Jackelian 3 - The Rise of the Iron Moon by Stephen Hunt

Author:Stephen Hunt [Hunt, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, steampunk
ISBN: 9780765327666
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-05-14T21:14:06+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Purity stumbled through the trees, her legs numb from walking, her discomfort anaesthetized by the complete aching tiredness she was swimming through. Oliver was a constant by her side. It was almost like having her brother back alive with her: the shared madness – the voice inside their heads – a kinship nearly as thick as blood. And they could both sense the presence of the Army of Shadows, the slats’ leathery black globe-like craft suspended under buzzing blades whisking through the cloudy starless night, dropping off scouts to hunt down the survivors from the Highhorn camp.

The two of them might have already cleared the forest if it wasn’t for the necessity of continually doubling back on their tracks. Blind though the slave soldiers of the Army of Shadows were, they were possessed of a keen enough sense of smell to keep their hunting packs hard on Purity and Oliver’s trail. Purity doubted if they had any inkling of what she and Oliver really were – but the foe had obviously been stung by the existence of the hidden cannon, a level of engineering far beyond what they had expected from their prey in the kingdom. Survivors might possess knowledge of that engineering, knowledge that the slats didn’t want reaching any of the other nations of the continent before they, too, were conquered in turn.

Oliver hadn’t said any more about where they were going, the dire fate he had mentioned; but right now, Purity hardly cared – she would settle for half an hour of sleep and the guarantee she wouldn’t be ripped to shreds by the talons of one of their pursuers before she awoke.

‘Are we going to die?’ she asked Oliver.

‘If we do, we’ll have a lot of company. The entire land’s dying. They’re making a corpse of Jackals.’ Oliver took Purity’s arm and pushed the sleeve up, allowing the drizzle to touch her skin. Her arm itched as the rain fell upon the white flesh. ‘That flying citadel has infected the rain here. This is just the start. We must go on.’

‘I’m tired.’ Purity tried to shut out the sight of the red haze of moonlight smudging the rain clouds above the canopy of pine. Corruption in the heavens, corruption in the rain. Just the two of them to stand against it all, two kestrels, flying against the full fury of a storm. What difference could the two of them make?

‘Why me?’ Purity yelled her rage up at the iron moon. ‘Why did this have to happen? What have I ever done to deserve this?’

‘It had to be someone,’ said Oliver, quietly. The look of resignation on his face shocked Purity to silence. What did she look like to him? She almost felt ashamed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Oliver. ‘I was given these two pistols by a Circlist reverend. He had been the Hood-o’the-marsh before me. He and I were connected, just like the Circlists believe all of us to be connected. Connected by the guns, or the land, or by our humanity.

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