Chapter 12: Province 108
The heat from the molten river in Province 927 faded into memory as Bullet staggered into Province 108's territory, leaving the obsidian city.
His bare feet sank at once into something completely different...into oily, iron-laden sludge that was cold and wet against his soles. It sucked with every step as if it wanted to hold him back.
The pull within his chest burned with a familiar strength, an unyielding urge pushing toward some distant horizon that he couldn't see. Its rhythm beat with a feeble persistence, pressing him onward despite all that his battered flesh screamed it should be doing, which was to stop, to rest, to collapse.
But halting was not an option. It never had been.
His shoulder was still seeping with blood from the cut ripped open there by the Obsidian Shades on the glass city. His arm hurt despite whatever magical repairwork the engraved shard was giving it. He could sense it being better than it should be, but it still needed considerable repair. His thigh had a heavy scar from the Ice Hound's claws, angry and inflamed with welt-pruinose red. His ribs were bruised, pain accumulated on top of previous injuries so that it had been some time since he remembered anything resembling easy breathing.
And then there were his toes...still suffering from the frostbite he had obtained on the tundra at Province 713. Even now, with every step, he could still feel it.
His pipe was heavy in his shaking hand. It looked more like a sword than it ever had before. It had begun as a simple metal rod, but it had seen so many battles that it boasted scars. It was thick with dirt and rust and dried blood that couldn't be washed off. It was the only thing that had been with him from start to finish.
His scar throbbed with each beat, that round spot that bound him to a memory he no longer remembered. It pounded with every pulse he made, a rhythm reminding him of something he had missed and should know.
The shard biting at his thigh via his pocket. To be sure, this sign...a circle split by an irregular line, warm and enigmatic. But he couldn't make sense of it, or explain why it beat in sync with the scar on his chest, why it mended him as nothing else could.
The unetched shard resting beside it shimmered with a cool, blue light. It was a debt he had not chosen to repay but couldn't put down. A memory of a young woman from Province 618.
No name but what strangers had assigned him. No past he could recall. Only the tug in his chest, the scar on his heart, and a world that seemed determined against him.
But Province 927's glass city was behind him, and he couldn't see it anymore.
The swamp at Province 108 lay before them, and the iron tang that filled the air was so strong he could taste it on his tongue. Rust and decay and a chemical residue that burned his eyes.
A new challenge. A new province to cross. A new trial to survive.
The swamp represented an ambiguous area that violated the laws of nature.
The trees emerged from the muck, but they weren't made of wood. They were metal, twisted and corroded and rusted, with branches that hummed and buzzed with electric impulses. Sparks flashed where the pools of oil met their roots.
The corroded platforms rested on the surface of the swamp like lily pads, but they were heavy with weight and sank, and the jagged paths they made were precarious and groaned with every step. It seemed as if nothing here would ever be stable.
The air itself was so thick he could hardly swallow it, searing Bullet's lungs with every breath. It rasped like rust and death with every inhalation, tiny bits tangling with his throat like bloody metal.
The swamp itself appeared to be a living thing, pulsing like it had a heart. The trees and vine-like metal tendrils were all moving in rhythm as if it were watching him from every ripple on the water.
Electric storms were crackling unpredictably, flashing from metal tree to metal tree. When they struck, the platforms lurched precariously, as if they might tip anyone who stood on them into the corrosive water below.
The rusted vines knotted Bullet's ankles as he attempted to move ahead. Their needles bit into his legs, burning like liquid fire. Red mixtures swirled within the oil-coated waters as blood made contact with it.
Corrosive bogs were bubbling all over the swamp. Toxins were rising into the air as noxious gases that blistered his feet, even with calluses he had managed to build up. His skin hissed as the chemicals made contact with it.
The pull compelled him onward, despite all these things, toward a somewhat stable landing area. He stepped out upon it and it groaned beneath his weight, corrosion flaking off its edges. The metal dug into his feet, making yet more blood soak into the muck.
Water swirled around him. Tentacles made out of what looked like metal and liquid and who knew what coiled beneath the surface, reaching up and grabbing at his legs.
It blazed fiery on his chest. Static crackled through his mind, obscuring his thoughts and making it difficult to focus on anything but the pain and the pull.
He shook it off with an effort, raising his pipe defensively. The swamp was a deadly trap, and it was clear that there would be no haven here. No rest. Only survival.
Bullet stepped carefully, as if planning every move despite the pressing force.
His feet were constantly bleeding, and he left marks on the muck. The pipeline became his life support system as he struggled against the metal arms reaching up from below. Their greasy touch burned his skin with every contact, and blisters would form instantly.
The platforms sank beneath him as he walked, and he jumped from one precarious trail before the last one he was on sank beneath him and disappeared. Steel moaned on every side. Water nibbled at the ends, as if it hungered for a misstep.
