Wintercraft: Legacy (25 page)

Baltin’s group of Skilled crossed Fume and arrived at the Museum of History just before the listening circle in the main hall activated with more power than ever before. His people were running up the museum’s outer steps, heading for the door, when spirit energy rang through the walls, shattering the green windows and sending the Skilled stumbling back down to the street below. Baltin shouted a warning and pulled his coat over his face as
souls poured out of the museum like a swarm of bees, surging out over their heads and spilling between the houses.

‘Don’t look at them!’ he shouted. ‘Let them go. Let them go!’

Deep beneath their feet, tomb caverns rumbled into life, raining fragments of earth down from their vast ceilings. Old bones rattled in their graves and wild souls swept along the winding understreets, gathering together and rushing upwards, breaking for the surface and the open air.

‘It worked,’ Dalliah said quietly.

Kate concentrated everything she had upon the city, but the veil was too strong for her to rein it in completely. Buildings fractured, and entire streets became veined with cracks as huge sections of the city split apart. People closest to the city square ran for their lives as houses crumbled and chasms opened up within the roads. The memorial towers stood strong. The ancient buildings, gargoyles and statues that had been placed to honour the dead remained untouched by the devastation, but anything new, anything that had been built solely for the comfort of the living, came crashing down.

Dalliah stared upwards, and Silas flung open the tower door, watching as havoc spread across the city. Fume was shrouded in devastation. Dirt choked the air and rubble covered everything in a mantle of grey. The upper levels of the City Below were bathed in moonlight as the streets built over them collapsed, revealing passageways, carriage tracks and sunken homes that had not been seen since the
bonemen’s time. Fleeing people were caked in stone dust, and some of them had to hold each other back, preventing themselves from falling into the yawning chasms opening around them.

Fume was shaking off the legacy of the living. As the surface of the city was scratched away, more listening circles were revealed within the streets, buried and forgotten: expanses of intricately carved stone – some many metres across – that had once been integral to the city’s work with the dead. No one had seen those circles work for hundreds of years. Now, under Kate’s control, every one of them thundered into life, casting off layers of earth that had covered them for too long. Entire streets shuddered, their cobbles crackling as ancient symbols beneath them flared with light.

‘Kate,’ Silas shouted above the noise. ‘Stop this.’

Kate was not listening. Her soul was injecting fire into Fume’s heart. The ancient city had come alive.

As the energy of the circles spread, shades bled up from every stone, every building and every grave in the city. Kate’s influence spread into every inch of its embattled streets, drawing out souls that had been trapped within the circles and setting them free.

Dalliah pressed her back against the tower wall, waiting for her own soul to emerge. ‘This is what we have been waiting for, Silas!’ she shouted. ‘You will thank me for what I have done.’

With the veil gone, the half-life smothered the living world. All across Albion, nightmares walked free. Souls from the deepest depths, altered forever by centuries lost
in horror and insanity, screamed in the light of the living world, while souls from the upper levels congregated wherever there were people, seeking out loved ones they had lost and sweeping over buildings like ghostly spiders wrapping webs around flies. Albion became twisted by the memories of the restless dead as the past mingled with the present. There was no way to escape it. The shades’ fear, emptiness and regret were infectious. Soon no one could even be sure their thoughts were their own.

Inside Fume’s city square, the Skilled cried out in fright when the ground beneath them started to turn. Stone grated against stone and ancient grooves appeared where none had been visible before. Greta tried to keep everyone calm, struggling to hide her own fears. It was there, standing beneath a lightning-lit sky, that she realised the extent of her ignorance about things she thought she understood. She had learned just enough of the ways of the Skilled to serve among them, but she had not prepared herself for anything like this. None of the Skilled had dared to look deep enough into the veil to understand the extremes they might one day have to face. For all her past confidence, Greta and the others found themselves completely at the mercy of the circle’s intent.

The magistrate knelt down to touch one of the tiny trails of carved words that snaked across the ground. Her fingers sparked with energy and she recognised Kate’s influence at once. A flash of Kate’s spiritual suffering burned through her for barely an instant, but that brief connection was enough to make her regret everything she had said or done to the Winters girl. Greta did not know
anyone who could have survived even seconds in the place where Kate’s soul now lay without losing every sense of who they were.

That tiny glimpse into Kate’s spirit willed her to look up in the direction of the distant Winters tower and what she saw made her stand up and stare, not certain if what she was seeing was real or not.

‘Stay away from the carvings,’ she said, absently gesturing for the other Skilled to stand beside her. ‘And look up.’

Thin threads of cloud were gathering above the city and winding together in a tight spiral tinged with violet and silver. The sky was caught in a clockwise twist of clouds and shadows that stretched for miles around.

‘What is that?’ asked one of the older boys.

‘A maelstrom of souls,’ said Greta. ‘I never thought I would see one in my lifetime.’

‘What do we do?’

The boy’s words were snatched away by a screeching rush of air that powered over the city square, and a wall of racing souls rolled over their heads, blotting out the light. The circle protected the Skilled from their influence, but being so close to so many unleashed shades was a truly breathtaking experience.

‘This is not our fight,’ said Greta, as the souls surged eastwards. ‘Not any more.’

The Continental army had come prepared for a fast, decisive attack upon Albion’s capital. They had been given information confirming that the bulk of Albion’s army was out of practical reach and had expected to take the core consignment of wardens guarding the city by surprise.

