11. Golden Armor
11
GOLDEN ARMOR
No fog, no cloud, and though her astronomical knowledge was nearly nil it didn’t matter since she couldn’t see more than a few bright white diamond stars peeking through the canopy anyway. Night thickened between tall grey tree trunks; at first she thought the guys were going off for bathroom breaks and was glad her own bladder seemed to have forgotten all about her.
The worst part of camping was peeing in the woods. Just plain undignified .
Ari soon realized, however, that her captors—or protectors—were standing guard. They exchanged grim looks when they returned to the fire at intervals, and always left one of their number with a bow and two full quivers.
When she finally dared to move, raising her head from grass-stained knees and stretching as unobtrusively as possible, Majan—the darker blond, ropes of pale hair brushing his lean shoulders as he fed the fire—smiled in her direction, seeming almost pleased. “’Tis difficult to rest, when first arriving.”
She used to know how to relax, it was natural. Just take a deep breath, settle down, and let it happen—but not anymore. Not after the white house on the hill, full of its tense colorless gas.
More important was that simple term, when first arriving . If it wasn’t a mistranslation it could add up, with mortal , to something incredibly disturbing. If the problem wasn’t inside her head, or with her perceptions… but that was indeed looney-tunes, and she needed all the sanity she could grab right now.
He was studying her intently, Ari realized, and was acutely conscious of being alone in the woods with a group of men. The fire was happily chewing at a heavy branch fallen from a tree that might have just been a sapling that morning, if the fast-forward growth was any indication.
“I am passing curious,” he continued, sinking into an easy crouch with his back to the log she was braced against. “Do they still put dishes of milk upon the doorsteps, certain nights?”
What? Ari wasn’t sure the question had been translated right. A vague memory from childhood reading and a long-ago Lit class popped up, though, and she decided old, literal fairytales were no crazier than the rest of this nonsense. In fact, they explained a lot of what she was seeing and hearing.
The relief of having a mental peg to hang all these events on, some classification that was at least consistent, was overpowering—if she could trust it. Her fireside companion was clearly waiting for an answer.
“In some places, maybe.” She watched carefully for any sign the translator was breaking down on his end too, but he just nodded and looked pleased.
“Good. They should remember.” He scanned the woods, a quick flicker of awareness. Firelight brushed his cheekbones, and his eyes gleamed from shadowed hollows. “You are very quiet, my lady.”
Best way to get through this. Or anything else . Keeping her mouth shut had never been Ari’s strong suit, but three years of Wanda Lee’s gimlet eye—not to mention her husband’s steady stare and son’s escalating rages—would turn even the biggest chatterbox into a mime. Ari tried a shrug, hoping it was the right response.
He stiffened, nearly leaping to his feet.
A jolt of dark, hideous fear slammed through her, Ari’s heart leaping high and hard like a fish at dawn. She shrank against the log, but Majan wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he whirled and stared into the forest, head upflung, the green and brown of his clothing melding with shadows.
There was a click, a whir, and a yell from the woods. Majan hopped onto the moss-cushioned log, landing like a cat. The bow was in his hands; he nocked, swiftly drawing to his ear. A high hard twang accompanied the release of an arrow, whistling as it leapt into the night.
“ Stay down !” he shouted, and his hands blurred. Another arrow followed the first, then a third. The clicks and whirring were now accompanied by a discordant metallic clamor, and Ari stared uncomprehending at the darkness.
A gleam swelled between two trees. Firelight ran wetly over something big and reflective; when it staggered into the small circle of visibility she couldn’t even scream. The shapes her eyes relayed to her brain refused to make sense.
A plus-sized suit of golden armor, easily eight feet tall and topped with a horned helm, wicked gilt-painted curves coming to high sharp points. Broad spiked shoulders swelled above a barrel chest sheathed in metal, columnar legs ending in segmented boots, massive arms and gauntlets very much like the chained man’s but bright mirror-polished gold instead of dull iron.
Did he get cleaned up and come back? No, this thing was too big; the chained man been very tall and broad-shouldered, but unquestionably of human dimensions. This thing was definitely super-size, and the way it moved was wrong too—terribly fluid where it should not be, and jerky-disconnected in certain other places.
