Engn II

XIX

XIXFinn slumped to the ground to ease the burning pain in his knee. Before him, stretching from horizon to horizon, lay the great machine. Where once there had been a city of shining wheels and smoking chimneys and roaring fires, there was now a mountain range of rubble. Mangled, twisted mounds of machinery rose in rusting piles over the broken and crumbling walls. The gusting wind moaned through stray wires, a chorus of haunting voices.

Here and there, by some miracle, a remnant of the former machine stood intact. A single stone tower festooned with cables, like a metallic maypole. A wheel from one of the beam-engines, rusted into immobility, frozen mid-action. A smokestack with its walls of curved, shining stone. But these fragments only emphasized how complete the destruction of Engn was.

He'd imagined coming here and finding the machinery functioning again, the wheels turning, the chimneys sending plumes of grey smoke billowing into the clouds. There was none of that. The devastation they'd brought was complete. These were shattered ruins. Engn, surely, could never be rebuilt. It would rust and rot away here until the end of time. Could there really be answers in this rusting desolation? Or was he simply chasing phantoms?

He glanced backwards. He was alone. His knee slowed him down, but he could still move quicker than the cart across the rough ground. He'd left them behind hours ago. Maybe they hadn't even tried to follow. His anger was burnt out now, spent by the wearying march. He still couldn't believe what she'd done. After everything, she'd betrayed him. He had to get inside the city urgently now. Find out what Connor meant him to do. Make sense of everything.

He turned back to study the walls. As he'd approached, he'd picked out a likely place for climbing inside. Deep cracks rent the stone, and he'd aimed for the biggest he could see. Even so, up close, it was obviously not going to be easy. He'd have to climb twenty or thirty feet before reaching the cleft. The walls had buckled and heaved, giving him one or two handholds and footholds, but the problem was his knee. He'd have to put all his weight on it to haul himself upwards, and simply walking along flat ground was agony.

He limped the last few yards to the broken walls of Engn. He had to skirt around another bowl in the ground, this one with a capped shaft at its centre, like the ones they'd used to escape last time. A rusting iron tripod stood over the shaft, as if water had once been drawn up from the ground. Finn toyed, briefly, with the idea of descending the shaft and trying to find a way inside that way. But he had no light and no map for the tunnels. The old man who'd shown them the way last time – Bran, Master Owyn's father – had said there were only song-maps, verses passed down over the generations and never written down. Finn could recall some snatches of the melody of the one he'd been taught, but not the order of the words. He'd have no chance down there.

He climbed, using his arms as much as possible to pull himself up. Even so, there were several places where he had to lean on his bad knee while reaching up with his right foot. Each time his leg shook as if it was going to fall to pieces and the shooting pain made him gasp out loud. Each time he had to stop, all his weight on his right leg, while the agony subsided.

He was halfway to the cleft in the wall when the hunting horn blared. Holding on with his fingertips he tried to peer over his shoulder. In the distance he made out a group of black dots. Masters, coming for him. He had to be visible for miles. Were they the same ones led by Graves? It barely mattered. He had to climb the wall and get inside before they came for him.

Gritting his teeth, he reached up with his left hand, found a notch in the rock and pulled himself up. The V of the great c***k in the wall was only a few yards above him. The masters' horn trumpeted again, nearer. Finn's breathing came raggedly as he readied himself for another push. He'd have to put all his weight on his left knee again, but he had no choice. He reached up. His knee trembled, then buckled. Finn fell, sliding down the wall. He skinned his hands as he tried, uselessly, to stop himself. He seemed to slide a long way before thumping into the ground, the impact on his left leg making him cry out in pain.

The horn sounded again as he pulled himself back to his legs. He stood with his back to the walls of Engn. There was no way he was going to climb back up before they reached him. He could think of only one thing to do. Crouching over in the hope they wouldn't see him over the rises and falls in the ground, he lumbered to the well shaft. He would climb down and escape into the tunnels. If he went carefully, remembered each turning he took, then he could wait a while and retrace his steps. Perhaps emerge at night when they wouldn't see him. Or he might find another shaft he could ascend, far away from this one. It was all he could do.