A metal tree began to pulse with an electrical charge and its branches snaked out, clinging to his pipe and pulling hard on it. It took a great deal of strength to almost wrench the gun out of his hands.
But Bullet maintained a tight grip, and his strength coursed through his legs. It took all his might not to let go. The tree finally let him loose as if it were shocked at being resisted.
The swamp's hold could be defied. That was reassuring.
And then came the rust-born serpents.
Suddenly, they emerged from the bog. Liquid metal beings that shimmered with a light reflected from the soft gleam of the auroras seeping through the mists that filled the sky. Their formless bodies shifted with a sharp edge.
They were bound to the will of the swamp, mere extensions of its appetite.
The first snake lunged at Bullet, its jaws opening as if it were a mouth with fangs, if you could even call them that. More like pointed slivers of metal slicing across Bullet's arm. It barely broke the skin, but it hurt all at once, as if someone were pressing a hot iron against Bullet's skin. Blood blossomed from the tiny cut.
Bullet swung his pipe out of habit, and muscles rippled with motion. Steel clashed against the side of the serpent with a loud clang that rang out across the swamp. Splinters flew like broken glass as Bullet's blow hit the thing, and its form broke apart like liquid silver dashed against water.
Nonetheless, it didn't perish. It reformed almost instantly, its fluid form unwinding as it readied for its next attack. Its eyes emitted crimson light, an eerie sight akin to that of the sentinels who had chased him across provinces before.
A snake slithered up from the muck as Bullet noticed a second. Its jaws bit into his leg, with its fangs digging directly into the muscle of his calf. The venom it pumped into his system made his skin burn as if wildfire were running across a field of dry grass.
A grinding ache locked his knee, making it stiff and unresponsive. He could see his veins begin to glint with a metallic shine beneath his skin. The venom was literally hardening his tissues into something harder, like rust on steel.
Bullet pivoted on the stiffness and turned the pipe with enough force to deliver a deadly arc. The pipe struck the center of the serpent's liquid mass, an internally glowing dot, and it exploded. Liquid metal spattered against his robes, sizzling as it struck fabric. The noxious odor burned his eyes and seared his sinuses.
A third snake struck while he fought with the second one, its fangs sinking deep into his chest. Just above his ribs, which were already bruised and maybe broken from previous wounds.
Rust began encasing his ribs almost at once, making every breath he took hard work. His heart beat against the constriction. His eyesight blurred on the edges as his body struggled to get enough oxygen.
And then came the swarm.
Several snakes erupted from the bog simultaneously, and the cumulative sound of their clicking made it difficult for him to think. Teeth nudged his back, his shoulder, and his thigh. Wherever they touched, the venom caused his joints to freeze and made his limbs as heavy as rusted type.
Bullet let out an angry roar and swung the pipe. It swung so wildly it blurred across toward every snake within striking distance.
The center core of one serpent broke apart with his blow, its body exploding apart with a splash. Metal shredded everywhere, splinters scraping against his cheek, leaving a trail of crimson as blood trickled down.
He pierced another snake with the pipe, pushing it right through its center. The balloon-like creature exploded with a loud popping noise, spewing liquid metal everywhere. His hands were slathered with it. It was oily and ice-cold, making it difficult for him to hold the pipe. His broken arm cried out in anguish with every movement.
A serpent's fangs ripped across his thigh, finding the scar from the Ice Hound and ripping it open further. A flood of bright, fresh blood spouted forth. The burn of the venom was exacerbated along the places where scar tissue had already been ravaged, and he fell against the ground.
Again he swung, mere reflex propelling him onward as his body attempted to onset an end. The pipe burst apart, damaging yet another core. Wooden slivers imbedded themselves within his cloak, hundreds of tiny bits of metal that would seep beneath his epidermis soon.
The hum of the swamp resonated through his bones, aligning with the hardening metal-like texture of his skin.
His energy was failing him rapidly. The poison was clouding everything. He could barely move, think, or even beat his heart. It was as if he were walking through oil.
He fell against a platform, his legs giving out completely. The pipe clattered from his unfeeling hands and rolled across the rusty metal floor.
First, tendrils began wrapping around his legs, and he could feel burning as they lashed into his already injured skin. He attempted to retreat but couldn't muster enough strength.
The snakes backed away, and their crimson eyes faded. They settled back into the bog as if pleased, as if they'd feasted on enough of his blood at that moment.
It seemed that the swamp had had its fill.
That's when Bullet heard voices.
Figures emerged from the mists, traversing platforms as if they had lived there an eternity. Their faces were skeletons, hollow and bare. Their skin had begun to desiccate and form a rust patina. It looked exactly like what was happening with Bullet but more so.
