Fantasy Novel

Innealtóir, The Realm of the Constructors Laoch crouched at the tower’s edge, mindful of the crumbling concrete and rusting metal that lay between him and the dizzying hundred-yard drop to the road below. He adjusted his sword, feeling Justice stir uneasily as the sigil sensed the strange atmosphere – the strands of spiritfire that were both unusual and familiar. The sliver of his God fretted in its setting, and Laoch picked up the sigil’s unease; the waves of stress touched his mind, feeding his agitation. Time had seemed to stand still in the dragon’s pocket, as if stretching out forever. Yet, paradoxically, it seemed the journey had lasted a mere instant. Laoch found the experience disconcerting, leaving him out of tune with his surroundings. It didn’t help his unusual anxiety about the building’s edge and the potential fall to the street below. “Just another day in the Rangers. Nothing weird or strange happening here. No.” Laoch shuffled a little further forwards, edging next to Sura, who stood fearless, peering over the edge of the ageing tower. Elven eyes drank in the city that lay, still and empty, below. Birds flew in and out of the tall, twisting columns that punctuated the air, whirling between cold chimneys protruding out of the stern brick buildings. Keran had called these buildings foundries. Huge workshops, larger even than Ecne could wish for, these were the places where the Constructors had built their maniacal visions of machines. Akin to a smithy or an armoury, they should be teeming with people beating metal and smelting iron. Instead, they lay empty, stark. Life had insinuated its way into the abandoned buildings, weeds and vermin on the hunt for food amid the inert mechanisms and cold forges. “It is not as empty as it looks. I think some of the foundries could be functioning, or are at least occupied,” said Keran. The scaled spirit knelt, arms crossed, on the tower’s edge. “I can taste some life, though old and bitter.” “Not quite what you warned us about, Keran,” said Sura, taking an unmindful step outwards to hover above the huge drop. Laoch’s heart thudded, encased in a cold grip. Sura’s unnatural act struck a chord of grief laced with dread. Laoch spun away, trying to ignore Sura, as an icy, metallic taste invaded his mouth. Muttering to himself, a prayer or two released to Justice as his hand rested on the pommel of his sword, he walked over to the strange contraption that lay half broken against the tower’s central chimney, its feather-like wings fluttering in the breeze. Its wire frame was bent and twisted where the crash, and weather, had warped the golden-coloured metal. Its central core of stretched metallic skin lay torn, and inside, whatever mechanisms the winged vehicle still bore had Ecne’s curious hands all over them, her eyes glimmering with wonder. “Any thoughts, Acolyte? Is it some form of mechanical bird?” First Ranger Oisin asked. He stood at the machine’s side, his burnt facial skin rapidly healing. His hair, though, remained absent. “Dragonfly,” Ecne replied, her feet playing against a pair of pedals as she squirmed in the seat’s threadbare frame. “And I think the wings beat rather than soared. All these wires appear to have been linked to whatever’s missing in the central body. Like Nathair’s heart.” “I have little idea of what’s going on, Ecne, but we’re going to need that learning of yours here. So keep sharp. We’ve lucked out where we’ve ended up. It won’t last.” Oisin caught Laoch’s gaze as he spoke, and he allowed himself an acknowledging nod. They’d talked briefly of the end – of the dragon’s fire, and the battle in which they’d saved each other’s lives. A soldier’s bond, forged in heat and flame. Laoch let his eyes drift to the enormous dragon, wrapped in on itself and lying inert on the other side of the cylindrical chimney, tail tucked beneath its silver-scaled chin. His breath caught, a moment of incredulity as the dragon’s aura swept over him. It instilled a dread in his heart, a spike that lodged deep, despite knowing its menace was restrained. For now, at least. With it motionless, he could survey the joints and rivets driven into the mechanical beast, the horns from which lightning sparked, the scarlet eyes that were a portent of its purpose – to hunt, to feed. Nathair raised her chin, adjusting her metal forelegs, her talons scraping into the dirt of the roof before settling down again. Those scarlet eyes now set on him. Ridden, but not broken. Laoch turned at Sura’s call, and watched as the spirit stepped back onto the tower’s edge. Her eyes fell upon his, locking in. A smile leapt unbidden to his lips, returned in full, and his heart reared, shattering the cold that had wrapped around it. Moments of