Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Carnelian woke into darkness hearing the sea that had troubled his dreams. Fern sat up beside him. ‘What’s that sound?’

‘You hear it too?’ Carnelian leapt from the bed and peered out through the porthole. Signals were blinking insistently on the faraway Canyon wall, but it was the susurrating sound that made the hackles rise on his neck. A lightning flash caused him to throw his hand up before his eyes. The screaming that followed stunned him. More brilliant, coruscating light revealing the Canyon floor filled from wall to wall with a tide of heads, into which the dragons he had set to hold the breach in the Green Gate wall were pouring fire.

In the corridor outside their cell, Carnelian and Fern ran into one of the Thirds overseeing the evacuation of his masters in their palanquins. The procession slid past his mirror face as he stood there holding the hand of his homunculus like a father with his son. Carnelian reached down and tore their grip apart, holding on to the Sapient’s cloven hand as he tried to snatch it away and forcing it towards the homunculus. The little man saw what he wanted. At his touch, the Sapient calmed, allowing his fingers to be put around the little man’s throat, who muttered something and, then, responding to his master’s touch, said: ‘This position is undefendable. You must cover our retreat, Celestial.’

‘What about the heliographs?’

‘Instructions have been given to leave them passively aligned. Then the operators are to flee with us so that the brutes will have no reason to go up there.’

Carnelian began to question this, feeling in his bones this was a mistake, but the Sapient had already disengaged and was shuffling off after his homunculus. Carnelian saw the panic banked in Fern’s eyes and realized he had other responsibilities. ‘We’ve got to get Sthax and his people out of here and see if we can’t find a way to cover our retreat.’

Carnelian scrambled up the last ladder knowing Fern was just behind him. Clambering up onto the command deck, he ignored his prone officers and flung himself into his chair. The breach was a flickering screen set into the black mass of the Green Gate wall. The continuous firing of the flame-pipes there was a pulsing screech that made his eardrums feel as if they were about to rupture. Vast smoky shapes cavorted in the flash and dance of light that lit the cauldron on the other side of the wall. Carnelian had hoped that seeing it would inspire in him a way to extract his dragons. He was faced with the grim reality that they were a dam barely managing to hold back the flood. If he were to unplug the breach, the sartlar would gush through. As he sent a command to the rest of his forces for a general retreat, he tried to draw some comfort from the certainty that, whatever he did, the dragons in the breach were lost.

Once more upon the Blood Gate tower summit, Carnelian gazed past the Prow to where, just beyond the range of its pipes, the edge of the sartlar sea had reached. His retreat had been more orderly than he expected, though of the dragons in the breach there was no news. The heliograph relays had failed. Osrakum was once more severed from the outer world. Grand Sapient Legions had reassured him that the legions had received enough information to be able to operate without further guidance. It was always foolhardy to attempt to deduce what one of the Wise was thinking, but Carnelian had sensed the ancient was uneasy.

A black sky shed incessant rain. Carnelian gladly agreed with one of Legions’ Seconds that the dragons should be serviced. Facilities were available at the nearby Red Caves and there was plenty of time. It would be nearly a month before the legions would reach the mustering point. Watching the dragons filing off across the bridge towards the caves, he was glad also for the relief the creatures would feel when their towers were lifted off them. They had been carrying them so long that the towers had worn sores into their backs. Other wounds needed tending. Mostly lacerations on feet and legs.

As the days passed, Carnelian would sometimes climb to the tower summit to gaze along the Canyon. The sartlar were always there beyond flame-pipe range, becalmed, as if they too were waiting. Rain soaking into his cloak sapped at his will and made him wonder what it must be like for them to endure such unrelenting exposure. Their hunger was likely to be a greater torture. He did not want to think about how they might be filling their stomachs.

Most of his time was spent in their cell with Fern. When they were not making love, they slept. In slumber Carnelian was haunted by floods: of dust, of water, of blood. Given his ever-present feeling of foreboding, it was strange that he would sometimes wake with a seed of hope in his heart, which he and Fern kept warm between them, as they whispered to each other of their hopes for the life they might have together when all of this was over.

Five days after his return from the Green Gate, with Legions at his side, Carnelian watched another embassy of the Great approach. Shadowy they looked, deprived of most of their pomp by the ritual protection. The only signs of their wealth were the jewels that sparkled and gleamed on their hands and the unearthly serenity of their masks. Because of the rain, Carnelian had chosen to site the audience in one of the Gate’s chambers-of-returning. Pools spangled arches with wavering light. Man-shaped hollows stood round them in the brass walls. An odour of camphor almost occluded Legions’ aura of stale myrrh. They had agreed to confront the embassy together because they knew the Great were coming to complain. They knew also that whatever was said there would determine the mood that would prevail throughout the coombs. Carnelian feared panic spreading among the Masters at least as much as did the Wise.

Legions had informed him that the Clave had met the day before and had sent another embassy to the Labyrinth to beg an audience with the God Emperor, but had been turned away. To Carnelian’s surprise Legions had answered his questions about Osidian. It seemed that, on the day they had fled from the Green Gate, Osidian had woken from a period of tortured dreaming, too confused and disorientated to deal with the Great. Carnelian had revealed to Legions what he knew about the maggot infestation: that, probably, Osidian would be in this state for some time and might then fall into unconsciousness from which he would emerge only when the worms came out from his flesh.

The Great were upon them, several of them speaking at once. Carnelian was made wary by their lack of decorum. Making no attempt to portray unity, they were complaining of how little food was left. Seventeen days. Less. He could feel that their hauteur concealed uncertainty, fear even. He watched them as the Grand Sapient explained about the mustering of the legions. They seemed to grow taller as they contemplated the fiery brushing away of the sartlar blockade. Carnelian noted that no mention was made of the broken heliograph link to the outer world. When Legions declared that there was no prospect of any immediate relief, the Masters drew back like cobras.

He continued: ‘You should not expect the Canyon to be open again for at least a month.’

The Masters’ hands sketched angry gestures. Their ire ignited into bitter complaint, but, again, underlying this demonstration, Carnelian could sense their fear and that increased his dismay at how they might vent this upon their slaves.

‘There is another matter,’ said one. ‘The level of the Skymere rises.’

‘By three hand-breadths,’ said another.

‘Four!’

‘Many low-lying palaces will be flooded.’

‘I myself have had to evacuate a suite of halls.’

‘Are we now also to be washed from our coombs?’

Carnelian found their talk connecting to some core of unease inside him. The terrible, recurring forms of his nightmares seemed to rear at the edges of his vision.