Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

‘What do we face?’ asked Steamswipe.

Harry looked pale. ‘Give me a moment, old stick.’ He made a noise with his throat. ‘Circle. My skin feels like it’s on fire. All right, we’ve come down in Middlemarsh Forest. There’s an old mine behind us. Hasn’t been worked for a long time. Most of the buildings have been abandoned — but the shaft’s been cleared and the winch house has been rebuilt. I couldn’t go any deeper into the mine, the ground blocks a soul walking.’

‘How many foe?’

‘There’s crushers here — or at least, whippers in police uniform. Much the same thing in my book. Some others hanging around — they’ve got spore filters on their collars, so I’d say they’re from the undercity, Grimhope outlaws. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s Special Guard here!’

‘Almost a worthy foe,’ said Steamswipe. He sounded pleased. ‘Their natural template has been distorted — their abilities in battle will be surprising.’

Oliver extended his newfound senses, touched the souls of the people on the ground and recoiled from their depravity. Wickedness, here , from those that were charged as protectors of Jackals. Could there be a greater treachery?

‘They’re getting ready to unload the miners from Shadowclock. The poor devils are in leg irons in the main hold,’ said Harry. ‘But why an abandoned mine? There’s no celgas here.’

‘There’s evil here,’ said Oliver. ‘And something else besides…’

They both stared at him. ‘What do you know about this place, lad?’

‘I know how to read, Harry. Before these jiggers stole my life that’s all I had to do. This place was in the penny sheets a couple of years back. Three children playing about in a worked-out copper mine found temple statues. Solid gold and gems for eyes. The mine was given to the archaeologists from the eight universities and the county constabulary had to fight off treasure seekers and tomb robbers coming out from the capital, hoping to dig out a fortune.’

‘The governor isn’t risking his neck at the gallows for gold,’ said Harry. ‘You can skim far more than the price of a few antiques from the patronage that comes with the governorship of Shadowclock. Whatever their jig here, they need miners to work their claim. Deep mine experience. The statues were from the coldtime?’

‘Chimecan, Harry. I think they went on display at the museum in Middlesteel.’

‘Okay, here’s the lay of the land. We wait for the Shadowclock miners to disembark and then we drop the ramp and head for the trees. There are plenty of people around. Even if we are spotted they’re as like to assume we’re crew. In the woods we’ll set up an observation and see if we can grab one of their people — find out where the miners are ending up and see how easy it’s going to be to penetrate this bleeding place.’

Oliver could feel the apprehension of the miners, their fear of the unknown as they descended the main loading ramp, and the hard hearts of the guards watching them. They did not see the miners as people at all, just a means to an end.

It was morning outside. As they lowered the ramp the bright light made Oliver wince after the darkness of the hold. Down. Walk casually — with purpose. Not three scuttling intruders fleeing the shadow of the airship. Crewmen. Then Oliver heard the shout and risked a glance back. There, by the line of resigned workers being ushered into the gates of the old mine. It was the Whisperer! A shambling child-sized feybreed, so distorted by the mist it was hard to see where his limbs began and his torso ended. But it was not the Whisperer’s bitter soul inside the fey creature; and this thing wore plated armour — a worldsinger containment suit — metal shells covered in runes and strung tightly together with wire. It was pointing at them and howling like it was caught in the embrace of a torture rack. Pointing straight at Oliver.

From the cover of the trees they were heading for a patrol of redcoats stepped out into the clearing.

‘Now we fight,’ said Steamswipe.

Oliver’s hands burned searing. He looked down and reali zed that the reverend’s gifts had appeared there. Harry stared at the two guns open-mouthed like a man whose life had ended. A shot splintered past them. Steamswipe turned and Lord Wireburn shot out a ball of revolving fire — a miniature sun that slapped into the guards behind them. Seven soldiers were incinerated, a splash of jelly-like fire landing on the nearest guards. Steamswipe fired again. After each shot Lord Wireburn let out a shriek, half an inhalation, half a gagging exhalation, as if the holy weapon was sucking in the life of the deceased.

Both of Oliver’s pistols discharged, two attackers were hammered off their feet, then he flicked the guns open, reloading from his bandoleer with a smooth mechanical precision. The disreputable Stave was moving in witch-time, his long-barrelled pistol in his hand. Oliver could follow him now; see the distortion of the bones of the earth as Harry drank in its energy, leylines snaking around his feet, twisting and pulsing. Stave’s pistol crackled, the charge smoke momentarily shrouding the perplexed look on his face. Oliver could see from a dozen perspectives simultaneously: aeronauts from the stat climbing back up the ramp, miners fleeing for cover, redcoats in front, the Grimhope outlaws by the mine entrance.

Oliver laughed like a demon, knowing that the sound of it would unnerve them all. The attacking patrol had discharged their rifles and rather than reloading they were closing at a rush with wicked bayonets fixed, screaming in rage and fear. Steamswipe let his own voice be heard, the echo from his voicebox collapsing a redcoat even as the steamman galloped into their company. A machine of death, he swung his hammer arm in fast meticulous arcs, crumpling soft bodies, staving in skulls, trampling down the soldiers under his hooves. They were almost on Oliver now. He raised his left hand and put a lead ball through the face of one of the soldiers, side-stepping a bayonet thrust. He shattered the bayonet owner’s knee with a kick — pistol-whipping the back of the soldier’s head as the man’s bayonet caught in the mud.

Harry was by his side, then gone and just as suddenly back, tripping up the attackers in a blur of boots. Oliver sensed the rifleman taking aim at them from the top of the mine works; saw the barrel sighting on his own spine. Tipping his right arm over his shoulder his uncharged pistol bucked once, the marksman’s corpse tumbling off the roof. He had not even looked.

Harry had stopped moving and was looking up at the sky. ‘Not bloody now!’

Explosions flowered around them, dirt showering into the air. A wave of searing heat punched Oliver to the ground and earth plummeted down on him by the spadeful, as if manic diggers tossing clods of mud had surrounded him and were feverishly digging him a grave. He was deaf now — petals of flame erupted all around him in silent fury. Both pistols were still in his hands, solid and reassuring. Half interred beneath the earth Oliver watched as ropes coiled down through the smoke, ladders for vengeful angels in black leather capes and visored hoods with rubber tubes hanging at either side.

Oliver could not see out of their eyes, could not feel their souls — could barely sense their presence at all. Harry’s words came back to him. ‘ We’ve got a military arm called the incrementalsfor the hard slap work. Proper killers. If they hadcome after us neither of us would be alive to be discussing it now .’

One of them swept him with a mirrored gaze, hardly registering his existence. Not a threat. Then an identical warrior emerged from the smoke, a body slung limply over its shoulder, the victim’s trousers and waistcoat torn to shreds by the explosions. The disreputable Stave! The Court of the Air was reclaiming their rogue wolftaker. Both incrementals were heading for a rope ladder emerging from the dark scud of their barrage — a ladder that for all intents and purposes might be reaching to the ceiling of the sky.