contrast that Justice tried to smooth as Laoch’s fingers alighted on the sword’s sigil. Whatever chaos is to come, we are side by side, Sura. Laoch entered the first chamber off the tower’s stairwell. Sensing a change, a shift in the musty air, he spun to face the fungi-covered wall. A pulse beat at its centre, the movement highlighted by the briefest flash of a faded white light that shadowed the surrounding growths. The old Laoch would have lashed out, cracking whatever in the Seven Veils it was across the floor, before stomping upon it, just in bloody case. The new Laoch – the calm and considered warrior he now needed to be – contemplated his actions, and brushed his sword sideways along the wall. The tip scraped against the bulge, and it sailed across the room. Oisin watched the sludge flying towards him before it splattered on the wooden floor near his boot. The lump of green and yellow sprouted legs, six incongruous sets on either side of the gelatinous mass. They waggled vainly in the air, the bulbous material bouncing with each movement. Laoch chose that moment to crash his boot heel into the centre of the legs, assuming the body beneath would crack and spill its contents upon the stone floor. Instead, his foot smashed into something hard, resistant. The twelve legs latched on, their sharpened tips digging into the sole. “For Justice’s sake,” he cried, bouncing on one foot as he levered the other up. Oisin grabbed the Ranger’s arm. “Don’t panic, Laoch. Calm. It’s just an insect.” The mountain man prodded his sword tip towards it. The pulsing mass split, and a set of vicious bronzed pincers emerged to latch on. “Shit!” shouted Laoch. “Shit, shit, shit! Get it off!” He was about to stamp again when the pincers released Oisin’s sword. The newly cleaned blades gleamed, and a dim white light penetrated the outer layer of the fungi covering the torso. Oisin kicked Laoch’s standing leg away, forcing the Ranger to drop on his backside, and struck at the raised boot with his pommel. Oisin was rewarded with a crack, followed by a deep hiss. A powder filled the air around the squealing creature. Another strike, and a leg sprang back, metal joints wavering before opening wide. As it fell, the First Ranger scanned the darkened room before selecting a chair to smash into the beast in a rare bout of fury. When he was done, an assortment of springs and wires protruded, exposed cogs slowing in a final whirr of life before the machine gave up the ghost. “Welcome to bloody Innealtóir, realm of freaks and madness,” said Laoch, staring at the dead clockwork artifact. “Nice place to visit. Wouldn’t want to stay too bloody long.” He glanced up at the mountain man, his reddened face grim as he prodded at the mechanical monstrosity with his sword tip. “And this is just the beginning.” Oisin lifted the combination of shattered legs and steel pincers, eyes wide as he took in the complex innards spilling across the blade’s edge. “Keran and Sura talked of creations much bigger than this.” “Like dragons—” Laoch stood and eyed the rest of the artificer’s room, the worktables and piles of wire clippings all under a layer of dust. “—and the like. How many people do they need to feed off to empower each one?” “I fear we will soon find out, to our detriment. Check the next room, Laoch.” He nodded, deciding Justice’s sword was best left unsheathed as he approached the open doorway. The architrave appeared to be made of wood, but was barely marked by age or any boring insects. Still true and precision-built, like the one they’d entered through on the tower roof. No hastily built castle, this. A building constructed, storey upon storey, to stretch skywards and challenge the sun itself. In his own realm – which he called Brandshold, now that he had reason to – a building such as this was beyond the meisters’ skills. An attempt to construct one would have been labelled a challenge to the Seven. Here, this building had been the tallest, and the easiest for Nathair to access. The crashed mechanical dragonfly was a welcome sign of abandonment. They had time to come to terms with this strange city. Yet, the hairs at his nape were permanently on end. This first level was empty except for the moulds and growths upon one wall. Perhaps the artifact had leaked, as Keran had before his amalgamation with Nathair, and the surrounding mulch had thrived upon that? Something to ask Ecne. The sword lit the next room, the soft glow emanating from Justice’s sigil. Back when he’d battled Nathair, the maul had appeared in his hand, first as a sword, and later, a shield, his survival dependent on his God’s will. Laoch sensed the connection deepening, so his wish for low light created something akin to what he’d imagined. The