Chapter 10

 

The City of the Gods, as it was romantically known to the priests of the Sun Empire, had certainly seen better days. Rumours of the ancients, and what they had achieved at this benighted plot were as widespread as they were vague, but at present it was not fit to accommodate any mildly discerning demon, never mind a god.

        What remained was, in fact, only a single great plaza of cracked and weathered paving stones, surrounded by vast, grey, lichen-encrusted buildings along much the same colossal lines as the central structures of the Lake City. There were also, as Dion noted with no great enthusiasm, echoes of the ruined temples which they had observed on their westward journey; particularly in the gargoyle-patterned reliefs that graced some of the larger pyramids. Dorus had led them to the foot of such a pile, liberally supplied with ranks of carved, leering serpent-heads, which it was hard to believe that even the sculptor could have loved, never mind have worshipped. Climbing the steep, and somewhat decayed stairs proved quite a chore – for Marchus especially, whose leg had anything but improved – but eventually they were all gathered upon the ritual platform, before a great slab of an altar. It boasted a rich collection of outlandish carvings, symbolic, bestial, and possibly human – to judge from the general shape of the skulls – and might have turned a more religious man than Dion to devout atheism. Dorus’s only notable response to it was to call for a pound of Gloriana’s blasting gelatine, which, Dion considered, was reasonable enough.

        “This is the spot, unless she was mistaken,” declared Dorus, meaninglessly so far as his companions could ascertain. “I doubt that. It’s all exactly as she described it. Lay charges all around the bottom edge, set a good long fuse, and get clear. I want this abhorrence cleared out of the way.”

        Given the lieutenant’s decidedly agitated frame of mind, Dion refrained from asking “Out of the way of what, sir?” reasoning that he should know the answer before long, barring the possibility of his head being caved in by any falling lumps of altar. Such did not prove to be the case, and, one very load chemical reaction later accompanied by a mass exodus of birds for half a mile around, he found himself staring down into infinity. Or into darkness, at all events. It was a dull prospect in itself, with uninviting potential, but it seemed to hit the spot as far as Dorus was concerned:

        “We’re through! She was right! Rope, Dion! How much have we got?” Having looked into this matter, worked out that the nearest point they could tether a line to was one of the serpent gargoyles along the sides of the upper tier – which took a good six yards off its effective length – dropped a chunk of rubble down the abysm, and heard a depressingly faint noise of stone on stone some five seconds later, Dorus could be forgiven for the rapid decline of his sanguine spirits. He was not, however, to be quite so easily daunted, and after having carefully lowered one of their two lanterns on the end of the rope, it was discovered that after only a few feet the pit resolved into a stairwell, which appeared to be mostly intact. It had probably, reflected Dion, once continued to the very top, right up to the point that their bomb had entered the picture.

        Given what little remained of the upper reaches, they required someone to swing across to them, to firmly hold or tether the line, and for the others to shin along it to the best of their ability. Marchus was chosen to go down first, since, given his wounded leg, it offered him the best chance of making it onto the stairwell alive. The line was tied around his waist, his comrades lowered him, and after a good deal of strain and swearing, there was a cry of “Got it, sir!” and the line slackened.

        The rope was untied and drawn back up. Next came the heavy packs, lowered in the same fashion and swung about until Marchus could grab hold of them, set them down upon the stairwell, and send the rope back for the next. After the third pack was delivered, he fixed the line to a broken outcrop of the ruined stairway, and after some laborious and nerve-wracking athletics, he was rejoined by his comrades. There was much heavy breathing, and little spoken to any purpose for several minutes, but eventually, Dorus gathered himself sufficiently to give the order to proceed.

        Although not in a bad state of repair for such an ancient structure, the stairway was narrow, not blessed with a rail, and pockmarked from time to time with slippery nitrous deposits that might have spelt the death of anyone who had lacked a dark lantern, or the sense to shine it ahead of their steps. Their descent was, perforce, as long and tedious as it was dangerous, and Dion reckoned it roughly an hour before he thought that he caught the impression of a very faint light from below. If he was not merely hallucinating, there certainly appeared to be a pale, sickly ambience at the foot of the stairwell, which he discovered by shining his own lantern beam down there, the spectral radiance illuminating nothing to any clarity. Somewhat further on, he could make out the line of an archway through which this glow or vapour was penetrating into the abyss. Its shape, such as it was, gradually became apparent, or rather not: its design and proportions were not so much a challenge as a downright affront to any eyes accustomed to seeing in good, honest, three-dimensional space. Even making a rough guess at its size was more than Dion cared to attempt. By turns it seemed immense and lofty, then again, impossibly narrow, and regarding the palely-lit tunnel that extended back from it... Well, it was probably better not to, unless one took pleasure in headaches and nausea. He grimly noted that there did not seem to be any alternative routes at the bottom of the stairwell, and wondered how long it would take his eyes to acclimatise to insanity.

