Gavin Smith - The Age of Scorpio

Pulling a handful of ropes with him, Fachtna climbed over the lip of the torso’s base. Soot-blackened arms stuck out through the metal framework, reaching for him.

‘Back!’ he shouted. Eventually a large man pushed a circle clear on the inside. He did so not without difficulty, they were packed in so tightly. Leaning back, Fachtna drew his sword and easily cut through the frame. There was a surge towards him that threatened to knock him off the framework. He brought the singing burning blade forward. ‘Back!’ he shouted again before turning to the large man. ‘Listen to me.’ He handed the man the bundle of ropes he had collected. ‘Tie these off against the framework so they don’t swing back under. There are people coming up behind me. Don’t climb down this rope; let them up. The strong have to carry the weak and any children too small to climb themselves. When you think you can jump, do so. The moment you hit the water, swim away from the ropes or others will land on you. You have to stay here and make sure this is done. If we give into fear then everyone will die. Do you understand me?’ The man was staring at him. Then he turned and started climbing down the rope. Good. I need an example , Fachtna thought. He kicked the man in the face. The man flew backwards off the rope and disappeared into the smoke. A hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see an elderly but formidable-looking woman.

‘It will be done as you say,’ she told him, and then immediately began organising people. The smell of the people was so overwhelming that it brought tears to Fachtna’s eyes as he pushed his way through them, but to their credit they did not panic as word spread of what was happening.

The wooden steps that led to the next level were gated and barred. His sword cut through the gates with ease. At each level he appointed gatekeepers and told them what they had to do, that they had to try and keep the calm or all would die. In as much as he could judge, he chose the strongest personalities. Examples were made. He didn’t want to do it – they’d suffered enough – but panic would kill them all.

Tangwen was exhausted when she reached the rope dangling down from the wicker man. She had grown up in a marsh and close to the Grey Father. If you wanted to survive then you had to be a good swimmer, but the currents in the channel between the two islands were vicious. She was not chosen of the gods like her companions, and it had taken every last bit of her strength to stop herself from being swept out to sea. As she looked up at the rope, tears in her eyes, she knew that she could not make the climb. She’d let Fachtna, Teardrop, Britha and all the people in the wicker man down.

Tangwen felt something bump against her from below. She looked into the water and saw a dark shape darting away. The large man plummeting into the water from above startled her. The surprising thing was he didn’t come back up, but nearby the water turned red.

‘Move now!’ Teardrop said in a voice that brooked no argument, and people backed out of the way for the swollen-headed creature with the bulging veins and crystalline eyes. He was followed moments later by a naked soot- and bloodstained woman with a spear slung over her back. Britha sat down on the soiled planks, her upper body a mass of pain. She didn’t think she could move her arms and she was so hungry. She looked at the wretches around her, collected herself and then stood up and painfully slipped the spear off her back and readied it. A woman was organising the captives’ escape on the ropes, savagely berating anyone who tried to push ahead while the strong took the frail and the smallest children down. The woman was doing this through fits of coughing. Britha could feel the smoke in her lungs but somehow still found herself able to breathe. She was not surprised to find that Teardrop was unaffected by the smoke as well.

Britha looked questioningly at Teardrop. The creature that used to be a man had taken his crystal-topped staff off his back. Teardrop turned and headed towards the steps.

With a thought Bress brought one of the black curraghs in as close as he dared to the wicker man. The craft might be able to fit between its legs but he didn’t want to risk the fire and he had a feeling that it would be raining captives soon. Ettin stood next to him as both of them stared into the smoke. They could see the ropes hanging down.

Ettin went first. He backed up and then ran along the deck and leaped into the smoke, his second head berating him as he did so. Then Bress did the same, his cloak trailing out behind him as he ran and then leaped, the smoke swallowing him.

Long, strong fingers grabbed the rope, cloak billowing as he started to pull himself up, following Ettin. There were captives climbing down the rope as they ascended. Ettin told them to jump. Most did, plummeting past them. For those that didn’t, Ettin grabbed one of the bronze torture blades from the front of his apron and slashed at them until they let go.

As he climbed, Bress woke the dragon with a thought.

Seven levels. Each level packed with captives taken from many different tribes. Fachtna rushed up, cutting through bars and metal gates. Spoke to the people, told them how to help themselves.

It was selfish, he knew. He should be down there helping keep the calm, helping people climb down. Or he should seek out Teardrop and watch over him, but he wanted a moment. He climbed onto the head, standing up on it, his bare feet gripping the metal framework. Just a moment above the stench. Just a moment free of the smoke. Just a moment with the clear blue sky. Looking out over the two islands, the third behind him. The long ridge of the hill on the mainland, much of it wooded except for the ugly clear scar where they had taken material to build this abomination and the fuel to fire it.

He did not want to look down to see the curraghs, to see the fate of the captives who had managed to climb down. He did look down, however, when he heard the sound of huge amounts of water pouring off something. He watched the dragon rise out of the water.

Britha was amazed by how orderly it was. While most were terrified, they were holding themselves together long enough to act in their own best interests and those of the people around them.

They had found a place on the fourth level clear enough for Teardrop to sit down cross-legged, his staff across his lap, and close his eyes.

Then she heard the panic start, the screams, the sounds of struggling, cries of pain mingling with fear. Britha ran to the edge and looked down. As the dragon rose up level with her, water still pouring off it, she nearly soiled herself.

Behind her, Teardrop had started to beg and gibber, talking nonsense rapidly and pathetically. He was weeping openly. Britha forced herself to turn away from the monstrous form of the rising dragon and back to Teardrop. She watched in horror as blood leaked out of his clothes and wounds appeared all over his face, his skin blackening and blistering as if it was being burned. Some of the cuts on his face and head, the lower ones, leaked blood. Ghostly tendrils of what looked like crystal emerged from the cuts higher up. His features were racked with agony of the like Britha had never seen before. It was with mounting horror that she realised what Teardrop had come here to do. All the pain and suffering that Bress and his master were trying to use to drive a goddess insane, Teardrop was going to take unto himself.

Tears sprang into her eyes.

It was easy to mistake it for a dragon. The Naga craft had its membranous wings extended for atmospheric operations. It had a main body, which housed the craft’s biotech drive and the other organs that provided life support, and a long neck, which led to the craft’s brain and the Naga who ostensibly melded with it to act as overseers as much as pilots for the brute organism.