to get some shut eye when the leaves kept telling you what a miserable creature you were. He decided he’d give it another hour or so of riding and then stop at the first reasonable clearing he could find. He’d picked up a few provisions, nothing grand but enough to keep him off the dried meat. He was keeping that for the horse now, it was playing havoc with its digestion but the extra energy kept them both on the move. In truth, he half-suspected it was the only thing keeping his ride alive.

While the greenery kept its mouth shut, the forest wasn’t silent. Every few minutes there was a loud crashing sound, as if someone were felling the trees. If they were, they were quick on their feet and indiscriminate about their work; one minute the noise would come from some distance away to his left, then closer but to the right. The sound bounced around the forest, both in front and behind. To begin with the noise put him on edge, but after it had happened many times without him dying of it, he grew to accept it. Perhaps the trees were rotten, he wondered, or it was the work of some indigenous animal. Whatever it was, he didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger. As terrifying as the Dominion could be, if you ran for cover at the first sign of weirdness you’d never get anywhere. Besides, he had two choices, forward or back, and his preference was to keep moving. He knew that his enemy was on his trail now, had heard enough conversation on the road to suggest Henry Jones was close behind him. If there was a choice between moving forward into the unknown or turning around and bumping into Jones, he’d face the unknown every time.

3.

J
ONES WAS, INDEED,
on Preacher’s trail. Had been ever since a weapons dealer from Breaker’s Pit had taken a look at the memory of Harmonium’s face and immediately recognised her.

“She was with a guy they call Preacher,” he had told him, “creepy little fuck, mortal once but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Like an underfed monkey with a drug problem.”

“Who is he?” Jones had asked. “What does he do?”

“Not much. Kills sometimes. For a living I mean, though I hear he enjoys it. Mainly he just travels.”

“Why’s he called Preacher?”

“No idea, you know what it is with these people, they love to give themselves names. I worked with a guy once, called himself Thrasher. Real name was Bramblestalk. ‘Who ever ran in terror from a man called Bramblestalk?’ he’d say, guess he had a point.”

Jones had paid the man a little extra on the weapons he’d supplied, everything from heavy artillery to knives, all the better to arm up the men and women who had descended on Chatter’s Munch to be a part of his growing army.

The Exchange had been forced to admit that Jones had known what he was doing. The destruction of Yuma’s gang had been the final piece of theatre that he had needed to consolidate himself at the top of the food chain in the Dominion. He had been in Chatter’s Munch no more than twenty-four hours before the first few enforcers and chancers had ridden into town, eager for the opportunity of allying themselves with the most powerful man this side of reality.

Jones had let them come. He knew how this worked, flies would always gather around corpses, eager to feed. He showed no favouritism—not yet at least—he just allowed his empire to begin its first steps.

Thanks to Yuma’s ill-temper, if there was one thing Chatter’s Munch possessed it was space and, soon enough, there would be more. The Exchange, eager for a new tower to rival the old, oversaw construction that would, eventually, see the small town reborn as a centre of power in the Dominion.

People soon got used to the idea that the Exchange, for all it might appear nothing more than a dead-eyed child, was powerful beyond its appearance. Looks meant nothing in the Dominion and, as far as all were concerned, ‘Abyss’ as it had taken to being called, was Jones’ deputy and it need ask for nothing twice.

The only person in the entire town that would even think of standing up to it was, of course, Jones.

“I’m going after a man called Preacher,” he told it, after concluding his business with the weapons dealer.

“I thought we agreed that you would let her come to you. Wasn’t that the plan? To become so terrifying and important that she was handed to you as tribute?”

“It’s not a discussion, I’m going.”

The Exchange had cocked its head and stared at Jones in a manner that would have disturbed a man who had the eyes to appreciate it. As it was, Jones simply ignored it. “You can manage here,” he said. “They do everything you say. Let them build, I’ll be back soon enough.”

“And if you’re not? How am I supposed to control them then? What if this ‘Preacher’ puts a bullet in your back?”

Jones smiled at that. “Then he’s a better man than most.”

He had ridden out of Chatter’s Munch half an hour later, leaving orders that, until his return, ‘Abyss’ was the voice of power.

On the road he soon experienced the fruits of his rise in notoriety. When they recognised him, people turned away or ran indoors. Others, perhaps braver or, more likely, eager for his favour, were quick to help him. A network of people keeping their eyes peeled for this man Preacher, all hoping they would be the one who offered the information that led to the man’s capture.

Jones felt himself draw closer, arriving in towns and camps hours after Preacher had been spotted rather than days. Soon, he thought, soon I’ll have that man in front of me.

4.

