Djinn City, page 45
“I don’t think the planet would survive twelve nuclear detonations in one place,” Rais said.
“What would happen if we fired?” Givaras asked.
“The warheads are two hundred kilotons each,” Memmion said. “That would be a combined twenty-four hundred KT if detonated at a single target. The Fat Man bomb, detonated over Nagasaki, was only twenty-one kilotons. It would be hell on earth. The fireballs would be hotter than the sun, far hotter.”
“Such an explosion… might destroy everything,” Givaras said.
“Humans,” Matteras spat. “Shameful that you rely on their paltry weapons.”
“Matteras, these bombs are hideous. I don’t think even djinn could survive the explosions,” Memmion said.
“It’s ridiculous that we’ve permitted them to develop such powers,” Matteras said. “One more reason to prune them.”
“Well, they’re not very good at keeping them, eh?” Beltrex said. “Damn impressive, Memmion, walking out with twelve of them like that.”
“Thanks,” Memmion said. “I’ve actually got a few more stashed away.”
“Let’s open the gate, fire the nukes, and shut it again,” Davala said. “How hard is it? Let’s see the precious Horologists deal with it.”
“Satisfied, Bahamut?”
“It is possible that the rules of this universe break down across the gate,” Bahamut said. “Consider that your weapons might not work.”
“Matteras has the device,” Memmion said. “He can go get it. We’ll toss that in as well.”
“I can move it remotely,” Matteras said after a moment of consideration. “I will deploy it as required. Let’s get this seal open.”
“The seal was made with the blood of djinn, Nephilim, and man,” Bahamut said. “We will require the same to break it open.”
“It just so happens we have a djinn, a Nephilim, and a man,” Givaras said. “Well, a woman, but same thing.”
“What do you mean blood?” Maria asked. She was fiddling with her right wrist, where the Invisible Dagger of Five Strikes hovered beyond djinn sight.
“Just a few drops, I’m sure,” Givaras said.
“Actually, the whole amount would be better,” Bahamut said.
“Bahamut, come on, I’m your emissary for god’s sake,” Rais said. “In fact, I’m the only emissary in these parts. Who’re you going to send in to negotiate, huh?”
“All right, all right, a few drops then,” Bahamut said. “Cut yourselves, the seal will draw in the blood. It will take some time to unravel.”
Elkran, predictably, drew the short straw to bleed. By the time the seal unraveled, a full day had passed, and they were well tired of staring at the Escheric tessellations shift and turn. The djinns had dispersed, leaving Rais and Maria to keep watch, their hands throbbing—all except Matteras, who occupied his own part of the bridge and ignored them, staring obsessed at the construct.
When it opened finally, the monolith disappeared entirely, replaced by an eerie, silent black maw, where the rushing water slowed into droplets, misting away completely somewhere deeper inside, a place that seemed to swallow the field around it and give back nothing.
They spent another few hours staring into the gaping hole, sending in probing threads of power, all of them spiraling out as they entered, lines inexplicably lost in the midst of fishing a calm lake.
“Nothing’s coming out,” Givaras said finally. “We should go in. Have a look around.”
“What?! No!” Maria protested. “Why, Givaras? Let’s just lock it back up!”
“Come on, human, Bahamut has so kindly opened the way. It would be rude not to cross. It’s not every day you’ll get a chance to walk into a different universe.” Givaras smiled, his cracked face infused with a kind of unholy glee, and Rais could understand why they hated and feared him. It wasn’t evil he embodied, so much as a reckless disregard for anything permanent. This was not the nemesis of man or djinn, but rather the natural wrecker of safety. Curiosity ruled him. With an open door in front of him, no power on earth could have stopped him from crossing. It took only a few more hours of his cajoling before the other djinns gave in.
They flew the Akula in, trusting in the submarine’s spell work to keep them mobile. Bahamut waited outside, rebuilding the seal. If things went south, he would at least be able to lock the door.