room he stood in had served as some form of quarters, though here were more signs of age – bedsheets faded and chewed, most lost to whatever vermin dared inhabit the space. There appeared to be a food preparation area, and a sealed cupboard which, on opening it, he immediately regretted. The stink washed over him as the inrushing air mixed with the fetid residue of once-fresh food. The central table displayed a sense of organisation, matching that in the artificer’s workroom next door. The only sign of disorder was a set of haphazardly piled books. Laoch touched the binding of the topmost one, only for it to decompress. A soft pop preceded the disintegration of the entire spine, though the shiny, woven paper within remained untouched. “Damn.” Laoch blew the dust away and glanced over the first page. He had no words, a regret he only felt when selecting a brew from his frequent attendance at bottle shops. A scrape of boots on the hardened floor warned of Oisin’s arrival. “Found anything?” “Nothing of use except these old books.” Oisin glanced over them. The smile that crossed his blistered lips produced a regretful wince. He moved Laoch’s hand aside with a gloved hand, and his eyes ran over the words. “A simple recipe. For cooking.” “But you can read it?” Ecne asked on entering. The acolyte held the splattered artifice in one hand and some form of tool in the other. “Yes? Now that is a find.” Oisin leant back, keeping his distance from the insect-like creature, whose legs twitched as Ecne prodded at it. “Why?” “Because, in all likelihood, it means that most of the Constructors’ books will be readable, that we have a commonality of language. Possibly because we brought the written word with us when the Seven led us from here. Without it, we would be crippled, with only the sword and fist to glean learning with. If we are looking for a way to bring them down or fight back, I doubt they will tell us.” “I may be able to persuade them,” replied Laoch, a wicked grin splashed across his face. “Then see it another way,” said Ecne, a sigh upon her lips and more than a little despair in her eyes, “that we should use both the quill and the sword in the fight to come.” “And the meisters’ tools,” added Sura, her feet barely gracing the floor as she swept in. “And the spirits, where we can. But remember, the Constructors are eaters of spirit and soul, not of proper food. This is likely a spirit-doll’s space – a human collaborator after subjugation.” Honour’s orange flared in Sura’s eyes. Laoch looked away. Sura continued, unaware, “Keran suggests we allow Nathair to rest, to absorb whatever spiritfire he can from the surroundings, while we search for a way to power the mechanical beast. It will not move far until it can feed on something.” Oisin and Laoch both flinched, the threat implied by the dragon’s feeding as much a portent of their future as a concern now. Keran’s perception of Nathair as a mighty weapon would be dipped in blood somewhere, in what was to come. Hopefully in whatever enemy the Constructors turned out to be. “Do we have a next move?” asked Ecne. “Because if I’m not needed, I could explore this meister’s workroom, get a feel for how things work.” “Not yet,” replied Oisin. “We need eyes and ears until we know who, or what, lives below. And we require food and water of our own. This expedition is very underprepared. We search this tower first, then perhaps the streets below. In the old mountain ruins of my home, wildlife soon returned. Perhaps we can hunt or set a few traps. In fact, Acolyte, string, or at least a piece of rope, is the first thing I want you to find.” “Aha,” said Ecne. “Now, I spotted those somewhere.” Distracted, Ecne wandered back into the other room. Oisin joined her to outline his needs. “Will I be carrying Honour’s spear?” asked Laoch, spinning to survey the room before settling on pulling open another set of cupboards, regret written across his face. “Yes, if you would. Honour and Wisdom converse, though I cannot hear their words,” replied Sura. “I am new to them, an avatar formed from death while holding the sigil. My creation fascinates them both, and they are exploring the potential. But for now, I cannot be far from the spear, and therefore its wielder. I would want that to be you.” Sura’s eyes locked onto Laoch’s, who could do little but hold her gaze despite Honour’s glow. “This is not easy for either of us. I find what I am fascinating, yet at the same time, I yearn for what I was. What I have lost. You.” “Lost? You requested I stand by your side. That will never change.” Laoch firmed up his gaze, squeezing every ounce of belief into his eyes. His hand reached out, its tremble quelled by sheer will, to lace Sura’s ethereal fingers. “Thank you.”