K
ANE WAS AT
the rear of the procession. His weight made speed difficult and while his legs had grown thick, the muscles bulging, it was still a considerable effort forcing his voluminous body one step after the other. The soles of his feet were flattened and hardened, his toenails yellow claws, uncut for many years, now kept short only by his rubbing them on the ground as he walked. Sometimes, he dreamed of being carried in a large chair, like the Roman emperors he’d seen in pictures, a team of people on either side to bear the weight. Maybe that would be the prize offered to those of his enemies he could bear not to kill. Maybe it would be the work he offered their wives and children.

He knew that most of the people were now on his side; their secret meetings had continued, with the numbers growing steadily. Soon, he decided, it would be time for Arno to follow rather than lead. All he needed was one more mistake, one final damning error that would turn those who still wavered over to Kane’s side. It had nearly come at the Crackling Field, the weight of irritation that the procession had felt at having marched so far to be rewarded by so little. Kane had nearly struck then, but had held back, certain that worse was to come. So he continued to walk, swiping his nails in the dirt, thinking his thoughts of dominance and ruination.

They entered the forest and, looking from one side to the other, always on the lookout for danger, the day grew dark around them.

5.

T
HIS TIME THE
sound had been mere feet away and Preacher had finally learned its cause. A full-size tree, with needles so sharp his fingers couldn’t bear to touch them, had burst from the ground fully-grown. Nature had no patience in this forest it seemed, growth was not the business of years but seconds. A gentle spatter of blood and fur rained down around him and he realised that some wild animal had stepped on the patch of ground, triggering the growth of the tree. They were like the hidden explosives Preacher had heard of during the Civil War, buried just beneath the surface, their triggers covered with dead leaves and a sprinkling of soil. One false step here and he was likely to share the same fate as whatever creature now dripped from the brim of his hat. Was the trail safe? Did it offer a secure route through the forest? He had not known the Dominion to be so considerate.

“I think maybe we’ll walk from here,” he said, extending the reins on his horse so that it walked several feet ahead of him, testing the ground. “And I’ll allow you the honour of going first, just in case.”

The horse took slow steps along the trail, Preacher following on behind, mirroring its steps.

6.

T
HE FIRST OF
Arno’s people to discover the danger of the trees was a young man by the name of Warren. They had found him within the confusing corridors of the Wind Maze, a patch of land that appeared quite open until you entered it and discovered the thermal currents that blocked your path. Warren had been trapped within its airy confines for several months before Arno had led him to freedom using the orb to discover the route.

Warren had an annoying habit, picked up from his long time in the maze: he was perpetually tossing a coin. He’d picked up the British shilling from a confused soldier on the banks of the Bristle. The man had been using it to try and pay for a ferry ticket, unaware of the rules of the Dominion. Warren, taking pity on him, had taken the coin in return for his help and considered it a lucky charm. When trapped in the maze, crippled by indecision after the first couple of weeks of painful missteps, it had become his method of choosing direction. At least, he decided, if he gained a black eye from the pummelling winds thanks to random chance, he couldn’t hold himself responsible.

Even though those days were now behind him, he had maintained the habit, flipping the coin high in the air, catching it, sometimes noting whether it showed heads (left) or tails (right), though more often not, just tossing it once more. He had become so adept at the action that he could flip it without even seeming to pay attention. He could be deep in conversation, the coin shooting up in the air and slapping back down on his palm, without him pausing in what he was saying or even glancing in the coin’s direction. It had become automatic.

While the habit was harmless enough, there were those who found it annoying. Daniel Gonzalez Marquez for example, a young Spaniard they had rescued from the Lake of Lips, where the waves nibbled and licked you raw. Daniel thought that coin was just about the most annoying thing he had ever known.

As they were walking along the forest trail, Warren talking about his life before influenza had sent him to the Dominion, Daniel watching that coin fly up and then back down again, up and then back down again, up... Daniel had snatched the coin with a roar of frustration and flung it into the trees.

“Hey!” Warren had been distraught, “I need that...”

He had run off the trail in the direction of the coin, scanning the ground for a sign of it amongst the sharp, discarded needles from the trees.

There was so little light that he despaired of being able to find it, becoming more and more panicked by the second as he considered the possibility of leaving it behind.

Daniel, already regretting his behaviour, sighed and left the trail in order to help. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Warren wasn’t even listening, he’d spotted a glint of light in the undergrowth and was reaching forward to investigate when his foot triggered one of the tree bombs beneath him.

The tree burst upwards with a crashing of limbs both wooden and flesh, Warren’s screams filling the air as its trunk swallowed him. Daniel fell back, startled, a shower of blood hitting him.

“Madre de dios!” he cried, spinning on his feet and running back towards the trail where the procession had stopped, alerted by the sound of his and Warren’s screams.