It was frictionless inside, lightless. The Akula floated easily, its propellers moving now against waves of the field, shifting in alien patterns. There was, indeed, no time here, no directions either. None of their gauges worked, and the clocks ticked without purpose, measuring nothing. They positioned the submarine so that its tail end was anchored in the real world, a means of quick exit in case things went sour. Also, no one quite trusted Bahamut.
“There’s actually a road down there,” Golgoras said, his eye telescoping out. “Paved and everything.”
“An invitation,” Givaras said, “from the High King. Let us walk to Gangaridai, Memmion.” He turned to Matteras. “Are you convinced yet?”
“Of what?” Matteras asked. “I see only darkness.”
They centered the Akula over the road and drew lots. Givaras held the straws again, and it was the pilot’s turn to stay back, which he did with ill-concealed grace. No one ever played a game of chance against the Broken and won. Excitement gripped them now, a fevered anticipation, as it became clear that they would actually be setting foot on alien soil, on a road that existed beyond the surface of the known universe. Even Kuriken limped out of his cabin, swathed in old blankets, leaning heavily on Davala, a long staff in his hands, the aristocrat and the crone making an odd tableau. There was a strained truce between him and Matteras; they simply ignored each other.
They climbed down a short ladder, single file, the air acrid but breathable; a strange undulating wind buffeted them in waves, making the rope sway, yet Rais was not afraid of falling, for the pull of the ground seemed much weaker, as if gravity was only a halfhearted thing here, a mere suggestion. Indeed Matteras disdained the plodding descent, leaping down instead, his distortion field as efficacious as ever, and after that, several others followed, leaving the injured Kuriken to hobble down last.
“This place is not real,” Givaras said, as his feet touched the ground. “It’s a construct, a piece of mimicry. These forms are artificial.”
“A lot of power expended on it then,” Davala said. “Incredible amounts, to make every speck of dirt.”
It was pitch-black, but Givaras raised the Eye of Horus above his head, and there was electric-blue illumination for everyone. The road snaked out in front of them, and some distance away, crystal and airy, were the walls and towers of the fabled city, the pristine version stolen from earth by the Nephilim Kartiryan.
“Once again we lay siege to this damn city,” Memmion said with satisfaction.
“Incredible,” Beltrex said. “What a beauty. I regret that we destroyed such a jewel.”
“It was inevitable,” Givaras said. “What Kartiryan wanted was anathema to life itself.” He turned to Matteras. “Do you believe us now?”
Matteras was stunned silent, his face unguarded, chasing emotions of wonder and fear. This was the First City, the root of their history and culture, the very heart of djinndom, the cause of the only war djinnkind had ever fought. She sat like a precious gem, almost sparkling even at this great distance, and it was impossible to disregard her majesty.
“Why did you rebel, Givaras?” Matteras asked. “Was it just to break it open? Are you in truth the incarnation of your name?”
“Kartiryan wanted to reverse entropy. He could not imagine a better world, so he wanted to ossify us, like insects pinned in a display,” Givaras said. “He wanted to play god, to change the fundamental balance of our universe, not just for our world, but for everything that existed. What hubris. What false pride, to think that he could just legislate away suffering and want and conflict by changing the nature of reality. We would cease to be. There would be nothing after, no evolution for us, no change, no hope. Memmion understood that in his gut. He was the first to rebel.”
“Millions of years of boredom,” Memmion rumbled. “That’s what that pissant promised us.”
“Guys,” Rais said, “why is the city dark? Where are all the fountains and lights and fireworks? Where are the flying carpets?”
“More importantly, where are the sentinels?” Givaras asked. “Would the High King leave his precious city unguarded?”
“I guess we walk the road and find out,” Rais said.
“I will wait on the observation deck,” Golgoras said. “The submarine sensors do not work. If anything hostile comes up this road, I will have to manually signal the Ghuls to open fire. Good luck. If you cannot return within a day, signal with three green flashes of light. If no signal comes I will assume you are dead and leave. Memmion, if you die, I’m gonna take the dreadnought.”
“That’s just greedy.” Memmion looked disgusted. “It’ll take more than a dark road to kill me.”
