Throughout our journey up the side of Greens we received a variety of looks. That fact was no surprise: amongst the Owlblooded smiths, hunters, harvesters, and craftspeople poor quality garments were a common sight. Clothing maintained via dozens of patches were the norm. Even the fine purple tabards of the Heltian guards were frequently cut with a rougher material. But a large, shirtless, shivering man with a bulging satchel and a woman wearing a tunic several sizes too big? That was rare, even amongst a group as destitute as Heartlanders.
Even so, nobody stopped us. The denizens of the bar we’d ruined must have fled further, which was hardly a surprise. If I were running, I wouldn’t stop in the middle of the street. I’d find somewhere with walls.
The two of us were once again on the third level, walking across the rows of chained platforms that formed the streets – or bridges – between Spires. On either side of each platform were storefronts or smithies, many of which had been closed for some time. They were usually rented out to the savvier harvesters and hunters as a place to sleep. The places had their own blue lights, and occasionally heaters and stoves; all hallmarks of the extremely wealthy in a different city, yet mundane in Heltia. There were less chits flowing through Spires than ever – lack of trade and general starvation tended to do that to a place – yet, the result was a surplus of bloodtech. The result of too little money and too large a workforce, I guessed. Every time we passed by such a place, we lowered our heads beneath the crowd, though the closer we got to Wastes the sparser it grew. Kit frequently failed to, forcing me to shove her head down myself. Every time I did it, I had to stifle a sneer.
Eventually we ran out of platforms to walk. They ended three quarters of the way to Wastes at every adjacent Spire: the only reasonable way to get there was using a platform suspended at its highest level. For the most part, the chains keeping the platforms together and loose clusters of pipes were the sole link between where we stood and Wastes. Despite the rapidly approaching twilight, the purple glow emanating from the runes stamped into the pipes made them easy to see.
As was usually the case for the levels that ended abruptly, a gaggle of more than a dozen children – mostly boys aging from about five to twelve – sat in a loose circle in the middle of the pathway. The hollow cheeks present on most adults were absent; their parents were well-off enough to feed their children, if not themselves. At the centre of their circle, a swarthy boy and a much girthier one grappled with one another. The pair were younger than the rest, looking less than eight years old. The swarthy boy eventually managed to drag his counterpart to the ground after his opponent got his feet tangled, resulting in an eruption of hoots, jeers, and laughter from their peers. Swarthy exited to a crowd of claps, while Girthy received a few sympathetic back-pats. Judging by his clouded face and gnashing teeth, the reassurance helped little.
On other levels adults would occasionally steal the spot, though starvation had stolen much of their vigour as of late. I never competed myself, given that common sense barred Blooded from all sports. Due to their increased weight Lizardbloods were especially well-suited to wrestling, meaning that even disregarding my skills there wasn’t a hope of anyone besting me.
As we approached, the children stared. A few new faces – including the two young wrestlers – begun to back away slowly. A fair reaction, given my state of dress. It was only when one of the older boys spoke up, saying, “Vin, did you get robbed?” that they realised that despite my strangeness, I wasn’t a stranger. The rest mobbed me and erupted into inquiries, most asking if I was going to linger and give them a few tips, as I sometimes did.
“Woah,” I said, waving my arms. The kids settled down, somewhat. “I won’t be sticking around today.” I shivered, half out of dramatics and half because I was legitimately freezing. “It’s colder than Wump’s soggy teats.” The children laughed at the cuss, which was all it really took to buy their enjoyment. If only all audiences were this easy to please. “Got to go home; get a shirt; sleep. You should all head in as well.”
A few groaned.
“Come on. There’s another day tomorrow.”
When I was younger, I had usually blanked out during similar lectures. Luckily, amongst this lot I had enough social credit that they paid attention. But acquiescing meant they needed to save extra face.
“We’ll watch you cross,” claimed a taller, straw-haired boy. “Then go.” The rest chorused their assent.
“Do you promise, Aitch?”
He nodded.
“Well, I’ve got a guest today, too. It should be entertaining.” I gestured to Kit, who was staring at me, squinting. The rest of the kids oohed. “Not that kind of guest.” I raised my palm to the side of my face, as if telling a secret. “Word of advice,” I whispered, “don’t bring your lovers to a Spire filled with dung.”
