The Beauty of Destruction
Read The Beauty of Destruction Online
Authors: Gavin G. Smith
G
avin G. Smith
G
OLLANCZ
LO
NDON
Contents
To Yvonne,
for her evil brand of patience.
The twisting, multi-storey bridge had uselessly violated the rock of the ridgeline. The Walker was almost used to the nonsensical angles, the shadowy corners that stretched away from the eye, the optical illusions that weren’t actually illusionary. He clambered through an irregular arch, only banging his head twice, and made his way across the bridge, high over terraced spore fields that weren’t what they had once been.
The city was the last bastion of life. The remnants of humanity had flocked here when there had been nothing else left, though they were little more than animals now. They had separated into subspecies – herd, predator, parasite humanity – but they remained in the city. Urban living, it seemed, was part of some shared race memory; the fleeting pretence of something approaching civilisation.
The Empty Bridge was still one of the main thoroughfares into the city, though it saw little use these days. The Immortal Mr Jenkins was still there, however. He was something between a rat and a monkey, with a narrow, buck-toothed, but undeniably human face. Sometimes he claimed to be a witch’s familiar, or a particularly wilful homunculus, and at other times he claimed to be the King of the Rats. Mr Jenkins was standing on the bench that ran down the deceptively crooked bridge in one of the more low-ceilinged areas. He was absently turning the bodies of a number of spitted, blackened, rat-like bodies over a small rubbish burner while looking towards the living tombs at the centre of the city.
‘Mr Jenkins?’ the Walker said cautiously. Mr Jenkins turned and ran an appraising eye over him before a smile appeared on his face.
‘I’m pleased to see you. Such a day for visitors. I don’t think the stones themselves can remember the last time that happened.’ He was eyeing the skull shells that the Walker was carrying. ‘Now, what can I do for you on such an auspicious day?’
‘Food and screaming demons,’ the Walker said.
Mr Jenkins narrowed his eyes. ‘I see. The skulls bonded?’ the grotesque little creature asked.
The Walker nodded.
‘One will get you something to eat and two more will get you the bound service of a demon.’
‘I need more than one,’ the Walker said irritably.
‘I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it at all. Well yes, I ‘spect we’d all like an army of screaming demons for a hardened skull-shell or two, but that’s not the way economics works, is it? With the emphasis on economy, and don’t you go thinking you can negotiate with a sword, you know there’s more of me where I came from. Besides,’ he waved at two of the cooking rat-like things, their faces deceptively human, ‘these are fresh. Me wife, queen of my harem and my heart mind you, just popped them out last week.’
The Walker tried to remember a time when this would have disgusted him, but frankly he needed to eat.
The centre of the city was bathed in hard destructive light from the red heavens. Twisted spires, which had reached for the blood-coloured sky, started to fall. Mr Jenkins watched, appalled. The skull shells clattered onto the bench next to the creature.
‘Now,’ the Walker said.
‘Right you are.’ Mr Jenkins turned and ran into the inky blackness of one of the bridge’s oddly angled corners. The Walker watched the spires fall as he chewed on one of the cooked creatures. Moments later Mr Jenkins reappeared from the darkness. The lines around his small grotesque eyes had deepened, there was more white in his fur.
‘They don’t like what’s happening,’ Mr Jenkins said, between grunts of exertion. He seemed to be tugging on the corner’s inky darkness. ‘They know the city’s sleep has been disturbed.’ Slowly the darkness started to coalesce into a form.
Tangwen stumbled through wasteland that had once been dense forest, before collapsing to her knees in a cloud of grey dust that defied the weather. Tears ran from her eyes as she vomited.
There was a dividing line. Just to the north of her the forest started. Everything south was a grey wasteland that the driving rain was turning to mud. All along the demarcation line were the crumbling remains of the creatures that Crom Dhubh, the Dark Man, had drawn from Andraste’s poisoned womb. The warped forms created from the beasts, plants and even the rocks of Ynys Prydain, the Isle of the Mighty, were returning to their original state, robbed of the animated life the goddess’s magics had provided.