Their minds looked frayed at the edges, broken by whatever this swamp did to people over time. But they were survivors, scraping by to make it through this metal hell.
Ropes were slung casually in their hands as they looked at Bullet with a hunger and calculation. His metal-skinned physique stood out immediately amongst them. To these people, he looked like junk. Raw materials waiting to be harvested.
A woman with mud running down her face stood watching. She looked uncertain and cautious, like she had reservations about all this but was going ahead anyway. Her nickname was Silt.
A man with a skin so pocked and pitted it as if corrosion had gnawed holes in it stepped forward. Crag, as the others spoke to him. His eyes were greedy, locked on Bullet's tough hide.
A figure, totally slathered with sludge, lurched alongside Crag. Mire. Her fists were clenched tightly around tools that resembled metal cutters.
"He's ours." Crag snarled, his voice like grinding gears. Crag pointed to the others, and they advanced with ropes.
They dragged Bullet upright, or at least tried. He couldn't stand on his own legs. So they hauled him up, the ropes cutting into his wrists and making them bleed. His body had gone heavy as a stone, heavy as dead weight.
Mire's tools clanked as they dragged him across platforms towards what appeared to be a camp-site in the distance. A mess of metal and rusty blades formed some sort of shelter.
The camp was run by a man named Glint, whose eyes had a definite shine to them, as if made of metal. Sharp. Cold. Smart. And Bullet's survival senses went on high alert.
A woman came up as they dragged him into camp. Rusted scars on her skin were as if they'd been there for years. She handed him a drink from a rusty container. "Drink. You need it."
There was a genuine concern in her voice. A glimmer of trust amidst the suspicion. Scour, they nicknamed her.
Not everyone, however, had so much empathy. A figure swathed in metal vines, and her name was Tangle, observed with eyes that shifted rapidly from Bullet to the rest. She spoke to herself audibly. "He's more valuable dissected. Just look at all that metal implanted inside him. We could harvest it and trade it for materials."
A man with a low, measured voice attempted to mediate. Hiss. "Let's talk about it. We don't know what he is yet. Could be useful."
But Tangle jerked back, hard, and spoke with rising voice. "Scrap is better than hope. We have hope. It doesn't nourish us. Cut him open. He's half metal anyway. That's worth something."
Glint's voice rose above the shouting, strong and commanding. "He's more than scrap." His metal eyes were fixed on Tangle. "We're not animals. Not yet."
Crag didn't believe her. She reached for a knife and swiped it against Bullet's armored skin. Sparks flew as metal touched metal. But it wouldn't have penetrated even if it had been made of pure plasma, the rust covering his skin was so tough.
A small figure hugged the periphery of a crowd, spark touched, flinching with every crackle of electricity in the trees. Flicker. She mouthed soundlessly, her voice barely audible. "The swamp curses us all." No one listened.
And then there was Drench, soaked with water, but grinning from ear to ear with an expression that made Bullet's skin crawl. "We could trade him. Whole or in bits. Either way, he's worth good metal."
The thoughts were racing in Bullet's mind despite the fact that the venom was making it hard to concentrate.
The tug was weak now, overshadowed by pain and fatigue. But he could still feel the scar searing across his chest, a burning testament that he couldn't remain here. That he couldn't let them dissect him for spare parts.
The etched piece in his pocket glowed, more so than before, its warmth spreading within his body. The circle and jagged line burst into an illumination visible to no one else.
The rust covering his skin began to weaken. His joints groaned as he began to rebuild strength within them. The effects of the venom were being offset by whatever powers the shard exhibited.
Bullet didn't realize he was being aided by the shard. All he knew was that he could move when he shouldn't have been able.
He clutched the pipe which had fallen beside him, his hands closing around it with a knowledge born of habit.
And then he burst upwards.
The ropes that bound him broke like strings. His wrists were raw from where the ropes had dug into them, but he was unbound.
Crag swung her knife instinctively, aiming at chest level. But Bullet dodged at the last possible moment, his movement clouded by slowness, and struck with the pipe.
It smashed into her arm with a terrible crack. Bone snapped. Red spatters of blood exploded against rust and sludge. Crag's cry was sharp and painful as she stumbled backward, clutching her broken arm.
Mire lunged next, her corroded cutting instrument raised high. But Bullet deflected it, the metal pipe impacting her instrument with enough strength to shatter it into chunks. The metal clanged and fell apart on the platform. Mire backed away, fear reflected on her widened eyes.
Drench bolted, vanishing into the gloom without looking back. Flicker faded into the background, spark touched and scared.
But Silt remained. She stood very still and nodded at Bullet. It was a sign of respect. She had witnessed Bullet fighting. Saw him live when he shouldn't have. That counted for something with Silt.
Tangle hesitated, her metal vines wrapping tightly around her body. But Glint's glare kept her from doing anything more. His voice was deadly. "Enough. He's proven himself. We don't touch him."