The younger children laughed, while the older ones concealed the sober glints in their eyes with wonky smirks.
“Anyway,” I continued, “as always, don’t mention our crossing to anyone. Wouldn’t want to get arrested. If you do…” I lunged at the littler ones, making fangs with my index fingers. They shrieked. “I’ll get you.”
After a stern warning not to do what I was about to, I smiled tightly, ruffled a few heads, and extricated myself from the crowd. Behind me, I heard the swarthy boy whisper to the girthy one, “Check this out. He’s crazy.”
A vendor sat at the very end, goods arrayed on the strip of cloth in front of her. There wasn’t much business back here, however no guards would bother coming this far to check permits. For a kid selling trinkets to other children, there was a meagre profit to be made. Mostly via barter, coupled with no small amount of smooth-talking. In that sense, the girl reminded me of a younger, less polished Jasmine. Quibbling over chits with her felt nostalgic. I probably made up a large portion of her income.
“Somethin’ here you might like, Vin,” the vendor said. She held up a set of polished studs, glimmering under the light of the ever-burning lamps. “A real good set of earrings, bright and shiny.”
My fingers twitched. I folded the offending digits, crushing them in the palm of my hand. “No, not today.”
“No chits?” she asked.
“No chits,” I agreed.
“I can give it to you for fr- “
I shook my head, and she quieted. “Not today.”
“Alright. Be safe crossing.”
I nodded in response.
As we approached the edge, Kit tugged my head down. “That’s fun and all, but we’re really crossin’ here?”
“Yeah.”
“Vin, it’s just pipes.”
“Yeah.”
“Godsdamnit, Vin,” she hissed, “the wind’ll knock us off. We’re dead if it does.”
I scoffed. “Maybe,” I said, turning to look her in her black eyes, “you should have thought of that before you killed Thom. Hmm?”
She stared at me.
“We’re here now. We’re crossing.” A thin smile spread across my face. “If you fall, at least you’ll traumatise some kids on the way down. That ought to make you happy.”
Before she could respond, I whirled and continued walking. After a few steps, I sighed and turned around again.
“I do this most days. You will be fine. Look,” I said, unslinging my bag and wrestling out a short spool of rope, “if you tie this in a loop around the pipes, you can have something to hold onto the whole way across. If you fall off, you’ll just… dangle off the bottom, and I can pull you up.”
Her eyes were wide. “This’s stupid.”
Ignoring her, I squatted where the platform ended. Far beneath us, the crowds and expanse of carts swayed gently. Metal tubes stretched from underneath the platform, each as wide as a dining table. They bridged the gap in pairs; purple runes ensuring their weight wouldn’t send them plummeting to the earth below. After a moment of thinking, I hopped down and swung one end of the rope around the bottom of a pipe, pressing it down with my foot when its momentum snaked it back around. A flaw in my plan was immediately apparent when I had both in hand: the cordage was too thickly wound to tie both ends together.
I scooted my bottom back onto the platform and pushed myself upright. “Come over here.”
Kit leaned away from me.
I tutted. “If you want to be a coward about this- “
“I’m not a coward.”
“Then come over here.”
She walked over.
I placed both ends of the rope in her hands and closed her fingers over it. Her palms were much whiter than the rest of her body. The contrast was striking. “Hold both of these ends tightly, alright?”
She bobbed her head like a pigeon.
“Okay.” I gave her a nod. “Follow me.”
“What?”
I saluted, then turned and hopped down onto the pipe. Though its diameter was wide, it was also curved, meaning there was only a stretch the size of a large man’s torso to place my feet. At this point in the journey it was less of a problem, however the middle of the crossing always had fierce winds.
Across the divide lay Wastes itself, where the tubes ran through a large stone box, then abruptly rotated and ran up the side of the Spire. Behind them was a small heartwood walkway, which existed to maintain the bloodtech within the box, which powered the runes. Or at least, I thought it did; custodians came to dump blood in it every month or so. It could’ve been where a serial killer hid bodies for all I knew.
