Read Online Blade of Tyshalle by Matthew Woodring Stover - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matthew Woodring Stover
Ads: Link
quantum
probabilities. I can see them.
I can see the threads of black Flow that bloom and curl outward in
time, connecting every event to every other, each acting upon every
other in a matrix of force so complex that there is no such thing as
a simple progression from one to the next—but even when the
whole structure of reality is laid bare, all you can see is the
outline of the past.
The future cannot be predicted. It can only be experienced.
Because one single thread as infinitesimal as what some lab tech had
for breakfast one morning two hundred years ago exerts enough
pressure to have bent all of Earth toward the Plague Years and the
Studio; because the Butterfly Effect of a thirteen-year-old boy named
Hari deciding that he wasn’t gonna live in fear has tied the
history of two worlds into the knot that is today.
And that, when you come right down to nuts and guts, is the most
infinitely fucked-up part of this infinite fucked-up now: They
finally got me. In the final minute of my life, I’ve become a
Cainist.
Christ.
All right. Enough.
I’m ready for this to be over.
Mortality is a gift: It’s never a question of whether you’ll
die. It’s just a question of how.
2
FOUR STRAIGHT BLACK lines crossed by a succession of shorter
lines—like dead centipedes with their legs smashed flat—pointed
into the ring of light from the darkness around it. They did not
quite meet in the center, but it was clear where they would, if
extended: in that center-point was Ma’elKoth’s right eye.
Orbek slipped the yellow hooked talon of his right index finger
through the trigger guard.
This weapon was not designed for ogrilloi; his fingers were too thick
to squeeze the trigger properly, and to use the aiming tube mounted
above the grip required him to crick his neck in a very uncomfortable
way: his right tusk came hard up against the weapon’s stock.
But ogrilloi are gifted with weapons, and this was not so different
from a crossbow. Orbek could make the necessary adjustments.
Sunlight shining through the blown-open roof above warmed his legs;
he lay prone on the rubble of what once had been priests’
quarters, on an upper floor of a temple to Urimash, a minor god of
good fortune. The shell that had destroyed the roof had taken a
substantial chunk out of the third-floor facade but had left some of
the walls intact, providing stark shadow to conceal his head and the
barrel of his weapon.
It had taken him a good long time to haul his ass up here, with his
leg half dead—goddamn fuck-me chunk of pavement came outa
nowhere while he was diving around a corner when everything blew up,
slammed his thigh like a fuck-me morningstar. It took most of the
battle for him to crawl out of the street. Everybody else—pretty
much all the Folk, the prisoners, probably all the fuck-me Monastics
as well—they took off, scattering over the bridges and into the
caverns, getting the fuck out of here while they had the chance.
Orbek had never been one for running.
Besides: with this leg, he could barely walk.
Then he’d found this weapon clutched in a dead human hand,
pried it out, and decided the best way he could be a real Black Knife
was to find a quiet spot where he could shoot some humans before they
killed him.
That shimmer in the air—fuck-me Ma’elKoth had a fuck-me
Shield going. Orbek didn’t know how to tell how many shots he
would have with this weapon, but he calculated that even if he
couldn’t overload the Shield, he should be able to knock the
fuck-me bastard down.
That counts for something.
His talon tightened against the trigger, and the aiming tube went
suddenly black, and a soft human voice said, “Don’t.â€
TWENTY-SIX
I DON’T REMEMBER being dead.
I remember some of the dreams that flitted in and out of my slowly
reassembling mind as I woke, though, and what I remember of
probabilities. I can see them.
I can see the threads of black Flow that bloom and curl outward in
time, connecting every event to every other, each acting upon every
other in a matrix of force so complex that there is no such thing as
a simple progression from one to the next—but even when the
whole structure of reality is laid bare, all you can see is the
outline of the past.
The future cannot be predicted. It can only be experienced.
Because one single thread as infinitesimal as what some lab tech had
for breakfast one morning two hundred years ago exerts enough
pressure to have bent all of Earth toward the Plague Years and the
Studio; because the Butterfly Effect of a thirteen-year-old boy named
Hari deciding that he wasn’t gonna live in fear has tied the
history of two worlds into the knot that is today.
And that, when you come right down to nuts and guts, is the most
infinitely fucked-up part of this infinite fucked-up now: They
finally got me. In the final minute of my life, I’ve become a
Cainist.
Christ.
All right. Enough.
I’m ready for this to be over.
Mortality is a gift: It’s never a question of whether you’ll
die. It’s just a question of how.
2
FOUR STRAIGHT BLACK lines crossed by a succession of shorter
lines—like dead centipedes with their legs smashed flat—pointed
into the ring of light from the darkness around it. They did not
quite meet in the center, but it was clear where they would, if
extended: in that center-point was Ma’elKoth’s right eye.
Orbek slipped the yellow hooked talon of his right index finger
through the trigger guard.
This weapon was not designed for ogrilloi; his fingers were too thick
to squeeze the trigger properly, and to use the aiming tube mounted
above the grip required him to crick his neck in a very uncomfortable
way: his right tusk came hard up against the weapon’s stock.
But ogrilloi are gifted with weapons, and this was not so different
from a crossbow. Orbek could make the necessary adjustments.
Sunlight shining through the blown-open roof above warmed his legs;
he lay prone on the rubble of what once had been priests’
quarters, on an upper floor of a temple to Urimash, a minor god of
good fortune. The shell that had destroyed the roof had taken a
substantial chunk out of the third-floor facade but had left some of
the walls intact, providing stark shadow to conceal his head and the
barrel of his weapon.
It had taken him a good long time to haul his ass up here, with his
leg half dead—goddamn fuck-me chunk of pavement came outa
nowhere while he was diving around a corner when everything blew up,
slammed his thigh like a fuck-me morningstar. It took most of the
battle for him to crawl out of the street. Everybody else—pretty
much all the Folk, the prisoners, probably all the fuck-me Monastics
as well—they took off, scattering over the bridges and into the
caverns, getting the fuck out of here while they had the chance.
Orbek had never been one for running.
Besides: with this leg, he could barely walk.
Then he’d found this weapon clutched in a dead human hand,
pried it out, and decided the best way he could be a real Black Knife
was to find a quiet spot where he could shoot some humans before they
killed him.
That shimmer in the air—fuck-me Ma’elKoth had a fuck-me
Shield going. Orbek didn’t know how to tell how many shots he
would have with this weapon, but he calculated that even if he
couldn’t overload the Shield, he should be able to knock the
fuck-me bastard down.
That counts for something.
His talon tightened against the trigger, and the aiming tube went
suddenly black, and a soft human voice said, “Don’t.â€
TWENTY-SIX
I DON’T REMEMBER being dead.
I remember some of the dreams that flitted in and out of my slowly
reassembling mind as I woke, though, and what I remember of
Similar Books
