The Third God (79 page)

A harsh trumpet blast shocked him to stillness. His arms hung, his grip on a sartlar leg slackening. He bent his strength once more to pulling out the creature. He registered its wide-eyed horror as it saw him. He could feel the creature’s muscles knotting under his touch. Only when he knew the sartlar had no more need of his help did he finally gaze in the direction from which the trumpet call had come. His view was blocked by another ridge of corpses. He turned back to the slope and began to clamber up, trying not to tread on any moving limbs, his feet remembering the rootstairs of the Koppie.

When he reached the summit, he saw the dragon that had trampled them was, with the rest of Molochite’s first line, spreading a sickle of fire through the sartlar into the east. He followed the flickering round to the south, where it thinned with distance. All along its curve the blade of fire was going out. Only at its most southern extremity did it burn brightly. He squinted at the conflagration that seemed a star fallen to earth and realized it marked the intersection of the sickle curve with the Great South Road. He swung round. Molochite’s second line, still in position, though now exposed, was folding like jaws towards its centre from behind which rose the standard of the Iron House. He was certain it was from there the trumpet signal had come. As he watched, the two halves of the line of dragons continued to close as if seeking to devour some morsel. It was while searching for what this might be that he became aware of the lurid, churned landscape that lay between Molochite’s two, separated lines. The air was too hazy with smoke, the black ceiling of the sky too dark to allow him to see clearly, but fires burning all across the land hinted at how it had been transformed. He had the impression of ridges, of snaking curves as if a labyrinth had been ploughed into the earth. Then he knew that what he was seeing was a vast tract of land patterned by the mounds and ridges of the piled-up sartlar dead.

Fern came scrambling up the corpse logjam to join him. He cursed, stumbling, and they grabbed each other for support. Carnelian watched him gazing out as he had done and saw the unbelieving horror come into his face.

Fern raised a finger pointing. ‘Look there.’

Where the faint thread of the road disappeared into the maw of Molochite’s second line, there was a bristling movement.

Then a sun ignited in the heart of Molochite’s second line.

‘Osidian,’ Carnelian breathed, entranced.

Though the curving wall of Molochite’s dragons hid the fire, its glare was flung up stark into their towers. One at the centre flared into flames. Another joined it. Another two. They burned like torches as they veered away from each other. He and Fern watched, mesmerized, as more towers ignited, one after the other, outward from the centre as Osidian’s dragons incinerated Molochite’s line. Then the Black Face standard was lit up from below. The sun of Osidian’s attack had penetrated all the way to the Iron House. Its standard shivered like a thing alive, turned towards them, grimacing as it caught fire. Carnelian watched, stunned. The Iron House itself must be alight. Relief that Molochite would die was choked by a memory of the children he had with him. The standard fell like sputtering wax. As if this were a signal, the sky flickered, then released a booming roar. Instinct jerked Carnelian’s head back as the air above hissed. Then he had to close his eyes against the needle rain. A cool sheath slipped down over his skin. He gasped with delight as it scoured him clean of gore, then he was drinking the gift of the sky. He dropped his head, rubbed the water from his eyes and saw Fern gazing at him in wonder. For a moment they gaped at each other, then gave themselves over to laughter, that was not joy, but perhaps a release of terror.

The downpour diminished. The towers of Molochite’s second line had ignited like marsh lights as Osidian’s flame-pipes burned their way from its centre towards both flanks. Flying from the inferno, the monsters streaked the guttering torches of their towers through the gloom, but were soon enmeshed in the labyrinth of the sartlar dead. Here and there the burning towers lit the folds and creases of the corpse mounds. Sometimes one would detonate, its explosion dulled by the hissing rain. A flash, then gobbets of liquid fire would spill, strike the ridges with sparks, smear bright-backed smoulder over sinuous, crumbling contours, that would dull to pulsating scars, then nothing. Fallen dragons were left nestled among the dead as smoking boulders.