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The walkway led into Wastes proper. My hideaway was inside. It was a long way there.
After a few ambling steps along the pipe, I turned to find a considerably paler Kit staring down at me from atop the platform. She clutched the rope tightly.
“Wrap it around your wrists,” I said, miming the motion.
Jerkily, she did so.
“Jump down.”
She plopped down on her bottom, then stretched her legs, pointing the toe of her boot towards the metal pipe below. However, the distance was too great for her to dismount without a drop; each level needed to be thicker than a tall child to avoid snapping. It was less of a problem for a man as big as myself, but for Kit the pipes vomiting from its underside were kept just out of her reach.
I strode back and offered a hand. The swordswoman shot me a derisive glare, then dropped down on her own. She released two quick huffs of breath, then, rope taut, shuffled past me. I sniffed, then followed.
As the two of us made our way over – Kit hunched and sweating, myself shivering from the bitter winds – the Heartlands stretched beneath us. Astride a great expanse of nothing, with only a strip of metal and our own sense of balance keeping us from death, I watched as the blazing orange light of the falling sun spread across the landscape. Beneath, thimble-sized people queued at the edge of each Spire, returned to ramshackle huts at the base, or slid beneath mossy carts to sleep.
In the distance, beyond a sea of stumps, the crimson forest infringed upon the horizon. The dying light set its fur ablaze, transforming the red leaves into a sea of fire gently pulsating in the wind. There was no way to know what lay shrouded beneath its canopy; whether the earth lay dead and quiet or rife with ghouls and spirits.
Silently, I reacquainted myself with my nature.
One was Lieutenant Drue of the Lizard, his inheritance as an Esfarian and last name stolen by the blood within him. It had been the only option available to him, after rejecting a marriage in favour of a gentler love. His family had sent him to die, in the shadow of the Raven. They couldn’t have known I’d be his executioner.
Two was another Lizardblood – one of Reagan’s retinue – pierced through the eye by a dagger. Three was the Owlblooded woman, tackled off the roof. I didn’t know their names.
Four was Master… Reagan. I’d decapitated him, then broken his skull beneath my feet. He was mad, even before he became one of the most powerful Blooded I could recall seeing, in my memory or anyone else’s.
Five was Ma. Five was Ma. General Maja had killed hundreds personally, and thousands with her commands. She had helped kill a god, and saved the continent from being sacrificed at the altar of a god. She had killed her own subordinates, if they enraged her. She had driven a boy to murder. I remembered slitting her throat, before I dropped the sword to that same boy below. In the end, she’d deserved better.
Six through nine were a group of highwaymen, trying to cajole food from a Face and his apprentice. Yeli, Bartel, Homs, and Eil. I’d been cocky, believing that my mother’s skills were sufficient to render all of them unconscious. I had forgotten that Maja’s blade was lethal, and only lethal. I’d caught blood from all of them, and cutting the connection with all of them had sent me into convulsions. Each had buried children the past winter. One had sacrificed theirs and let their blood fall into the dirt below, wild grain springing in exchange. That one wanted to die.
Ten through fourteen were monster hunters. My former teammates. They’d introduced me to the Spiral in exchange for credit, then ambushed me when each had realised Lizardblood was worth more. By that point, I had started wearing my bandana at all times, to keep the blood off. Only Len had been spared, and his debt had shackled him to Thom soon after.
Fifteen had been one of many teenagers throwing stones at a Strain. The rest had escaped with bruises. I hadn’t meant to break his neck.
Sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen had been Heltia’s recruiters. Godsblood was a valuable resource amidst the Spires, necessary to keep its infrastructure afloat. They had told me that I owed the House, and if I wouldn’t work for them I owed them my blood. Our argument had escalated. I’d thrown all three off level five. It’d been night; no one had seen.
Then there had been the Spiral. Another three.
And before. So many I’d lost count.
It was a long way down.
----------------------------------------
The crossing took three times as long as it should have. Despite the circumstances, neither of us were in a hurry. We were practically invulnerable moving across that yawning expanse: no projectile could conquer the winds, and the only people fool enough to pursue were the pair already present. Neither of us were in any true danger. Gusts threatened to knock us off, yet remained only that: a threat. Kit’s balance was unnatural, and mine was supernatural.
