Chapter 18
Calming the carriage's hobbled horses, spooked as they were by the violence and death, was a frustrating process. Chain couldn’t fault their terror, but had no time for such palaver. Still, she reassured them in a low voice, stroked them when they allowed. Every second hurt, physically, but soon the beasts were still, breathing at a normal rate, ready to carry them.
Side's breathing had slowed by this time. Kneeling, she found his pulse weak. Shovel’s assault must've ruptured something, the sheer force tearing not only at his spine but the organs around it.
The Contegon already felt she had to hurry: now, she had to rush.
Kneeling, she struggled Side over her shoulders like a bag of grain. The pressure on her wounded side brought a bright agony, though it was not so bad as the attacks that shattered her arm. She fell to one knee, barely able to breathe. Side almost slipped from her grip, invalidating the effort of getting him into that position, but Chain kept his slack form balanced across her shoulders.
“Lun, you will not win,” she hissed.
Then, with an effort Sol would applaud, she hoisted herself and the Miner into a standing position. She was straining something to bursting point, her muscles threatened to snap and give way, but she stood. Her breath came with difficulty, sweat beaded on her skin, mixing with tears of pain, but she stood.
Chain took her first step. It felt like a mile up the peak of the Father. Her legs wanted to buckle, their meat twitching and jiving. She bent forward to lower her centre of balance and willed her right foot to move, to take her a little closer to the carriage. It did. And again. Like a weeping glacier, she moved.
Every inch was a hard-fought battle against her failing body. The Lun-lit world dimmed, her heavy breath softened. Even the pain became tedious. All Chain knew was the march, the grim and cruel quest toward the carriage. Lun whispered dark nothings to her, telling her to drop the Miner, to take the easier road, but she hissed those thoughts away.
Her body wanted to crumple when she got to the carriage, falsely thinking their goal attained. Chain shook her head, whispered, “No,” over and over, and prepared to move Side onto the driver's box: with the compartment full of Sol only knew what, her only option was nearly five feet from the ground.
With only one arm, this would hurt. She steeled herself, deep breaths and a prayer, and then leant her ruined arm against the carriage. Waves of furious agony crashed through her. Using her shoulder as a pivot, she tried to push Side's chest up and over the end of the box. At first, she didn't have the strength: her sole arm wouldn’t extend above her head. With a roar, she put all her power, faith, and duty into the push and threw him toward the carriage. Side's head swayed for a second, and it looked like he would fall back onto her, but Sol was with her: the Miner’s body tipped into the driver's box, landing with a thud.
“Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, pathetically grateful for this small kindness.
Her body rebelled during her prayer, sent her tumbling into dark, delicious sleep. Her chin struck her chest and woke her with a start. Shaking her head, Chain climbed carefully into the driver's box and righted Side's unconscious form, giving him more dignity and less chance of choking on his drool.
Chain slapped her face to chase away the fatigue, then spurred the horses. Travelling into Buckle was a blur of darkness, the world fading in and out of clarity: silver lit landscapes passed and the Family watched her with pride and fear. It was only when she got to the central square that she had to pay attention, divert the horses to Marsh's home. For the second time, she brought him an injured Side.
This time, it might not be such a simple job. The Miner was pale now, even by the standards of Lunlight, and his breathing was shallow as a puddle. She touched his hand to check his pulse and found it cold. Side would likely die tonight, but not without Chain doing all she could to help.
As she got closer to the Doctor's home, she took a deep breath and punched the carriage loudly. The impact shuddered through her, made her scream weakly, but it also echoed loudly through the streets. This was the only way to get people's attention so late at night. She bashed and bashed, hoping the combination of crashing and horses would rouse someone, anyone, to help her with Side.
Rumble, Stationless husband of a Farmer, appeared at the door of his home. His nervous, scared, expression doubled when he saw Chain, but she fancied him the greatest sight ever at that moment.
“Can I help you, Contegon Justicar?” he asked.
“You can,” Chain croaked.
“Excuse me, I couldn't make that out?”
She couldn't afford to slow the horses, and couldn't raise her dying voice, so she nodded. The message got through, or her gesture caused concern, because he ran over in his sleeping robes. Jumping onto the driver's box, he looked in, saw the blood on Chain's robes and the nigh-on dead Miner beside her, and shouted, an inarticulate sound of surprise.
“I need help getting Side into Doctor Marsh's home,” Chain said.
Rumble nodded. “I'll... Oh, Sol... I'll–”
“You'll run ahead to warn Marsh.”
“I'll run ahead to warn Doctor Marsh!” he repeated before he leapt away.
Chain brought the carriage to a stop outside Marsh’s home. The Doctor answered the door, saw what had terrified Rumble into waking him in the night, and shouted for Riot to come help.
“Rumble, Marsh” Chain said, her weak voice now audible in the still and silence, “take Side from the carriage. I... I cannot do so.”
Rumble ran across to help Side down. Doctor Marsh ignored her command and came to Chain.
Chain asked, “Did I stutter, Marsh?”
“No, sire, but I must prioritise the care of a Contegon over other Stations.”
“See to Side. I'm fine.”
“With due respect–”
“If Riot was good enough for Side the other day, she's good enough for me tonight!” Chain snapped. “Now, go and help Side out of the carriage or I will...” Chain couldn't keep talking, her breath short. She swallowed, her mouth summer heat dry. “You get me.”
The Doctor nodded after some consideration and went to help Rumble, who'd just got a good grip on Side. Together, they gently lifted the Miner onto a stretcher and carried him into the Doctor's home.
