Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

“Pathetic.” A swipe of his arm and she was flying away, her torso separating from her legs.

I backed away, arms raised to shield my head. I needed more. And in an instant there were half a dozen more mannequins between us, arrayed in a variety of nonchalant poses. “More!” I moved away at speed, concentrating on creating more of them, remembering how it had been in the train den where all the tunnels met.

In an instant all the half-formed horrors were gone and I stood at the centre of Hemrod’s plasteek army, hundreds of them radiating out from where I stood; the only disturbances in the pattern being Snorri and Kara on their horses fifty yards back, looking amazed, Murder, who had already knocked over a dozen of the statues in temper, and Cutter John striding toward me, knocking my useless guardians aside.

“Defend me!” I dug deep for whatever it was that made the Wheel answer my call.

As one the plasteek army turned their heads toward Cutter John, and wordlessly those closest to the torturer threw themselves upon him, grappling his arm and legs, clawing at his eyes with hard plasteek fingers. He went down beneath them with an animal scream, more and more of my naked defenders throwing themselves upon the mound of bodies, burying him completely.

As the bulk of the army streamed toward the growing mound the heath cleared sufficiently for me to see Hennan standing close by and gazing at my faithful warriors striding past him. Snorri and Kara rode up, following the mannequins.

“Only you, Jal.” Snorri shook his head, trying to hide a grin. “What?”

“The power of the Wheel at your beck and call . . . and you make five hundred nude women?”

“You could have made a dragon,” Kara said. “Anything you can think of is possible.”

“Why didn’t you ?” I may have sounded a little cross. “Here, boy!” I went across to Murder, making the tutting noise that calms him. Kara nudged her mare along behind me. “It’s much easier for you to fight your own creations. It’s very dangerous for two people to set their imaginations loose against each other. That’s how most wrong-mages die.” I looked around feeling inordinately pleased with myself. “I imagine I could do with a drink.”

The closest of the mannequins still guarding me turned to face us, holding out a golden goblet brimming with dark wine.

A faint grinding sound escaped the mound of warriors heaped upon Cutter John. I imagined they were reducing his bones to powder. “This doesn’t feel right.” Snorri dismounted beside me, staring at the confusion of bodies where Cutter John went under.

“I think I need to sit down.” I turned around to discover a richly upholstered reclining couch, rather like one I used not to be allowed to sit on as a child in Roma Hall. I fell into it, sinking in thick red velvet. “Ha! We’re like gods here!” I could have anything. The mannequin approached with my wine. She grew more like Lisa moment by moment.

She had long black hair now, falling around her shoulders, and her flesh looked softer, less like plasteek. I took the goblet. “Come here, Hennan!

I’ve got cake.” And I did, a towering edifice on five silver tiers, decorated with sugar paste and white almonds. I grabbed a handful and crammed it into my mouth.

Hennan joined me, returning my sword.

“We should go.” Snorri reached to pull me up.

I slid aside. “Calm down. You’ve got this place wrong.” I raised my palms, both cake-smeared. “I’ll admit I was a little worried back there too.

But look.” I paused to swallow sugary goodness, and nodded to the mannequin approaching with his axe. I’d modelled her on one of the dancers we met at Taproot’s circus.

One of the mannequins from the pile shot back, turning over twice in the air before it landed.

“Get on your damned horse, Jal. We need to go.” Kara gestured irritably toward Murder.

I sipped my wine and watched her. They’d made such a song and dance about the Wheel bringing your fears to life that I’d quite forgotten the good side of the equation. If this was any kind of taster for what things would be like after the Wheel had turned past the breaking point, then I was all for it.

The grinding noise from the pile had grown louder so I had to raise my voice over it. “Come on down, Kara. Let’s enjoy ourselves. It’s not often the world does what you want for once.”

Two more of the mannequins were blasted away from the mound, both snapped into several pieces. A torso landed close by, thumping down amid the heather. I patted the couch and the Lisa-quin sat beside me.

She was perhaps more generously proportioned than the original but one can’t control one’s imagination.

Kara moved her big, smelly horse right up to us. “We have to go now!

People die here because however wonderful the things they can imagine, the bad things are always worse. The self-destruction in us always wins out.” A roar interrupted her and the heaped mass of my mannequin soldiers heaved and began shedding plasteek bodies. A moment later Cutter John emerged from it, half a dozen perfectly-formed plasteek women still clinging to him.

“Shit!” I pictured a dragon, all gleaming scales and gouting flame, swooping down on my enemy. A moment later a column of orange-white fire hammered down on the spot where Cutter John stood. The heat of it washed over us. The horses bolted, whinnying in panic, I dropped my wine into my lap, and the couch went over backwards.

I crawled back to the couch, knees squishing on the damp ground, and peered over it. Cutter John stood scorched and blackened, rivulets of molten plasteek running down him, the coils of my huge dragon hemming him in. It opened jaws wide enough to encompass a shire horse, and scooped him up. Teeth like short swords, bright as silver-steel, crunched down. In moments the bastard was gone, swallowed away into the gullet of a vast serpent scaled in fire-bronze and gold.

I should have felt safe-but I saw how those oh so fine and shiny teeth failed to shear Cutter John into pieces, and just before he slid away down that throat, he met my gaze, his pale eyes unafraid and full of awful promise.

Looking around, I saw Snorri and Kara had regained control of their steeds and were veering toward the building I’d seen. Hennan was running for the same place and had covered about a third of the distance. I pursed my lips, thinking that he might have shown a little more faith in the Marshal of Vermillion. I did oversee a successful defence of an entire city against an army of the dead . . . Behind me my dragon collapsed, falling onto its side and scraping at the shiny scales over its stomach as if it had eaten something that disagreed with it. Actually I suspect dragons tend to eat everyone that disagrees with them . . . but by the time that thought popped into my head I was already running.

I got to the blockhouse moments after Hennan, my stomach churning with a mixture of cake and raw fear. Kara had caught Murder’s reins on her way to the building and led him along with her. Snorri had dismounted and set his strength against a large slab of Builder stone that looked as if it might be covering a doorway. If it wasn’t then the place had no entrances-for all we knew it might just be a solid block of poured stone put there to waste people’s time while their own imaginations plotted to kill them.

I glanced back. A familiar and unwelcome figure was running toward us. Behind him the heath still burning fitfully where my dragon had scorched it. The beast itself lay on its side, an ugly hole torn in its stomach.

“What are you doing?” I shouted at Snorri.

He looked around, red-faced with effort, his expression dangerous. “Get out of the way,” I said, and, without waiting for him to do so, waved my hand, willing the slab to slide. “Damn Wheel’s trying to kill us-may as well make it work for us too.” Nothing happened. With gritted teeth I tried harder, staring at the door, feeling the blood pound in my head and prickle in my eyes.