Scar Night

33

Poisonsong

There was a moment of confusion, when Rachel found herself flat against the bridge windows, then pitched back fiercely as the chain at her ankle snapped taut. She struck the rear wall and air burst from her lungs.

A juddering groan from outside. The Tooth rocked, slipped, and settled upside down. The huge machine had been snared, barely, in Deepgate’s remaining web of chains. Through cracked windows in the wall opposite Rachel saw the mighty links of a foundation chain among the tangle, and pitch darkness below it. One of the links had been half-sheared by the machine’s cutters.

The partly sheared link was opening, stretching.

Carnival and Dill had been thrown into opposite corners of the bridge, and were now picking themselves up, dazed. The Heshette shaman lay unmoving between them. Devon was hanging from the control bank fixed to what had now become the ceiling.

Rachel heard the snap of cables and chains, and the Tooth lurched, slipped a fathom. The foundation chain groaned, the sheared link opening further. Rubble showered past the windows.

Devon swung above her, cursing, as she dragged herself to her feet and staggered over to the windows, calling out to Carnival, “Help me break the glass.”

Carnival and Dill joined her, while Rachel smashed her sword hilt against the scorched pane. When it didn’t break, she tried again harder, putting every ounce of her strength into the blow. Nothing happened. “What the hell is this made from?” she cried.

“Let me.” Carnival took the sword and struck the window a vicious blow with it. A fresh crack appeared among the others, but still the pane did not give.

“This isn’t working,” Rachel said. “Try the corridors. We need to find another way out.”

Just then the Tooth shuddered once more. Lesser chains broke, cables whined. A grinding, screeching of metal, and they sank another fathom.

“No time,” Carnival said. “We’re about to go down.” The muscles on her arms bunched as she drove the steel hilt into the pane, again, again, again. A crack widened. Carnival snarled, pummelled the pane furiously, faster than Rachel could see. Then she broke away, panting.

“It’s giving,” the assassin said.

“Not fast enough.”

“Let me try.” Dill had moved in to crouch beside Carnival, his blunt sword in his hands.

“Back off, idiot,” Carnival growled.

But Dill ignored her this time. In both hands he raised the heavy weapon, and brought it down, point first, into the pane. The bridge rang with the din as the window exploded outwards.

Carnival stood and gaped at him.

“Out!” Rachel grabbed Dill’s torn chain mail, and piled him through the window. “Now you,” she said to Carnival. “Go, before—”

The sound of snapping chains cut her off. The Tooth fell so abruptly that Rachel was thrown upwards. Her elbow cracked against something hard; her knee collided with her chin. The room spun, and she was bounced off a wall, or the ceiling, or the floor—she didn’t know which. Then something wrenched hard at the chain holding her ankle. Still hanging on to the window, Carnival was dragging the chain towards her. Wind screamed around her through the broken pane.

For an absurd moment Rachel felt like shouting,Get out of here. Just leave me . But of course Carnival couldn’t leave without her. They were still chained together. Carnival was intent on saving herself.

The Poisoner’s hand grabbed Rachel’s hair, yanked her back. “You can stay with me a while, Spine.”

Devon had his stump wedged into the skeletal control panel. His cold eyes narrowed on Rachel. She reached for her sword, but it was gone, the bamboo tube gone too. And then she remembered the poisonsong at her hip. She tore the bolt free from its straps.

Devon sneered. “You think that’s going to make a difference?”

Rachel jabbed the bolt behind her, missed him. The bridge pitched and tumbled, knocking her against the controls, but Devon held on firmly.

“Let go of me, you—”

Carnival heaved on the chain till both Rachel and Devon were pulled free. For a heartbeat Rachel was weightless, then she thudded against the gaping window, beside Carnival. Devon slammed into her back. She felt a spear of pain in her side, heard Devon gasp.

One end of the bolt was embedded in her side, driven deep between two ribs; the other end had punched through Devon’s jacket just below his heart. They were both bleeding, and five inches of blood-soaked shaft separated them.

No! Where is the tip? The Craw plague? Which end?

Devon’s face creased. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips. He hooked a punch at her, all of his weight behind it, but his stump swished by an inch from her nose.

“Damn it!” he roared.

Then Carnival was dragging her through the window, out into open air.

* * * *

Dill dived after the huge machine, wings closed tight, the tip of his sword piercing the air before him. Cutting wheels, dusty tracks, and the scorched expanse of the Tooth’s hull all tumbled below him. This thing was as large as the temple, spinning end over end as it fell. He veered to avoid one huge funnel, then dived again.

He momentarily glimpsed the bridge windows.

“Dill!”

