Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘The Midden,’ the Leper announced.

Carnelian saw they were on the edge of a hillocked expanse of rubbish hemmed in on either side by mudbrick walls, and running off towards a road already crowded with people.

Osidian strode past him. ‘Come on,’ he bellowed. He broke into a run and Carnelian chased after him.

Osidian sped ahead along a gully. Carnelian was relieved to have a firm, dry footing. Hovels gouged into the rubbish lined their route. Screeching with alarm, Lepers sprang from their path. Other trails joined theirs as it widened. The hovels rose higher, pierced with windows. Mudbrick walls reared higher still on either side. The hubbub of the road ahead was swelling louder. Soon he could see its bristling multitude. Along its edge men were emptying baskets of rubbish into the Midden. Here and there a cart sagged under a mound of filth. Men wearing sacks over their heads were shovelling it down to where Lepers were waiting to receive it. Faces were turning to gape as Osidian ran towards them. People began pulling at each other and pointing. Close behind Osidian, Carnelian leapt onto the road. Smooth cobbles under his feet. The crowd recoiled from their filthiness as Carnelian and Osidian ran at them. Their height allowed them to see over the sea of heads to where the road ended at a watch-tower that seemed no bigger than their thumbs.

Screams and chaos greeted the Marula as they flooded up from the Midden. Carnelian surfed the wave of hysteria along the road, his gaze fixed on the watch-tower, looking for the flashes that would betray them to the Wise. He saw none, even as the tower lifted its crown of wooden ribs up to the sky. It stood guard upon a gateway murky in the shadows. Nearing this, he was dismayed to see it closed. Ramparts on either side were unscalable stone. He saw the lookout suspended above them in his deadman’s chair and slowed. Osidian came to a halt, then turned; though his face was hidden, Carnelian could sense his incredulity. To have come so far and to be thwarted by a gate!

A grinding sound made Osidian spin round. Incredibly, the gate was opening; sliding up diagonally into the wall. Through the gap erupted riders. The gleam of brass at their throats showed them to be some kind of auxiliaries. Osidian and Carnelian leapt from their path. Swerving past them, the aquar crashed into the Marula, who were so densely packed they could not get out of the way. Some were hurled aside, one screamed as he was trampled, but those further back were spreading out. As they circled, something about their smell or their appearance spooked the aquar. Their riders were in confusion.

‘The gate,’ cried Osidian.

Morunasa was there and understood him. He barked commands and Oracles appeared, their indigo robes streaked with filth. Carnelian saw auxiliaries being pulled down from their aquar. Blood greased the cobbles as the Marula stabbed them. Then he was running after Osidian towards the gate as it began to close. They were soon inside the fortress. Carnelian spotted a monolith guarding the stables entrance to the watch-tower that stood sentinel upon the gate. He caught Osidian’s eye. ‘I’ll secure the tower.’ Osidian jerked a nod.

Carnelian tried to detect any movement up among the wooden ribs of the watch-tower. Oracles and warriors were pouring past him, chasing after Osidian, who was running up a paved road between walls of jointed stone. Carnelian, grabbing at some Marula, saw Sthax and gestured towards the tower. They exchanged grins, then Sthax began issuing swift orders to the warriors.

Carnelian slipped round behind the monolith. The portcullis behind it was raised as he had expected. He crept in, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the gloom. The place stank of aquar and render. Movement. It was only stable hands, cowering. There was no time to save them. He rushed up the first ramp, feeling the grip of its ridges. Oily, sour smell of machinery. Another ramp. Up into a chamber rocking with ripple reflections. He was aware of a tank against the opposite wall, but his focus was on the wall upon which his right hand rested. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the first ladder was down. He crept towards it and peered up into the heart of the tower. No sign of life. He glanced round to see Sthax, grimly determined, and behind him the bright eyes of his warriors as they took in their surroundings. Carnelian pointed up the ladder and began to climb. When he emerged into the first barracks level, he scanned it quickly. Detecting neither sound nor movement he clambered rapidly to the next level. It too seemed empty and so, swiftly, he climbed up to the top storey.

He arrived in a chamber lit only by the light filtering up through the shafts that opened in the corners of the floor. Doors were set into the walls. It was all so familiar; he felt as if he had been there in a dream. He gazed at the door across the chamber with anxious longing, possessed by the belief that, should he open it, he would find his father lying wounded in the room beyond.

Sthax’s anxious expression made him remember why he was there. Carnelian stepped onto a ladder bolted to the edge of one of the shafts. Reaching up he opened a hatch in the ceiling and squeezed through it out onto the roof. Sthax clambered out after him. Six ribs curved up to hold a platform over their heads. Carnelian found the one that was laddered with staples. He crossed to it, stepping over naphtha pipes. Climbing the curve of the rib took him out beyond the tower. Its stone walls fell sheer to the world below. A patchwork of flat roofs spread away from the fortress wall. He reached the platform. A heliograph was there at its centre. Purple-robed figures huddled around its brass were aligning its mirrors to the sun. One ammonite was directing the signal not outwards towards the Guarded Land, but inwards into the fortress.

Carnelian advanced on these ammonites, bellowing in Quya: ‘Attend me.’

Their faces of silver, turning to him, showed grey reflections of the sky. Their hands clutched the machine. ‘You cannot be Chosen,’ said one in the same tongue.

Carnelian raised his hands to his cowl. ‘Do you wish to look upon my face as proof of what I am?’

The ammonites lost hold of the machine and abased themselves before him in terror. Their pates, not covered by their masks, betrayed them to be nothing more than men. Carnelian commanded them to move away from the heliograph and motioned Sthax and his warriors to stand guard on them. The Marula stared nervously at the mirror faces of the ammonites, but did as they were told.

Carnelian turned to look out over the fortress, trying to locate the target of their communication. His gaze skimmed over its roofs to an open, green expanse, beyond which a wedge of masonry sprang up, narrowing to a tower at the very edge of the sky. Its top was flat and he could imagine a sister machine set there. He strained to see if there were figures on the summit, but could not be sure. The tower appeared to be more massive than the one he stood on. It must be the seat of the Legate of Qunoth.

He strode towards the heliograph. Sun flashed off the strips that made up its mirror. Dazzled, he stooped to take hold of one of its curving handles and swung the machine round to put it out of alignment. He crossed to the opposite edge of the platform to look down at the city. The riot they had caused was still eddying along the main street. He returned to gaze down into the fortress. Its dense symmetries and stillness presented a sobering contrast to the chaos of the city. It seemed a ship becalmed. He lifted his eyes towards the prow of the other tower. Beyond that was hazy space. Carnelian’s heart stopped as he realized what he was seeing could be nothing other than the Earthsky. He tried to penetrate its far horizon, then cursed, angry with himself. Was he really hoping he might see as far as the Koppie? Even if he could, what would he see? A cemetery. The memory of the massacre ached in him.