“Shit’d be the point of that, exactly?”
“’Cause Chess Pargeter is there, the real Chess Pargeter. And if anyone can set this all to rights . . . that’d be him.”
“Don’t know — ” Carver started, mutinously. But froze a second later as Berta Schemerhorne grabbed him from behind, threading one arm through his quick as any needle, without even a by-your-leave. Her other hand was already twinned with Eulie’s, knuckles locked, while Eulie herself slapped her free palm to Morrow’s forehead.
“I do,” Berta told Carver, firmly. Then, to Eulie: “You read ’im, sissy. I’ll drive.”
Aw, shit, Morrow thought, knowing what was coming. Then stiffened again, entranced once more, as the hex-girl sieved his memories with brutal speed, found Yancey’s sending, flung a tendril of power out through the link itself to track its source. He heard Carver’s gasp slide to a retch, poor bastard, and felt for him — with luck, they’d hopefully already be wherever they were going before his spasm had time to bring up more’n bile, though Morrow doubted he’d see that as much of a mercy.
Got a lot to learn ’bout hexes still, son, even after the last few days — but you will, believe me. ’Specially given who-all we’re on our way to see.
Thought faded and skipped as time itself seemed to bend, a suture looped and violently pulled between now and yet-to-be. After which — with a crack of torn air, plus a flash of light-in-darkness that folded the world like a poorly-painted scrim —
— all four of them were gone.
From the shorthand notes of Fitz Hugh Ludlow:
As the she-demon rips open the Ironclad’s roof, locks and cables part — the third car is released! It tumbles away, breaking up; passengers and demon-girl go flying — the remaining two cars roar on, Capt. Washford still yelling orders from his mounted perch to crush the fallen Lady — yet all in vain, for the first threat comes once more! Flung high out of the wreck, she lands upon the foremost car, resumes her ravaging — armour plating tears like sodden leather — but the Ironclad bears down still upon “goddess” Ixchel, felled and helpless yet, until —
Reverend Rook appears by his wife’s side! — a blasphemy, and they are gone! Over the pit where the Lady fell, the Ironclad thunders too late — yet there is still the forest, and the City’s walls — the guns continue firing — can the Ironclad still accomplish victory, before the she-demon guts it from within?
A great swathe of armour rips back — Washford vaults to the roof, sword in hand, and runs her through! Valiant fellow, a credit to his race — but NO! His blade snaps like green pine, she plunges both claws through his belly — he drives her and himself forward, off the car, down in front of it, to — their deaths? His, at least. Oh, poor Captain Washford!
Next: a shattering crash! Both Ironclad cars flip up and over, iron dice shook in a box — the Demon kneels, unmoved, where they made impact! To either side beyond her, the cars tumble and roll onward, ceiba trees smashed to dust, gaping paths of ruin — one reaches the City wall itself — IT EXPLODES! A pillar of hellish flame boils up to the sky, sickly-hued — Good God, the screaming can be heard from where I stand —
— but here hot shrapnel whined by Ludlow’s ear fast enough to sting, slapping him back to himself just in time to realize his danger. No Pinkerton to shield him anymore, no Washford, either — he could not be behind the front line, since that existed no longer. His right hand ached, pencil death-gripped, its point worn almost to wood with the fury of his scribbling, while his other arm burned from holding telescope to eye. Yet even through tear-blurred vision, the last thing he saw through it stayed etched on his sight, a phantom forever threatening to turn real: that thing once known as Clodagh Killeen stalking back out onto the field of battle, hungry for yet more blood, a shard of Captain Washford’s sabre still lodged deep in its midsection like a mis-set unicorn’s horn.
