The archer drew a sharp intake of breath. He hadn't forgotten how striking Katherine Makennon could be, but as the Anointed Lord strode towards the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder with her men, his thoughts were not on the way her shining armour accentuated rather than hid her statuesque form, nor on the feral mane of long red hair that swept behind her like a fiery comet's tail. All he could think was that, for once, she might be biting off more than she could chew.
"Makennon, don't," he implored her as she passed. His words were barely heard above the clanking of her armour. "I don't know what these things are but I'm not sure they can be stopped."
The Anointed Lord halted briefly, her face a mix of recognition and curiosity at the archer's presence, swiftly replaced with cast-iron determination. "I will stop them. This is my cathedral."
Slowhand struggled against the guards as Makennon strode on, but their grip was firm. All he could do was watch as the Anointed Lord marched at the horde, her battleaxe swinging down before her with an audible swoosh. Scholten might well have been her cathedral but for the moment at least she was no longer its Anointed Lord, reincarnated instead as the battle-hardened Vossian general she had once been.
Makennon directed her men to the peripheries of the horde and then, roaring, waded into the heart of them, battleaxe carving a path as the invaders' weapons sparked and clanged on her armour. While it looked as though she was wielding the heavy weapon with as much carelessness as the enemy were wielding theirs, it was in fact with great precision. Its twin blades bypassed, by hairsbreadths, her own people fighting beside her, cleaving only into the things that flailed about them. The horde might have been unaffected by damage from lesser weapons but the sheer mass of Makennon's axe, to say nothing of the expertise with which it was used, was something they could not withstand. Within seconds she had reduced their numbers by twenty or more. As damaging as Makennon's incursion was, though, the numbers involved were great, and as more guards fell beside her it was clear she faced a war of attrition with an inevitable conclusion. This did not deter Makennon from continuing her impassioned defence of her domain, however, and while she shouted for what few men remained to pull back to a safer position, she herself continued to wade forward until she had carved a sea of body parts that reached almost to the tunnel entrance. There, fatigue at last started to get the better of her, and she was forced to stand her ground. Breathing heavily and slightly bowed, her blood-slicked hands nevertheless levelled her axe before her, ready to swing it in a circle and cut down any or all of the horde who closed in about her.
But the horde did not close in. Instead, as one, they collapsed to the ground.
Slowhand's surprise was as great as the Anointed Lord's, but their interpretations of the unexpected development differed. Obviously concluding her efforts had somehow won the day, Makennon's heavy breaths turned into shuddering gasps of relief, and slowly she raised her gaze to him, displaying flaring and victorious eyes. The archer was considerably more wary. Puppets, Fitch had called these things, and if that was the case their strings had just been cut. But he seriously doubted that, with such an advantage, this First Enemy — whoever he was — would have cut them in defeat.
Something was wrong.
Every one of the horde that remained intact began, slowly, to laugh. They didn't stir from where they had collapsed, and their faces showed no more emotion than they had before, but from each of their upturned, gaping, black mouths came the sound of laughter. It was a cold and calculating laugh that echoed throughout the now otherwise still battlefield, and it seemed to come from very far away.
Makennon turned in a circle, her eyes on the collapsed forms, her axe ready to be wielded once more. And as she turned, she faced the tunnel.
She stared into the darkness. Something darker still seemed to grow there.
And then that darkness exploded in her face.
Chapter Four
Kali stirred, blinked in confusion. After the clout she'd taken from DeZantez she guessed it was normal to see stars, but the Enlightened One's clout had clearly been an Almighty Clout because she was seeing balloons, bunting and flags as well. There was also a worgle right in front of her nose, staring at her in what seemed to be a very accusing way. Worgles had no eyes but it still stared, conjuring up flashes of Horse's darting tongue and a pang of guilt she'd never realised she'd felt.
Kali shook her head to free it of weirdness, then groaned. She was surrounded by the stuff of festivals and fun, but the way DeZantez had turned on her she wasn't feeling much like either. Wincing at the pain in her bruised temples she gently picked herself up off the floor to see she'd been confined in a small storeroom with a tiny window and solid wooden door. She tried to open the door but, naturally, it wouldn't budge, no doubt barred on the outside as there was no lock within. She pulled a crate under the window and climbed up. The window was too small for even her lithe frame to squeeze through but at least the view enabled her to glean where she was and how long she'd been out.
By the look of the sun, it was just after midday, and she was in Solnos — what was left of Solnos anyway. The storeroom had clearly been sturdy enough to survive the quake — which explained why it was serving as a makeshift jail — but outside was devastation. She was looking out onto the town plaza, which was now deserted, many of the tables and chairs upturned, plates shattered, the remains of meals scattered across the mosaic floor. There was smoke everywhere, a pall of it pouring from a jagged rent that split the plaza in two. Beside the rent was the body of a small dog.
Kali craned her neck so that she could see beyond the plaza. The destruction that the machines and the quake had wrought had flattened almost half the town, spreading as far as the second square, where, though the well and church had survived, the adjoining graveyard had disgorged its dead, many of the coffins lying broken in the sun, others half sunk in the river along its edge.
A few people were gathered around the well, cleaning and caring for the wounded as best they could. More simply cradled those who were beyond care, slowly rocking them back and forth. The only sounds were those of distant coughing and gentle weeping.
Kali sighed. If there was one small mercy, it was that it all seemed to be over. The quake had ceased completely. The strange machines, still dominated the horizon, and as she narrowed her eyes to discern the spinning objects against the brightness of the sun, she thought she could make out pulsing waves radiating from them, as if the inaudible sound they made was almost physical.
What the hells are these things? she found herself wondering once more. She had to find out. But that wasn't going to be easy in her current circumstances.
Kali considered her options. Horse had to be somewhere nearby, likely constrained like herself, and for a moment she considered whistling for him. Little would hold the bamfcat for long and, at full gallop, his armour would make short work of even these walls. She quickly rejected the idea, however, knowing that if she used the steed to instigate a jailbreak it would only confirm her guilt in the minds of her captors, however the hells they had concluded she was responsible in the first place. No, she had no desire to have her face on bounty posters all across Pontaine. It was better to get things cleared up.
Speaking of which, figures were moving towards her from the church right now: DeZantez and some fat, shaven-headed, jowly guy in fancy Final Faith robes. With him were a pair of meatheads, Faith again, who appeared to be his bodyguards. What a Faith dignitary was doing in Solnos she had no idea, but while she was never pleased to see one of Makennon's lackeys, if he was coming to sort this mess out, fine.