Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 21: Someone Entirely from Somewhere Else

Hypo, soldier of St. Martia

Thank the saints for the fog. Would have humbled my proud soul to have all St. Martia see me hanging from the tower like Demetian washing.

After the tower fell, as the saints placed us atop the directable, as the mad miller and I crept upon the crew, I asked myself: what error had I made in the challenge? Hadn't forgotten training. Hadn't violated a single rule of attack.

And of a sudden, in glorious revelation, I saw training was the mistake.

The Demetian had fought to live. We of Martia are taught to kill. Lucif fuck Infernum's fifty furnaces, the first word we teach a babe is 'attack'. Not 'mama'', not 'papa'. 'Attack!' our offspring shout before putting toothless mouth to mother's teat.

My head hummed with a new philosophy of combat. Not working to beat down the foe, but letting them defeat themselves while you saved your breath. A fascinating heresy to our holy training fields, where we despise even carrying shields.

Further pondering would wait. The Demetian and I crept from the ladder tunnel to find ourselves in a narrow corridor at the bottom of the directable. Around us the ship hummed. We'd been swallowed by a purring whale.

A Hefestian stood with back conveniently to me. I considered testing my new strategy, let him attack till he wore himself out. But experimenting is more of an Hefestian art. Besides, the noise would alert the crew. I put off the trial, cut the man's throat.

We stepped over his twitching body, continued on to the control room door. I peered through a glass portal, spying two more. Worrisome; where was the expected sixth? I knew behind us were storerooms, a crew cabins and the engine room. Still, easier to deal with them in small bites.

"Ready?" I asked the mad miller.

He was staring back at the dying Hefestian. Saying something to someone. To the corpse? No idea what, no idea who, no idea why. The man was mysterious as purring whales.

"Demetian. You going to fight? Or just talk to yourself?"

He turned; face showing anger enough that I readied knife. For the first time I could believe this pleasant foreigner might have met Maris. The saint of Worthy Battle her very own, very bloody self.

"I'm ready," he said. "Never wasn't ready. Let's go."

"Right. Two Festians ahead. Dart guns on their belts. If we hit them before they draw and aim, then we live."

The mad miller nodded. I eased open the door and in we went.

Hefestians call it 'the bridge', as if it were a sea ship's command point. A narrow chamber paneled in panes of glass. Bright by day, crowded with brass instruments, chimes, pipes and bells, various tools of Hefestian madness.

One man stood before a ship's wheel; the other sat in a chair pulling levers, turning knobs. The first paid no attention to our entrance. The second turned, looking properly astonished. He shouted. By then I was rushing forwards while he scrabbled for his dart gun. I leaped and stabbed. He drew and fired.

There's no style in Hefestian dart guns. Just gas cartridges, a crossbow trigger. But I admit they are efficient in close quarters. There came that meek 'click-puff' the guns make. Then the dart ripped into my gut. Nothing meek in that.

Not that it kept my knife from piercing the man's throat, slicing across.

That done, I wanted to charge the other Festian but delayed, feeling of a sudden I'd feasted on thorns, hot coals and angry vipers. My dear sweet belly was now a world of hurt. I fell atop the Festian. He was trying to scream with throat sliced. Never, ever is that a pretty sound. We both bled, twitched and moaned together. No, not like lovers. Just two fools dying.