Blake Snow

The World Eater

Novel extract

Chapter One: The World Eater Arrives

It is the glory of the Angels, the World Eater, and as large as a city! Citizens from all around board this mighty train to experience Ajha as no others before them could. It is the privilege of privileges to be counted among its passengers; if you find yourself in possession of a ticket, keep hold, for your life is about to change!

— from An Illustrated History of the World Eater, Introduction

There was time enough to watch the bundle of bloody rags sink beneath the waves, and no more. 

Turning, Milo swept up the pier, head down and his collar up to shield his face from curious eyes. Behind him, the Blivion surged, running water up over his boots. A lantern swung on its post nearby, casting Milo’s shadow in flickering motion as he reentered Fyssa proper. 

At the end of the pier, he was nearly overwhelmed by the temptation to look—just a quick look!—over his shoulder. 

He skidded to a stop, crunching sand. Up ahead, at the corner where Url Street met Gern’s Way, a man emerged, stumbling. His name was Tull, and the smell coming off him suggested he’d already had more than his fill at The Nifty Dragon. His body was stooped from decades of hard drinking, but his memory was still sharp as ever. 

“Who’s there?” he asked, peering into the darkness.

Milo saw the man cowering at the Boreal’s feet in the morning. It was him, sir. It was Milo Ditch who—

He forced himself forward, and fast. The shadows were his friend, but there was a light swaying above The Nifty Dragon’s side door. He couldn’t hesitate. 

Pulling back his sleeve revealed a metal vambrace; it was cool to the touch. Milo squeezed. Don’t kill this one, he thought. A moment later, a bolt of energy seared the night and struck Tull in the chest. He jittered, hands and knees bouncing like a marionette. Unlike the shows they put on in town hall, though, once he was down, he stayed there. Milo winced, pausing only a second to check for a pulse. It wasn’t steady, but that had more to do with the booze than anything. 

He hoped.

Leaving the drunkard slumped against The Nifty Dragon, Milo angled up Thropert Road. Behind him, connected to the docks via a series of vein-like roads, were weathered but elegant storefronts, all neatly buttoned up against the night. Ahead of him was the real Fyssa: crumbling shacks with broken windows that let the cold in, overstuffed homes with peeling yellow and blue paint, and everywhere, splashed in ugly orange, the All Tides logo. 

Milo couldn’t help but see it as an eye.

Any other night, the streets would have been deserted. 

Any other night, he wouldn’t have scrambled over the Losgoods’s fence and risked snapping an ankle in their pitted, withered garden. 

But tonight, the World Eater was coming. A bass thrum, felt more than heard, heralded its approach. Milo set his teeth in a grimace as the bones in his spine—all 33 of them, the type he’d seen pulled out of a man’s back one by one—danced an almost painful jig People streamed into the night in droves. Men carried their possessions over their shoulders in canvas bags; women clutched weeping children. Be good, darling, mummy’s right here. Or a favorite of Milo’s, I’m not leaving you.

Of course not. Because no one was leaving Fyssa. 

The World Eater came through once every couple months, and each time, Fyssans crowded the Platform. Sometimes days in advance. It didn’t matter. Without a ticket, you weren’t getting on, and since the World Eater barely slowed enough to board, even with one there was no guarantee. Still, it was better than jumping. After the World Eater left, boys would hurry down to the tracks in groups of five or six to point at the bodies. The highest count Milo could remember was twenty-two.

Since he didn’t want to be part of tomorrow’s gory attraction, Milo angled away from the Platform. The hillocks here were muddy and his feet slipped several times on the way to the top. Every step was a fight against his instincts. Go back. Go back. Go back. And let the Boreal hang his mutilated corpse for all to see? No. 

The trumpet blast of the World Eater came from too far away. He wasn’t going to make it. Milo’s lips peeled back in a grimace as he put on a burst of speed. A spike of pain exploded behind his ribs. Perfect. Flooding wonderful, actually. Never mind that even if Agatha agreed to help, he still had to make it back to the Platform. 

