by Anthony Ryan
“Been waiting for this a long time, huh?” he asked Loriabeth, receiving only a drooling rasp in return.
“Claydon!” Fredabel called from downstairs, voice strained with forced conviviality. “Miss Lethridge is here.”
—
Altogether they numbered six and Loriabeth was not counted amongst them. Aunt Fredabel had gone to wake her when the Longrifles assembled in the yard but Braddon forbade it with a command terse enough to leave his wife scowling.
“You really want to leave it like this?” she asked.
“Time she learned some consequences,” he replied before turning to the company, refusing to look as Fredabel stomped off back to the house.
“This here’s my nephew, Claydon,” Braddon told the Contractors, jerking his head at Clay. “If you’re familiar with the Blinds I guess you’ve heard the name and may be wondering why a known killer and thief is part of this expedition. I’m also mindful that I’ve never before taken a company so deep into the Interior. I ask you to trust my word that this is how it needs to be and the reward is equal to the risk. Any who can’t do that are welcome to forego this contract with an assurance that your choice won’t affect our future dealings.”
He fell silent, arms crossed in expectation of their answer. Clay was accustomed to the company of dangerous folk but found the scrutiny of the Longrifles more disconcerting than he would have liked. In addition to Skaggerhill and Silverpin there were a man and a woman of New Colonial stock, both possessed of a forbidding appearance and penetrating gaze. The man was tall, with a narrow face and tendrils of dark hair snaking down from a balding scalp. Clay put his age at somewhere past thirty but he could have been older from the deep lines clustered around his eyes. He carried a longrifle in a soft leather bag and rested his powerful hands on the barrel whilst regarding Clay, head tilted, like a cat analysing unfamiliar prey. What caught most of Clay’s attention, however, was the sight of the blood-red collar the man wore about his neck. Cleric, he realised. What’s a churchman doing in this company?
“Don’t worry, young ’un,” said the woman at the tall man’s side, reading Clay’s expression. “Preacher don’t do much preaching these days.” She made a stark contrast to her fellow Contractor, being of chunky build and standing only an inch above five feet, the pistols on her hips and carbine on her back a clear indication of her role. Gunhand. “Name’s Foxbine,” she said, taking off her hat in greeting and revealing a mass of red hair twisted into thick braids in the style of an Island woman, though the absence of tattoos and her accent revealed her to be of Carvenport origin.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Clay replied, then nodded at Preacher. “And you, sir.”
“Well, he’s polite enough,” Foxbine said to Braddon. “And time’s wasting, Captain. We wanna make Stockade by nightfall we’d best move out.”
Braddon nodded and shifted his gaze to Preacher. “You’re sure?”
The tall man said nothing, merely casting a final impassive gaze at Clay before hefting his rifle and walking to his horse. “Well, that gets it said.” Braddon pointed at Skaggerhill’s wagon. “Clay, you ride with the harvester. Thank your aunt for her hospitality and let’s get gone.”
Braddon walked to his horse without a single glance towards the house. He mounted up then flicked an impatient hand at Clay as he stood staring in surprise. Shaking his head he went inside and found Fredabel running a cloth over the meal table.
“My uncle . . .” Clay began, unsure of what to say.
“We don’t say good-bye,” she told him. “He always comes back and when he does it’s like he’s only been gone a day. So we never say good-bye.” She stopped and turned to him with a smile. “It was good to have you under my roof again, Claydon.”
“And I thank you for the favour, Auntie.”
She gave a furtive glance at the door then moved closer, taking something from the folds of her skirt and pressing it into his hand. “Don’t tell your uncle. The cost of it would drive him mad and those Ironship witches said you were only allowed Blue.”
Clay looked at her gift, feeling his heart lurch in gratitude. A vial, the colour and density of the contents wonderfully familiar. Black. A full vial of Black. “Thank you, Auntie,” he said, quickly consigning the vial to his pocket. “Rest assured I’ll pay you back . . .”
