Engines of Empire Read online

  Up ahead, Lethann paused at the threshold of a ruined archway. It was the entrance to a dead temple, its remaining walls standing askew on the valley floor, blocking the way ahead. She knelt, and her hand traced the outline of something in the dust before she turned to Jarrell and nodded.

  Terrick and the three other troopers moved up beside their captain as Willet hung back, listening to Jarrell’s whispered orders. As one, the troopers spread out, Jarrell leading the way as they moved toward the arch. Lethann unstrapped her splintbow and checked the breech before slotting a clip of bolts into the stock, and the patrol entered the brooding archway.

  Willet followed them across the threshold into what had once been the vast atrium of a temple. Jarrell and his men spread out, swords drawn, shields braced in front of them. Lethann lurked at the periphery, aiming her splintbow across the wide-open space. At first Willet didn’t notice what had made them so skittish. Then his eyes fell on the lone figure perched on a broken altar at the opposite end of the temple.

  She knelt as though in prayer. Her left hand rested on a sheathed greatsword almost as tall as she was, and the other covered her right eye. The left eye was closed as though she were deep in meditation. She wore no armour, but a tight-fitting leather jerkin and leggings covered her from neck to bare feet. Her arms were exposed, and Willet could make out faint traces of the tattoos that wheeled about her bare flesh.

  “There’s nowhere to run,” Jarrell pronounced, voice echoing across the open ground of the temple. “Surrender to us, and we’ll see you’re treated fairly.”

  Willet doubted the truth of that, but he still hoped this would end without violence. This woman stood little chance against six opponents.

  Slowly she opened her left eye, hand still pressed over the right, and regarded them without emotion. If she was intimidated by the odds against her, she didn’t show it.

  “You should turn back to your fort,” she answered in a thick Maladoran accent. “And run.”

  Lethann released the safety catch on her splintbow, sighting across the open ground at the kneeling woman. With a sweep of his hand, Jarrell ordered his men to advance.

  Terrick was the first to step forward, the brittle earth crunching beneath his boots. Two of the troopers approached from the flanks, closing on the woman’s position. Lethann moved along the side of the atrium, barely visible in the shadow of the temple wall.

  “I tried,” the woman breathed, slowly lowering the hand that covered her eye.

  Willet stifled a gasp as he saw a baleful red light where her right eye should have been. Stories of demons and foul sorceries flooded his memory, and his hand shook as it moved to grasp the pendants about his neck.

  Terrick was unperturbed, closing on her position with his sword braced atop his shield. When he advanced to within five feet, the woman moved.

  With shocking speed she wrenched the greatsword from its sheath and leapt to her feet, blade sweeping the air faster than the eye could comprehend. Terrick halted his advance before toppling back like a statue and landing on his back in the dirt.

  Willet let out a gasp as blood pooled from Terrick’s neck, turning the sand black. The other two troopers charged in, the first yelling in rage from within his mantis helm, sword raised high. The woman leapt from atop her rocky perch, sword sweeping that mantis helm from the trooper’s shoulders. Her dance continued, bare feet sending clouds of dust into the air as she sidestepped a crushing sweep of the next trooper’s blade before thrusting the tip of her greatsword into his stomach beneath the breastplate. Willet saw it sprout from his back in a crimson bloom before she wrenched it free, never slowing her momentum, swift as an eagle in flight.

  The clacking report of bolts echoed across the temple as Lethann unleashed a salvo from her splintbow. Willet’s lips mouthed a litany to Ammenodus Rex as the woman sprinted around the edge of the temple wall, closing the gap on Lethann. Every bolt missed, ricocheting off the decayed rocks as the woman ate up the distance between them at a frightening rate. Lethann fumbled at her belt for a second clip, desperate to reload, but the woman was on her. A brutal hack of the greatsword, and Lethann’s body collapsed to the dirt.

  “Ammenodus, grant me salvation that I might be delivered from your enemies,” Willet whispered, pressing the steel pendant to his lips as he did so. He found himself backing away, sandals scuffing across the dusty floor, as the woman casually strode toward the centre of the atrium. Captain Jarrell and his one remaining trooper moved to flank her, crouching defensively behind their shields.