Ludlow had scribed upon battlefields before, observing close-hand the hell which mere mortals, unassisted, could wreak upon each other; had, on occasion, pronounced — like many an “educated” fool — that Man needed no hexes, devils or angels guiding him to be capable of the greatest good and the greatest evil. As he looked out on this devastation below, however . . . carnage worse than any cannonade; foul-smelling smoke reaching skyward from the ruined plain; unnatural fires burning wild through the ceiba forest; the wrecks of the Ironclad’s cars, still spitting sparks and smoke . . . and, worse than all, the lightning-eyed thing that moved through that ruin like a shark in chummed water, responsible for most of it, Ludlow realized, at last, what self-satisfied hubris his pronouncements had been. A foolish attempt to elevate, or perhaps denigrate, his own species — to place the average person on a level with actual gods and devils.
With a practised speed learned on those same aforementioned battlefields, Ludlow collapsed and stowed the telescope, then stuffed pad and pencil in his shoulder-bag to scramble down the knoll’s backside. Cold, faintly damp scree skittered under his boots; he let himself slide down and came to a kneeling stop, then rabbited down the small arroyo below. If he remembered right, and his overwhelming terror hadn’t got the absolute best of him, this let out into a small river valley that in turn debouched onto the winding path covering some-odd miles back to Bewelcome.
From a bank of scrub brush near the arroyo’s far end, however, two strong hands shot up and yanked him hard down, into cover. Ludlow gave out with a choked yell — then relaxed as the owner of those hands came into view before him: Frank Geyer, mud-stained and dusty, but seemingly otherwise uninjured. Doctor Asbury crouched beside, miserable-looking, though at least his eyes were clear. In one hand, he held
a small brass orb, a fob atop whirring as it slowly spun.
“Half-feared no one had made it out but myself,” Ludlow whispered. “Did you see the end of it?”
Geyer shook his head. “No need to,” he said. “Couldn’t’ve gone well regardless, and I can only s’pose it didn’t. Now stay still, and listen.”
Ludlow frowned. Something seemed off about Geyer’s voice; his own too, now he thought on it. As though they spoke in a stuffy, closed room — and the light ’round them lay far gloomier than it should, for what little cover they had.
“Sounds odd, don’t it?” Geyer explained, noticing his reaction. “You can thank the Doc here for that — it’s some sort of ‘suppressor,’ a hex-powered camouflage blind, for intelligence work. Upshot is, long’s we keep quiet and don’t move, he guarantees we won’t be found, ’less some poor bastard trips right over us.”
“‘Found’? But who’s there left to fear would — ?” Ludlow began, then stopped. For something was approaching, from nearer than was comfortable and damned quick, to boot.
Though he’d previously thought the dim rumbling he’d been hearing some mere after-echo of the battle’s chaos, now — as it grew ever louder, ever more rhythmic — he suddenly knew exactly where it was coming from, and cringed farther back under Asbury’s tenuous magical cover. Again, Geyer signalled him to keep his mouth shut, and he obliged, gladly.
In silence, the three of them watched the long-predicted Mexican battalion’s first outriders move past the arroyo mouth, mounting toward the plain. A sea of red, white and green Mexican flags, Habsburg’s gold-crowned eagle and black griffins prominent in its centre, waved from bayonet blades atop rifles proudly held erect by red-coated cavalry officers; infantry in paler blue coats followed behind, fusiliers marching with rifles over shoulders. All the men wore broad-brimmed black hats, while a few of the officers sported tall beaver-helms good enough for any Beefeater in London.
Some of them were Carlotta colonists, Ludlow had no doubt — fled seceshes in favour of slavery, done up in their new country’s finery. But from this distance Mex and American blended all together, and he didn’t exactly feel like taking a closer look, just to find out which was which.
“No signs of damage,” muttered Geyer. “With those Weed-walls up ’round Bewelcome, they probably just marched straight past. Langobard sure ain’t got the gumption to try stopping them.”
“Or the manpower, or the arms,” Asbury pointed out. “Might they be here to reinforce Hex City, while retrieving their wayward citizens?”
“They’re sure not ready for battle, with their pennants on parade.” Geyer squinted, thinking. “Wonder if Maximilian sent a hex or two of his own, maybe, to negotiate the Mexes’ release . . . could they see us, do you think, Professor? See whatever your device’s giving off, anyhow?”
Asbury shook his head. “It is less a question of strength than of . . .