She touched her neck. It itched painfully as the mouth that had grown there during the battle with Andraste’s spawn started to heal over with new skin. When the goddess’s magic, her seeds, had tried to transform Tangwen into one of her brood.
She drew a painful breath as sobs wracked her body. A shadow fell across her. She wiped the vomit from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked over her shoulder. Britha was standing there holding the little girl from her village. The one who had survived the wicker man, the march north, and Andraste’s spawn. Neither the girl nor Britha looked like they were ever going to let go of each other. The girl was quiet. She had seen too much to cry. Britha grimaced in obvious pain; some of her flesh still had a life of its own.
‘I remembered her name,’ Britha said quietly. ‘It’s Caithna.’
Tangwen nodded. She tried to speak but could form no words.
‘I’ve killed too much …’ Tangwen finally managed. Britha looked down at the younger woman and nodded. She gripped Tangwen’s shoulder with her free hand. The skin looked pink and raw, new, almost as if it was still in flux. ‘What now?’
‘Now? Now we start to fight each other.’
Tangwen nodded again and looked down. A small flower had grown through the mud.
There was little of the
gwyll
’s fortress left. Whatever the Muileartach’s spawn hadn’t pulled down had collapsed into the crater created by the Red Chalice. All that was left was one of the watchtowers and part of the rear wall. Despite the rainwater trickling down the side of the crater the chalice was still where they had left it, in a growing pool at the bottom. Britha was sure she could make out the raindrops that hit the red metal turning to steam.
They had wasted no time. The warriors and the survivors were regrouping in the woods to the north of the ruined fortress. Those who wanted the chalice, who wanted the power it offered, were all here regardless of their fatigue.
Britha was disappointed to see that Ysgawyn,
rhi
of the Corpse People, was still alive. His warband had burned and murdered in Crom Dhubh’s name, back when they had thought it meant power. They had changed sides when their master had abandoned them. Now that his retinue numbered only two warriors the
rhi
was looking for any opportunity to increase his fortunes. Of all of them Ysgawyn looked the least weary from his exertions in the recent battle.
Guidgen was the
dryw
and leader in all but name of the
gwyllion
, the forest tribe whose land they were on. He looked ready to collapse into the crater, despite being one of those who had drunk of Britha’s blood to receive the gifts of the chalice’s magic. The bearded, wizened old man may have been imbued with the powers of speed, strength, vitality and healing that the cup offered, but it was obvious the battle had taken its toll.
Germelqart, the short, once portly, Carthaginian trader was tugging at his beard, a worried expression on his face. He was looking anywhere but down into the crater at the chalice. It had been Germelqart and Britha who had spoken with Goibhniu, the god in the chalice who had claimed to be the servant of other greater gods long since gone.
Anharad, the highborn Trinovantes woman who was friend to Tangwen and had helped lead the survivors to eventual safety, was trying not to glare at Britha. The Pecht
dryw
knew that the older women hated her for siding with the Lochlannach, the Otherworldly raiders. They had slain Anharad’s family and imprisoned her in the wicker man as part of the sacrifice to the Llwglyd Diddymder, the Hungry Nothingness, the dark god that Crom had tried to summon to eat the sky.
Mabon, Anharad’s grandson, the only surviving member of her family, remained close to his grandmother. Britha saw that he had a shortsword now and had clothed himself in a patchwork of boiled leather armour. Despite the raggedness of his attire he held himself as a warrior, though Britha knew he had not said a word since his parents had been killed and he had been taken as prisoner from the boys’ camp.
Britha noticed that Anharad was standing quite close to Bladud, known as the Witch King. The heavy-set, bearded bald man wore the black robes of a
dryw
once more, despite having been cast out. Britha knew that Bladud,
rhi
of the Brigante, had ambitions to be the
bannog rhi
, the high king of the Pretani. He wanted the chalice for himself.