  They circled as she stood impassively between them. For the first time Willet noted the white jewel glowing at the centre of her greatsword’s cross-guard. It throbbed with sickly light, mimicking the pulsing red orb sunk within her right eye socket.

  This truly was a demon of the most corrupt kind, and Willet’s hand fumbled at the pendants about his neck, fingers closing around the one made of jet. “O great Ravenothrax,” he mumbled. “The Unvanquished. Convey me to your lair that I might be spared the evil propagated by mine enemies.”

  In the centre of the atrium, the three fighters paid little heed to Willet’s prayers. The last trooper’s patience gave out, and with a grunt he darted to attack. Captain Jarrell bellowed at him to “Hold!” but it was too late. The woman’s greatsword seemed to move of its own accord, the white jewel flashing hungrily as the blade skewered the eye socket of the trooper’s helmet.

  Jarrell took the initiative as his last ally died, charging desperately, hacking at the woman before she ducked, spun, twisted in the air and kicked him full in the chest. Willet held his breath, all thought of prayer forgotten as he saw Jarrell lose his footing and fall on his back.

  The woman leapt in the air, impossibly high, that greatsword lancing down to impale the centre of Jarrell’s prone body, driving through his breastplate like a hammered nail.

  It was only then that Willet’s knees gave out. He collapsed to the dirt, feeling a tear roll from his eye. The pendants in his fist felt useless as the woman slowly stood and turned toward him.

  “Vermitrix, Great Wyrm of Peace, bring me a painless end,” he whispered as she drew closer, leaving her demon sword still skewered through Jarrell’s chest. “And may Undometh grant me vengeance against this wicked foe.”

  She stood over him, hand covering that sinister red eye once more. The jewel that sat in the centre of the greatsword’s cross-guard had dulled to nothing but clear glass, but Willet could still feel its evil from across the atrium.

  “Your dragon gods will not save you, little priest,” the woman said. Her voice was calm and gentle, as though she were coaxing a child to sleep.

  Willet tried to look at her face but couldn’t. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimper, a mumbled cry for his mother. He could almost have laughed at the irony. Here he was at the end, and for all his pious observance he was crying for a woman who had made his life a misery with her spiteful and poisonous tongue.

  “Your mother is not coming either,” the woman said. “But the voice is quiet, for now. So you should run, little priest. Before it speaks again.”

  Somehow Willet rose to his feet, legs trembling like a newborn foal’s. He took a tentative step away from the woman, who kept her hand clamped tight over her eye. The white jewel in her sword, still skewered through Jarrell’s chest, shone with sudden malevolence. It was enough to set Willet to flight.

  He ran, losing a sandal on the rough ground, ignoring the sudden pain in his foot. He would not stop until he was back at the gates of Fort Karvan. Would not slow no matter the ache in his legs nor lack of breath in his lungs. He could not stop. If he did, there would be nothing left for him but the Five Lairs. And he was not ready for them yet.

  PART ONE

  THE EMISSARY

  TYRETA

  The journey from Wyke to the Anvil was over five hundred miles of undulating land. It would have taken longer than two weeks by wagon, with regular stops and changes of horse. Tyreta Hawkspur
would complete the journey in less than three days.

  From the viewing deck of the landship she could already see the rising minarets of the Anvil in the distance, growing ever larger as the open fields and rivers glided by. The vessel was elevated on rails, engines growling, the sound bellowing over the wind as it rushed into her face. It was an ingenious feat of engineering. The Hawkspur Guild had established a network of such lines across the length and breadth of Torwyn, on which the long trains of steel and iron snaked. Tyreta was heir to this legacy, one that had seen the Hawkspurs rise from simple couriers to one of the most powerful Guilds in the land. It should have made her proud. All she felt was bored.

  “Try to look more enthused. Your uncle will have gone to a great deal of trouble to greet us. I’d rather you didn’t look like you’ve just eaten a bag of lemons when we arrive.”