Eventually, though, Kit made it to the end. She clambered atop the bloodtech cube, then slid between the uprunning pipes to leap onto the walkway. I watched her fall to her knees through the crack, half expecting her to burst into tears.
Her route wasn’t available to me. I was too broad. Instead, I used the rope to shuffle around the outside of the box, then leap over the gap. Usually, I did this task unassisted.
I landed next to her with a thump, causing the walkway to shake slightly. “Are you alright?” I asked the woman kneeling next to me.
“Hate you,” she mumbled, too quietly for a Lizardblood to hear.
I pretended her words had passed me by. “Let’s go inside.”
We hugged the outside of the Spire, curving around its immense circumference to squeeze through an opening in the back. Unlike the publicly accessible Spires, Wastes’ openings were too small for even a child to walk through without ducking. I had to crawl through, while Kit managed with a mere crouch.
Once inside, I waited a few moments for my eyes to adjust. In place of the elevator shaft most Spires possessed was a large, bone-coloured wall. Behind it lay hundreds of tanks connected by small tubes: septic tanks at the top of the tower which were gradually sorted into purified water and fertiliser at the bottom. A masterpiece of Owlblooded engineering, albeit an unsung one. Though I appreciated the sealing on the containers slightly more, especially after spending a filthy day figuring out which ones contained water and which ones… didn’t.
We stood in a hallway, cast in dark grey by the lack of light. To our right lay a set of stairs, which led to the next level up. To our left, the passageway snaked away, small openings glowing a dull purple. I started down it.
“Vin?” came Kit’s low drawl. I couldn’t make out her features.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t see.”
I startled. “Oh. Damn. I, uh, usually go along the wall.”
“You don’t use light?”
“My lamps are up ahead.”
“There’re none on you? What in th’ blood’s that pack of yers for, then?”
“Look, if you hadn’t left your bag with the Missus- “
“Oh believe you me, I woulda brought it I’d known- “
“Known you were going to murder someone? I’m surprised you’re not always prepared for such an eventuality.”
“Shut it, oaf.”
“Heh, would’ve expected a seer to know her way- “
“Seriously, Vin, I’m not gonna godsdamn grope my way through the dung Spire.”
“Kit, they don’t leave… poop just lying around.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Let me hold onto you.”
“…What?”
“Yer satchel or somethin’. Or even the rope. Isn’t that usual in dark places?”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.”
“…What were you thinkin’?”
I’d never been more glad Kit wasn’t a Foxblood, if only so she couldn’t see my face. “I don’t know.”
“We’d hold hands?”
“It’s why I thought it was a strange request for you to make.”
“Why?”
“Because, you know…”
She let out a throaty chuckle. “Vin: King o’ romance.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
“Not interested, big man.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
“You never stood a chance- “
“Kit, I really don’t want to permanently injure your ego,” I said, which was one of the biggest lies I had ever told, “so just take the rope and drop it.”
I whacked it against her face. She mumbled a swear.
“Mmhmm. My charms are simply- “
“Kit, you reek of mud and whatever Oxdung you put in those cigarillos.”
“I do not.”
“And – and I swear this on my honour as a Face – I’ve known boars with more pleasant dispositions.”
It was a good thing she was blind, otherwise her flailing kicks might have landed. Eventually, she grew tired and stopped physically attacking me, though our bickering lasted for the several minutes needed to arrive at my room.
“Alright,” I said, interrupting a tirade as we slowed to a halt. “I’m going to go in and turn on a light. Don’t come in until then: you’ll trip.”
I heard her grunt. It only took a few moments for me to enter the room, weave my way through the objects scattered across the floor, and snatch up an ever-burning lantern. It was a defunct version, replaced by a model only fractionally distinct from its elders. Apparently, the entire initiative was a means for Heltia to ensure the Owlblooded craftspeople had work during the famine. Everyone else had their hands full finding food.
I bit my thumb and smeared a drop of blood on its base. The lamp thrummed to life, revealing my hideaway in all its glory.
