Stephen Hunt - The Kingdom Beyond the Waves

‘Sorry, Gabriel,’ whispered the commodore. T’ricola was sobbing with anger even as the shaman began filling cups with their shipmate’s blood, chanting and mixing the remains of the first mate with the oil from the tribe’s own bodies.

‘Excellent,’ applauded Prince Doublemetal from the pool. Two of his people dragged Billy Snow’s paralysed form back to where the surviving officers stood. Prince Doublemetal extended his hand out for Billy’s sword. ‘You poor miserable hairless monkeys have no idea how hard it is to surprise me, to relieve the monotony of my exulted, long-lived existence.’ He rotated the sword in his hand. ‘Living metal, a witch-blade. Of course it can cut through our armour. Not one of those poorly smithed blades from the east either, this is ancient. Who was responsible for searching the prisoners?’

A siltempter crept forward, his vision plate averted from the sword the prince was gesturing with. ‘The sightless one needed his cane to move around without being led by our warriors. To remove it would have inconvenienced the guards.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ said the prince.

Three of the hulking siltempters dragged their colleague to the side of the prince’s oil pool, forcing him to kneel by the edge. Prince Doublemetal lashed out, severing the steamman’s head from his shoulder hull, before pushing the blade into the unfortunate lackey’s chest, a jet of superheated steam cleansing the blade of the oil smeared onto its silvery surface as he found the boiler heart. ‘Well, there we are. Sorry to “inconvenience” you.’

He indicated that his guards should drag the corpse over to where the shaman was finishing draining Gabriel McCabe’s body. ‘Waste not, want not.’

Laying the goblets out at the points of a floor-chalked dodeca hedron, the shaman spilt an offering of the mix of oil and blood at each corner of the shape. A hush fell on the chamber as the emaciated shaman entered the centre of the diagram and began a slow gyratory dance, calling the Steamo Loa from the hall of spirits to ride his body. Mist seeped upward from the goblets, liquid spilling out as they frothed with an unholy energy. Coalescing into the shape of something horned and angular, the mist seeped around the rivets of the shaman, cloaking him with a transparent nimbus. Behind the commodore, the crowd let out gasps of awe from their voiceboxes as the shaman started to convulse, his dance moving into a fit of juddering metal limbs. He straightened up, filled with a power that made the folds of his hull creak and pop as he capered around the inside of the diagram, his fingers shaking, and pointing at the warriors in the ancient temple.

The shaman’s words made no sense to Jared Black, they were raw machine code, but a code mixed with something else — the crackling of furnaces, the pop and splinter of the ovens where steammen components were melted down. This was their hell. This was their death communicating with them. Steam leaked from the shaman’s voicebox as he accused and insulted in the ancient tongue. Then the shaman pointed up at the grille where the tortured body of Ironflanks hung limply and began clanging his tripod legs on the floor as if the spirit that had possessed him was trying to drum out a message. Around the perimeter of the dodecahedron the goblets were melting, the heat of the steaming blood and oil too much for the copper vessels.

‘You said you share your residence in Middlesteel with a steamman,’ Veryann whispered to the commodore. ‘Is this their usual form of their worship?’

The commodore dragged his gaze away from the crushed remains of Gabriel McCabe. There was the rest of the crew to think of, those with lives still left to lose. ‘That it is definitely not, lass. The people of the metal record the future by reading the cogs they toss in their own oil and the Steamo Loas come calling to ride them of their own accord. This Lord Two-Tar must be a standoffish spirit — I believe he is shunned by the people of the metal back home, for I have never heard my friend Coppertracks speak of him, nor come across any wicked temple to him in Steamside.’

At last, the possession of the shaman was at an end and the sorcerer was left trembling inside the pattern, his wasted form shrouded by the fizzing remains of his offering to Lord Two-Tar.

‘What knowledge have you gained while you were ridden?’ demanded Prince Doublemetal. ‘The mighty lord was not pleased with us, he cursed us all and called down terrible blessings in his song to us.’

‘These monkeys are telling the truth,’ said the shaman, recovering his composure enough to talk again. ‘Ironflanks was guiding them to the realm where the writ of the Daggish runs.’

‘That turnip,’ hissed the prince, ‘that ruler of the walking trees. What has he that is worthy of the journey to steal? The siltempters have the holy body of one of the Hexmachina — what does the empire of the Daggish have to offer?’

‘Life,’ said the shaman, ‘and death!’

‘They shall find the latter here, without troubling to travel across our border with the Daggish.’

‘Lord Two-Tar counsels us to put these softbodies to death at once. Their deaths may lead us to great power very shortly.’

‘Wonderful news,’ said Prince Doublemetal. ‘The softbodies’ part in the great pattern shall end in the gut of Queen Three-eyes. I have a new thunder lizard to feed.’

‘Their immediate death is required,’ said the shaman. ‘It would not be wise to keep them for the arena.’

‘Wise!’ Prince Doublemetal furiously tossed a goblet at the shaman. ‘If the Loa disagrees with my wisdom let it ride me now, let it impart its vision in this matter to me! No? Then I shall decide for us. I decide that a spear plunged into these dogs’ softbody bellies is too quick and affords me no amusement. They shall die between the jaws of the thunder lizards. These water-filled organics have invaded our realm, led by this ingrate Ironflanks — a traitor who has spurned my gifts to his architecture — a traitor who keeps on coming to our land leading our enemies fast behind him. First with King Steam’s knights, now with the Free State’s Jackelian allies. We shall give them to the thunder lizards for breakfast tomorrow and watch such sport as they might provide, scampering about in the pit before they are consumed. I understand Ironflanks and Queen Three-eyes are old friends. Let them be reacquainted tomorrow.’

Ironflanks’ semiconscious body was lowered from the ceiling and had to be dragged across the chamber floor with the paralysed form of Billy Snow by his side.

‘You’re no prince worthy of the name,’ shouted the commodore. ‘You’re just the king of the loons out here.’

‘While you, my fine, fat friend, are kilasaurus fodder,’ giggled Prince Doublemetal. ‘We’ll see how full of puff and monkey bravado you are when you swagger out onto the sand to face my new pet.’

‘For the death of our comrade,’ said Veryann quietly, with a coldness that left no doubt it was not an idle boast, ‘with no sword in his hand, with no honour when he had offered you combat, I shall watch your death throes, you dirty steamer.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course you will.’ The prince waved the prisoners away, his languid gaze returning to the carnival frenzy of the dancing warriors, swapping components in their unholy revelry. ‘Be seeing you all for breakfast.’

Prodded by the spears, the surviving members of the expedition were taken back to their cage, leaving behind the stench of Gabriel McCabe’s smouldering blood and the siltempters’ insane celebrations.

Water bubbled over the oval hull of the bathysphere, the view of the small armada of seed ships on the surface rising behind Amelia and Bull as Lake Ataa Naa Nyongmo covered over their vessel.