“Oh, hush now.” She leaned close and planted a kiss on his cheek then withdrew a little, hands on his shoulders. “Knew your mother. Only a little, but I liked her well enough. Knew your father too, more than I wanted to. Sometimes there are men who just need to be taken out of this world. So, regardless of my husband’s view on the matter, I see no reason to bar you from this family. When you come back, this house will be your home for as long as you want it to be.” She hugged him close then pushed him towards the door. “You go on now. And keep close to Mr. Skaggerhill. If there’s anyone can keep you alive out there it’s him.”
—
The jungle stank. It wasn’t just an odour, or a scent, it was a stink, thick, cloying and inescapable. It assailed his nostrils at every breath, rich with the sweet tang of decay and overripe fruit. Added to the discomfort of the stink was the ominous sight of the jungle itself, a wall of green closing around with every mile passed since leaving Carvenport. The road grew dimmer as they travelled, the trees rising to obscure the sun until the company was completely in the shade and the road had transformed into a rutted track.
“First time beyond the walls makes a fella itch, alright,” Skaggerhill commented, watching Clay fidget, sweat-beaded eyes constantly roving the surrounding curtain of greenery. “Feels like it’s gonna reach out and grab ya, don’t it?”
Clay confined his reply to an irritated scowl, striving to stare straight ahead at the two oxen drawing the wagon, but managing only a few yards before the jungle inevitably drew his gaze once more.
“You’re right to be wary, young ’un.” Skaggerhill chuckled. “Fairly shit my pants first time out. And with good reason: Greens are always looking for an easy meal.”
“What Greens?” Clay grunted, gesturing at the surrounding wall of vegetation. “Haven’t seen shit all day.”
Skaggerhill gave a wry chuckle. “’Course you ain’t. If you was to see a Green this far north it’ll be strung up for harvesting. When we gets farther south though, you find y’self unlucky enough to catch a glimpse of a live one and you’ll most likely be dead a second or two later.”
Clay’s hand moved unconsciously to the only weapon he had been allowed, a double-barrelled hammer-lock pistol of antique appearance. His uncle had handed it to him as the company mounted up in the stable-yard, reading the disdain on Clay’s face with a direct glare that dared him to voice a complaint. “For protection only,” Braddon said. “You got two shots and they’re both already loaded. You fire this without a reason, you ain’t getting any more.”
“Won’t do you no good,” Skaggerhill said, nodding at the pistol. “Jungle Greens are pack hunters, like to swarm over you from several directions at once.”
“So what do I do if I see one?”
“Run like the Seer’s ghost is on your heels and scream your lungs out.”
“The noise’ll scare them off, I guess.”
Skaggerhill chuckled again. “No, but we hear you screaming we might come running quick enough for there to be something left worth saving.”
—
The town of Stockade sat on the eastern bank of the Greenchurn River. At first glance it appeared to consist of a half-circle of spike-topped tree-trunks enclosing a clutch of tents and huts of mean appearance. However, as they approached in line with the bank, Clay found his gaze drawn mostly to the long jetty that extended from the shore into the fast-flowing river. This, he realised, was where the real town lay. Two-storey houses sprouted along its length and a twenty-foot-high watch-tower rose at the junction where the piers split off. He coun
ted half a dozen paddle steamers moored along the piers, mostly small single-wheelers but one side wheeler standing out thanks to the tallness of its stacks and the Ironship pennant flying from its mast.
“The Firejack,” Skaggerhill said. “Only blood-burner to work the river trade. She’ll be home for a while till we make the Sands.”
“You ever been there?” Clay asked him. “The Red Sands.”
A cloud passed over the harvester’s usually cheery features and he gave a short nod. “Just once. They’re well named, right enough. Don’t seem natural for land to be so truly red. There’s a badness to the place, a feeling to the air and it ain’t just the dust.”
“But you’re still willing to go? ’Cause my uncle asked you to?”
Skaggerhill gave him a sidelong glance. “Your uncle asked me to walk naked across a southern ice-floe, I’d do it. Twenty expeditions together so far, and I came back whole and a damn sight richer from each and every one. Captains like him are a rare breed.”