They walked the road in a clump, Memmion in the lead, trailing his broadsword along the ground, the tip gouging a furrow, a pair of RPG launchers strapped around his back for good measure, followed closely by Givaras, who lit the way. Matteras brought up the rear, his field a solid brick wall protecting them. The road was springy, inconsistent with the natural firmness of paving stones, one more confusing detail adding to the sensory overload.
“Something ahead,” Memmion said, stopping. “Arm yourselves.”
Seven djinn dialed up their distortion fields, sparking the air with interference. They busted out weapons, a mix of the old and new: Beltrex pulling shotguns in each hand; Elkran with his long, sweeping katana, the edge invisible, only a diamond molecule thick; Davala with an oversize revolver and, peculiarly, an urn that reeked of the sea. She whispered into it, cosseted it like an old lover. Kuriken straightened at last and threw off his blankets. He wore white enamel armor beneath, dull, stained, a deep crack across the chest plate. His staff was tipped with a black spearhead, old and pitted, and he could hardly hold it straight. Even his field guttered on and off like a candle, giving him scant protection. Nonetheless, he limped to the front, claiming the role of champion, and the others parted for him, Memmion moving slightly to his left, to protect his off hand. It was a strangely touching gesture, an odd faith in the efficacy of the warrior, as if time robbed no one and it was unfathomable to them that Kuriken could fail.
Givaras merely smiled and raised the light higher.
They approached the sentinel with caution. It was a looming figure armed with scimitars, hulking forward, great helmet adorned with antlers—a warrior as large as Memmion, although possibly not quite as fat.
“He’s not moving,” Rais said, as they got closer. “Like not even trembling or anything.”
“Shield’s not up either,” Givaras said. “Is he even alive? Kuriken, just poke him a bit with your spear, will you?”
Kuriken gave him a disgusted look. The two parties faced off for a second, before he at last held his spear out gingerly and prodded the guardian.
“Stone,” Kuriken said. “He’s a damn statue. This place is a joke.”
“Just as well,” Givaras said. “Wouldn’t want you fighting a duel for the next three days.”
“It’s Thoth!” said Memmion, who had wandered up for a closer look. “Look, Kuriken!”
Kuriken also had a closer look, peering up under the great helmeted head. “Yes, it is. Master of the Hounds. Loyal till the end.”
“I don’t get it,” Memmion said. “Did they make a statue of him? Is this some kind of homage?”
“Hmm, I think it is actually Thoth,” Givaras said. “I’m getting a faint whiff of sentience underneath all of this stone. I think he’s been petrified.”
Maria, meanwhile, had walked slightly past the statue and was staring down the road, her wrist cocked, her face suddenly slack with fear. “Guys, look down.”
“What?” Memmion asked.
“Bodies,” Maria said. “Bodies everywhere.”
Givaras swung out his light and they stared in shock. The road was wide, and the bodies were stacked all across, women and children, men and djinn, families hunched together, mothers covering little ones, misers clutching jewels, a Ghul carrying wine—all jumbled together, piled up where they had fallen, no decay in this place, just the scything wounds, limbs scattered, eyes open, pools of black blood ankle-deep. These people were not stone.
“What the fuck?” Rais stared down the road. The light was enough to see: the dead lined the road all the way to the city walls, on and on, dunes of them, in numbers that beggared belief.
“The people of Gangaridai,” Givaras said after a long time. “They’re all dead.”
“So your old enemies are finally vanquished,” Matteras said. “Are you satisfied at last? Do you rejoice?”
“No,” Givaras said. “I feel… disturbed.”
“Murdered,” Kuriken said. “Not by our hand. Whose then?”
“They’re all facing us,” Rais said. “Their backs are to the city. They were running away. Look at them. They’re carrying bundles, food, drink. They were trying to escape the city.”
“He’s right,” Memmion said. “Running for the gate, looks like. They wanted out.”
“Kartiryan,” Givaras said. “They must have been fleeing the Horologists.”
“There is another possibility,” Matteras said. “This realm might have its own denizens, creatures not pleased with the intrusion of the city.”
“Look at the wounds,” Kuriken said. “This is not tooth and claw. These are edged weapons, very large ones. This is how one would butcher with a giant’s cleaver.”
