Mark Chadbourn - Destroyer of Worlds

'Why would you do that?'

'If you died-'

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm tightly. 'Sometimes you need a shaking. All this is bigger than you and me-'

'I'm not so sure it is.'

'It is. Love is a weakness, Church… all right, maybe not a weakness, but a luxury for people like us. We've got a terrifying responsibility. Everybody, literally everybody, is depending on us.' She saw the touch of hurt in his face and softened. 'You know how much I love you. You and me… we were always meant to be together. But we're expected to make sacrifices.'

'That's all we do. Sacrifice our lives, our homes, our friends who die. We deserve something.'

'No, we don't,' she said gently. 'And that's the awful thing. We have to do the job we've been given without the hope of any reward.' She kissed him, and that made her words feel even harsher. 'Everybody says men are tougher than women, but they're not, certainly not when it comes to emotions. Men spend all their lives putting them on one side and when they rear their ugly heads, men can't cope with them. They sting you harder than us. We're used to the pain. We can feel it and put the emotion to one side, get on with the job we've got to do. I'm sorry. I know how this must feel to you. But you've got to listen to me: if I die, you've got to carry on and finish this. If we're torn apart, like we were before, you mustn't give in to despair. All right?'

He gave a convincing nod, but he couldn't tell her his biggest fear: that the failure of their love was a fait accompli. As Ruth searched for the roots of the Libertarian within him, her fears of what he would become would drive her away from him and towards Veitch, thus pushing Church further down the path towards becoming the Libertarian. How could he break that cycle?

'I've seen things inside myself I'm not happy about,' he admitted. 'There's a darkness.'

'There is in all of us.' A shadow crossed Ruth's face.

'That's one of the reasons why I accepted Ryan back so readily. I understand him more now. I'm not sure that's a good thing.'

'We're not pure,' she pressed. 'We're not heroes. We're just trying to do the best we can. It's because we're all friends that we can count on each other to get past our flaws.' She hesitated, then added, 'If people start going off on their own, we're lost. We're Five for a reason — a whole that's bigger and better than the individual parts.'

The market suddenly felt too crowded and too noisy, and Church longed for the intimacy that had been missing since they had left Earth behind; longer; it felt like an age since he and Ruth had been alone in the hotel room in Norway.

But the moment had passed, and Ruth was already moving to question a likely stallholder who was gossiping with every person within feet of his pitch. The explosion hit a second later. Deep in the centre of the sprawling marketplace, a column of black flame sent stalls, produce and bodies hurtling upwards with a boom that would have been heard across the entire city.

Thrown wildly by the blast wave, his head ringing and his hearing momentarily gone, Church was buried beneath a rain of vegetables, jewellery, votive ornaments and the heavy tarpaulin stall covers. His first thoughts were for Ruth and he quickly clawed his way out, only to find her helping badly injured survivors; some had lost limbs, others were so severely burned it was clear they would not last long. But Ruth moved quickly amongst them, helping to staunch the blood, bowing her head and muttering words of her Craft where they would help, offering a simple prayer where nothing would.

Church joined in, but the trickle of victims from the centre of the market had become a torrent, and the latest arrivals were consumed by a more immediate panic, glancing over their shoulders in fear as they staggered away from the blast zone.

Behind them lurched survivors who had been transformed by whatever magic lay within the explosion. The flesh had been ripped from their heads to leave bloodstained skulls, the eyes still intact and roving crazily as they attacked anyone who came near them, snapping and snarling with the ferocity of cornered wolves. One badly wounded man moved too slowly, his throat torn open by the bite of one of the skull-faced pursuers.

As others fell and the panic spiralled out of control, Church rushed to help. Blue Fire sizzled from Caledfwlch as he attacked. He could see there was no hope of the skull-faced victims recovering; indeed, there appeared to be nothing left of their personalities in their insane eyes. They had been turned into weapons and Church had no choice but to meet them head on to save the lives of others.

The primal savagery of the skull-faces slowed him a little, but his athleticism and skill with the sword served him in cutting them down before they could harm anyone else. When the last one had fallen, he ran back to Ruth and pulled her away from the survivors. She resisted, insisting on helping the wounded until Church said forcefully, 'The Enemy did this to draw us out. They'll be here soon, and if we hang around more innocent people are going to get hurt.'

Reluctantly, Ruth allowed him to lead her into the maze of alleys that led away from the market. When they were sure they had put enough space behind them, they rested and allowed themselves to contemplate the horror of the blast.

'They killed and injured all those people to get at us?' Ruth said.

'Come on — are you surprised? They know we're not going to sit back while innocents get hurt, so they'll keep attacking them until we act. And then they've got us.'

'Terror, pure and simple. And if we try to resist, the people will give us up sooner or later. This is the Libertarian, isn't it?'

Church nodded uncomfortably. Ruth wouldn't meet his eye.

'And you're convinced we need to find this woman?'

'Yes.'

'So we can run away?'

'Do you really think I want to run away?'

'No,' she replied, unconvincingly. 'It's just hard to see where this is going.'

Another blast punctured the silence that followed her comment, somewhere on the far side of the city. Screams followed, distant but not diminished, followed by the shrill, dismal cries of the Morvren as they took flight, the portents of death they carried with them now inescapable.

On the eastern side of the city, in the shade of the great brass wall, Veitch and Shavi kept their heads down to avoid recognition as they pushed through the crowd. In the stifling heat, the smell was choking: excrement baked in the gutters and the bitter reek of urine mingled with the vinegary sweat that rose from every too-hot body jostling for space in the slow-moving flow. Occasionally, from some darkened space drifted the sour-apples stink of decomposition.

The only breathing space came where people had fallen, overcome by the heat, hunger, thirst or illness, sprawled on the burning cobbles, their chests rising and falling too slow, and slowing. Shavi attempted to help the first three they encountered, but without water or food or medical supplies, there was little he could do; and the simple act of stopping to offer comfort halted other passers-by who wondered if there was a chance of aid. The desperation in their eyes was almost too much to bear. Now Shavi and Veitch stepped over the prone forms like all the other people, but Veitch could see the tears glistening in Shavi's eyes.

As they edged into a narrow street filled with the shops of silversmiths and jewellery-makers, a gang of dirty children in torn clothes and blankets scrambled forwards and began to beg. Some were human in form, though their faces contained the familiar, sly touch of the Far Lands, but others were covered with thick hair, or had golden triple-lidded eyes or facial contusions that could have been natural or caused by malnutrition and the constant filth. Swarming around Shavi and Veitch's legs, they tugged at their clothes, some surreptitiously trying to slip their hands into pockets until Veitch slapped them away.