The entrance to the town lay open and unguarded, the collection of tents and huts beyond shrouded in smoke. Raucous merriment rose from a large two-storey structure near the jetty but for the most part it was quiet. Men and women in Contractor garb sat around fires, sharing meals or playing cards, a few calling greetings to his uncle as they passed by. “Only the river folk truly live here,” Skaggerhill explained. “And they keep to the jetty. Contractors spend a night or two in camp waiting for a boat or trying to find a company, then move on.”
Braddon led them to a vacant patch of ground near the wall and told them to make camp. “I’ll check in with the Firejack’s skipper,” he said. “Clay, help Mr. Skaggerhill raise the tents then make supper.” He met Clay’s gaze with the same glaring expectation of a challenge. I do suspect, Clay thought, Uncle would quite like to beat me in front of this company.
“My pleasure, Uncle,” he replied with a smile, climbing down from the wagon.
“Miss Foxbine.” Braddon turned to the gunhand. “Take a turn around the camp and the tavern. See what the rumour-mill’s weaving these days.”
Foxbine tipped her hat. “Will do, Captain.”
Braddon turned his horse towards the pier, raising a hand to the various Contractors calling out greetings, Clay noting that every voice was coloured by a deep respect.
“You cook?”
Clay turned, finding himself confronted by Preacher. He stood at least half a foot taller than Clay, staring down with the same impassive scrutiny from before.
“Not especially,” Clay replied.
“I don’t eat fowl,” Preacher stated, holding Clay’s gaze. He was vaguely aware that those who still maintained adherence to the Seer’s teachings often held objections to various foodstuffs.
“Seer spoke against it, huh?” he asked.
Preacher blinked, his expression unchanging as he repeated “I don’t eat fowl,” in exactly the same emphatic tone, before adding, “Nor anything that flies.”
“Yeah, you said.” A familiar heat was building in Clay’s chest as the tall man continued to stare, the heat that had come close to killing him as often as it had saved him back in the Blinds.
“He’s got it, Preacher,” Skaggerhill said, coming to Clay’s side. “You know I’d never let such a thing touch your plate.”
Preacher looked at the harvester, blinked and walked back to his horse.
“Next time he says something to you,” Skaggerhill told Clay in a quiet voice, “just nod, real polite-like, and agree. If he says the sky’s purple with red dots all over it, you just nod and agree. Understand me, young ’un? This ain’t the Blinds. Everything out here, including the people, is worse than anything you ever seen before.”
—
“A full company of headhunters?” Braddon asked with a sceptical frown.
Foxbine shrugged and nodded. “That’s the word, Captain. Second-generation crew out of Rigger’s Bay, over fifty strong they say. Went hunting for Spoiled along the coast and just”—she spread her hands—“never came out again. Some Contractors went looking and found a few bodies, all marked and cut up the way Spoiled like to do.”
“When was this?”
“About a month back. Seems the whole of Rigger’s Bay is squawking about it, demanding more troops from the Protectorate and such.”
“Spoiled getting all riled up is never good news,” Skaggerhill commented. “But Rigger’s Bay is a good sight out of our way.”
“Thought the Spoiled were supposed to be near extinct,” Clay said which drew a hearty laugh from Foxbine.
“They’re like rats,” his uncle replied in a grim tone. “Always more than you think there are.”
“True enough,” Foxbine said, her mirth subsiding into a nostalgic grin. “You remember that last trip to the Flats? Only time I ever ran out of ammunition.”
Supper was beef sausage and rice, cooked under Skaggerhill’s close supervision. Clay had watched Preacher carefully examine his plate before taking a bite, chewing and pursing his lips in apparent satisfaction. Silverpin sat next to Clay, happily gorging herself on the meal in what he was coming to understand as a characteristic lack of moderation, then offering him a wink of appreciation. As Foxbine related her accumulated gossip the bladehand reclined, leaning in Clay’s direction and running a whetstone over the narrow blade of a six-foot spear. Clay recognised it as an Islander’s weapon, the haft fashioned from ebony and covered from end to end in intricate carvings and tribal symbols. The butt ended in a fist-sized ball which, he knew, made an excellent skull-cracker. If the conversation held any interest for Silverpin she failed to show it, though she did cast an occasional shy smile in Clay’s direction.