He swallowed a breath. Held it, ignoring the burn in his chest. He was supposed to be calmer when he let it out. 

Milo still wanted to scream.

Agatha Bone’s house materialized out of the dark. Neat, its flowerbeds better tended than the Losgoods’s yard, it wasn’t the sort of house you expected to find past the outskirts. Milo almost yelped with glee, and half-expected the mirage to shimmer into smoke when he arrived. But the wolf-head doorknocker was solid under his fingers, and he gave it three good slams against the wood. There was a flurry at the window, a white shape with two great black spots for eyes. Smoke billowed from the chimney in sticky clouds, but otherwise the house looked abandoned. Where was she? Siovat’s Seething Gumline—she was probably in Ahmin or Dur Temft sleeping off a day in the merchant quarter! Refusing to believe he’d wasted his time coming here, Milo reached again for the doorknocker. 

Before he could give it a fourth rap, the door swung open. The woman on the other side had a faded cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The skin of her neck was cut with lines and sagged onto her collarbone. Flakes of skin stuck out at odd angles from a pair of dry, pinkish lips, shadowed only slightly by the woman’s pinprick of a nose. Except for her eyes, she could have been mistaken for a crone. 

The people of Fyssa called her a hukka. 

A witch. 

Without a word, she grabbed Milo by the collar and tugged him inside. She slammed the door behind him, frightening a tight, white ball of fur lingering nearby. Muttering, it tucked itself behind Agatha Bone and mewled worriedly. 

“What have you done?” Agatha demanded. She’d never been one for small talk. 

Milo threw off her hands, grimacing. 

“I need a ticket,” he said. 

“All Tides finally cut you off?” Her expression tightened. “Or something worse?”

At her feet, the white creature yipped softly. Milo took the opportunity to look away. 

“I just need a ticket,” he said to his feet. 

The little creature peered out from behind Agatha Bone, who at that moment, without another word, stalked into the attached kitchen. The pot on the kettle was whistling in seconds, steam blasting from its spout. She filled two mugs from the cupboard above. 

Rotter’s brew. It explained the stink.

When she returned and beckoned him to sit in one of the house’s two wooden, straight-backed chairs, he did so reluctantly. 

“Drink,” she said.

“Is this the time for—”

“Still speaks as a boy,” said Agatha, pausing to take a sip from her own mug. “If you had taken your time, we might not be so met tonight. As I recall, I gave you a warning about Ryzh.” 

“You can’t eat a warning,” Milo said. “And it doesn’t keep you warm.”

“Do not blame me,” said Agatha, “for your mistakes.” 

She shifted her robes about herself, leaned down to pet the top of the creature beside her. It gurgled amiably. Agatha took another sip, then lowered her glistening lips, allowing the creature to suck the moisture with its long, flat tongue. It purred as it drank. 

“You promised my father you’d help me.” Milo forced down a swallow of the Brew. The acidity of it caught him off guard, and he gagged. When the coughing fit wore off, he said, “Ryzh actually did.”

“Ryzh is a poison. In your case, perhaps the symptoms were delayed.” 

“Are you going to lecture me or help me?” Milo snapped. “Because I’m going either way.”

“What’s scared you so bad you’d risk death?” Agatha said. “You know what will happen if you jump.” 

Milo said nothing. In his head, he was six again, holding onto his father’s hand and pretending he wasn’t afraid. He probably did a poor job of it. People jostled the two of them away from the World Eater, but that was fine—his father had said they were there to watch. Know your enemy, Milo, his father had said. There are no friends in Fyssa.

So they’d watched from a distance as a man broke from the crowd, darted past two of the Boreal’s guards, and leapt. There was a smattering of applause—equal parts nervous and defiant—when he landed. He was aboard the World Eater. He was going to make it!

In the present, Milo forced down another gulp of Rotter’s Brew. His nerves continued to spike; sweat oozed like tendrils down his back. Agatha, meanwhile, eyed him quietly. 

