I’d wondered about this; the bridge appears to be one seamless piece with the city on either side, plenty of anchoring on both shores. I need to cut another line farther along, then. Sacrifice an entire middle section to the depths.
The Overseers are almost halfway to me, and I can see more streaking black from the closer western side now too. I burst eastward. Falter for a second as Gleaners suddenly stream into the air from the temple ahead, arms at their sides, silhouetted in gold by the pyramid and then lit green from below as they arrow in my direction.
The Nomarch knows what I’m trying to do.
The plan is working. Gods help me.
I force myself to keep running, occasionally slashing my crook at the ground beside me as I go, shards exploding outward each time. Anything to weaken this section. I make it twenty feet. Fifty. Gleaners and Overseers alike are boiling from the city at both ends of the bridge. I hear faint cries as people begin to spot the flying monstrosities.
I’m tempted for a moment to think it done, but I know deep down it’s not enough. I’ve drawn their attention, but all I’ve really achieved so far is vandalism. Escaping now could mean those Gleaners clouding the air ahead simply return to their posts. I need them to be needed. I need to dodamage.
So, to the echoes of distant screams, with the impossible fear of what is bearing down on me itching at the corners of my eyes, I begin to cut again.
I’m almost halfway through carving the second line, the bridge finally beginning to feel as though it’s giving slightly, when the first wave of Overseers reach me. I stop long enough to deal with them. They’re not warriors, not strategic, do little more than leap at me.Flicker. Thrum.Flicker. Thrum. Red mist coats me; I see more approaching through it, see the golden sky darkened by shadows that are almost here.Flicker. Thrum. I keep slashing the ground where I can, explosions of stone between explosions of flesh. Stomach churning. Heart hammering in my chest. Everything flashes of nightmares and blood and fear.
The Gleaners are coming. They’re almost on me. They’ll be too much to deal with.
I grit my teeth and, going down on one knee, drive the point of the crook as hard as I can into the bridge’s remaining sliver of surface. The ground beneath me gives a slow shudder, a groan, as the weapon sinks deep into the black stone.
Then there is a splintering, a cracking that seems to come from all around,too loud and violent. I rip the crook back out. Overseers silently pour at me from both sides. The air is thick with Gleaners, from the temple and from Neter-khertet, screams of terror and disbelief even over the pained rending of the ground beneath me, the citizens of Duat seeing what may become of them for the first time.
Cracks run and grow with frightening rapidity beneath my feet. The ground starts to wobble and twist and groan, making me stumble. The Gleaners are fifty feet away. Twenty.
I sprint clumsily for the side of the bridge. Too late.
The ground vanishes from beneath my feet, and I am slipping. Falling. The bridge screams and crumples around me. The Overseers closest flail and yet still have their gazes fixed on me, seem intent on getting to me even as the obsidian shatters like glass around them. But they are as vulnerable to the effects of gravity as I am. They topple.
I flick out my flail a couple of times as Overseers get near, but I’m not even sure if I make contact. The green-lit water rushes up to meet me and I use both flail and crook to shield myself from overhead as I hit it feet-first, the burn of poison racing through my nerves.
There’s an enormous crashing above, even from underwater as I sink. Pressure as there’s hit after hit on my weapons, masses of stone raining down on me, split and eviscerated by my protective stance and clouding around me. Huge chunks graze past me, opening wounds on my arms and shoulders that then sear with renewed agony in the acidic water. I gasp involuntarily and the burning is inside me, in my mouth and throat and lungs. I thrash, do all I can to keep my crook and flail above me. They, and my embedded Vitaeria, are the only things keeping me alive.
Something fastens around my leg.
I open my eyes, ignoring the pain enough to see, and almost drag in another lungful in sheer horror.
The Overseers have hit the water too; many are simply floating, heads caved in from rubble, but some are still conscious and those are swimming for me. Many have lost limbs and trail thick fountains of liquid dark behind them as they thrash toward me, staining the water an ugly black against the green. The skin on all of them is boiling, peeling, sluicing away in grotesque clumps. Yet still they come. One is close enough to be pawing at my leg, scratching it with its nails, though much of the rest of it has already melted away.
I bring my crook down and jab it into the monstrous thing’s face. It disintegrates into pockets of flesh that float away through a cloud of black blood.
Even with my pursuers clearly succumbing to the Infernis, the terror of it all is more than enough for me to start swimming lower, my strokes frantic as I try to escape the crowd of disintegrating nightmares following me. At least the Gleaners have remained above; I can see the swarm of them hovering, images wavering and shaking from the continued impacts of the collapsing bridge. I ignore them; the river is not awfully deep and I scan desperately along its floor, fighting through the pain of the experience and looking for the drainage that I know exists.
There. A slightly darker shadow nestled next to one of the lines of green light, impossible to see from above. No more than five feet wide.
I scrabble toward it, panic and pain almost too much to bear.
The Overseers, I think, have stopped following. The acid too much for them to take, finally shutting down their bodies. It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back up. The Gleaners will spot me in a second.
The current becomes stronger, sucking me downward as I approach the hole, and before I know it I have little choice in my destination.
I allow myself to be drawn into the darkness.
LXXIV
THE STRETCHED ANIMAL SKIN OF MY PRISON TENT IS ANangry, flickering red, broken only by the silhouettes of guards and passing soldiers as the night progresses. I work unsuccessfully at my bindings, blood slicking my wrist from where my constant straining has rubbed it raw. I could not sleep even if I was inclined to, the stone pin in the back of my neck unceasing in its sending of waves of pulsing agony. For a while the howls and screams and clash of wood and metal outside seem as though they will never end. Then they do. Some unheard signal, and hostilities pause. The camp becomes, if not quiet, then less unpleasantly raucous than before.
My eyes are closed, trying to divine what’s going on outside, when I hear soft grunting from the tent’s entrance; a few seconds later there’s a flash of light and a dragging sound. A body being hauled inside.
“Deaglán.” It’s Tara. Impossibly here. On her knees beside me, spear blade slicing through my bonds, blue eyes narrowed as she scans me for other signs of injury. As soon as my hand is free, I rip the brooch from the back of my neck, gritting my teeth against the pain as it slides free. The agony in my head lessens to a thumping ache. Still present—still affecting me, given that I cannot yet sense the pulse of Tara’s spear—but less. Infinitely more manageable. I breathe out in pure relief.