        At length, the troopers were gathered before this superb example of architectural schizophrenia, whilst the lieutenant pondered their next move and the other two tried to think of anything else. Dorus was consulting another of the maps which Her Highness had thoughtfully provided, although how he expected to navigate within the eye-watering, mind-torturing depths of that ghastly labyrinth was a complete mystery to Dion, map or no. Nevertheless, he evidently did expect to, as the next – albeit slightly faltering – order was to advance, which they did at a cautious pace. The lanterns were extinguished, the glow from the walls being at least sufficient to prevent anyone from walking into them. Their surface was smooth and striated like marble, but warm and faintly prickling to the touch (when Dion finally worked up the nerve to run a hand over it). The tunnel seemed to run straight ahead with no variation for as far as he could make out, and they had proceeded for at least half a mile, he reckoned, before he was aware that this was not in accordance with the plan:

        “Damn it!” hissed Dorus, casting frustrated glances ahead, back, and at the map – the latter with some disgust. “Wretched woman! What does she mean by this? Dion, Marchus: have you seen any doorways since we came through that cursed archway?” Neither recalled such an object. “Well, that’s perfect, then! We either go on and trust to luck, or go back and forget the whole thing!”

        Dion had just begun to enjoy his flash of hope, when Marchus ruined it by observing, rather more apprehensively than would seem strictly necessary, that the shadows about a hundred yards from where they had reached seemed a little too deep. Impenetrable, in fact, which Dion thought odd enough in itself, considering the natural illumination of the walls. He might have entertained the idea that they were reaching the end of the tunnel, but deep though it was there was no sense of solidity to the darkness that lay in their path. A hazy aura of lesser shadow preceded it by a few feet, creating the impression less of a wall than of a bank of pitch-black fog. Besides which, it was perceptibly moving down the tunnel, at an increasing speed, declaring its advance with a shrieking vibrato, like the death-rattle of some hellish bird from the Fata Morgana’s own aviary.

        The troopers’ retreat was a shoddy manoeuvre, although a mostly successful one. Marchus, inevitably, fell behind, and neither Dion nor Dorus needed to look back in order to appreciate his fate – which was loudly announced, then cut short as suddenly – but as fortune fell, it may well have saved their lives. At any rate, there was silence after this final, fatal note, suggesting that the miasmic thing was perfectly satisfied with the fruits of its hunting, at least for the present. Not that either of them slackened their pace for the sheer relief. Indeed, they would have continued to the archway and back up the stairs, had Dorus not suddenly pulled up, with a shouted command for Dion to do the same.

        Retracing his steps, with great reluctance, to where Dorus stood, he saw what had thus tempted the lieutenant to violate the sacred commandments of self-preservation: there was a door in the wall beside him, which Dion had neither noticed during the first approach nor during their retreat. Like all aspects of this ancient labyrinth, it defied and mocked all human efforts to apply any useful, fixed terms in its description, preferring to allow the would-be categoriser to mark it down as a narrow, vertical, rectangular aperture, before inflicting upon him the sudden impression that he had been regarding a wide, lofty, steeply-angled irregular opening all along. Bearing in mind, however, that it was evidently impossible to see the wretched thing at all except from a very limited range of angles, Dion supposed that very few people had ever suffered this problem.

        A small room lay beyond. At least, he thought that it was probably quite small, but all things considered, he was not willing to swear to it lightly. Dorus entered, declaring “It’s this way! In here!” Dion took his word for it, although those crumbling, nitre-encrusted stairs and the appallingly makeshift rope bridge were becoming more tempting with every passing minute. The room seemed no larger upon entry, which might just pass as some consolation. There was some description of long table or, as his mood quickly suggested to his imagination, possibly a sarcophagus against the far wall, and Dorus was dividing his time between a keen scrutiny of this object, and some notes written on the back of his map. He set aside a couple of seconds to order Dion to “Keep guard,” after which he kept to himself. Dion stood by the door; happy enough to be in such a convenient position should the present state of calm prove a temporary respite only.

        Foresight did not fail him: a familiar scream from up the tunnel shattered the uneasy tranquillity. It was unmistakably Marchus’s voice – he would have said Marchus’s dying voice, only the fact of its being repeated seemed quite an argument against this opinion. Again, it was repeated, somewhat closer, and he very nearly overcame his dread sufficiently to step out into the corridor and see if there was any possibility of aiding his suffering comrade, when it was repeated once more, and brought his dread rushing back home with interest. He had just realised that these screams had not been vaguely similar: rather, that they had been precise copies of the first, to a fraction of a decibel insofar as he was any judge. They were still to be heard, slavishly unvarying in timbre and pitch, though occasionally alternated with the higher-pitched, vibrating scream that they had heard from within the shadows. And with every repetition, they were coming closer.

