The Ghosting of Gods by Cricket Baker

eyes.
    The iron ghost motions for the flagellant to get up. The rest of the tunnelers chitter, shrink low to the ground. Directing his horse by the reins, the iron ghost moves close to us.
    …youuu keeeep prisssonerrrs…liiiving flesh-sh-sh…sainnntss?
    His voice is deep, with syllables long and drawn out. Many of his words are too faint to hear. Moaning, he loses most of his substance, dispersing like mist, but then he reappears in a brilliant freeze.
    The flagellant gestures at us and clacks. Holding its neck bone, it strokes the strings of flesh there. “Saints, not sa-viors.” Plucking the bit of flesh, it twists its skull from side to side. Garbled vowels shrill from its gaping jaw.
    The horse, less substantial than the man who rides it, snorts, stomps, tosses its ghostly mane.
    …disssciplle of fffrannkennnstein…dissstorrtion…sssainntss…reeeleassse…
    Most of what he’s saying is lost behind the dissonant ticking of the tunnelers’ crystal balls, but the iron ghost seems to be arguing for our release. Ava moves as if to get up. Noticing, the flagellant signals to the tunnelers. Collectively they rise, surround us.
    The iron ghost points a gloved finger toward the flagellant. Apparently he sees, despite the tangle of threads in his eyes.
    …revealll idennntity…pollluuuted sskeletaaalll ssssaavviorrr…
    His armor gleams. He bleeds.
    Silence.
    The flagellant shakes his skull from side to side. Slowly. Deliberately.
    Our tunneler guards abandon us and dive for the walls. Stroking their arms like swimmers, their hands scoop frosted mud so fast it’s a blur. In moments they vanish, leaving a soleskeleton struggling when one of the new tunnels collapses in on it. It backstrokes back into the cave with us.
    Packed mud stuffs its ribcage. The weight of it drops it to its knees. Frantically it paws at the mud, stretching up its neck like it’s suffocating.
    The flagellant stalks over to the skeleton, grasps it about the neck, lifts it off the ground, rattles it in rage.
    “No, don’t!” Poe yells.
    Contemptuously, the flagellant flings the helpless tunneler in our direction. It lands facedown, rocking on its ribcage.
    “Help me,” Poe says, flipping the tunneler over. Poe scoops handfuls of mud from its ribs, but the skeleton is thrashing, and Poe takes hard blows. I restrain the tunneler until finally it calms.
    The tunneler takes Poe’s hands, kisses them. It clicks his teeth, though half of them are missing. The flagellant raises his whip.
    Bony fingers grab my coat, hurling me toward the tunnel entrance. Despite its meekness, the tunneler that Poe saved is freakishly strong. And fast. Snatching the lantern, it shoves Ava and Poe over to where I’m pulling myself to my feet. We hurtle down the tunnel. Looking back, I see the iron ghost strike his sword at the flagellants’ disfigured ribcage…
    …nno lliess…shshsheep…exxoduus fuutile…no Pressencce…fallssee promisssed llllaaannndd
…
    Casket fragments litter our path as we chase our skeletal savior. Panting, falling behind, I trample splintered wood and swatches of silk. I run until I can’t breathe.
    “Do you feel that?” Poe asks, catching his breath as he leans on me.
    A strong draft blows over us. More than a draft. It’s wind, smelling fresh in contrast to the earthy pungency of the tunnels. The tunneler stops. Holds up a finger. Turning to us, it points ahead and then holds up two palms, inches apart.
    “We don’t have far to go,” Poe translates.
    Its crystal is wrapped in rags. I think this is the tunneler thattried to comfort the one who axed the girl. Yeah. Its joints are deformed they’re so big.
    It holds a hand over its tiny crystal ball, just like it was a heart. With the ticking muffled I hear Morse code. Behind us, somewhere in the tunnels. Or in the walls. Shooing us on, our tunneler bolts back the way we came.
    “Wait,” Poe calls to him. “We didn’t thank you…”
    Ava grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s