Page 132 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

No time to make a better plan. I nod again, and he hurries off, shouting instructions. Then he’s gone, pushing backward along the column with a group of hunters, as the remainder gather around me. He’s left me Jack and Thora, I’m glad to see.

“We’re going to run for it,” I tell them. “Kill anything that gets in your way, but don’t stop. They’re coming in from behind, and Karakoa and Zarun won’t be able to keep them back for long.”

Grim nods. I ignite my blades, crackle-hiss, and gesture. We form ourselves into a loose wedge, and charge into the darkness.

Crabs loom out of the shadows with startling suddenness. Scuttlers launch themselves from the sides—I intercept one on the edge of my blade, block another with my new Melos shield, and cast it aside. Myrkai fire and Tartak force rip them out of our way. Jack runs beside me, her hair spiky with sweat, her jaw set, no silly quips to be heard. Her shadow runs beside her, fluid black slipping over the deck without any source of light. She eludes the crabs, her body turning shadowy and shadow turning solid, gets behind them for a quick stab with a long blade, then runs on.

The first big crab, a hammerhead, charges out of nowhere, bulling into the left flank of our formation. A big iceling boy gets caught in its jaws, his scream cut off abruptly. Without prompting, Thora and a dozen hunters peel off, surrounding the thing. Her Tartak bonds fix it in place, while the others close in with spears. The rest of us keep moving.

This whole time, the tower has been growing, getting closer. It’s bigger than I thought, which means it’s farther away. In the soft ghost light of the Eddica current, I can see that it’s a cylindrical structure, much larger than the towers of the Upper Stations, rising out of the deck and stretching as far overhead as I can see. The line in my chest leads right to it.

The Garden. This must be it.

We’re close enough now that the others can see it, too. Real light glows from big square doors at the base of the thing, not firelight but something closer to sunshine. It looks warm and inviting, and the hunters fight harder the nearer we get, slashing and tearing through the crabs that throw themselves at us in a frenzy. A blueshell rears up and is cut down by a dozen blades, hunters taking wounds from its sword-tentacles and ignoring them in their hurry to kill it and move on. I barely have time to reach it and finish it with my armor-piercing spike. Then we’re past, and the glowing doors are just ahead. I pull up short, blinking in the sudden radiance, and the rest of the vanguard slowly comes to a halt around me.

The tower is dark metal, like the rest of the ship. But through the doors, we can see another world.

The light is sunlight, golden and warm. A shallow slope rises up from the doorway, a gentle hillside, made of rich brown earth, not steel. Tufts of grass at the edge give way to a solid carpet of green, tall stalks waving in a wind we can’t feel, dotted by clusters of trees and bushes. It’s a perfect park, in high summer, somehow dropped here in the depths of this steel leviathan.

The Garden.

I’m only a few feet short of the door, but it’s a moment before I can bring myself to cross the threshold. I walk forward, expecting a trick—invisible glass, a field of magical energy, something to keep me out. But I step past, and my boot sinks a little in the soil. New smells fill my nose, wind and grass and the aftertaste of rain. I look up, and the sun blazes in a cloudless blue sky.

No. Not quite. The sky is there, and the sun, but I can see past them, to a ceiling only a couple of dozen yards overhead. It’s a fake, but a convincing fake. And the plants are real, the soil. I reach down, touch the grass, and shiver.

Then I turn, and find pandemonium coming after me.

The column has lost all semblance of order in this last, desperate sprint. The first wave of civilians is following directly behind the vanguard. They reach the doorway, halting briefly in confusion, but they’re pushed forward by those still coming from behind. A crowd develops, and I can see the situation threatening to spiral out of control.

“Keep running!” I give it my best shout, cutting through the babel. “Into the Garden! Clear the way for the people behind you!” At the rear of the mass of humanity, I can see the glow and flash of magic. “Vanguard, stay here, with me! We’re going to have to hold them back!”

People pour past me, running flat out, not even pausing now on the edge of the sanctuary. I see Shiara, in a small bubble of calm maintained by a few of her own hunters. The Scholar hurries past, supported by his servants Erin and Arin. Scavengers and street vendors, servants, cooks, and porters, everyone who’d scraped a living in Soliton’s harsh streets. Children, in smart uniforms, silks, or tattered rags. The better part of a thousand people, rushing into the Garden.

The rear guard comes into view as the press subsides. There’s been no sign of Meroe, and for a moment panic rises in my chest, but then I catch sight of her at the tail end of the column, just behind the fighters. Of course she would wait, let the others rush past. Aifin stands beside her, a blade in either hand, edged by a slight aura of golden Rhema light.

Beyond her, hunters fling fire into the darkness. I see the green glow of a Melos blade moments before Karakoa appears, dragging a stumbling Zarun with one hand and brandishing his long, curved weapon with the other. There are too few in the rear guard, far too few considering how many Zarun took with him. I ignite my blades and hurry to Meroe’s side.

“Isoka!” The relief on her face makes my heart stutter. “Is it safe inside?”

“I think so.” I look past the hunters, into the dark. “What happened?”

“A whole wave of them came at us at once.” Meroe’s face is ashen. “They broke right through the line. It was…” She swallows. “Zarun’s people stopped them, when they arrived.”

“Are they still coming?”

Meroe nods. “But we’ll be safe in the Garden. Won’t we?”

The rear guard, falling back, has reached the doors. Now I can see the crabs advancing behind them, shadowy monsters with no eyes and too many limbs blending into a single, amorphous mass.

A blueshell pushes ahead of the rest. It lunges forward, through the door, and its spindly feet dig into the soil of the Garden. I hold my breath, waiting for a bolt of energy to strike it down or drive it back, but nothing comes. One claw snaps out, grabbing for a young woman pouring a stream of Myrkai fire at another crab. Before it can reach her, Karakoa is there, leaving the panting Zarun on his knees. He swings his long blade with both hands, cutting through armor like it was cloth, and the blueshell rears back.

“Isoka,” Meroe says. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” I look around frantically. “He said we’d be safe here.”

“Well, rotting ask him!” Meroe says. “They’re going to get into the Garden!”

“Hagan!” Over the chaos of battle, I doubt anyone but Meroe can hear. “Hagan, how do we stop them?”