As before, the shaft had rusting iron rungs embedded in its wall. He sat on the lip and swung himself round. Damp, chilled air rose up from the depths. He could see nothing down there and had no way of knowing how deep the shaft was. It might even stop after a few yards. The walls were lined with stone, slick with green slime. He descended, supporting his weight with his arms each time he reached down with his good leg.

He'd descended twelve rungs when his pursuers reached the top of the shaft. He'd hoped, somehow, they might not realize where he'd gone. But clearly, they had. Peering upwards he could see their heads against the circle of the sky.

“Come back up, runaway,” one shouted. “Come up and face us.” The voice sounded strangely near in the narrow space, as if his pursuer was right beside him. Panicky now, Finn clambered down the shaft, desperate to get away. He could see nothing of the walls or rungs; the darkness about him was absolute.

A sharp weight smashed into his shoulder, almost dashing him from the wall. For a moment he couldn't understand what had happened. Looking up, he watched as a black shape was held over the circle. Held and then released. They were dropping stones to hit him.

Holding himself as close as possible to the wall, he continued to descend. Another stone clanged off the rungs above him. Finn clutched himself to the wall and the rock struck him on the back before falling into the darkness. He counted to three before the stone hit the bottom of the shaft. He still had a long way to go.

He climbed down one more rung before they dropped the next rock. Again, he heard it clanging off the rungs above him. Again, he hugged himself to the wall, hoping it would miss. The hard spike of pain on the back of his head made him gasp. There was a moment of disorientation, the rush of falling, and then darkness.

Finn was dimly aware of someone holding him close, hugging him. It was hard to think straight, his mind woolly and thick with pain. The pain in the back of his head. He'd been hit by a falling rock. He lay in cold water or mud, legs bent at an awkward angle where he'd landed. Someone was there with him, trying to pick him up.

“Diane?” he said.

But not Diane. Rough hands heaved his shoulders off the ground. A rope was passed around his back beneath his arms, then tightened against his chest. He tried to struggle, but he had no strength. He felt sick from the pain in his head. Someone hauled on the rope, bringing him upright in a series of short jerks. His feet left the ground. He swung around, crashing into the sides of the pit again and again as, inch by inch, they heaved him towards the distant circle of light.

The ascent took an age. The ropes cut into him, burning a line across his back with each tug, making it hard to breathe. At first, he tried to resist, hook an arm through one of the rungs and hold on, but he was too weak. They yanked harder and harder on the rope, and eventually he yielded. He swung around in the shaft, and in the darkness, it was hard to be sure if he remained conscious or kept passing out.

Long minutes later, they were hauling him out of the shaft like a fish pulled from the water.

Three of the half-ironclad, half-masters stood around him. Two he recognized from the group that had set the tower ablaze. Perhaps the third had joined in the hunt. The effort of hauling him up had clearly exhausted all of them. Finn thought about running but found he couldn't even get to his knees without the world lurching around him.

“Let's kill him now,” said one of his pursuers.

“No,” said another. “We'll wait for the others. They'll all want to take part. They'll all want to see.”

They bound his hands and feet together, then left him. Daylight was fading, the sun slipping behind banks of grey clouds billowing over the walls of Engn. A thumping sound banged through his head where it touched the ground, and he couldn't tell if it was the blood pounding through his arteries or the ground itself, thrumming with the motion of some buried machinery. It barely mattered. He wasn't going to escape. He'd failed Connor. He'd failed everyone.

Two more of the wasteland masters appeared over a rise in the ground. He couldn't tell if they were part of the original group or not. Both wore ironclad masks and had black master's cloaks wrapped around them. Both had iron swords at their belt. The horn must have been heard for miles around, summoning them all to the hunt.

One stopped to converse with his captors, talking in rough tones. The other walked across to stand over Finn. The new master kicked Finn hard, catching him on the arm. Finn cried out and the other masters laughed in appreciation. Finn tried to curl up in a ball. The master crouched beside him, and Finn flinched away from whatever fresh torment the man had in mind.

“Finn. It's me.” There was no mistaking the whisper close to his ear. Diane. She'd come for him. “Finn, don't move. Don't react.”