Finally there was Tangwen. The younger woman, a small, wiry warrior and hunter with spiked hair from the Pobl Neidr, the People of the Snake, swayed on her feet as if she was about to pitch forwards into the crater. This was despite the fact that she had drunk of her blood as well. Britha could see the ravages of the magic on Tangwen’s wiry form. It had fed on her flesh – she looked emaciated and would have to eat soon. Warriors and landsfolk alike had decreed Tangwen should be guardian of the chalice.
Along with Britha, still holding onto Caithna, they formed a rough circle standing around the edge of the crater. Britha had no illusions about why Caithna would not be parted from her. The girl had been frightened of her but terrified of the spawn of the Muileartach. In such times it made sense to seek the protection of someone as frightening as the Pecht
dryw
.
There were so many of them missing. Kush, the Numidian warrior, had been killed by Crom Dhubh in Oeth, the Place of Bones. Sadhbh, the Iceni scout, and Nerthach, Bladud’s right hand, had fallen in the same place. Teardrop had been killed by the Ettin in the wicker man. She herself had helped Bress kill Fachtna, her lover and the father of her daughter – now taken from her by the
dryw
of the Ubh Blaosc. She touched her stomach as she thought of her stolen daughter. She knew that Bress, Crom Dhubh’s champion and warleader, held the control rod that would allow her to open a trod back to the Otherworld where the
dryw
of the Fair Folk kept her unborn child. She would take the rod from Bress if she could. From his corpse if need be, as they had both done with Fachtna. Old lore and newer magic, however, told her that she was once again with child. The dread she felt at this was because the father was Bress.
Her people were gone. Cruibne, her
mormaer
, Feroth, the war leader and all but a father to her, Talorcan, the quiet tracker. And Cliodna. So many in such a short period of time.
‘The blood of our fallen hasn’t yet cooled. This is unseemly,’ Guidgen started. The
dryw
was right but Britha had respect for his cunning. Guidgen knew he was fatigued. He would want more time to recover so he could bring all his wits to bear on the coming argument. Bladud, however, was as much warrior as he was
dryw
. He thought to strike while his enemy was weakened.
‘And yet you are here,’ Ysgawyn pointed out in a tone less courteous than one would expect when speaking to a
dryw
, even for a
rhi
.
‘If this isn’t resolved quickly then it will cause trouble among us, and we still have a greater threat,’ Bladud said. Britha could hear the fatigue in his voice as well, but something told her that he had planned this before the battle.
‘It has already been resolved,’ Guidgen said. ‘Tangwen has guardianship of the chalice until the threat has passed.’
‘Tangwen did an admirable job in safeguarding the chalice and protecting Germelqart and Britha while they worked their magics; we owe them much, but the agreement held until we had dealt with Andraste’s Brood. This we have done. We need to decide what happens with the Red Chalice now,’ Bladud told them.
‘You said it yourself,’ Guidgen muttered. ‘Tangwen was a worthy guardian, let’s leave her as such.’
Britha glanced at Tangwen’s face. She did not think the younger woman was listening to them. Britha had seen the same look on warriors before. She was locked in a prison of fatigue and the memory of her experiences. This would have been the first time she would have had the luxury to reflect on everything that she had seen, everything she had done, since the wicker man, if not before.
‘I notice this time we are not having this discussion in front of everyone,’ Britha said.
Bladud looked over the crater at the black-robed
ban draoi
, meeting her gaze easily. ‘Nor do I have my warriors at my back,’ he pointed out.
Britha noticed Anharad and Ysgawyn nodding.
No,
but you brought allies,
she thought.
‘There is still the matter of the Lochlannach and Crom Dhubh. Let us leave things as they are until we have dealt with them and then we can fall on each other.’ Guidgen’s tiredness was telling in his lack of subtlety. There was no trace of his normal wry smile.