Though it was all happening some distance away, Carnelian and Fern eyed the path of Osidian’s fiery destruction as it burned nearer, glancing at each other, feeling exposed on their corpse hill. A dragon emerged from behind the last of Molochite’s line. It swept round the exposed flank belching flame. Its victim was soon alight and picking up speed as it fled with a ravening conflagration on its back. The ground quaked as the monster veered towards them. Carnelian felt Fern’s hand on his shoulder and put his own up to hold the arm there, for he judged they were safe. They watched as the monster lumbered south trailing flames and smoke. Its pursuer sailed after it, first one pipe then another snuffing out. The monsters disappeared into the labyrinth, then the pipes screeched back to life so that Carnelian and Fern could follow their progress by the smoke.

To the west the haze tore, thinning enough for them to be able to see, in the distance, something tilted burning among the smouldering mounds of the dragons that had pulled it half off the road. The Iron House seemed a child’s toy with a broken wheel, but Carnelian knew the truth of what he was seeing. ‘An oven,’ he muttered, imagining the fury of heat within its iron walls.

‘What?’ cried Fern above the rain.

Carnelian stared. Within that wreck people were being cooked alive. Not only Molochite, but the children of the Chosen; no doubt also the Quenthas and many of their brethren and who knew what others.

Then a harsh brazen cry echoed across the battlefield. Twice more it sounded, with an urgency that made Carnelian’s heart beat even faster. He glanced at Fern for some explanation, but he clearly had no idea what new horror this might presage. A rumble in the earth was causing the corpses upon which they stood to tremble. Casting around, Carnelian saw a boiling in the east like the rough edge of an oncoming flood. Molochite’s first line was returning. He swung his arm out, blindly feeling for Fern, even as he saw the horned heads rising and falling in time with the shaking earth. His hand finding nothing, he turned and saw Fern was staring in the same direction. Soon they were scrambling down to the ground as fast as they could.

They crept along a valley. Mounds of corpses rose up on either side, striped black by the passage of dragonfire. The rain had quenched most of the burning, but furtive, lurid flames still flickered in the depths of the piled-up dead. The rain pummelled their backs, forcing them to bow their heads, though they still had to blink away drops to see. Horror would have been enough to stoop them and they would rather have walked blind were it not that they feared snagging their feet upon an arm, a leg, a crushed head, then falling into the foul mud. Earth mixed with rain and gore and shit, churned by panicked sartlar, formed a treacherous, sucking mire. Everywhere streams ran like arteries exposed to the air. Everywhere sartlar like crushed shellfish were extruding pastes, leaking fluids. Wounded sartlar crawled over the slopes and dragged themselves in clumps through the marshy flats, unsteady on their bony legs, sliding, slipping, holding on to each other with desperate knobbed hands. Even at this extreme, they found the strength to pull themselves from Carnelian’s path. He regretted adding to their agony as they scrabbled to avoid him but, try as he might to keep his distance from them, there was no other way through. Most cowered as he passed, but some sneaked glances, squinting at him as if he were a dazzling flame.

Raw wounds gaping in the corpse ridges showed where Molochite’s first dragon line had crushed through. Carnelian and Fern had already crossed swathes of fiery destruction that might have been left by meteors crashing from the sky, when they came across the pitiful sight of a dragon of the second line run aground upon a reef of bodies. Exploding, its tower had scattered around it a pale field of bone splinters, at the centre of which the hump of the dragon’s back formed a halo of pulverized meat around the black crater of its body cavity. As they crept past, Carnelian regarded the concentric rings of destruction and saw in it a sinister representation of a wheelmap.

Further on, another dragon, front legs buckled, had plunged its head into a corpse mound as far as its upper horns. Its beak had gouged a bow wave of earth and carcasses. The ruin of its tower, still restrained by some girdle ropes, leaned over the mound like a half-fallen tree, its flame-pipes snapped like branches against the sartlar dead. The monster’s flanks and rear had been burned through to the bone by the conflagration that had spilled down from its tanks. The tower, eaten away by fire, exposed a blackened interior where the stump of its capstan was still manned by its charcoaled crew. Sitting like a shadow high in his command chair, the remains of a Master.