“The city is dark, and all the people fled at some point and were cut down,” Davala said. “Kartiryan would die before despoiling his precious city or his people, so I suppose Matteras could be right. Horus, do you sense any life behind the walls?”
“I cannot be sure. The field here is confusing,” Givaras said. “There is something irregular in the city. Let us investigate.”
“I would not mind walking those walls again,” Memmion said.
“These bodies look fresh,” Davala said.
“There is no time here, or at least it doesn’t work the same way,” Givaras said. “This could have happened twenty thousand years ago or yesterday. The bodies will not decay. Kartiryan was afraid of entropy. Where we are… we must investigate the nature of this realm. We are somewhere deeper in the universe than we have been before.”
“We’re going back,” Matteras said. “This is foolish. There are what, a hundred thousand bodies here?”
“More,” Kuriken said quietly. “Double that number lived in the First City.”
“Something wiped out that number of djinn and Nephilim? Something took this city, which was supposed to be impregnable?” Matteras asked. “Where are we? If something harmful lives here, it knows about the gate. There’s a fucking road pointing to it.”
“So?” Memmion asked.
“Don’t you see? They know where we fucking live,” Matteras said. “Bahamut said something was weakening the seal from this side. What if it wasn’t Kartiryan? What if it is, instead, whatever the fucking thing is that took his fucking head? What if they want to come through into our side? We’ve got to go back and prepare.”
“He’s right,” Maria said. “You’re only seven djinn, and Kuriken can barely walk. Beltrex looks like a hundred years old—no offense, Beltrex—and Memmion could have a heart attack any minute if he starts swinging that sword. You’re wearing someone else’s legs, Givaras, for god’s sake. Are you seriously thinking you can fight off whatever army depopulated the entire city?”
“Matteras’s theory is not tested,” Givaras said. “I do not believe that Kartiryan would be killed off so easily by some mystery enemy whom we have never heard of. It is too convenient. I wish to check the city.”
“If he’s dead, we need to find his body,” Memmion said. “That fucker doesn’t die easy. Givaras is right.”
“None of you die easy,” Matteras said softly. “That’s the problem.”
“That is the First City!” Givaras said. “Somehow, the Horologists removed it from our world and brought it here. Those spells are still there. How can you not want to investigate?!”
“The city is only a ruin to me,” Matteras replied, and shrugged.
“It is everything to us,” Kuriken said. “Everything we are comes from that.”
“Let’s be practical, guys,” Maria said. “There are two miles of dead bodies between us and the walls. Do you really want to slog through that? Then what? What if the walls are barred, or defended. You couldn’t take the city with entire armies, Givaras. Why don’t we go back and get the sub?”
“That would be prudent,” Matteras said. “We are too exposed here.”
“All right, all right,” Memmion said. “We’ll get the Akula. And then we’ll blast down those damn walls with my torpedoes. Agreed?”
They reversed course and walked back, Matteras in the lead, this time much more cautious, and Memmion literally walking backward with his RPGs in hand. The sheer scale of the dead weighed on them. It was not to be a happy homecoming. They argued the whole way, Matteras and Maria to leave, Givaras and Memmion to remain, the rest strung out in the middle.
Golgoras saw them and flung down the rope ladder, whereupon Matteras turned around and struck them with a concussive blast that rolled them over, something so powerful that it actually caused the road to buckle and reverberate like an elastic band.
Rais watched in stunned bemusement as Matteras leaped into the air, one arm around Maria, carrying her like a sack of meat. He landed on the upper deck, colliding with Golgoras, all three of them sent sprawling by the impact. The pilot got up first, his field contracted into a shimmering blue sphere, tusks bared. Rais saw him lunge at Matteras. The two djinn clashed, a full-throttle shoving match, resulting in a stalemate where the pilot proved he was almost as strong as Matteras.
Maria popped up, flicked her wrist in the motion Rais had seen her practice countless times. But it was Golgoras she hit, deliberately, in the back. Golgoras went stiff and then fell to his knees, his spherical shield shredded, dissipating into blue wisps. Five rents appeared on his back, welling dark blood.