Councilman Gorrett’s information had proven invaluable in planning and executing the attack, but everything depended upon the battle’s reaching a quick resolution with dead wardens, frightened people, and a captured High Council to deliver to their leaders across the sea. They had aimed to overwhelm Fume’s defences within a few hours. What they got was a well-trained city defence and wardens who were confident enough to mount coordinated counter-attacks, forcing them into a siege.

Breaching the walls had gone smoothly as planned, but, once inside, the Continental soldiers were at an immediate
disadvantage. The wardens were working with first-hand knowledge of the streets beyond the gates and were employing deadly strategies that their informant in the council had known nothing about. The attacking army’s leaders were losing more men than they would have liked to ambushes, traps and concealed bowmen positioned in places not even the sharpest spotter could detect.

Fume had been an all-or-nothing target. Victory or death. No one had expected the odds to tip so drastically against them.

Runners were ordered to scout the perimeter of the city for concealed entrances, but not one of them came back. There were reports of ghostly figures standing upon the walls, causing bowmen to waste arrows firing at something only to watch their target disappear moments later. Some soldiers reported the earth trembling beneath them, but the army’s leader put such stories down to fatigue, as well as the natural superstitions that any stranger might hold when approaching a city that held the bulk of its country’s dead.

The people of the Continent knew to respect those who died before them. Stories of Fume’s restless souls had spread far beyond Albion’s borders and even beyond the Continent itself. It was no surprise that the soldiers thought they were seeing things, but every mistake they made was a mistake too many. Every false story and misplaced arrow had the potential to cost a man’s life, so when one of the spotters turned sickly pale beside him, the lead general thought he was about to have his time wasted once again.

The spotter did not speak. He did not need to speak. He pointed to the walls of the city, and neither he nor his leader had words for what they could see.

At first, the general thought they were birds, but birds did not skim rooftops in such a fluid way, washing around the towers like liquid, blackening everything they covered as they surged towards the city gate. It had to be a weapon, but it was like nothing he had ever encountered before. The closer it came, the more detail he could see, and, despite his scepticism, he could have sworn that there were eyes within the darkness. Were they animals of some kind?

‘Orders, sir?’

A voice close beside him reminded him that he had a job to do.

What orders could he give? There was nothing to fight and retreat was not an option, but they had come too far to waste their chance now.

‘Maintain positions!’

As the Continental army pressed on, a cold blue light pierced through the dark to the north of Fume. The Night Train had been recalled from its work in the High North, arriving late, but carrying enough wardens to reinforce Fume’s city guards. The huge engine sped along its tracks, pushing its mighty grille ahead of it as the patched metal carriages creaked and shook. The cages and chains slung within them should have been filled with people taken from distant towns, but the order to return had arrived before the wardens had time to begin their gruesome work.

The train’s twisted iron skeleton came within sight of the city, travelling at speed. The wheels thundered beneath a vast head of steam, pushing their way under a row of tall stone arches that marked the engine’s approach into Fume. The city’s burning fires illuminated the night sky in patches beyond them, and the wardens on board prepared their weapons, ready to defend their capital the moment the train pulled into its station.

That moment did not come.

The Continental general studied the choking darkness that was spreading over the city. It could have been a trick designed to prey upon the superstitions of the invaders but, inside the walls, Fume’s wardens were taken equally by surprise as a wave of shades plunged through the streets. In fear, men swiped at the shades as they would at human foes, but their blades sliced through nothing but empty air, forcing the wardens to retreat. A host of shades swarmed past their forward ranks and raged against the outer walls, making Fume echo with a sound like thunder as a maelstrom of spirits slammed into stone.

The impact created a shockwave that punched through the veil and across the living world. Horses fled. Siege weapons splintered. Soldiers outside Fume’s walls were knocked off their feet and left dazed and disoriented. Even far-flung towns and settlements felt the vibration strongly enough to make horses worry in their stables and wake people from their sleep.

The grizzled driver of the Night Train was the only one on board who witnessed the shades overwhelming Fume’s upper rooftops and smashing into the walls, before two
stone arches crumpled across the track ahead of him. He heaved on the brake lever – eyes white with terror – and when the shockwave struck the mighty engine, the effect was unstoppable and devastating.

The force of the half-life slammed through the iron frame, forcing the wheels to lock and spark as the great train encountered the veil’s resistance. Carriages jolted and rocked until one near the centre of the train lost its grip and jack-knifed from the tracks. It smashed straight into one of the arches, sending stones crushing down on top of its open roof, dragging those behind it out to the left and wrenching the forward engine as it struggled to slow down.

The engine screamed and smashed into the rubble of the first fallen arch. Stones scattered. Sparks poured from the wheels like liquid fire and the sharp blue light that had been a source of terror across Albion for so long flickered and died. The furnace scattered coals into the driver’s cab in a haze of hot sparks, illuminating his face for one last time, and the huge wheels tore, screeching, from the track. Momentum carried it some way across uneven ground, dragged the crippled engine on to its side and sent it scraping forward through the frozen earth.

Wardens on board who had survived the initial devastation clung to the inside of the carriages as they ripped a scar across the ground, churning the earth until the engine scraped deeply enough to counter its own power and the Night Train’s final journey came to a slow, twisted and juddering halt.

The train lay crooked and buckled within a choking fog
of smoke and dirt. Some of the central carriages had collapsed completely into a mangled mass of metal, and steam hissed from the engine’s broken mechanical veins. Bloodied limbs reached from the wreckage as the wardens clambered out, pulling injured officers to safety and gathering in the shadow of the ruined train. The driver had not survived to tell his story, so the only cause the wardens suspected was enemy sabotage.