“Who said the guardian would be human?”
CHAPTER 3
THE TRANSCONTINENTAL
A little rebellion now and then is a good thing,
and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.
—Thomas Jefferson, Pre-Cataclysm polymath (270–187 P.C.)
Hob kept his eyes on the stranger’s gun, his mind on the Boekka slung across his back.
“I said I’d take you here. That’s it.”
The man’s smirk suggested disappointment. “In my day, lads didn’t flinch at a bit of adventure.”
Hob had heard rumors about dig sites. “I’m not going in.”
The stranger spun the revolver’s cylinder shut. “I’m not asking you to. But I need a lookout and an extra pair of hands. I trust you can haul on a rope?”
Hob nodded.
“Splendid. There’s another solar for you if you see this through. Two solars for driving a sledge and lowering a rope. Not bad for a night’s work.”
Hob couldn’t argue. He’d have to exchange the coins for more practical currency in Wulfast, but he could manage that. He could even buy his mother something pretty just because. Lowering his goggles, he steered the sledge for the ridge.
Minutes later Hob pulled over and shut off the engine. The site was two hundred yards ahead, past a snow-spattered barricade warning visitors to keep out. A soaring white pine stood nearby, its trunk branded with the Faeregine’s harp-shaped F. No villager could cut down that tree; the Divine Empress claimed it for a ship mast.
“Even out here they own us,” said the stranger.
He dismounted to rummage through the sledge’s storage compartment. A moment later, he’d produced rope, a set of pulleys, a powerful flashlight, and a dull metal camera that must have been acquired on the black market. Like many technologies, cameras were heavily regulated by the authorities. To Hob’s puzzlement, the man also removed a newspaper—that week’s edition of the Northwest Register. Handing the rope and flashlight to Hob, the stranger slipped the camera around his neck and marched ahead. He promptly sank into the moonlit snow.
Muttering an oath, he reached for Hob’s hand. “You’d better go first.”
Hob did so. He was lighter and had a knack for sensing where the snow would hold. It was good to focus on something, to distract himself from the fact he was breaking Impyrial law. His creeping shadow looked vaguely sinister, but really it was wariness. The wolves would not cross the bridge, but even wilder things prowled the Sentries at night.
Straight ahead, a derrick stood like a grave marker, ringed by piled boulders and debris. Heavy equipment and fuel drums were positioned nearby, covered by canvas tarps. A line of fallen trees ran up the mountain like a scar, a relic of the spring earthquake whose fault revealed caverns within. Two days later, Impyrial archaeologists arrived and declared the area off-limits.
When they reached the ring of slag and stones, Hob scanned their surroundings. The stranger breezed past him. Why wasn’t the man anxious?
“Shouldn’t we be looking for the guardian?” Hob whispered.
“The guardian will be inside,” came the hushed reply.
“Then why did we have to walk?”
“If it’s a golem—and they’re always golems—it will be sensitive to vibrations. The sledge would alert it.”
“What’s a go-lem?” asked Hob.
“An animated construct,” replied the stranger. “A statue that’s been brought to life by an enchanted parchment placed in its mouth. The most famous golem was in Prague, but the magic goes much further back.”
“And Prague is . . . ?”
The man shined his light on the derrick. “Pre-Cataclysm city. European.”
None of this made any sense to Hob. Instead, he focused on topics most relevant to his health. “So, this golem. Can it climb out of the dig site?”
“Doubtful. Depends on its size, the cavern’s depth, the powers of the mystic that created it. Lots of factors.”
“How big can they be?” asked Hob nervously.
“I’ve seen a twenty footer, but ten’s more likely.”
Hob frowned. Ten feet was plenty big. “So what do you need me to do?”
“Lower your voice for one.”
They reached the derrick, whose iron frame straddled a black chasm some fifteen feet across. The stranger swiftly assembled an apparatus using his rope and pulleys.
“Listen carefully,” he whispered. “You’re going to lower me down so I can take photographs. Don’t worry about my weight; the pulleys will offset it. If all goes well, I’ll be ten minutes.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Hob whispered.
