Stephen Hunt - The rise of the Iron Moon

From behind the cannon a solitary figure ran into Purity's view, the gun's creator, Timlar Preston, waving his hands wildly to attract the attention of the slats circling above. 'I recognize you. I recognize you as creatures of learning. There must be no more bloodshed between us. There must be peace!'

Peace. What was the fool doing?

'You are a sentient race,' yelled Timlar. 'We can work together, there is no need for this.'

His calls towards the sky finally invoked a response: a bolt of heat enveloped him before dissipating in a blast of steam to reveal a blackened carcass collapsing to the ground. In the end, the Quatershiftian genius had achieved peace only for himself.

Purity tried to pull away from Oliver's grip and make towards the cannon. 'They're getting ready to go, I have to travel to Kaliban.'

'Molly's already inside the gun,' said Oliver. 'It'll be a miracle if she launches before the cannon's destroyed. They don't have time to take on board extra passengers.'

'I can sense the commodore inside the cannon, Coppertracks and Duncan too. They didn't even know Kyorin. He came to me, he rescued me.'

'Maybe he did,' said Oliver. 'But the land came to you too, and she came first. You're part of Jackals and the kingdom is going to need you to resist the invaders.'

'It needs me here to run away again? That's what you want us to do, isn't it.'

‹You can fight,› said the voice inside her head. ‹You will lead and others will follow.›

'I'm just a girl.'

‹So was I, when the invaders came from the sea, but our land is ancient enough to protect both of us.›

Gloom deepened about them in the shadow cast by the crude flying citadel of the invaders. Mount Highhorn was now hidden by billows of crimson clouds boiling out from the ground underneath the unholy war machine. Oliver and Purity began running in earnest now, towards the fringes of the camp where it met a sweep of dense pine. At last it became clear why the sail riders hadn't landed in force on the cannon. With an enormous roar, a pillar of flame left the citadel and ploughed through the forest like an earthquake, drawing down onto the cannon.

Purity stumbled as the blast of heat from the terrible beam hit her. Behind her, fire burst one of the cannon supports and the metal spiral started to collapse to one side as an earsplitting explosion from the ground answered the flying citadel's heat weapon. The first eruption was followed by an incredibly quick sequence of follow-on cracks, and it felt to Purity as if the teeth were shaking in her head as each firing ring added its voice to the immaculately timed crescendo. Then the citadel's heat ray sliced across the huge metal sculpture below igniting the unexpended fuel in the cannon's reservoirs and the entire cannon lifted off the ground. Pieces of the wave-front weapon blew across the clearing, wedges of shrapnel embedding themselves in the tree trunk Purity and Oliver had taken shelter behind. As if enraged by the successful firing of the cannon, the Army of Shadows' flying citadel began to rotate, its killing beam of energy twisting across the rest of the project, the hidden timber buildings that had been their home riding into the air in splinters and a firestorm of burning trees.

Purity couldn't sense the life force of Commodore Black, Molly or the others. Was that because they were dead? Or – she risked a glance from behind the shrapnel-shot tree. There was a thin trail of vapour climbing out from the clearing as if the sky had been scratched up towards the heavens. Had Lord Starhome been intact as he was blown out of the muzzle of the cannon?

'I think they were given the gun before the cannon was hit,' said Oliver. 'But I'm not sure. It was a damn close thing.'

'Molly,' said Purity, tasting the acrid smoke in the air. 'Commodore Black, Coppertracks. Oh, Circle, please let them be alive.'

They had gone, left her behind, just like her mother and brother had slipped away from her to die, leaving her to go on alone.

The storm of beasts circling on their sail-rider chutes was gliding lower, ready to mop up any survivors of their flying citadel's bombardment.

'Let's go.'

'Where?' asked Purity. She followed Oliver deeper into the forest; not running, but fast enough so they might put the camp quickly behind them and keep up a steady pace for hours.

'Right now, anywhere but here.'

‹You know where you must go,› said the voice in Purity's mind, accompanied by images of the trident-carrying queen. ‹The call is strong within you now.›

Oliver nodded. 'Curse your eyes, but I do.'

'You can hear Elizica speaking inside my head?'

'That's funny, I thought she was inside mine,' said Oliver.

The light grew fainter all about them – somewhere above the canopy of pine, the sun was setting unseen. Setting on the destroyed cannon project, setting on the Kingdom of Jackals.

'The slats like to hunt in the dark,' said Purity.

'They may see at night,' said Oliver, drawing his two strange pistols. 'But they've never fought the night.'

Something in his voice struck a chill sliver of fear into Purity's heart. Those two guns of his seemed to glow like death in the gloom, yet this young man who could overhear her madness appeared possessed by one far deeper than her own. He wasn't the master of the brace of evil pistols anymore, they were the masters of him.

'Where does Elizica want you to go?'

'To die,' said Oliver. 'She wants me to go to die.'

Purity stumbled through the trees, her legs numb from walking, her discomfort anaesthetized by the complete aching tiredness she was swimming through. Oliver was a constant by her side. It was almost like having her brother back alive with her: the shared madness – the voice inside their heads – a kinship nearly as thick as blood. And they could both sense the presence of the Army of Shadows, the slats' leathery black globe-like craft suspended under buzzing blades whisking through the cloudy starless night, dropping off scouts to hunt down the survivors from the Highhorn camp.

The two of them might have already cleared the forest if it wasn't for the necessity of continually doubling back on their tracks. Blind though the slave soldiers of the Army of Shadows were, they were possessed of a keen enough sense of smell to keep their hunting packs hard on Purity and Oliver's trail. Purity doubted if they had any inkling of what she and Oliver really were – but the foe had obviously been stung by the existence of the hidden cannon, a level of engineering far beyond what they had expected from their prey in the kingdom. Survivors might possess knowledge of that engineering, knowledge that the slats didn't want reaching any of the other nations of the continent before they, too, were conquered in turn.

Oliver hadn't said any more about where they were going, the dire fate he had mentioned; but right now, Purity hardly cared – she would settle for half an hour of sleep and the guarantee she wouldn't be ripped to shreds by the talons of one of their pursuers before she awoke.

'Are we going to die?' she asked Oliver.

'If we do, we'll have a lot of company. The entire land's dying. They're making a corpse of Jackals.' Oliver took Purity's arm and pushed the sleeve up, allowing the drizzle to touch her skin. Her arm itched as the rain fell upon the white flesh. 'That flying citadel has infected the rain here. This is just the start. We must go on.'

'I'm tired.' Purity tried to shut out the sight of the red haze of moonlight smudging the rain clouds above the canopy of pine. Corruption in the heavens, corruption in the rain. Just the two of them to stand against it all, two kestrels, flying against the full fury of a storm. What difference could the two of them make?