On they walked, clambering where they could through gaps in the mounds, shutting their hearts to the horrors to which they could not shut their eyes, each imprisoned in his own mind. Carnelian was remembering their flight through the limestone runnels on their way down from the Guarded Land, but was haunted too by memories of the Isle of Flies, of the Labyrinth.

The clump of sartlar seemed like others they had seen, except that they stood so still. Above them loomed a broken dragon tower that had been hurled some distance from where the monster that had borne it lay fallen. Carnelian and Fern were forced to draw nearer to the sartlar because they and the tower almost blocked the way. When one of the creatures turned its gore-encrusted head, Carnelian expected it to cower away, taking its fellows, trembling, with it, but the head turned back and the sartlar remained where they were. Carnelian and Fern glanced at each other, sharing their unease. As they edged round the sartlar, they became aware the creatures were in a ring looking down at something in their midst. Though Fern signed against it, Carnelian was drawn to look. Something pale but smeared with black lay upon the ground. The sartlar seemed to sense his interest and several heads came up. They regarded him with their dark eyes. For some reason he felt they wanted him to look. As he stepped forward, they moved aside. It was a Master on the ground, his body twisted into an unnatural shape. He stared, feeling how incongruous the expression of terror and surprise seemed upon that beautiful pale face, upon those pale, dead Chosen eyes. He saw the mask that had come loose and saw himself reflected in it like a crack of light in a winter dawn. The sartlar were gazing at him. Steadily they gazed at him and he grew afraid. He tried to rationalize his fear away, reminding himself of how much they had suffered and that they were victims. He told himself it was suffering he was seeing in their eyes, but he knew it was something different. At the very least, a lack of fear. At worst, a slow-burning, cold hatred.

It was Fern who pulled him away. Carnelian managed one last glance back before Fern drew him out of sight behind a buttress of sartlar dead.

Beyond a gateway framed by corpses, the open plain seemed the land of the living. As they moved through, nervous of the tottering walls on either side, Carnelian relived the passage through the gutter of the purple factory. Though then he had been riding an aquar. Still, it was easier to pretend he was wading through crushed shellfish than acknowledge what it actually was.

Reaching the edge of the red pools, they clambered out onto clean, solid ground, their toes gouging into the good earth. They took several half-running strides and then Carnelian bent to scoop mud, using it to rub his legs clean, to scrape the muck from between his toes. Glancing up he saw, through tears, Fern was doing the same, his face a mask of disgust. When they had done what they could, they turned their faces up to the heavens, letting the rain wash their tears away. Carnelian lowered his head, rubbing water from his eyes, and looked back the way they had come. Gory footprints led to the carnage in the gateway through which they had escaped the corpse labyrinth.

He saw how the ridge of bodies resembled some vast breaker. ‘So many dead,’ he muttered.

He was possessed by the act of imagining how that great ridge had come about. The panic of the sartlar as the earth shook beneath their feet. Their terror as they saw the wall of dragons lumbering towards them. The animal imperative to flee. The front ranks pushing back into the unyielding mass of those behind. Stumbling, people were shoved down, trampled, tripping those that had pushed them, falling, crushing those beneath who continued to struggle for air, for life, but the receding tide of flesh could not be denied. At these obstacles, the fleeing fell and those behind scrabbled over them, in wave upon wave, building the ridge of the fallen ever higher, burying alive those beneath, until the screaming fire gushed and trickled down to light infernos among the matrix of the struggling. Carnelian closed his eyes, remembering being trapped; living their dying.

A firm grip upon his shoulder made him open his eyes with a gasp. He saw Fern’s concern for him, but also that he was pointing at the ridge. Carnelian looked up at it, at first aware only of the dead, but then realizing that the crest was lined with sartlar, like citizens manning a city wall. Turning, he saw what it was they all were watching: the Iron House smouldering.