‘And if I told you it didn’t matter, or rather it wouldn’t matter to you or anyone else involved?’
‘Then I’d say you’d have no reason not to tell me.’
Scab hadn’t been expecting the smile.
‘You’re right.’ But she said nothing more, to Scab’s slight irritation.
Then behind them the red sky went black. The planet shook and everything around them came apart, a silent explosion of ash.
It was a slow bullet, a magic bullet that killed him. Fallen Angel had fired it seconds ago, a ghost bullet on a discrete carrier wave. He’d not so much fired at Elite Scab as seeded space with them. Each bullet fired at his weapon’s impossibly fast cyclic rate was a mixture of Land S-tech. The bullets carried a payload of high-end nanites and virals designed, at great expense, with one purpose in mind: kill the other guy’s Elite.
Fallen Angel had linked his weapon’s aiming system to a chaos fact/probability targeting routine. The bullets travelled through vectors where Elite Scab could be. The bullet hadn’t hit Elite Scab. He’d moved into its path. It was fate’s bullet. It was the inevitable bullet.
There was literally no room for tear ducts in the redesigned physiology of an Elite. When he got back to the Citadel he would try and weep for Horrible Angel. He knew that the black exotic matter would leak out of him like black tears only to be absorbed back in through his pale skin. There was, of course, less than no body. Her armour was gone as well. They were down one Elite.
Elite Scab had a body, though. Fallen Angel moved gracefully through the debris, heading for Elite Scab’s corpse as his own systems came back online. Even though his systems were hardened with ancient alien technology, they had still been knocked out. His wings expanded out of his back again.
The planet below was dead now. It looked like an apple someone had taken a bite out of. Some of the orbital platforms and ships on the other side of the planet might have survived. He couldn’t hear them yet. They were probably desperately trying to get their systems online as the dead planet pulled them down towards its surface. He couldn’t hear the Absolute either. He hoped it was dead. It had repelled him. It had not been a worthy master for them. It had turned an entire planet into a form of masturbation.
He found him. Elite Scab hung there in space. His armour looked undamaged. Soon his coffin would form around him. Fallen Angel would try and stop it, capture the tech, but it would be for nothing. The coffin would open a bridge at the beacon and start its autopilot funeral procession through Red Space back to the Consortium Citadel.
Hate and wishful thinking conflicted within Fallen Angel. All he could have asked for was a body to mourn. Like him, she hadn’t backed herself up. It was a cheat for light that burned as brightly as they had. And hate. He could never kill Scab enough.
They had felt the force of whatever had happened as it passed through them. It was a sensation rather than something real, an echo with only slightly more physical presence than a hologram, and now they were floating up through a blizzard of ash. Through the gentle blizzard Scab could make out the expression of worry on the Monk’s face.
‘Did your diversion just destroy a planet?’ she demanded.
It seemed unlikely, Scab thought, even for an Elite. On the other hand, there was nothing but ash now.
‘Why do you look so worried?’ he asked.
‘What, the apparent destruction of a planet and the death of billions is not a sufficient cause for worry?’ she demanded. It occurred to her that human emotions couldn’t handle this sort of atrocity as anything more than an abstract. At least that was what she told herself, because she couldn’t deal with the thought that she’d had a part to play in this crime. Scab shrugged. ‘Red Space navigation isn’t a precise science, well, at least not without a nav comp. Landmarks would have helped,’ she finally told him.
‘Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for?’
The Monk ’faced a command from her neunonics to stop the cocoon’s rise. Scab could see it now through the gentle ash storm. The St Brendan’s Fire was perfectly still in the black blizzard. His neunonics showed multiple weapons locks.
‘Going to kill me with a blade now?’ the Monk asked.
‘Shit,’ Scab said.
29. Southern Britain, a Long Time Ago
‘It can’t be done,’ Morfudd said. Britha had to admit that she was probably right. They didn’t have nearly enough people. They would need ships and they had no way to kill giants.
‘We have to try,’ Fachtna said grimly, but Britha could see that he did not hold out much hope. To have come this far, she thought helplessly.
‘We are all going to die,’ Teardrop said, matter of fact. ‘Come to terms with that.’
‘For nothing?’ Morfudd asked.
‘Stay here if you want,’ Fachtna said.
Tangwen was leading the way. Behind them, riders crested the hill. They were Corpse People. The horses they rode were large and well built, their coats white in colour, their mouths and lower legs red – steeds from the Otherworld.
Ahead between the two islands they could see the massive wicker man rising from the waters, though Britha knew it was not made of wicker. Despite being several miles away she could make out its iron and wood framework. Above the line of the water its legs were filled with what looked like firewood. Its torso had different levels, each containing people. Her eyesight was now good enough to make out the arms of the frightened people inside the structure. After having the little crystal seeds pushed into their skulls they might have been docile enough, but now the seeds’ magics seemed to have worn off. What was worse was that somehow she could feel their fear. It was like a background noise to her thoughts. Worse still, she knew that there was something in those waters, something that called to her. She wanted nothing more than to wade in and let the dark waters cover her. She knew they would not be cold, somehow.
Teardrop came to stand next to her.
‘They hope this will bring their god? This Llwglyd Diddymder?’ she asked.
‘What we call the Muileartach and what the Atrebates worship as an aspect of Andraste is the last goddess who has not been corrupted by the sky gods. They will use the pain and fear of the sacrifice to drive her mad.’
‘How?’
‘She would feel it anyway. The goddess is not unkind, but the crystal seeds you saw in your dream are magics that will carry the suffering directly to her. Already what is happening will be affecting the goddess’s servants.’
To Britha this seemed like cruelty for the sake of cruelty. Like those warriors who enjoyed hurting people more than victory, like the mormaers who abused their position. It was not the way to act, and it was the job of those with responsibility, the dryw, the cateran, to stop such things. As she watched the black curraghs around the wicker man and the giants wading in waist-high water close to the shores, she wondered how they could take all this on with only fifty warriors.
‘This.’ She nodded at the wicker man. ‘This is the man that Crom Dhubh must kill as the Serpent Father said?’ Teardrop nodded. It was foolish and weak to worship the gods, she knew, but she found herself feeling sympathy for the Muileartach. ‘Why do this to her?’ They were talking in the language of the Pecht, so Morfudd would not understand and realise that she was not the daughter of Andraste, though the warrior was watching them suspiciously.
‘Because they are low men,’ Teardrop said. Was there a hint of anger in his voice? ‘And because as a goddess, the one we call the Muileartach has magics far more powerful than anything you or I could imagine. She can open the way for this Llwglyd Diddymder.’