“Anything else of interest?” Skaggerhill enquired of Foxbine.
“Contractor Company took some losses in the Badlands,” she said. “More than usual, that is. Seems the Reds are getting a sight boisterous these days.”
“Since when weren’t they . . . ?” the harvester began then trailed off as a high, piercing screech came echoing over the wall. Clay saw him exchange an urgent glance with his uncle. “Can’t be. Not so far north, not for years.”
Braddon stood, raising a hand to silence him. Clay rose as the rest of the company followed his uncle’s lead. They listened for a while, Clay suddenly aware of the silence as the entire congregation of Contractors strained their ears for another sound. Nothing came for several moments and a murmur of conversation had begun to return when the screech rose again, louder and closer this time, and, if Clay was any judge, it wasn’t alone.
“That’s a Seer-damned pack,” Skaggerhill breathed.
“Greens?” Clay asked.
“What else they gonna be?” Foxbine grunted, hefting her carbine.
“Best get to the wall,” Braddon said, unsheathing his longrifle from its green-leather covering. “Clay, stay with the wagon.”
Clay stared after him as he led his people towards the wall, most of the other Contractors following suit with weapons in hand. The casual humiliation caused the heat to rise in his chest again, spawning all manner of unwise notions. “Fuck this,” he muttered, drawing his double-barrelled pistol and following, though at a discreet distance.
He was surprised to find the entrance still standing open. Apparently no-one had thought to close it in quite a while. “Not sure the hinges even work any more,” a heavy-set man was saying to Braddon. He wore the peaked cap and overalls typical of river folk and was flanked by two younger men in similar garb. “Been some talk we should just go ahead and take down the walls, for all the good they do these days.”
“Looks like they’ll be doing you some good tonight,” Braddon replied, nodding at the darkness beyond the gateway where the screeching chorus continued unabated. If anything, it seemed to have risen in volume.
“How many, d’you think?” the riverman asked Braddon.
“Full pack and then some.” Braddon worked the lever on his rifle, chambering a round. “More than twenty, most likely. It’s your town, sir, but my advice is you get this sealed up best you can, and the quicker the better. That’s a frenzy song they’re singing. Frenzy makes ’em unheedful of injury. Just a few get loose in here and it’s gonna get ugly real fast.”
The riverman gave a sweaty-faced nod and started barking orders, a clutch of townsfolk running to heave the doors in place, rusted hinges squealing. They buttressed them with some sturdy beams and dragged a wagon across the entrance for good measure. Clay saw Braddon lead the Longrifles up a ladder to a narrow parapet running along the top of the wall. Dozens of Contractors hurried to follow suit amidst a chorus of clicks and snicks as they loaded their weapons.
Clay climbed to a point halfway up the ladder, close enough to hear any conversation, though the Contractors had all fallen into a tense silence. The screeching chorus of the Green pack rose and fell for several minutes, Clay finding it impossible to gauge their distance from the wall. Eventually he heard Skaggerhill say, “Could throw some torches out there. Get some light on them.”
“Grass is too dry this close to town,” Braddon replied. “We’d most likely set the walls to blazing. Besides, nothing’s more likely to drive them crazy than fire.”
He fell silent at an insistent thumping to his right, Clay risking a glance at the parapet to see Silverpin slamming the butt of her spear onto the planking. She held her finger to her lips and leaned out between the spikes, ear cocked to the darkness. Clay heard it then, a new sound amidst the drake song, though just as chilling. A horse, he realised. Screaming.
“Someone’s out there,” he heard Foxbine say, her judgement soon confirmed by the sharp crack of multiple pistol-shots cutting through the general cacophony.
