The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [85]
Without a word, the front of the power’s body hummed open, just like it had when hornblower had been pulled inside. Breezes from the foul underworld now entered, making hornblower gag, stirring his robes, thick and warm and hard for him to suck in.
Out you go, said Anu.
Knowing he could not protest, hornblower stood with great difficulty and staggered forward, holding Anu’s frame as he went. His legs buckled; he might have weighed ten times his normal weight. Dragging in lungfuls of the dense air, he glanced around at the nightmare landscape beyond. Not being able to see clouds below made him sick. Instead, when he lifted his head, clouds formed the deep grey horizon, yawning above as far as he could see.
At least there were no dead out there waiting for him.
As he tried to step over the rim of the power’s jaw, hornblower fell forward, landing on his hands and knees. The ground was hard, hot. His head spun. He was drenched in sweat.
He managed to stand, arms out, swaying for balance.
Hornblower thought about running off, but where would he go? The underworld to which Anu had brought him was endless and hot and dim. To run here would be impossible. Heavy weights pushed down on him. Darkness intimidated.
Look the other way.
Obeying, hornblower turned, saw that the ground rose gently in that direction; from the ridge above Anu’s body came the sound of voices, passing, then silence once more.
“Who’s up there? Men that we threw down from the run? Bodies, emptied of their souls?”
Don’t be a fool, exemplar. That’s just a road.
“Can they see us here? Could they see me with you?” Speaking hurt the bellows in his chest.
I’m masked, answered Anu, so they would have to look pretty hard. You’d be clear enough, though, if they weren’t so caught up in themselves to take the time. They could certainly see you better than you can see them. Their eyes are accustomed to this awful miasma of mists and fog.
“But what is this place?” asked hornblower in a tiny voice. “What am I expected to do?”
Go up there, walk along the road a spell. You’ll see the city of Nowy Solum. Very close to here. Your friend, the jumper, has gone inside the walls.
Thick winds pulled at hornblower’s robes. He was exceedingly hot. There were more noises, out in the dark. Rustles. “You mean Pan Renik? But please . . .”
Still don’t get it? You’re not exactly shining in your new role, exemplar. What I want you to do, little cupcake, is go up that hill, walk into the city, and find your friend.
“Then what?”
Are you a total idiot? Do I have to tell you everything? You’re going to find this Pan Renik, retrieve what he stole from me, and bring it back here. Now go!
After the initial rush, when she knew she was going to follow through on her decision, Octavia envisioned endless scenarios, branching off wildly, in all directions. She considered—given the nature of life and content of irony therein—that her escapade might culminate abruptly with the fecund pouncing on her and tearing out her throat the instant she raised the portcullis.
This did not occur.
Turning the key was moderately difficult, and for a second Octavia thought maybe she had been wrong about the key’s purpose, though it did fit easily into the mechanism. With persistence, desperation, and a series of good nudges from her shoulder against the grate, the portcullis at last started moving.
From inside the cell, watching the partition grind up into the slot in the ceiling, making debris, bats, spiders, and small chunks of stone rain down, the monster, silent for once, grimaced. And, when the portcullis had stopped—vanishing completely into the rock—the fecund looked at Octavia as if she were about to vomit and said, “You expect me to come out? I don’t think that’s wise.”
Pretty much from that point on, every scenario Octavia had imagined while running down here—or even ones she could ever imagine, given all the time in the world