  There it was.

  Tyreta’s mother, Rosomon, stood at the rail beside her. A constant reminder of what Tyreta was to inherit. Of her responsibilities.

  “Oh, there’s a big smile on the inside, Mother,” Tyreta replied. She said it under her breath, but as usual Lady Rosomon’s hearing was almost preternatural.

  “Well, when we arrive, see if you can conjure one on your face.”

  Her mother moved away, off to prepare herself to greet the emperor. It wouldn’t do for Rosomon Hawkspur to look anything less than resplendent when she was met by her brother, the great Sullivar Archwind.

  As she left, Tyreta contorted her face into a twisted semblance of a smile. It was a pointless act of defiance but at least one she could get away with—Rosomon’s hearing might have been keen as a bat’s, but she certainly didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. As her mother left the viewing deck, Tyreta saw she’d not been quite as discreet as she’d anticipated.

  Her elder brother Conall was watching her from across the deck, wearing a mocking grin. He was tall, handsome, sharp-witted, impeccably dressed in his blue uniform—all the things an heir to the Hawkspur Guild should be. Conall never put a foot wrong, in contrast to Tyreta’s constant missteps. He was the future of their line and a captain in the Talon, the military arm of the Guild. All her life she’d been trying to live up to his example and failing miserably. He was the last person she would want to catch her acting like an infant. Well, if her mother and brother thought her so feckless, maybe she’d demonstrate just how talented she was.

  Ignoring her brother’s smugness, she moved from the deck and made her way below into the cloying confines of the metal carriage. If the sound was deafening on the viewing deck, it was much worse inside. The roar of the engines resonated throughout the length of the landship, the walls of the carriages trembling with the power of it. Tyreta could feel the energy coursing through the vessel, propelling it along the rails. For everyone else on board, she guessed it was just about bearable. For Tyreta it was a drug to the senses.

  They were almost at their destination now, the Anvil no more than a few miles away. Surely this was the time to indulge? If her mother chided her, what was the difference? What was the worst that could happen?

  Tyreta made her way forward through the carriages. Past the soldiers of the Talon, busy polishing their hawk helms and ceremonial blades, past the servants and staff, to the engine room, the head of the snake.

  The steel door was shut, a wheel at its centre keeping the engine room locked away from the rest of the landship. Tyreta turned the wheel, hearing the clamps unlock, and swung open the door. She was greeted by the growl of the engine and the hum of the power core within, feeling it nourishing her, energising her.

  When she entered, the drivers immediately stood to one side and bowed their heads. There were some advantages to being heir to a Guild.

  The men were masked to protect them from the smoke and dust of the engine, but Tyreta ignored the cloying atmosphere as she approached the power core. She could feel its hum, a sweet lamenting tune sung only to her. Reaching out, she placed a hand on it, sensing the energy emanating from the pyrestones within—those precious crystals pulsating with life.

  This was her gift. As a webwainer she could control the pyrestones, imbuing them with life, and at her touch they responded, glowing hotter, agitated by her presence. The drivers gave one another a worried look, though neither dared offer a word of complaint.

  “Is this the fastest this crate can go?” Tyreta shouted above the din.

  One of the drivers pulled down his mask. “It is, my lady. Any faster and we risk—”

  “I think we can do better,” she replied.

  She pressed her palm to the core and closed her eyes. A smile crossed her lips as she felt the pyrestones respond to her will, the core growing hotter against her palm. The engine whined in protest as the stones urged the pistons and hydraulics to greater effort.

  “My lady, this is against regulations,” shouted one of the drivers, but Tyreta ignored him.

  The landship began to accelerate. She opened her eyes, seeing through the viewing port that the landscape was beginning to shoot past at an alarming rate. Still she did not yield. Tyreta wanted more.

  She pressed the core further, communing with it, talking to it in a silent whisper, urging it to greater and greater effort. This was what her webwainer gift was for, and for too long she had been forbidden to use it. What did her mother know anyway? Lady Rosomon had never experienced the privilege of the webwainer talent. This was Tyreta’s right—and besides, what harm could she do?