She stood and drew her blade. For a moment it looked as if she were going to prod him with it. Instead, with a cry, she spun around and swung at one of the three captors. At the same moment her companion – Whelm – drew his blade and struck. The three masters who had caught Finn were caught unprepared. Two fell immediately as Diane and Whelm's blades slashed through them, ugly wounds spraying blood wide. The third master staggered to his feet but had only a small knife to hand. He danced between them, but it was only a matter of time. Diane lunged, the master parried, and Whelm had a clear blow. In only a few moments, the three captors lay in a neat triangle on the ground, none of them moving, the green grass beneath them stained red.

Diane and Whelm cut Finn's binds and then, between them, lugged the three dead masters to the shaft to drop them into the darkness. While they worked, Finn bound a strip of bloodstained cloth around his left knee, hoping it would help support him. Gingerly, he climbed to his feet.

“We have to get away from here,” said Whelm when they were done. “Others will have heard that horn.”

“Where's the cart?”

“About a mile away, south of here,” Whelm replied. “There are easier routes inside that way. It's our only hope, we're too exposed out here.”

Whelm unrolled a spare master's cloak and handed it to Finn. “Wear this. If we meet any others, we'll pretend we're part of the hunt.” They set off, no one speaking, Finn concentrating on keeping his legs moving forwards, sometimes shutting his eyes to calm the throbbing pain in his head.

They reached the cart without seeing anyone else. Whelm's horse bridled as they approached, wary of them. Whelm removed his mask and whispered gentle words to the beast. “Sit inside,” he said to Finn. “We'll move quicker that way.”

Finn climbed in and Diane followed. She made him sit with his back to the light while she studied the wound on the back of his head.

“Look at you,” she said. “You're a complete wreck, and you haven't even made it inside Engn yet.”

His anger was gone now, burned out. He'd nearly died. “How's my head?”

“It's a nasty gash. It's still bleeding. I'll bind it, but it might need stitching.”

“The pain takes my mind off my knee,” said Finn.

“You're an i***t. You know that, don't you?”

“You came back,” said Finn. “You came looking for me.”

She worked at his scalp for a moment, cleaning it with gentle dabs. “Of course. Finn, I'm sorry. Trying to wreck the reader like that – it was wrong. I truly thought I was doing what was best for you. For us. Please don't let one mistake spoil everything.”

They swayed together as the engine trundled forwards. “I didn't know what to do without you,” said Finn. “And storming off like that was pretty childish. I'm as bad as Whelm.”

She crawled round in front of him and kissed him, gently, on the lips. “What you did was stupid, but we all do stupid things. It's allowed. Now let's get that wound bound up before you bleed to death.”

Afterwards they sat together in the darkness of the moving engine, the squeak of the wheels and the stamping of the horse the only sound.

After a while Diane said, “We'll look for a power source inside for the orb. See if we can work out what Connor meant with it all.”

Finn squeezed her hand in gratitude. “You didn't recognize him, did you?”

“Recognize who?”

“The Baron in those images. The one leading the assault. I suppose you never saw Connor's father, but the similarity was clear. The same squat, powerful build. The same nose.”

“Connor was descended from him?”

“I think so. Related, anyway. When I went to look for Connor's mother, there was an old painting of that clock tower, too. Not in her room, in one of the hallways. I couldn't make the scene out, but perhaps it was the same battle, or when the tower had just been built. No wonder Connor's life was fraught at home. His parents from two sides in an old war, a war neither seemed willing or able to forget. They loved each other, I'm sure, but I don't suppose they ever agreed about much. It must have been hard for him growing up in that atmosphere at times.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “The wars were all so long ago. You'd think people would forgive and forget. Or, I don't know, just forget.”

“People are good at keeping ancient resentments smouldering away, being slowly poisoned by them. If they're not careful.”

She was silent for a moment, considering his words. Then she hooked her arm through his. “That battle we saw,” she said. “Do you think it was before or after the other pictures?”

“Before, I think. Perhaps, I don't know, that was where they began to build Engn, after the clock tower was destroyed. Presumably the Temple Guilds won, and the Upstart Guilds constructed Engn as punishment or compensation. Or so it was claimed, at least.”

“It all seems so ridiculous now,” she said. “So unimportant.”

“Like I said, some people let ancient disagreements dominate their lives. Not a good way to live your life.”

Diane nodded, her head against his shoulder, and didn't reply.