The stranger clipped the rope to a belt beneath his coat. “If I tug once, wait until I tug again. If I tug twice, pull me up. Three times, haul for your life. Understand?”
Hob nodded at the cable canister on his belt. “This has a gear winch. It’ll work faster than pulling you by hand.”
“How long’s the cable?”
“Two hundred feet.”
The stranger shone his light into the chasm. “No good. I need to go deeper.”
“What are you taking photos of?”
The man winked. “Truth.”
Before Hob could ask another question, his companion stepped off the ledge. Hob was grateful for the pulleys. The stranger was lean, but he was also tall and wearing heavy clothes and equipment. Sitting down, Hob braced his feet against the derrick and fed the rope through.
Foot by foot, the rope passed through Hob’s gloves. After eighty feet or so, he felt a sharp tug and waited until a second signaled he should resume. Another hundred feet, another tug. Holding the rope fast, Hob listened for any nearby sounds. He felt horribly vulnerable with his back to the Sentries. If something happened upon them here, with Hob holding the man by a rope . . . He thanked Kayüta, the fox spirit, that the night was quiet with little breeze to carry their scent into the woods.
Another pull and Hob resumed his work. Almost half the coil remained. The rope must have been three hundred feet, and was woven of very strong and supple material. Another thirty feet, then forty. Hob’s mind drifted to what the stranger had said. What did he mean he was photographing truth? Something must be down there, but Hob assumed it was precious metals or gemstones. The empress claimed their land’s best trees, why wouldn’t she claim its other riches?
His forearms griped as he continued lowering. Precious little slack remained when there was another tug. Hob tugged back to let the man know he was running out of rope.
Minutes passed. Hob felt an easing of tension as though the stranger had unhooked himself. He pulled slightly; no resistance. Hob frowned, but seized the chance to shake out his hands. What was this idiot doing?
Chill seeped through his army coat. Hob wore it for sentimental reasons, not because it was as warm as the fur-lined oilskins favored by Duskers. It was not made for sitting motionless on a slab of icy rock in the dead of night. The stranger said ten minutes. They were well past that.
A shiver ran through the earth like the pucker on a horse’s flank. Hob sat up, peering intently at the black chasm. Was that a flicker of light or were his eyes playing tricks? Another tremor, stronger. The rope jerked forward in Hob’s hands. Three sharp tugs.
Haul for your life.
Hob did so, pulling swiftly and steadily, hand over hand. The pulleys clinked and groaned as the rope piled up beside him. A shout echoed from within the earth.
Hob’s pulse quickened. More flickers; a flashlight momentarily pierced the night. Tremors rumbled like millstones. Hob’s arms and shoulders burned as coils of rope lay tangled about him. How much farther? A hundred feet? Two hundred? Hob blocked out the agony in his lungs, his hands, his back. One more heave, then another. Swift but steady. One more heave . . .
“Hurry!”
The stranger’s hoarse cry was panicked. The rope swayed as though he was trying to climb it like an ungainly spider. Hob pursed his lips; he wo
uld snag it on something and—
The line went slack.
Tying the rope about the derrick, Hob hurried to the chasm’s edge. Particles of dust and snow glittered in his flashlight’s beam as his gaze followed the rope past forty feet of rock to an open space. The stranger’s flashlight was below, its light illuminating the man who lay sprawled on what? A building?
“Can you hear me?” Hob called. The stranger rolled dazedly onto his back. The rumbling grew louder.
“Wake up!” Hob shouted. “Are you all right?”
The stranger gestured at his leg. “I think something’s broken. The golem . . . it’s coming.”
“Where’s your gun?”
The man pointed to something beyond Hob’s field of vision. He must have dropped it.
“Can you splice two ropes together?” Hob called hopefully. There were many serviceable knots, but he doubted a city man would know them. The stranger confirmed his misgivings.
A ponderous footstep sounded. Gazing off into the darkness, the stranger gave a horrified gasp and crawled feebly in the direction of his revolver. He barely moved.
