Weaveworld

2

The route to the Gyre took Cal through territory he remembered from his rickshaw ride; but its ambiguities had fled before the invading army, or else hidden their subtle heads.

And, he wondered, what of the old man he’d met at the end of that ride? Had he fallen prey to the marauders? Had his throat slit defending his little comer of Wonderland? Most likely Cal would never know. A thousand tragedies had wracked the Fugue in recent hours – the old man’s fate was just part of a greater horror. A world was going to ash and dust around them.

And up ahead, the architect of these outrages. Cal saw the Salesman now, at the heart of the carriage, his face blazing with triumph. The sight made him put aside any thought of safety. With de Bono at his heels, he pitched into the thick of the battle.

There was scarcely a foot of clear ground between the bodies; the closer he got to Shadwell, the thicker the smell of blood and burning flesh became. He was soon separated from de Bono in the confusion, but it didn’t matter any longer. His priority had to be the Salesman; every other consideration fell away. Maybe it was this purposefulness which got him through the blood-letting alive, though bullets filled the air like flies. His very indifference was a kind of blessedness. What he failed to notice, failed in turn to notice him. Thus he went unscathed through the heart of the battle, until he was within ten yards of Shadwell.

He cast around amongst the slain at his feet, in search of a weapon, and laid his hands on a machine-gun. Shadwell was dismounting from the beast he’d been riding, and turning his back on the conflict. There were a mere handful of defenders left between him and the Mantle, and they were already falling. He was seconds only from entering the Gyre. Cal raised the gun, and pointed it towards the Prophet.

But before his finger could find the trigger something rose up from feasting at his side, and came at him. One of the Magdalene’s children, flesh between its teeth. He might have tried to kill it, but recognition slurred his intent. The creature that tore the gun from his hand was the self-same that had almost murdered him at the warehouse: his own child.

It had grown; it now stood half as tall again as Cal. But for all its bulk it was no sloth. Its fingers reached for him swift as lightning, and he only ducked them by the slimmest of margins, flinging himself down amid the corpses, where it doubtless intended to lay him permanently.

In desperation he sought the fallen gun, but before he could locate it the child came in fresh pursuit, its weight pulping the bodies it trod upon. Cal attempted to roll out from beneath it, but the beast was too quick, and snatched hold of his hair and throat. He clutched at the corpses, seeking purchase as the creature hauled him up, but his fingers slid over their gaping faces, and he was suddenly an infant in the embrace of his own monstrous off-spring.

His wild eyes caught fleeting sight of the Prophet. The Mantle’s last defenders were dead. Shadwell was yards from the wall of the cloud. Cal struggled against the beast until his bones were about ready to break, but to no avail. This time the child intended to complete its task of patricide. Cal’s last breath was steadily pressed from his lungs.

In extremis, he clawed at the polluted mirror before him, and through the dusky air saw gobs of the child’s flesh come away. There was a rush of bluish matter – like its mother’s stuff – the chill of which slapped him back from dying, and he drove his fingers deeper into the beast’s face. Its size had been gained at the price of durability. Its skull was wafer thin. He made a hook of his fingers, and pulled. The beast howled, and dropped him, the filth of its workings spilling out.

Cal dragged himself to his feet, in time to hear de Bono calling his name. He looked up towards the shout, vaguely aware that the ground beneath him was trembling, and that those who could were fleeing the battlefield. De Bono had an axe in his hand. He threw it towards Cal, as the by-blow, its head cratered, came for him again.

The weapon fell short, but Cal was over the bodies and to it in an instant, turning to face the beast at his back with a sideways blow that opened a wound in its flank. The carcass loosed a stinking froth of matter, but the child didn’t fall. Cal swung again, opening the cut further; and again. This time the beast’s hands went to the wound, and its head was lowered as it peered at the damage. Cal didn’t hesitate. He raised the axe and brought it down on the child’s skull. The blade divided the head to the neck, and the by-blow toppled forward, the axe still buried in its body.

Cal looked about him for a sign of de Bono, but the rope-dancer was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any other living person, Kind or Cuckoo, visible through the smoke. The battle had ended. Those who’d survived it, on either side, had retreated; and with reason. The shuddering in the earth had intensified; it seemed the ground was ready to gape and swallow the field.

He turned his gaze back towards the Mantle. There was a raw-edged tear in the cloud. Beyond it, darkness. Shadwell, of course, had gone.

Without hesitating to compute the consequences, Cal stumbled through the devastation towards the cloud, and entered its darkness.