All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [154]
Eliot sighed with relief . . . but then started to worry. What if the Ticket Master found out he wasn’t really an Infernal Lord? Did they let just anyone ride this train? He bet not.
Light flashed from the cars ahead, closer and closer—then sunlight streamed through the windows. This light was the color of blood and so bright that Eliot had to squint and blink away tears to see outside.
The landscape looked like a newly formed planet Earth. There were rivers of lava and exploding volcanoes. It rained fire and ash. Clinging to raftlike islands of rock were screaming people—fighting one another for space.
Air-conditioning whispered on within the rail car, blowing cool air on his face.
He reached toward the window, but had to halt because it was too hot.
The train plunged into darkness—another tunnel—and then emerged in desert where it continued to rain smoldering ash. Meteorites fell from the sky, too. In the distance, zeppelins crashed, blossoming into fire. Eliot counted one, two—then three airplanes plummeting from the black clouds, crashing and tumbling into flaming wreckage.
He stared, horrified, eyes wide, unable to move.
The Blasted Lands . . . aptly named.
The Night Train raced through this terrible place, faster than the falling jets. One tiny bit of wreckage on the track, though, and that would end the breakneck ride.
There was no debris on the tracks. Even the falling ash seemed to avoid it. It was a clean line of crushed gravel and iron rails that ran through the desolation.
A single red mountain sat among distant ashen dunes, and pink-tinged whirlwinds screamed about it.
As they got closer, Eliot saw the mountain wasn’t natural; rather, it was piles of old cars, steel girders from bridges, countless tin cans, cut-up oil tankers, and miles of unraveled wire—all corroded and melting into piles of rust.
The train slowed. Their track joined dozens of others, and then the Night Train entered a huge metal station roundhouse. They eased to a stop with a scream and a hiss.
There were dozens of trains here. Most were junk heaps, billowing black smoke and barely able to pull themselves along the track. One, however, was a sleek silver bullet that levitated over the tracks.
“Slag Mountain!” The Ticket Master cried, walking alongside the cars. “Five minutes, Lords and Ladies! Apologies, apologies—but there is an unbreakable schedule to keep. Slag Mountain! The Blasted Lands! All depart who so wish. Abandon all hope.”
Shadows and shapes left the cars ahead. Eliot sat alone in his chair, trying to look invisible.
After five minutes, there was a tug from the engine, and they moved again.
There was more desert and desolation, and fierce winds tore at the land. Hot air balloons and gliders and kites and even people tumbled in the tornadoes that passed.
The Night Train slowed as it crested a hill, and then tilted downhill and accelerated. Streams of muddy water flowed, then there were tiny twisted trees, and then meadows and thicker forests that became overgrown with ferns and hanging moss and fungus that grew in the gloom.
As before, the train tracks remained clear, cutting through otherwise impenetrable jungle.
Occasionally a shaft of light pierced the canopy . . . but it was not sunlight, rather a gray half twilight.
The Ticket Master returned, bowing as he closed the door behind him.
“Your stop is next, young Master,” he told Eliot. He hesitated, then added, “The Duchess is near the head of the train in our most luxurious quarters, naturally. If it is still your intention to depart, I suggest you wait until the train is leaving . . . to minimize any potential conflict.”
“Thanks,” Eliot said.
“If you do not mind me asking, are you here because of the war?” The Ticket Master’s gaze fell to the carpet. “Queen Sealiah and your father’s clan have always had the most delicate of . . . relations, but I never envisioned the twice-fallen Prince of Darkness daring to align himself against the House of Umbra.”
House of Umbra? The name made Eliot’s breath catch.