  The landship bucked, the wheels momentarily sliding on the rails. She glanced across the cab, seeing abject terror on the drivers’ faces. Before she could release her hand, there was a yell behind her.

  “Tyreta!”

  She snatched her hand from the core as though she’d been bitten, turning to see her mother’s furious face in the doorway. The train immediately slowed, the rattling and bucking relenting as the landship slowed to its former speed.

  Lady Rosomon didn’t have to say a word. Tyreta removed herself from the engine room, moving back through the carriages and past the chaos she’d caused. Baggage had fallen from the securing rigs, garments and trinkets were scattered about the floor. The Talon soldiers were picking themselves up from where they lay, their arms and armour strewn all about.

  Tyreta reached her cabin and closed the door, resting her back against it and breathing heavily. There might be a price to pay for this later. Lady Rosomon had never been a tolerant woman. Whatever that price was, Tyreta thought as a smile played across her lips, it had been worth it.

  The rest of the journey was mercifully short and without incident. Tyreta considered it best not to push her luck, and she dressed as one might expect of an heir to the Hawkspur Guild, her blue tunic displaying the winged-talon sigil on her chest. Despite the tailored fit, it still felt as if it were throttling her, but it would be best to endure it for now. At least until her mother had a chance to cool down. As the landship pulled to a stop, Tyreta couldn’t keep herself locked away any longer.

  Lady Rosomon was waiting for her when she debarked. On her right stood the imposing figure of Starn Rivers, swordwright to the Hawkspur Guild. He was a bull of a man, thick moustache drooping down past his chin. Tyreta had never liked him or the looks he occasionally gave her, and the fact that he barely spoke was a small mercy.

  While their cortege was busy unloading the landship and Conall joked with his cronies from the Talon, Rosomon led the group up through the terminal. Once out beyond the great arched entrance, Tyreta could see the city proper.

  The Anvil was a testament to the power of the Guilds. Soaring towers clamoured for space, linked by raised walkways. Everything stank of opulence, and even the lowliest of the citizenry were adorned in fine silk and velvet. A thunderous rattle peeled down from overhead as a skycarriage rumbled by on its elevated tracks. Tyreta marvelled at the perfect union of artifice and architecture, conveying people from one side of the city to the other with such automotive efficiency.

  It was a short walk to
the main promenade, at the end of which stood the magnificent Archwind Palace. The way was lined with statues that crossed the Bridge of Saints, prominent members of the Guilds from the annals of history given pride of place along the Anvil’s main thoroughfare. Between those icons stood an honour guard of giant stormhulks, pistons hissing as their vast mechanical frames suddenly stood to attention. Each was piloted by a webwainer—someone who could manipulate pyrestone and instil life in the huge engines. For a moment Tyreta felt a pang of envy—what a privilege to control an invention of such power—but her focus was quickly taken by the palace, rising up in the midst of the city like a vast mountain.

  As they crossed the bridge, Tyreta saw that a reception party was already awaiting them. She could make out Sullivar standing front and centre, his red uniform of office pristine, breastplate of brass shining in the sun. Her uncle had recently proclaimed himself emperor of Torwyn—an affectation Tyreta found a little ridiculous. Sullivar might look the part, but it was widely known he fell far short of being the great ruler her grandfather Treon had been.

  Before they reached the foot of the vast stairway that led up to the palace, Tyreta caught up with her mother.

  “Just wanted to say—” she began.

  “Not now,” Rosomon snapped.

  “But I thought I’d—”

  Her mother cut her off with a glance, and Tyreta thought it best not to push it, moving back and letting Lady Rosomon lead the way once more. Maybe it would be wise to let her calm down a little more before trying for an apology again.

  When they’d almost reached the stairs, Sullivar could hold himself back no longer. He walked down the last few steps, hugging Rosomon to him in a bearlike embrace.

  “It’s been too long,” he said to her.

  “Indeed it has,” she replied, smiling through the indignity.