Everyone knew what had happened to the man. He’d stood there, for a moment with his arms stretched victoriously to either side. Then Fryggan Ifferian was behind him, and the gasp from the crowd wasn’t enough warning. A shove was all it took. Milo never even thought to close his eyes as the man fell. 

He was hardly looking at the man, anyway. His eyes were locked on Fryggan Ifferian. 

Agatha slammed her mug on the low table, startling him out of the memory. The creature at her side chattered, sounding angry.

“How many are dead?”

Despite her outburst, Agatha’s voice was soft. It sounded wrong when the approaching World Eater shook her mug on the table, shook the utensils in the drawer, and even the kettle perched precariously on the edge of the counter. The entire house was shaking as if at any moment it might slip from its moorings and topple over. Milo spun the mug of fresh Brew in his hands, heedless of the pain. 

“Agatha, there’s not time—”

“How many?”

“I don’t know!”

The words were ripped out of him. And wasn’t that the horrid, flooding truth? Ryzh had kept him alive, and all it had cost was a heap of names Milo couldn’t remember. He sagged, dropping his mug to the carpet. He was wasting his time. He started to rise, but Agatha was already on her feet. She said, 

“Look at me.” 

Milo didn’t. Couldn’t. Both. 

“Milo, look at me.” 

“Are you going to help?” he asked. “Agatha, you promised—”

“I am not the only one in this room who has defied your father,” she said.

Now Milo did look up. Normally, he couldn’t bear to meet Agatha’s eyes for very long. Tonight, he held that dark, fathomless gaze. Forced himself to. Had to. The room narrowed until it was just the two of them. The world continued to tremble.

The World Eater had arrived.

“Agatha, please. I will die.” Maybe it was cruel to guilt her. Maybe Milo didn’t care, and if Agatha even felt guilty, it didn’t show in her expression. He pressed anyway. “Do this, and your deal with my father ends.”

“Hmm,” was all Agatha replied. 

Milo saw red. Not again. Not her.

She was on her knees before he could react, reaching for her strange pet, digging in its fur. She extracted a long, fine quill and used it to prick Milo’s skin. She murmured and spun the reed in her hands. The ironwork vambrace on Milo’s wrist began to give off heat like it never had before; he bit down on a curse. Within seconds, as quickly as it had warmed, it became icy cool. In Agatha’s hands was no longer one of the creature’s quills, but a sheet of parchment swirling with red and black ink. 

“Take this.” She passed him the ticket, but when he tried to pull away, she grabbed his wrist. “But Milo.” 

He rose, meaning to shake her off. But there was something in her tone he didn’t recognize. He hesitated. 

“Milo,” she said, and stroked his cheek. “I won’t be able to protect you once you board.”

Protect him? Milo flung her hand away, and Agatha had the nerve to look hurt. For a second, though, he thought he saw it flicker in her dark eyes. 

Guilt. 

Well. Too little too late there, wasn’t it?

Yet as he opened the door, he softened.

“Thanks,” he said, and held up the ticket. “For this.” 

*

The World Eater screeched into Fyssa. Blue light fanned out from a series of massive lanterns, swallowing a leering, screaming, desperate throng. Dust exploded over them in bursts. Small animals tried to flee, but most were crushed to plum-colored paste against the high-walled tracks. Milo felt his mouth go dry. 

The Platform sat on the eastern outskirts, but the line of hopefuls backed all the way to the Blivion. Milo counted some two hundred or so scared, pale faces. All Tides was on patrol, going up and down both sides of the column of Fyssans. Milo wished he’d thought to ask Agatha for a cloak. The night was sticky hot, but he hated having his face exposed. 

He touched the vambrace on his arm. If All Tides wanted a fight, they’d get one. 

But Ryzh’s men were sloppy, and when a break appeared in the swell, Milo joined without difficulty. His hand went immediately to his pocket. For a moment, he didn’t feel the ticket. Had it slipped out? Balancing the need to be inconspicuous with his mounting horror, he dug deeper, sighing when his fingers brushed the ticket. Flooded hells. He ignored the buzzing voice in his ear that said the World Eater could spot a counterfeit. 