‘Some of us are strong enough to keep going even after the exertions of battle,’ Ysgawyn said.
Bladud glanced over at the
rhi
of the Corpse People. He did not look pleased. Guidgen closed his eyes. For the first time since Britha had met him he looked his age, his normal vitality gone.
‘I did not see you in the battle,
rhi
of two,’ Guidgen said, then he opened his eyes, bloodshot. He stared at the bristling Ysgawyn.
‘Enough of this,’ Bladud growled, raising his voice enough to be heard across the crater, over the rain. ‘I am well aware of the threat that Bress, the Lochlannach and this Crom Dhubh pose …’
‘Are you?’ Britha asked. Normally she would not interrupt a
rhi
in such a way. It wasn’t that she lacked the authority to do so. It was just that it showed a lack of respect to their station. ‘You have not fought them. They raided little of your land, as far as I can tell. You were not at the wicker man. I think you know little but what you’ve been told.’ Caithna was growing restless in her arms. Presumably cold and hungry, but the young girl showed no sign of wanting to be put down yet.
‘If we are to fight them then more of us will have to drink from the chalice,’ Ysgawyn said, almost managing to keep the eagerness from his voice. Britha glanced at Tangwen. Normally the young hunter would counter anything said by Ysgawyn; she had borne witness to the depredations of the Corpse People, she hated them and their
rhi
. Instead she just swayed on the edge of the crater, looking up into the sky, the rain falling on her face.
‘We will certainly need the magic of the chalice to fight the Dark Man,’ Bladud said, and then spat to avert evil. ‘Magic that must be shared.’
‘And controlled,’ Guidgen said. He pointed at the chalice. From their position on the lip of the crater they could see its bubbling, liquid, red metal contents. ‘We have the means of our own destruction here if we are not careful.’
‘Control requires strength,’ Bladud said. ‘We have proven time and time again that we are the strongest.’
‘Bladud has our support,’ Ysgawyn said. Again it was a sign of Guidgen’s tiredness that he laughed in the so-called
rh
i
’s face.
‘All three of you? That’s an impressive warband.’ Britha could not hide the contempt in her voice.
‘And where are the people you swore to serve?’ Ysgawyn asked. ‘Is that the only survivor there in your arms?’
Britha opened her mouth to retort, but no angry words came. He was right, after all.
‘The Iceni are with me,’ Bladud told them. This was significant. After the Brigante, the Iceni were the largest tribe that had answered Bladud’s summons to fight the monsters. They were powerful and warlike.
‘And the Trinovantes,’ Anharad said. Mabon nodded at his grandmother’s words.
‘And you can speak for them?’ Guidgen said.
‘I have some influence,’ Anharad said.
‘We are to be wed,’ Bladud told them, and suddenly he had the attention of all but Tangwen. Britha guessed that Anharad had underplayed just how important she was to her tribe.
‘Congratulations,’ Britha said.
Guidgen laughed bitterly. The old
dryw
turned and looked to the south at the plain of mud that used to be his people’s wooded land.
‘After we have dealt with the Lochlannach you will need strong allies,’ Bladud told the old man. ‘All the southern tribes will.’
‘Allies yes, rulers no, tyrants certainly not,’ Guidgen said. ‘And we have already had this discussion. The chalice was given to Tangwen to safeguard because we would have fallen on each other with sword and spear if we did not. Nothing has changed. We still have a threat that we need to deal with.’
‘So you see war between us when we have dealt with the Lochlannach?’ Bladud asked. Britha sensed a trap in his words.
‘There will be war if you insist on ruling all,’ Guidgen said angrily. ‘There is always war when a
rhi
wants to own more than they can see from the highest point of their land. We should use the chalice and then throw it into the deepest part of the sea.’
‘Things like the chalice have a way of finding their way back into the hands of mortals,’ Germelqart said quietly.