Before the Sky Fell

[ 27 ] The Pillar of Smoke

-27-

The Pillar of Smoke

Malachi lifted a hand to his ear, blocking out the blaring horn and Greylock's barks. Curse the nonexistent gods who created these crude instruments, Malachi thought. He had heard enough.The Larks were losing it. They sat around their fires, glaring at Malachi as he walked past, gnashing their teeth and digging their nails into the dirt. He was running out of time.

"Shut that damned useless thing up," Greylock shouted, the smoke from the fires whirling around him as he stomped past. "If I hear one more horn I'll cut off the mouth that blows it." Grimacing, Greylock spat into one of the fires.

Malachi eyed one of the Larks who watched him with stalking eyes. He returned the glare. "What are they worried about? That the entire city doesn't already know we wait outside their gates?"

"They won't wait much longer," Greylock said as he turned to the southerner. "Malachi, has the old man said anything?"

"He's said many things. It's here. I know it is."

Greylock stopped and turned to Malachi with piercing eyes. "You've told me this. You've told me this a hundred times. It's here. It's there. My Larks will wait no longer. They claw at the trees and have started turning on each other. We attack today. Where is the old man?"

Malachi swallowed his reservations. Greylock would rip out Frankford Millstone's teeth for no reason other than pure enjoyment. This is a process. One more push and the old man will speak.

Greylock pulled a dagger from his side and was on Malachi in an instant. "If you can't get him to speak, then you'll have no need for your ears."

Years ago, Malachi would have shuddered and mumbled something in fear, but Greylock had confronted him a thousand times since then. A dagger to the throat, a boot to the gut. Greylock still needed him.

"Bring me to him," Greylock told him. "Let me talk to this mute man myself."

The tent was dark when Malachi entered. The Lark guards stood silent around the old man, but their mouths dripped with spit and their eyes spoke of hunger. "Leave him to us," Malachi told them as he entered.

The Larks snarled and looked down on him as they left the tent. Frankford was tied to the wooden post, his hands constrained behind his back. Blood trickled from his eyebrow and his jaw was as blue as the sea. Torture hadn't made him speak. Malachi was running out of options.

"You look terrible," Malachi told him.

Greylock walked up to him and thrust his head back against the wooden beam. "Where is the Maker," he hissed. "You'll tell us."

"It's not yours to find," Frankford told him. "What has Malachi told you? That you'll have thousands of Larks to hear your every command? He's a fool and an exile. You'll destroy everything if you try and use it."

"I'll destroy you," Greylock said. "Nothing more and nothing less. Is the item really worth your death? The death of your friends? Of your people?"

Frankford stretched his neck and looked to the ceiling of the tent. "A few thousand lives to save all of this? Yes, it's worth it."

Greylock lifted the dagger and walked behind Frankford Millstone. Malachi watched in horror as the Lark grabbed Frankford's thumb and dug the blade in between finger and nail. Greylock moved on to the next finger as Frankford's howls filled the tent. "Where is the item?"

"You'll have to move on to my toenails," Millstone spat. "I don't know where it is."

"Don't be stupid," Malachi told him. The spectacle reminded Malachi of those he had killed, asking the same questions. Where is the item? Where is the item? More screams and cries of pain. Where is the item?