Carnival swooped above him, and called down, “I have her.”

His wings snapped out, and he slowed, allowing the great machine to fall away into darkness.

The scarred angel held the Spine assassin’s limp body tightly in her arms.

“Rachel?” Dill gasped, staring at the blood dripping from a wound in her side. She didn’t move or open her eyes, and he couldn’t tell if she was still breathing.

“Rachel!”

“The reservist encampment,” Carnival said. “We’ll find a doctor there.”

“But you’re still chained to her. The army will kill you.”

Carnival grunted, then took off skywards, her wings thumping like war drums.

Dill followed. As armies went, he supposed, it wasn’t so big.

* * * *

The Tooth juddered and shook and spun as it plummeted, but the Poisoner knew he would survive the fall. It might hurt, break every bone in his body, but he would heal eventually. He was more than a man now; broken bones meant nothing to him. For the angelwine boiled inside him. He could hear the souls clearly now, furious and raging, and every one of them had his own voice. They were a part of him. He realised they always had been.

He would find a way back to the surface, even if it took a hundred years. If he had to climb the entire abyss wall with rope and grapple, so be it.

And then he’d finish what he started. If Ulcis was dead, then the rest of the faithful would join him in oblivion. He’d hunt down Rachel Hael and make her suffer for her crimes. And Carnival: he’d lock that leech in a cell and watch her own hunger tear her to pieces. This fall was nothing more than an inconvenience. He had brought down the city. He had beaten them.

So he clung to the shattered window and waited. The Tooth toppled end over end, struck the abyss wall with a jolt that smashed the rest of the bridge windows. Devon still hung on. Air ripped and whistled through the broken panes, buffeted him, and tore tears from his eyes. Still he hung on.

Soon now, surely. The abyss couldn’t go on for ever.

He felt light-headed, nauseous, blood leaking from the wound in his chest. He squeezed the flesh there together, and watched it begin to knit, the skin healing. He grinned: mortal wounds were nothing more than scratches. Any amount of suffering could be endured, for a time. Devon knew this, it had been his life’s work. Work he might expand upon now that he had so much time ahead of him. There was so much, in this life, still to learn.

An odd, shivering sensation crept up through his chest. The nerves there had begun to feel frayed.

A second wound suddenly opened, an inch below the first. A trickle of new blood emerged.

Strange. Devon clamped his hand over the wound, felt it start to heal again.That’s better. A temporary aberration, nothing more . The bolt had clearly been poisoned. Which sort of poison? He racked his brains. It didn’t matter. The new wound was healing. All his wounds would heal in the same way. He gritted his teeth against an impact that could only be moments away.

A terrible itching sensation swept through his torso, his arms, as though his entire upper body was swarming with lice. Five more wounds opened: three on his chest, two on his upper arm. He felt the skin break, felt fluids soak into his shirt. The poison was spreading. Or was it a disease? Devon moistened his lips, sweat beaded his forehead. He shook his head in confusion. These new lesions were already healing too.

The Tooth plunged deeper into the abyss, booming loudly whenever it struck the side wall. Devon clung on, sheathed in sweat, and itching all over.

Dozens of wounds were opening now. On his chest, his back, his arms and legs, and his face. They would heal soon, he knew. His wounds would always heal.

* * * *

Mr. Nettle joined the other dead at the bottom of the abyss. His newly-mended crutch sank among bones and rubble as he struggled up the slope. Chunks of debris still fell in places, but there appeared to be a lull, so perhaps the worst had passed. Deepgate glowed far above him, full of promise.

Abigail’s soul had been stolen from him—for now. In a way, he was pleased it had found a temporary home in an angel. The daft girl liked angels. But he would find that soul again after he’d found her body. He’d have his daughter back. He was a scrounger. He could find anything.

The bonecrawlers ignored him. They were too busy sifting through the recently fallen treasures, pulling out sheets of tin, broken furniture, chains, and timbers from the mounds of bones and ash. Some were shouting or fighting over their finds. Others merely sobbed, or lifted their faces to Deepgate and prayed. Ulcis was dead, but many had found a new god in his wake. The city, after all, had given them everything.

High overhead, a great shadow filled the circle of sky. Something stirred in the air, a faint tremor that reverberated through the abyss. The bonecrawlers felt it too. All were staring up now. The shadow grew larger until it blotted out the light from above. The scavengers watched in awe, lifting their arms in homage while the darkness grew deeper.

Returning his attention to his search, Mr. Nettle hobbled on up the slope, his leg twitching with pain, his crutch slipping and sinking. He still had Abigail to find, somewhere. Somewhere, she was here. And she was near. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones.