Mike Wild - Engines of the Apocalypse

Impressive as it all was, Slowhand frowned. The war council had convened while he, Hooper and DeZantez had been occupied in the library and had informed them of their decision when they had emerged. Despite Hooper's doubts about the Pale Lord's intentions — reinforced during their researches — the Faith remained committed to their belief that he planned a soul-stripped invasion. The plan was to establish a cordon along the length of the Sardenne after the last of the Pale Lord's strange army had filed in. The cordon was to be a defensive one — they at least had the sense to realise offensiv e strategies would be suicide while the Engines were active — and would only engage in combat if the Pale Lord made a move. Once the Engines were shut down and magic restored, however, they planned to advance on the soul-stripped — to go in, as it were, with all hands blazing. Of course, the Faith alone did not have the numbers for such a massive endeavour, which was why some of the trains were to remain empty for now. The Faith had arranged not only to second thousands of troops from the Vossian army, who would board at Faith 'missions' en route, but to enlist aid from the Pontaine militia too. Considering the attacks that had been occurring in their half of the world, Slowhand had no doubt they would agree.

Hence the frown. The Faith was, tactically, putting all the peninsula's eggs in one basket, an approach he had never been particularly fond of, and he could only hope the basket wasn't dropped somewhere along the way.

Slowhand moved through the frantic activity towards what would be his train. The fate of the Anointed Lord not forgotten in all of this, it had been decided that he, Freel, DeZantez and, of all people, Fitch — along with Hooper, when she returned from what she had to do — would not be part of the cordon but instead form a 'strike team' to infiltrate the Sardenne to try to find and rescue Makennon. As such, they were not to travel to the edges of the cordon, but to the main base camp — what had once been 'the pulpit.' To reach the pulpit meant they'd have to travel along the disused tunnel, where this nightmare had started and the thing that had taken Makennon had emerged.

Slowhand yawned. For what he'd expected to be, thanks to Fitch, a quiet night in the Faith's deep cells, things had turned out markedly different. Hooper's announcement that they were both temporarily seconded to the Filth had initially made him feel quite uncomfortable, and he had even felt slightly resentful that she had taken it upon herself to forge such an alliance on his behalf. Now, though, even though he'd slept little, spending what had been left of the night 'conferring' with Hooper and then fletching some special arrows for the rigours ahead, his discomfort had faded. As he moved towards his train he was actually beginning to find that the Filth's resemblance to an army on the move had instilled in him some of the feeling of his old, military days. It wasn't nostalgia exactly — he had seen and done too much for that, some still regretted — but there was a fondness for the sense of directed mass purpose that part of him still missed. Filth or not, it felt reassuring to be part of such a large force working together to a common aim, even if there were one or two tarnishes on the force's collective armour.

He could see tarnish number one ahead of him right now. The archer had hardly believed it when he'd finally been introduced to the man he'd be working with and, pulling the belt holding his special arrows taut across his chest, he nodded now to Jakub Freel. The enforcer nodded back noncommittally, the barest of acknowledgements and hardly the greeting of a comrade-in-arms. The atmosphere between the two of them had been neutral while Hooper had been around but distinctly cooler in her absence, each tolerating the other's presence only because they had little choice in the matter. Considering the loss they had both endured, and the circumstances of it, they were hardly going to become bosom buddies were they? He would have to keep an eye on him.

Tarnish number two was another matter. Standoffish in a different way and for reasons he was still struggling to understand, Gabriella DeZantez was perched on an upturned railway sleeper as he neared her, sharpening her twin blades on a stone and examining the results with a practiced, expert eye. A fresh surplice was bulked out with armour, gleaming beneath the cloth. She wore it utterly naturally, as comfortably as a second skin. Slowhand had come across a number of the Swords of Dawn in his travels — had even, on occasion, had cause to avoid them — but he could remember few, if any, who had looked so born for the role. What had caused her to relinquish that role until now, he didn't really know, but her reaction to him the previous night suggested that, one way or another, she had been badly hurt at some point in her past — the kind of hurt that could only have been caused by a man. Who that man had been, and where he was now, he couldn't begin to guess.

DeZantez glanced up at him as he approached, and Slowhand smiled rather than nodded. What the hells, he thought, it might be a fault of his but the woman had helped to save his life and he couldn't help still wanting to break the ice.

"I didn't get chance to thank you," he said. "For last night."

"You make it sound as if we lay together," DeZantez said, her attention having returned to her blades.

And he'd thought they'd worked together so well. "No, I didn't mean — "

"I know what you meant, Slowhand. It's just a little irksome when you couch everything in innuendo."

He found himself staring at the top of her head, and swallowed. "That wasn't what I — "

"As for the fact I saw you naked last night, don't make the mistake of thinking it has planted a latent seed of desire in me. It hasn't."

Slowhand tried a grin. "Most girls remember the sight, at least."

"I'm not most girls. And most men I've seen naked were wetting themselves or worse as they pleaded for their lives within the gibbet, which tends to temper any erotic aspect, believe me." She looked up. "Let's get this clear. We work together, that's all."

Slowhand's grin faded. "Look, is there a problem here? I mean, more than just me?"

"Your girlfriend is gone."

Ah, yes. That had been the other part of the plan. When it had been arranged for Hooper to leave to stop the Engines that morning, she was meant to have taken DeZantez along.

"I know. She gave me a goodbye kiss."

"She was meant to be in my custody. That was the deal I made with the Overseer."

Slowhand shrugged. "Yeah, she told me. Thing is, it's nothing personal. Hooper has a problem with authority. And she likes to work alone."

DeZantez made a particularly violent sweep along her blades with the sharpening stone, making Slowhand wince. "She isn't coming back."

"What? Of course she's coming back!"

"Then why did she sneak out of here before daybreak?"

"Because she could."

"Not funny."

"Not meant to be. But she left you these."

DeZantez looked up. The weapons she had returned to Kali after the library were being proffered to her once again.

"The Deathclaws?"

"The Deathclaws. She thought you might make better use of them than she could."

"But they must be priceless."

"Oh, they are. She asked me to ask you to consider them as bail. If she doesn't come back. To fix a church roof or something…"

DeZantez hesitated, then said in a resigned tone, "The City Watch reported her heading south-east, not due east towards the Plain of Storms. What's she up to?"

"Said something about having to make a house-call first. Don't ask me why because I'm always the last to know. It's what she does."

"Slowhand," DeZantez said after a second. "Do you trust her to get the job done?"