Kit poked her head inside, blinking owlishly. When her eyes adjusted, she finally spoke. “Wow. This is… a lot.”
Lining the walls were dozens of pots filled with varieties of fungus I had taken from the forest. Pressed between them were dried wildflowers, their vibrant colours in the process of fading. Leaning in front were other objects of interest scavenged from the wilderness: monster teeth and claws, pretty-looking stones, pretty-feeling stones, a large scale, and a collection of dried meat and nuts.
Random items I’d never bothered to categorise were spread across the floor. Several screws. A horn. Many nails. Several spare Faces that I’d never bothered to finish. Some failed bloodtech experiments Gast had worked on, one of which shot liquid at high speeds. A hand mirror. The cot I slept on, though my legs hung off the side. Those were just a few.
Arranged around the room were various small boxes, filled with wool or fabric. Each contained either jewellery, which ranged from carved wood, bone and stone all the way to bronze and silver, or scrolls and maps I had bargained for. The maps were, by and large, out of date – each Aching altered the contours of the Heartlands – however a few displayed the entire continent: from the Wastes in the south all the way to the coast of the north. It was the scrolls I valued more, though. There was a guide on smithing, one on botany, a list of the most valuable pieces of House Heltia’s jewellery, complete with descriptions I'd drooled over endlessly, and an illustrated guide to carving. I’d only read a few, but just owning them had its own rewards.
But my favourite items were kept in an ornate box lined with faded red silk. I’d bought in from a hawker in the camp below. It was most likely stolen; judging by how fiercely she’d worked me over, the woman was a brazen thief.
Within were a handful precious items. Handwritten tales of folklore collected by a traveller, masterfully illustrated within the covers of an actual book. The ‘BMT’ documents, stolen from Esfaria all those years ago and carried across the Wastes, mostly by accident. It contained a record of techniques to assist Blooded in controlling themselves. Nothing for Ravenbloods, however the recommendations for Dure, Enn, and Kani’s ilk were helpful, if general.
A few carvings. The ones I was satisfied with.
I looked at Kit expectantly.
She pursed her lips. “It’s nice.”
I frowned. “It’s more than nice.”
“It’s not.” Her eyes surveyed the room once again, fixing on. “Wait – is that a lute?”
I looked over at it. It was a chunk of worked tortoiseshell attached to a piece of spearwood as long as my forearm. A few fiddly knobs sat at its end. “Is it?” I furrowed my brows. I was currently using it to drape spare clothes.
“That’s an instrument,” the swordswoman asserted, nodding. “Just needs some strings.” Her gaze fell upon me. “Can I have it?”
Reflexively, my mouth began to form the refusal. After a few painstaking moments, I managed to close my jaw, swallow, and open it again. Then closed it again. Then opened it.
Kit squinted.
Eventually, I simply pointed my thumb upward. “You can, “ I rasped, “probably find some string around here.”
I wasn’t using it anyway.
As my companion set herself to sorting through my hoard, I slumped atop my cot. Slowly, I took off my satchel and placed it between my knees. After unlatching the beaten leather, I removed a bundle of cloth from the straps: my sword, wrapped in a few stolen shirts. The scabbard told the same story as always. Filigreed in silver, a giant struck down a massive bird, large enough to blot out the sun.
The blade sung as I removed it from the sheath. Black as night. A channel ran down the middle, to ensure blood could run off the cold metal. It absorbed light, as if it were woven from the spaces between stars. A few swings revealed its nature: weighted perfectly, yet heavy as sin. A Blooded’s weapon. It used to be longer.
Esfaria claimed it had been forged from Avri’s bones.
It screamed as I sheathed it. Wrapping it up again was a silent process. Then, I rooted around in my satchel and withdrew a knife. I’d looted this one from the man I’d burned. For a handful of moments, I sat, staring at it. It was good, Owlforged iron.
I fumbled around for another short shaft of spearwood, and began whittling away at it. Kit plucked at strings, having wedged herself in a corner.
An hour later, the beginnings of a person emerged. I licked half a drop from the black vial I’d bought, letting the foul liquid coat my throat, and fell asleep.