Riot appeared then. “Tend to Contegon Justicar,” Marsh said as he passed her.
The young girl bounded round the carriage and into the driver's box, grim worry on a young face. Again carrying her Field Doctor's kit, she looked first at the wound along Chain's ribs. Chain felt a touch of pride when the child nodded at the first aid she'd done on herself and moved on to her arm.
“I’ve never seen wounds like this. What happened?” Riot asked.
“The Disciples.”
“They... they are here?”
“Were,” Chain said.
Riot tentatively touched Chain's fingers, and the Contegon hissed, suppressing a scream. “How would you rate that pain, on a scale of one to ten?”
“Nine. Only the injury itself was worse.”
Riot nodded gravely. She rolled Chain's sleeve up slowly, sending more and more pain through the limb. The young Doctor-to-be winced at every point of impact. Eventually, the sleeve would not move further, but another crushing blow remained above it.
The young girl closed her eyes. “Contegon, you may lose the use of this arm.”
“Well, I wasn't expecting to use it again.”
Riot tried a false smile on. “This is the worst sort of… crushing wound I've seen. It's like you were run over by a dozen carriages. The bones are shattered. Small pieces of it may filter into your blood over time, which is a very bad thing. Dad would have to agree, but I think this might need to be amputated.”
Chain looked away, laughed. “Shit. Shit! Sol, you do ask for such dear prices, don't you?”
Riot pulled away slightly. “Sire?”
“Not you, Riot. Not you. I trust Doctor Marsh to make the right decision...
”
Her mind turned to the Heretic corpses and evidence in the carriage: she couldn't be sure the Disciple conspiracy was dead with Shovel, that others weren't waiting to claim these goods if she left them alone. She needed to form unbreakable evidence chains, something that could not be denied at a Hereticum.
By that point, a small crowd watched her, scared faces staring through windows or open doors. Their naked interest gave her an idea.
“Riot, can I ask you a favour?”
“Sire, you can ask anything of me.”
Chain smiled. “I need you to shout this, loud as you can, over and over: 'Come out, Contegon Justicar needs everyone to help her.' Okay? Just as I said it.”
“Okay?” the child replied.
“Go.”
Riot stood and shouted at the top of her voice, bringing every witness to the carriage. Even Rumble ran out of Marsh's home, panicked at what might have happened.
“Everyone,” Chain called, sitting forward. “Disciples have infiltrated our community. You've heard of Miner Tissue's death. Now, Miner Side fights for his life, and I am crippled. I need you to open this carriage and bring out the contents, line them up. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course we can, sire,” Tassle said, the newly-Joined woman fierce and ready.
“Then do so. Quickly.”
“Sire,” Riot whispered as the people of Buckle went to the main body of the carriage and brought out the boxes within, “your arm, we should amputate it soon.”
“Sol will not let me die until this is done,” Chain said.
“If you are sure, sire...”
“I am.”
It took the townsfolk a few minutes to unload wooden crates so like those resting in the fields. These were marked as containing gemstones, metals, or documents. The lifeblood of their community, of Geos itself, corrupted by the Disciples. Chain shivered, though she did not know whether it was from fear or shock.
Rumble had somehow procured a crowbar while the others lifted. He held it toward the boxes.
“Do it,” Chain said.
The box gave little resistance. Rumble gasped, stepped back. Unlike the crate Shovel had broken open, dark, metallic tubes with circular brass head squatted inside like poisonous toads. Gems surrounded them like bedding, just enough to make the crate rattle when it was lifted.
“Keep going,” Chain said.
Two boxes contained unprocessed precious metals and documents. One hosted more metallic cylinders. The other had a length of clear tubing, like flexible drainpipes, that were clearly not of Artificer production.
“I need you,” Chain said, standing with great care, “to see this. Over the next two days, I cannot trust that another Heretic won't... prevent me reporting the Heresy our fine town has been hiding. I need you to see and hold this truth in your hearts, because the Disciples cannot hurt us all. Yes, I’m saddened to say they have infiltrated Buckle, and have been using it to send their Heresy across Geos.”
People whispered, a chaos of quiet words. Chain kept going to not leave them on that note. “Do not fear. I killed the strongest conspirators: Grain and Twist, who wielded Disciple weapons, and Shovel, a Disciple creation. He ruined my arm.” She gestured to the limp lump of flesh she would likely soon lose, and tried not to throw up at that thought. “And it was he who nearly killed Side.”
“I'm afraid he succeeded,” Marsh shouted from his house, puncturing the mood Chain aimed to elevate. He stepped out, soaked in blood, having lost yet another patient.
Chain took a deep breath, tried to remain calm, but a thunder rose from her throat. She roared it away. Everyone looked at her, hearing the pain of a Contegon, though her wounds cut it short.
“The Disciples died,” Chain croaked. “They died at my hand. But not without a price. We must ensure these Disciples take nothing more. Par must be arrested, if he has not already fled. And I need others to follow the road out of town to claim the corpses of the Disciple conspirators. But, mostly, I need you to remain true to Sol, for he has won this day, in spite of the casualties. As he always, always, will”
“Praise Sol,” said Bottle, one of Grandmother Grass' daughters. The cry was picked up by the others, a sombre defiance to hurt the Disciples and Lun. “Praise Sol! Praise Sol!”
Chain gingerly stepped down amidst the cries, and was waved over to Marsh's home. She felt like a true Contegon, a warrior of pure virtue. Sol was with her, trusted her not only to do what needed to be done, but pay the price that had to be paid. One arm was nothing in the scheme of things.
“Praise Sol,” she whispered.