? ? ?
It took five days before Mount Reygnar came into view, rising above the morning haze and dispelling Clay’s weariness with the sheer novelty of looking upon something that broke the endless monotony of the ice. They reached the lower slopes by evening, making camp amid a cluster of massive boulders part-submerged in the encroaching glacier. Reygnar loomed above, stirring unwelcome memories of the narrow peak that had concealed the White’s lair, though the two mountains were very different. The Nail had been a giant rocky spike whilst Mount Reygnar was a flat-topped mound that resembled the snow-speckled hide of a sleeping monster. But still, Clay couldn’t suppress a shudder of unease as his gaze tracked across the slopes.
“Wondering what might be inside?” his uncle asked, coming to his side.
“Maybe,” Clay replied with a shrug.
“The smuggler says it’s a volcano, though it’s stayed quiet for years. Nothing inside but molten rock.”
“There was a whole lotta molten rock beneath the Nail. I think the folks that built the city chose it for that.”
“Something you saw in your visions?”
Clay closed his eyes as the collage of memories crowded in. He had tried sorting through it all more than once, but so many images had been pushed into his head that making sense of it all was never easy, the effort inevitably leaving him with a pounding headache. “Just a guess, Uncle,” he said.
? ? ?
Hilemore and the Longrifles climbed the peak the next day. Loriabeth wasn’t among them, Braddon having ordered her to stay at the camp and eat all the food Steelfine prepared for her. She was growing more emaciated by the day and Clay knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to be placed on a sled and dragged along. Seeing the guilt dominating his uncle’s face, Clay thought better of voicing any concern.
Mount Reygnar wasn’t a particularly tall peak in comparison to the steep giants of the Coppersoles, but still the cold made the going hard. Thankfully, the mountain’s flanks consisted of black, hard-packed ash that was largely free of ice so the route wasn’t overly treacherous. A four-hour climb interspersed with numerous rest stops got them to the summit where the ground dropped away into a crater some fifty feet wide. The bottom of the crater consisted of a pile of boulders that appeared to have been undisturbed for many years.
“Guess she’s lost her spark,” Skaggerhill observed in a ragged gasp, slumping down onto the ash.
“Sometime ago, I’d judge,” Hilemore said, casting a critical eye over the crater. “Otherwise, I suspect we would be looking out on a stretch of open water.” He turned to the south and extended a hand to Clay. “The sketch, if you please, Mr. Torcreek.”
Clay took the paper from the depths of his heavy overcoat and handed it over. “I’d judge the viewpoint to be some miles south-east,” Hilemore said after a moment’s study of their surroundings. “Given the shape of the peak as depicted here.”
“Just over twenty miles south-south-east,” Preacher said, standing with his longrifle cradled in the crook of his arm as he pointed out the bearing.
“You can see it, sir?” Hilemore asked with a sceptical frown.
“An eagle’s got nothing on Preacher, Captain,” Braddon said. “He says he sees it, he sees it.”
Hilemore extended his spy-glass and moved to Preacher’s side, following his extended arm to find the target. “Impressive eyes,” he said with a faint smile of satisfaction. “Mr. Torcreek, I believe we have our destination.”
Clay came to his side as Hilemore handed him the glass. It took a moment to bring the thing into focus, the great twisted spire seeming little more than a malformed thorn at this distance. But it was unmistakably the same structure from the vision. He felt no joy at this validation, the confirmation that his visions weren’t simply the conjuration of a traumatised mind. If anything the sight stirred a sinking sensation in his gut; a sense of helplessness in the face of the vision’s commands. We were always going to be here.
? ? ?
The ice became easier to traverse south of the mountain, covered by a thin blanket of powdery snow and the going more even. The sleds skidded across the surface easily and they made good progress, covering the distance to the spire in the space of three days. The size of the thing became more evident with every passing mile, towering above the haze to such an altitude that they had to crane their necks to see the top. The base came into view halfway through the third day, Clay estimating it to be over a hundred yards wide where it met the ice. From the slanted flanks it was clear it grew to even broader proportions beneath the surface. At the sight of it the entire party came to an unbidden halt, standing in silence as their breath misted the air. Clay could understand their awe. The vision hadn’t done justice to the scale of the spire, nor captured the sensation of insignificance engendered by being so close to it.
His eyes tracked over the spire’s surface, finding it dark and mostly featureless. As he looked closer he saw that the shade varied a little, straight lines and hard angles forming a pattern that confirmed this thing to be unnatural. Someone, some thing, had made it. As his gaze ascended, the spire’s flanks took on a definite twist, becoming more acute near the top where it narrowed to a sharp point.
“They’ll have someone’s eye out with that,” Skaggerhill said, which drew only muted laughter.
Clay tore his gaze from the spire at the sound of boots crunching across the snow towards him. He found himself shuddering as he turned to face Hilemore, a fresh ache lurching in his head as the vision and present reality became one.
“So,” Hilemore said, “this is where we save the world, Mr. Torcreek.”
II
BENEATH A STARLESS SKY
“BLESSED DEMON” STRIKES AGAIN
Death Stalks the Marsh-Wold
Rogue Blood-Blessed Suspected
“Protectorate Constabulary Incompetent” Claims Voter Agitator