An elbow flew out of the crowd, connecting with Milo’s jaw and snapping his teeth together hard enough that he saw stars. He almost went down. Next to him, a man was shouting at a child slung across his shoulders. If you weren’t so slow… Milo lost the rest in the chaos. Up ahead, where the path widened onto twin sets of stairs, a woman argued with one of the Boreal’s guards. Blood oozed from dozens of little cuts on her skin. The guard shoved her back, and a cry went up from the crowd. 

Outrage, because she was Fyssan, dammit. 

Relief, because it wasn’t them.  

Squeezing between a barrel-chested man and a bloody-nosed merchant, Milo mounted the uneven stairs and took them two at a time. In a stiff breeze, they wobbled. Tonight, he wondered if they would finally collapse. Each switchback was agonizing. His breath tasted like blood, and there was a stitch in his side. He leapt. Ducked. Dodged. People were beginning to realize they weren’t going to board, and if they couldn’t make it, no one would. 

“Take my baby!”

Milo heard the cry as he reached the top of the Platform. The speaker—a woman with wild hair and a baby in her arms—soon blended into the commotion. Memories froze him. The jumper. Fryggan Ifferian. 

“If you are without a ticket: Stand. Back!” The guard who spoke bore the sigil of Boreal Keen on his breastplate. In the blue haze cast by the World Eater, it took on a sickly hue. “I said stay back!”

More guards surged forward. Milo started toward them. He’d only taken a few steps when a figure emerged, waving a ticket carelessly over his head. Like everyone else, Milo was transfixed. The man turned his face to the light, as if addressing a loving audience. Milo thought he’d be sick. 

Dorrigan Rhedd—not just Antoch Proper’s most infamous killer-for-hire, but Ryzh’s favorite—was fifteen yards away and smiling his crooked, demon smile. 

Milo allowed the crowd to surge around him. Ryzh couldn’t know. Not yet. 

Stay here too long, though, and Ryzh wouldn’t be his biggest problem. 

“—your brother?” a voice cried at Milo’s shoulder. “You were supposed to—”

“—icket? Someone’s taken my—”

“—the flood out of my way—”

“—baby!”

It happened in slow motion. Milo looked up with the rest of the crowd, in time to see the woman from earlier lunge to the edge of the Platform. Guards pressed in. The woman, ghostly in the orange and blue light, kissed her child on the forehead. There was half a moment to recognize the grey hollows in its cheeks, the rouge that was a trademark of ghul’s breath. 

The woman threw. 

She had mistimed her swing.

All eyes were on the babe. Milo seized his chance, shouldering past gawkers and hopping over the trampled body of poor Miss Basket. A pang of regret as he did, a memory of bread sneaked out through a side door. A cry rose up from the woman. A scream. My baby!

Milo was losing ground. Off to his left, the Platform dropped away into darkness. The World Eater chugged along, only now there were more carriages ahead of Fyssa than behind. Worse, people were renewing their charge, grasping furiously at his clothes, his arms, even hooking fingers into his mouth and pulling. 

Milo focused on the World Eater. Except for a single bored-looking conductor, the gangway was empty. Milo dug out his ticket, holding it so tightly that his nails gouged into his palms. This close, the roar of the train was deafening.

The crowd pulsed, nearly throwing him off the Platform. Milo stumbled, drew himself upright, shook his ticket madly. 

The conductor showed no interest. 

“Take it!” shouted Milo, giving the ticket another wave. 

The conductor didn’t move.

“Take it!”

This time, the conductor heard and tightened his hands around his sabre. The Platform was silent as people began the dispirited trek back home. The World Eater was gone, and tomorrow, while boys were poking the woman’s baby with a stick and laughing at the little mangled shape, the Boreal would come for Milo with a hangman’s noose. 

Flood that. 

Stuffing the ticket back into his pocket, Milo ran. On one side, the World Eater. On the other, Fyssa. One wrong step and he’d join the bones below. 

The end of the Platform was ten feet away. 

Five. 

One. Squeezing his eyes closed, Milo jumped.