        A look at Dorus revealed there was no need to break this news upon him. Indeed, he looked fit to make a break for it at any second, and Dion would have been glad to accompany him, when both of them were suddenly confounded: a familiar voice had spoken, but neither could trace it to a source in the chamber. Nevertheless, whether divine inspiration or shared delusion, it was loud and clear within both their heads.

 

This is Gloriana. I can see you. I can hear you. Can you hear me? I said, can you hear me? Answer me, Dorus, you idiot!

        “Your... Highness?” ventured Dorus, whilst the approaching screams threatened to drown him out.

        Good. Listen, now. The guard can’t see you, but it can sense all movement. Even your heartbeats. You can’t kill it or outrun it, but you can set up a distraction. Put your hands upon the warmest area of the table and immediately concentrate upon the loudest noise you can remember. Do not let your mind wander, under any circumstances – it will try to direct your thoughts, but you must be the one in control.

        Dorus obeyed, with ease: thankfully, the memory of his post at the chain-gun during the Battle of Rowan Head was still fresh in his troubled consciousness, and that had been loud enough to bring a tear to the eye of any demon of Hades. Without that recollection, he should certainly have had his thoughts swept away in a stream of random archive visions before he could have fixed upon another memorably loud noise, and still be sitting there hallucinating when the miasma came creeping through the door over the mangled remains of Dion. Even as it was, the images associated with the experience – the machinery, the marines, the cramped interior of the iron-clad – attempted to carry his thoughts off along their own tracks, and he could not altogether avoid troubling visions of ancient wars; weaponry that made the chain-gun look fair and discriminating; million-strong armies of radiant figures wiped out in less than a second; cities populated by mangled bodies and roving phantoms... Thankfully, the noise of the gun always remained in the background, for all the archive’s attempts to cross-reference it out of the lieutenant’s thoughts. It was most unaccustomed to following instructions from such a low-calibre brain, but there was no mistaking this tone of concentration.

 

In spite of ‘Her Highness’s’ phantom visit, and her instructions vis-à-vis the ‘guard,’ Dion had been on the point of running for the stairs, when a sudden acute pain shot through his head. It resolved into a mild, ambient unpleasantness, but this was a small price to pay: the screams from the corridor had died down completely, and – apart from the new vibration, which, to do it justice, was fit to set anyone’s teeth on edge – all was merciful silence.

        “Where did it go?” asked Dorus, to the air.

        To find out what’s making all the noise, of course. It may be disappointed when it finds out that is it, in fact, only a simple mechanical engine, but we may be thankful that it is, really, rather stupid. It will take hours getting there, and longer to work out that it’s been duped. Ample time for you to complete your mission and be away before it comes back with any ideas of petty revenge. Well, you know your instructions, lieutenant. I can’t stay. There’s some wretched ambassador I have to see well on his way, and I wouldn’t trust the admirals farther than I could throw them. Matters are coming to a head, Dorus. Whatever you do, don’t fail me.

        The spirit-voice departed, leaving the marines’ brains to the tender ministrations of the high-pitched siren. Dion risked a glance into the corridor, and regretted it: the disappearance of the screaming miasma had to counted as a major plus, but the twisted, broken, remains – of both a knapsack and its former owner – that lay in the distance were not of a nature to improve his mood or revive his self-worth. Shuddering, he turned back to the room. Dorus was absorbed, his hands flat upon the slab, and sweat trickling freely down his stately features, but that was hardly an unusual sight for Dion. The same could not be said for the far wall of the room, which – as he had long suspected it might, if only to further spite his sense of reality – had apparently extended back some considerable distance. Or perhaps it had simply disappeared, which seemed the more likely. At all events, the space that had become visible beyond the slab was considerably wider and taller than the original chamber, and was occupied by an object he could hardly have missed. For one thing, it was a very clear image, which did not play merry hell with his visual faculties: a bland, metallic object, the shape of a rounded, inverted, shallow cone, and about the size of one of the navy’s smaller capital warships, suspended from the ceiling by a vast tangled web of silver cables. He would have treated it to a closer inspection, had Dorus not suddenly snapped out of his reverie:

        “Dion! You’ve got the cylinders, haven’t you? And the cobalt?”

        “I’ve still got my share of it, sir. And the crate.”

        “And I’ve got mine. It should be enough.” Dion briefly considered mentioning the possibility of retrieving Marchus’s share, but thought better of it. It was too much to hope that the lieutenant himself would stoop to such a task. “Well, it will have to suffice. I see you’ve noticed the disc, Dion. Our dear, modest regent has unofficially titled her the New Age, but if you ask me, the Gloriana has more of a ring to it. On the other hand, since we haven’t even kept a drop of that disgusting sweet beer they drink around these parts, we can skip the naming ceremony.”

        “Ah. It is a ship then, sir?”

        “Of course. What else could be it? You’d hardly have all this security for the sake of an enormous boiler, would you? This is its dry-dock, and we have a launching to attend to.”