And then the quake struck.
The airship rocked back and forth. Men spilled off the catwalks lining the rigid airframe, screaming. The ramp between the airship and the balcony reared back, pulling yards of wooden railing into the air, and snapped magnificently in two.
Men in armor plunged down. The guy with no nose was standing on the balcony, safe, the only man of his squad not tumbling headlong through the air, and I rushed him before he got his shield ready, plunged my sword into his belly, and then kicked him out into the air, flicking the blood off the blade nonchalantly. Wished I had had a camera. I bet I looked cool.
The airship ignited its artillery, but the temblor was making the vast vessel roll and pitch and yaw. Bolts and cannonballs and catapult stones and beams of futuristic death-ray fire all flew high, smashing and scarring the walls above and behind the balcony where I stood.
The wolf-headed men clinging to the walls above us were struck full on with beams, blasts, gouts of poison, shattering arrows, and explosions, and scores of them dropped like lemmings in a Disney documentary. The outer wall to which they no longer clung was beetled out over the balcony, so they plunged into the lakewater, or rebounded like clowns on trampolines off the vast lifting envelope of the airship. Perhaps some of them clung frantically to the sloping sides of the rocking airship, but I was looking at the wolves who spun as they fell, and beat their limbs against the thin air. I could not help but think of the Coyote from the cartoons dropping from some Chuck Jones cliff in Arizona.
Really wished I had a camera. I laughed so hard I felt bad. Lord, have mercy on my soul that I thought it was so funny.
7. Exit Stage Left
And then, to my left, I saw a black ball of nothingness appear, surrounded by the aurora borealis.
The Moebius gate was open, whistling like a teakettle.
Foster’s mist had cut off the blue light, preventing it from reaching the golden flail, and Glede had parted the mist horizontally, so there was still a bar above us, still blocking the lampwood spear fragments embedded in the wall. Out from the zenith of the black sphere Ossifrage stepped into midair like a man climbing stairs. On ground level, nearest the sphere’s equator, came forth Nakasu, roaring, a worried look on his chest. Penny shouted to the girls to get to their feet and run for it. The closest ones scrambled into the ball surface, not even bothering to stand all the way up.
Ossifrage waved his shepherd’s crook at the airship, but instead of capsizing, it righted itself. Kneeling on the upper surface of the envelope, not dead like he should have been, was the black-robed cloudwalker Glede, also with a shepherd’s crook in his hand. His other hand was trying to staunch the bleeding from his arrow wound. It should have been deadly, should have killed him instantly, but obviously some magic was at work. I was not getting the hang of this mad world as quick as I would have liked.
Even worse, Vorvolac, pale as a glow worm and a look of ecstatic starvation on his face, was standing next to him, unchained, wings unripped.
Ossifrage shouted some rolling Old Testament curse at Glede, who shouted back. It being Hebrew, I only caught every other word, but it was terrible enough to make me wish that Abby had not been able to hear it.
Foster shot an arrow at Vorvolac, and Glede raised his crook and made the arrow stand still in midair between us. Which was a lucky break, because Foster cried, “For Odin!” and the arrow started emitting mist. That, I think, was why we were not all struck down when the unblindfolded Vorvolac turned his hideous gaze upon us. We were invisible to him, and to the ship, for just a moment.
I tried to shield Penny and Abby behind me, holding up the crucifix.
The airship was turning, bringing her broadside weapons to bear. In the eyes of the giant bearded figurehead forming the prow of the ship, I could see the wrinkle-featured Enmeduranki looking like a gleeful sadist, his white hair in disarray where his tall hat had fallen, and the harsh-faced Anshargal looking calm and cold beside him, methodically giving commands.
Horns and trumpets blew. The random firing ceased. Winged men, Panotii or Cruorbibitors or both, began falling out of hatches and bays along the belly of the great ship, thick and bright as autumn leaves. A dozen grapnels shot out from the ship again, hooking what remained of the balcony. Gun crews readied the death-lanterns and ballistae and cannons.
The trumpets were not merely for the soldiers aboard the airship. All the way across the lake-sized cistern, in the light from the balconies of the townships built one atop the next like shelves, I could see now the mouths of huge weapons, looking as large as the gun Jules Verne once used to shoot Impey Barbicane to the moon, being cranked slowly into elevation. I saw catapults made of living metal, big enough to hurl a Learjet as a dart. Other weapons, protruding from blisters or pillboxes, were cranked into view, and pointed their muzzles our way. There was no spot anywhere in this vast interior space, none of the townships lining the walls, not in range of these massive guns and siege engines.