Hob wasted no time. In three seconds, he had clipped his cable to a beam and lowered himself down into the chasm. Below, the stranger had given up on his gun and lay clutching his leg. Beyond Hob’s view, there was a sound like groaning metal. Hob squeezed his flashlight into a clip on his rifle.
“Stay there,” he ordered.
The stranger was almost directly beneath him. As he descended, Hob saw that he was in a dim, impossibly vast cavern housing huge, rectangular buildings made of metal and glass. Many had collapsed, but some were intact and so tall they nearly scraped the rocky carapace that entombed them.
“Where’s the golem?” Hob yelled, pointing his rifle this way and that. The cavern’s acoustics made it difficult to pinpoint the rumbling. The stranger pointed to his right. Kicking his legs, Hob twisted about.
The flashlight’s beam wavered on a face a stone’s throw away. The golem was some twelve feet tall with long, simian arms that helped it support its ponderous weight. Its chiseled face was a crude approximation of a man’s, but its onyx eyes did not blink and its mouth was frozen in a grimace. It lumbered toward them, dragging its granite feet over the roof.
Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack!
Hob’s rifle shots echoed in the cavern. The bullets struck the golem’s chest, sending up tiny flecks of stone, but the creature did not break stride.
“My gun,” gasped the stranger.
Hob saw the revolver lying some fifteen feet away. The golem was closing quickly. If he went for the gun, he’d lose his window to escape. If he activated the winch, he’d be leaving a helpless man to die.
Pushing the cable release, Hob dropped swiftly to the roof. Ditching his rifle, he scrambled on all fours for the heavy revolver. The golem was mere steps from the stranger, who had curled into a ball. Seizing the gun, Hob aimed it at the golem’s head and fired.
The revolver’s roar was enormous. Its shocking recoil jolted Hob’s arm, sending the shot wide. Bending slowly, the golem reached for the stranger as though it meant to tear him in two. Gripping the revolver with both hands, Hob took aim again.
This time, he did not miss.
Seven rounds slammed into the golem’s head. It staggered back at each impact, its hands clutching at its cracked and splintered skull. An angry orange glow began to radiate from the bullet holes.
“Cover your eyes!” the stranger shouted.
The golem’s head exploded in a spray of granite shards. They pelted Hob’s arms and jacket, stinging whatever exposed flesh they could find. A concussive jolt shook the building’s roof, followed by a shower of breaking glass.
Opening his eyes, Hob saw the headless golem in a smoking heap, grasping blindly at anything within reach. Seizing Hob’s rifle, its hands twisted his beloved Boekka and flashlight into scrap. Was the creature dying? Could such a thing die? Hob had no idea, but the stranger was far too close to it.
Scrambling to his feet, Hob dragged his companion away from those searching fingers. The stranger clutched his knee and grunted with pain as Hob deposited him a safe distance away. Giving the golem a wide berth, Hob retrieved the stranger’s flashlight to assess their situation.
There was good news and bad.
They were fortunate Hob’s cable was not pinned beneath many tons of sentient stone. But it still dangled close to the golem. They would have to venture within reach of those searching hands before Hob could activate the cable’s winch. To complicate matters, he doubted the device would bear their combined weight.
“How’s your leg?” said Hob.
The man exhaled slowly. “I don’t think anything’s broken. Just twisted my knee badly.”
Hob removed his belt attached to the cable canister.
“I don’t think the winch can pull us both up together. I’m going to send you up first while I distract it. Once you reach the top, press this lever and send the belt back down. Understand?”
The man coughed into his fist. “I think so.”
Hob frowned. Snatching the camera, he snapped the man’s picture. “Unless I get out of here, officials are going to find my body when they come back. And they’re going to find this camera with your photograph. Do you understand that?”
The man met Hob’s eyes. “Message received, Mr. Smythe. I didn’t intend to be cavalier. I’m well aware you saved my life. Please demonstrate how to operate the winch.”
Hob did so twice before buckling the sturdy belt around the man’s midsection. When all was ready, Hob dragged him as close as possible to where the cable was dangling. Ten feet away, the golem now lay motionless.