Bullet stood there, puffing with effort as he tried to breathe. The pipe was slippery with his own blood and grime in his hands. His injuries were singing their familiar song...arm, leg, chest, shoulder, thigh. The list just kept getting longer.
His scar throbbed with a rhythm that centered on his heart.
The pull encouraged him to venture even deeper into the swamp.
He couldn't remain there. These people were survivalists, but they were also desperate, and despondency led people to become hazardous.
He walked away from camp, limping into the murky depths of Province 108, leaving the inhabitants there.
Concurrently: Province 927
Far back from the struggles taking place around Bullet, within the black ruins of Province 927, the Seeker stood amidst broken glass.
"Be careful." he cautioned, as his black cloak caught on the jagged corners. It made ripping holes, but he paid no mind. His companion, the Dreadwraith, slid beside him. It had adjusted its form to be better suited for this area. It was blacker, more jagged, as if it were made from living glass.
The Seeker confronted a man on his knees...Blade, a dweller who had aided the anomaly with crossing the river of lava. His scars caught the dim light that seeped through the smoke. Blade trembled with anticipation.
The Seeker's blade rested against Blade's throat, not yet cutting, just threatening. A bead of blood formed beneath the blade.
"Where has the anomaly gone?" the Seeker demanded icily, but with a note of aggravation that hadn't previously been there.
He had been so sure. So sure that the Ice Hound would complete what the rest of the guardians could not. It had never failed before, not once in all the years it had protected Province 713's cave. Ancient, powerful, it was tied to the very fabric of the ice wall itself.
The Seeker had been waiting within Province 512, ever so patiently and confidently waiting to merely walk on in and pick up the frozen corpse of the anomaly lying within the cave.
But then, as he had finally entered the tundra, as he had made his way to the ice wall and entered that cave, what he had discovered there had rattled even his iron-like composure.
The Ice Hound was dead.
All three heads were still, their crimson eyes dark and soulless. The cave itself was smeared with the beast's blue-black blood, lying in patterns telling a tale of violence. Claw marks littered the ice. Icicles were broken on the ice floor.
And then, as quick as it began, it was over. The anomaly disappeared. It passed. It survived.
The leader had been enraged at the news brought back by the Seeker. Not at the Seeker, mind. It hadn't been anything he'd done. But at the loss of so useful a guardian. It would be no easy business replacing the Ice Hound.
It had caused a setback to the carefully laid defenses of the leader that would take time to rectify.
But then, there was no trail. The Seeker had followed as well as he could: blood traces remaining in the snow of Province 713, traces of movement through the vortex, disturbances on the obsidian spires of Province 927. But he could not discern exactly which path the anomaly took from there.
'Tell me!' hissed Seeker once again, pressing the blade even tighter against Blade's throat. "Which province? Which direction did he go?"
"Blade said nothing. His eyes were empty, defeated. He knew he would be dead either way. So why give anything to the Seeker?"
The Seeker's patience, never plentiful, had finally reached an end.
His blade slid through in a single, efficient motion. Blade's throat split open in a red line. Blood collects on the obsidian earth, steaming slightly from the lingering heat of the city core.
The body slumped forward, lifeless.
The Dreadwraith distorted the glass around them, its presence causing reality to warp and bend. The obsidian reflected its form in ways that shouldn't have been physically possible, presenting it with depths that lacked the necessary space.
The Seeker stood and looked at the destruction. The trail had ended here. The anomaly had removed itself from the glass city, but which direction, which province?
He would have to search systematically. Interview every survivor who might have caught sight of the scar-faced man.Trace every hint of disruption through the provinces.
The search went on, unrelenting and systematic as ever.
But there was an added pressure. The anomaly had slain the Ice Hound. Had shown himself more deadly than he had realized.
The leader would want satisfaction, and soon. But he drove on due to a sense of duty, and yet he no longer acted solely out of that. Not a sense of urgency, he was too disciplined for that. But an understanding that time counted, as it had not before.
The will of the leader required either the capture or the death of the anomaly. Nothing more. And he Seeker would carry out that will, no matter how many provinces he had to search, no matter how many survivors he had to slay for information.
He adjusted his cloak and set about walking through the ruined city, the Dreadwraith slithering at his side like a living shadow, its eyes scanning for any sign, any hint as to where the anomaly might have gone.
Somewhere ahead, provinces distant, Bullet walked the rusty mire of Province 108. Bloody but Unbroken. Nonetheless, still pressing on.
The gap between the hunter and the prey was narrowing, step by step and province by province. It would not be long before the Seeker picked up the trail once again. And when he did, there would be no more waiting. There would be no more guesses about guardians completing the task. The Seeker would put an end to this search on his own.