Torchlight flared into view above, as massive doors high above our position were hauled up, or shutters or hatches banged open with the noise of iron gongs. On the balconies directly overhead, now visible, were steaming spigots hauled forward by teams of sweating slaves, or spouts of red-hot machines leaning over the brink above us, like the beards of giants hanging over a wall, ready to dump boiling oil or molten iron on us, careless of the remaining invulnerable cynocephali grinning and running down the acres of wall metal between them and us.
I was petrified by the sight of it. The whole immensity of the Dark Tower was one big armed trap, the teeth of the snare, all pointed inward at us.
Only Abby kept her wits: “Master! Take us through the gate now!”
Ossifrage raised his crook. I think the cloudwalker in black was still blinded by Foster’s mist, because he did not stop us.
A whirlwind snatched us all up, all the girls, me, Penny, Abby and Foster, and hurled us toward the dark sphere. I put my elbow in front of my face to block the wind, and held my unsheathed katana behind me.
Above all the commotion, from the warship was coming a voice, tremendously amplified, of the Great King, Anshargal: “Open a hundred gates to Javan! No Undying can live an hour in the lands of the Host That Quaffs Lifeblood as Wine! I grant a city to who slays the foreverborn assassin girl, a treasure city to who ravishes the sea-witch! A kingdom wide and rich for the wind-walker's head! But an aeon for the Undying boy! I give you a world to save him from the blood-drinkers and bring him to me alive!”
I fell into the surface. The uproar of battle was cut off as abruptly as if the soundtrack broke.
“He must be found! Find him! For the mother of the Undying boy is none other than–”
—The End of SOMEWHITHER —
To Be Continued
in the Next Volume of A Tale of the Unwithering Realm
— NOWHITHER —
MILITARY SCIENCE FICTION
Riding the Red Horse Vol. 1 ed. Tom Kratman and Vox Day
There Will Be War Vol. I ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. II ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. III ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. IV ed. Jerry Pournelle
SCIENCE FICTION
Awake in the Night by John C. Wright
Awake in the Night Land by John C. Wright
City Beyond Time: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis by John C. Wright
Somewhither by John C. Wright
Big Boys Don't Cry by Tom Kratman
The Stars Came Back by Rolf Nelson
Hyperspace Demons by Jonathan Moeller
On a Starry Night by Tedd Roberts
Do Buddhas Dream of Enlightened Sheep by Josh M. Young
QUANTUM MORTIS A Man Disrupted by Steve Rzasa and Vox Day
QUANTUM MORTIS Gravity Kills by Steve Rzasa and Vox Day
QUANTUM MORTIS A Mind Programmed by Jeff Sutton, Jean Sutton, and Vox Day
Victoria: A Novel of Fourth Gener
ation War by Thomas Hobbes
FANTASY
One Bright Star to Guide Them by John C. Wright
The Book of Feasts & Seasons by John C. Wright
A Magic Broken by Vox Day
A Throne of Bones by Vox Day
The Gladiator's Song by Vox Day
The Wardog's Coin by Vox Day
The Last Witchking by Vox Day
Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy by Vox Day
The Altar of Hate by Vox Day
The War in Heaven by Theodore Beale
The World in Shadow by Theodore Beale
The Wrath of Angels by Theodore Beale
NON-FICTION
Astronomy and Astrophysics by Dr. Sarah Salviander
A History of Strategy: From Sun Tzu to William S. Lind by Martin van Creveld
Equality: The Impossible Quest by Martin van Creveld
On War: The Collected Columns of William S. Lind 2003-2009 by William S. Lind
Four Generations of Modern War by William S. Lind
Transhuman and Subhuman: Essays on Science Fiction and Awful Truth by John C. Wright
SJWs Always Lie: Taking Down the Thought Police by Vox Day
CASTALIA CLASSICS
The Programmed Man by Jean and Jeff Sutton
Apollo at Go by Jeff Sutton
First on the Moon by Jeff Sutton
AUDIOBOOKS
A Magic Broken, narrated by Nick Afka Thomas
Four Generations of Modern War, narrated by William S. Lind
TRANSLATIONS
Särjetty taika
QUANTUM MORTIS Un Hombre Disperso
QUANTUM MORTIS Gravedad Mata
Una Estrella Brillante para Guiarlos
QUANTUM MORTIS Um Homem Desintegrado
QUANTUM MORTIS Gravidade Mortal
Uma Magia Perdida
Mantra yang Rusak
La Moneta dal Mercenario
I Ragazzoni non Piangono
QUANTUM MORTIS Тежина Смрти
QUANTUM MORTIS Der programmierte Verstand
Grosse Jungs weinen nicht
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John C. Wright, Somewhither
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