Majan’s bow spoke again. The arrow flickered, burying itself in the dark bar of the visor, but the big bright thing didn’t stop. Its head turned slightly, and the quivering back end of the bolt’s fletching pointed unerringly at Ari.
As if someone trapped in the armor was looking at her, despite the arrow buried in his face. Its bright-gauntleted hands held a massive broadsword, the blade glowing-gold, and the razor edge clove soft evening breeze with a low ugly whistle.
The sword’s tip also pointed right at her now, and the thing took a stamping step in her direction. Another arrow bloomed in its neck, sticking with a thuk sound like a steel bit punching through sheet metal. She hadn’t heard that particular noise since high school shop class, but it was horridly familiar all the same.
“ For the Moon! ” Another shout, and Jazarl appeared from the darkness. A solid silver arc was his rapier, singing as it swung, and the thin flexible blade bent as it sought the tiny space between the big golden thing’s horned helm and gorget. Sparks sprayed, not colorless but bright yellow; a deep grinding noise filled the small clearing as the thing shuddered to a halt. Its arms jerked, a parody of puppet-motion, and there was a popping mechanical ping , something critical hitting the underside of a car hood.
That sound always meant trouble; the last time she’d heard it the Oldsmobile had started spewing curtains of steam. A trembling glitter buried in the thing’s eyeslit, right next to the arrow, was exactly the same color as a Check Engine light.
No. Hot acid bile burned the back of Ari’s throat. Please, God, no .
But God had never been interested in her pleading. Not when she got that terrible phone call about Mom’s accident, not during any of Mike’s rages, and not now.
Jazarl landed, whipping his sword free with a thin bright sound of metallic strain, and more shouts echoed from the woods, accompanied by a cacophony of clanging. The armored thing’s bright broadsword wove in midair, sharp-shining length running with wet firelight.
Majan hopped down from the log, landing cat-soft once more and bending to snatch the second quiver. It was on his back in a twinkling; he leaned further down, his hand closing around Ari’s upper arm. “Up,” he said crisply, in their rolling foreign language. “As you love life, lady, up .”
Ari’s legs, numb from terror or sitting, unfolded like springs. She collided with the platinum-haired man, overbalanced, and nearly toppled into the fire. He saved her with a neat, graceful tug on her upper arm, the bow in his other hand held well away.
The big yellow thing’s gleaming horned helmet turned, the arrow’s feathered hind end following her again. Oily crimson fluid dribbled from the gash between gorget and helm, running in a thin rivulet down the expanse of armored chest.
It wasn’t quite blood, but close enough. Metal ground and strained as the thing took another heavy, clumsy step toward them. Hellish forge-clatter surged through the forest, the night alive with banging and the screech of tearing tin.
It didn’t look like the monstrous mechanical armor-suit was going to stop. It tottered, lurching with nightmare slowness.
Jazarl was somehow past it, skirting the campfire in a quickshuffle two-step. Majan dragged her sideways, a bruise-hard grip on her right arm, and then they were running, Jazarl behind them, Ari doing her best to keep up. Trees reared on either side, a piercing whistle rose in the darkness.
No firelight meant she was temporarily blind, but Majan didn’t falter. The world spun, confused motion on a turntable, another hand closing on her left arm, and between the two grips she was lifted bodily over unseen obstacles. Her hair streamed on the wind of their passage, and if there had been anything left in her stomach Ari might have brought it up in a painless hot rush, adding to the festivities.
Chill breeze on her cheeks, her right boot touching down and nearly torn from her foot, a violent yank and she was flying again. Her legs dangled, her heart strangle-lodged in her throat, hot tears squeezed from her eyes, and when the wild motion ceased she hung limp between twin vise-grips, wondering if she was still alive.
Faint silvery light filtered from above. Her feet touched soft loam and her knees promptly gave out, arms nearly yanked free of their grasp as she reeled.
I don’t care. It was enough that she was away from the lurching, grinding metallic armor-puppet.
“Peace,” someone said quietly, and the nightmare wasn’t over. The word held a sibilant in both English and their strange language; she recognized the voice as Jazarl’s even on such short acquaintance. “Peace, my lady, we are safe for the moment. Majan?”
“Here,” the other man said grimly. “It came for her, even damaged.”