“On my signal,” he whispered. He padded quietly around the golem so that he was on its other side. “Ready . . . now!”
Hob kicked a large metal box bolted to the roof. A stony hand shot toward the vibrations, grasping wildly. The stranger activated the winch, rising into the air as the cable went taut. Hob caught his breath. The man’s boots were going to graze the golem. With a gasp, the stranger tucked up his legs, clearing the monster by inches as he ascended toward the derrick.
Gazing out at the cavern, Hob tried to remain calm. It was not just the golem that had his heart racing. He shone the stranger’s flashlight on a building and gazed at its rusted skeleton. What was this place? Who had lived here? Hob recalled the man’s claim that muir had walked on the moon thousands of years ago. It was impossible—nonsensical—but so was an ancient city buried beneath the mountains.
A voice called out from above. Hobs belt and cable canister were descending. Once again, he kicked the metal box whose vibrations occupied the golem. Edging around it, he caught the belt, buckled it securely round his waist, and activated the winch.
A beautiful clicking sounded from within the canister as the mechanism began spooling. Hob was lifted smoothly off his feet. He held the camera out at arm’s length and snapped a photograph of the scene. There was a pulse of light and the camera hummed briefly. Hob was impressed it had survived the fall. He ran his fingers over the casing. Maybe the workshop had made it too. Had they made the stranger’s gun? The revolver sat in his coat pocket, warm as a bed brick.
Hob had never been so happy to see the stars. Emerging from the chasm, he found the stranger sitting with his back against the derrick. Swinging to safety, Hob untied the cable’s anchor and returned the man’s camera and revolver.
“I must say you’re a remarkable young man,” remarked the stranger, laying the gun on his lap. “Few people could handle themselves like you just did.” He fished a second gold coin from his coat. “You’re owed this, I believe.”
Hob took the solar, ashamed by the rush of greedy pleasure it gave him. He’d made a year’s wages for a few hours work. Sure it had been dangerous, but so was mining. Pocketing the coin, he glanced up at a sky that was showing the first gray hints of dawn. “I’ll get the sledge.”
Hob’s companion held up a hand. ??
?I have a proposition.”
“No thanks,” said Hob, turning away.
“A wise man always listens to a proposition,” said the stranger slowly. “Your father taught me that.”
Hob turned back sharply. “You knew my father?”
The stranger was gazing at him thoughtfully. “I did. Ulrich and I were very close.”
Hob felt a sting of disappointment. “My father’s name was Anders Smythe. He was a soldier in the Impyrial Guard.”
A sympathetic glint shone in the stranger’s eyes. “No, Hob. Your father only took that name when we infiltrated the guard. His name was Ulrich Doyle, and he was a far greater man than any of those traitors that serve the Faeregines. Ulrich was a member of the Fellowship.”
Hob had heard of the Fellowship. Porridge talked of joining them, said they were some kind of revolutionary group. Hob backed a step, sorry that he’d returned the stranger’s revolver.
“You’re lying,” he said softly. “You didn’t know my father. Who are you?”
The stranger slipped a photograph from his breast pocket and handed it to Hob. “My name is Edmund Burke.”
Hob shone the flashlight on the photograph. The only picture of his father he’d ever seen was on his mother’s bedside table. He’d studied it a thousand times, knew every detail. As Hob examined this new photograph, an icy prickling crept down his spine. It showed the same man.
His father was much younger in this photo—no older than twenty—with short black hair, light eyes, and a workman’s shirt. He was sitting with a group of men in a tavern. Most of the others looked drunk, but not Hob’s father. He gazed at the camera with the same inward, soulful expression Hob recognized from his mother’s picture. The person next to him was older and appeared to be smiling with tolerant amusement at one of their rowdier companions. That man was Mr. Burke.
Hob studied the picture in silence, finding unmistakable traces of himself in his father’s nose and dimpled chin. The clearest link, however, were the eyes. Hob’s were shaped like his mother’s, but they were green like this man’s. They marked him as a bastard, the shame of some pale-skinned skänder. His mother’s tribe had made Hob painfully well aware of this. Hob switched off the flashlight.