That does not sound good . She was too occupied with not throwing up or screaming to worry much about anything else at the moment, but suspected the thought would come back soon.
“Aye.” Jazarl exhaled sharply. “Alzarien? Sarle?”
“Curst clockworks,” someone growled. “Alzar?”
“At least three of them will trouble us no more.” The fourth and final guy was obviously all right, and Ari was dimly grateful.
She’d been worrying about being alone in the woods with strange men, but they hadn’t left her behind. Which was nice, and she was glad they were all right.
Nothing about this is all right . A shapeless sound escaped, despite her longstanding habit of keeping her mouth shut on any whimper that might drive Mike into even deeper rage.
“How fares our lady?” Sarle, urgently. “Is she?—”
“It was damaged.” Majan’s hand loosened slightly. “Yet still it turned in her direction, Jazarl.”
“Yes, I saw.” Jazarl’s breath came in deep hard swells, like her own, and he finally let go of her. Ari squeezed her eyes shut, swaying against Majan’s grip. She didn’t quite want to break free; she was just a ship pulled by the tide, straining against a hawser without intent of its own.
I’d really like to wake up now . She thought she knew every tint and shade of terror, but this was something else. “Not people.” She tried to find another specific word for human in their tongue, but it wouldn’t come. “Those… those things …”
“The Golden.” There was a soft sliding sound—Jazarl’s rapier, returning to its sheath. Then his hand found her shoulder, patted awkwardly. “The Bright King’s clockwork horrors, enforcers of his rotting Law. Worry not, my lady Ari. We shall not let them take you.”
That’s good, I guess . She had the idea being ‘taken’ would be very uncomfortable; if this was the Bright King's police force he was probably nobody she wanted to meet. More strange terms to add to the list in her head. Something had to start making sense soon.
I’m being very optimistic. Mom would approve. Ari found her legs were shaky, but they would now do their job reasonably well. She tried to straighten, to let Majan know she didn’t have to be held up like wet laundry; maybe he understood, because his fingers gentled.
“We must make for Gesthel,” Sarle said, heavily. “If Darjeth and Naithor do not find us they will go there, to tell the Grey Lady.”
Another new term, Grey Lady . At least it sounded better than Bright King and enforcers . Ari didn’t like the theory taking shape inside her aching, ringing skull, but at least it explained everything going on with distressing neatness.
“But what if he …” Alzarien’s tenor was ragged. There was a slight sound—cloth tearing, and he hissed in a breath. “Would the prince have the strength to travel?”
Prince. Add that to the list. Ari’s eyes continued adapting, the world filling in with chiaroscuro. The light filtering through branches above was definitely not sunshine, but it was far more intense than simple starlight.
“He will find it.” Jazarl sounded certain. “How bad, Alzar?”
“A mere scratch,” came the answer. “Have no fear, I will not slow our flight. But how is our lady?”
Silence. Ari realized they were waiting for her to say something else. Jazarl leaned close, peering at her face; on her other side Majan was tense, holding her upright, and the faint sense of living warmth from both men was comforting even if she had no idea what the blazing blue fuck, as they used to say in college.
“Where are we going?” she whispered. Please don’t leave me behind. Not with those things in the woods . The hideous way they moved, that dribble of oily red fluid… no.
Nope. She wanted zero-none of that , another aphorism from her youth.
“To the Grey Lady,” Jazarl sounded relieved. “Her joy will be hardly less than his at seeing you, my lady. Can you walk? If not, we will?—”
“I can.” Ari hoped she wasn’t lying. The idea that someone in this weird place would be happy to see her was intensely ridiculous, but if these guys were heading away from the big golden robots she was more than happy to tag along. “Just point me in the right direction.”
A soft laugh. “By silver,” Sarle said, quietly. “I did not believe, and yet.”
“Let us not linger.” Majan was now all business. Though his grasp gentled further he still didn’t let go of Ari’s arm, which she was distinctly grateful for. “Dare we risk the Road?”
“Not yet.” Jazarl’s hand fastened on her other arm again, and he took a cautious step; Ari did her best to move with him. “Very good, my lady. And the rest of you, keep hand to hilt. The night is young, and the Moon has returned.”