The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  The Riverjack shrugged and holstered his pistol. “Always a pleasure, Skaggs. Any messages to take up-river?”

  “Call in on my Lousille when you get to Carvenport. Let her know her old pa’s still kicking. Maybe make sure she’s not wanting for essentials.”

  “That I will.” Something in Stallwin’s gaze told Clay there was more to this exchange than just the parting of old friends. Skaggerhill had asked for a favour not granted lightly. “You take care now,” the Contractor said as they began to troop out the door.

  “Always do, Kleb.”

  They moved at what seemed a crawl to Clay, Preacher a few steps ahead with rifle stock firm against his shoulder and eyes constantly roving the walkways and bridges. Silverpin and Foxbine kept Clay tight between them the whole while and he felt a certain shame at voicing no objection. He had drawn the Stinger, though from the way his hands continued to tremble he doubted it would do him much good if any shooting started up. As they neared the wharf the Firejack’s whistle began to sound, casting a plaintive call across the town.

  “Seems the skipper got word of our trouble,” Skaggerhill said. “Calling the crew back from their revels.”

  “They better be quick about it,” Braddon grunted. “We ain’t lingering here a second longer than we have to.”

  Preacher came to a halt as they came to the walkway leading to the Firejack’s mooring, sinking into a crouch and staring intently at the board-walk ahead. “What ya got?” Foxbine asked him in a whisper.

  Preacher said nothing, his rifle tracking the walkway in a slow side-to-side sweep. The moment stretched and Clay had begun to ponder reaching for Auntie’s gift when Preacher fired. The shot sounded like a roar in the stillness, a plume of powdered wood erupting from the walkway. For a second there was no sound save the fading echo of the rifle-shot, then the tell-tale splash of something heavy falling into the river.

  “Bastards are underneath,” Foxbine said, raising both pistols and firing off all twelve shots faster than Clay would have thought possible. Splintered wood rose in a cloud the length of the walkway, accompanied by shouts of alarm and more splashes from beneath the planking. A pair of dark figures began to clamber up as Foxbine’s guns fell silent and she went into a crouch, hands moving with unconscious speed and precision as she replaced the cylinders. Preacher fired again, two shots in quick succession, the climbers tumbling into the water.

  “Let’s go!” Braddon shouted and they ran the remaining distance, Skaggerhill snapping off a shotgun blast at a shadow glimpsed beneath the board-walk. Keelman greeted them at the gangplank, his weathered features grim and not entirely welcoming.

  “Company orders didn’t say anything about this kinda trouble,” he said to Braddon as they came aboard in a rush. Foxbine and Preacher hunkered down at the rail, weapons aimed at the town.

  “It’s the Interior, Skipper,” Braddon told him. “There’s always trouble. Best you cast off now.”

  “Still got four men unaccounted for. My Second Mate amongst them.”

  “They ain’t here yet, they ain’t coming. Likely the headhunters grabbed them up and are already wringing what they can outta them. We can’t wait.”

  As if to underline his point a shot came from the town, the bullet whining past the skipper’s head to smack into the bulkhead behind. He barely flinched, though the anger that coloured his shouted order to cast off indicated a reluctant acceptance of Braddon’s advice. The Firejack soon pulled away from the wharf, paddles churning the water white. A few more shots were fired before they drew out of range, doing no damage beyond a shattered window. Preacher fired only one shot in response, though his grunt of satisfaction indicated he had hit his mark. They were soon steaming south at a brisk pace, Edinsmouth fading into the distance then disappearing completely as they rounded a bend.

  Clay turned as Braddon laid a hand on his shoulder, finding his uncle looking him over in close inspection. “I ain’t hurt,” Clay said, shrugging off the hand. He returned the Stinger to its holster, finding to his annoyance his hands still hadn’t stopped shaking. “How did you know? About the Blood-blessed.”

  “Saw the headhunters taking up position around the tavern,” Braddon replied. “Someone always takes the watch, tonight it was my turn.”

  “Uncle, the Blood-blessed, he said . . .”

  “Somebody hired his crew to kill you, and the rest of us into the bargain I’m guessing. Headhunter rarely spends a bullet without someone paying him first. Seems there’s a bounty on us now.”

  “Morsvale,” Clay said. “He said he Blue-tranced with someone in Morsvale.”

  “Corvantine bastards,” Skaggerhill said, spitting over the side.

  “Ironship warned me it might come to this,” Braddon said, turning to address them all. “Seems we’re not just on a hunt now. Now we’re in a race and we just missed our last chance to turn back.”

  —

  Somehow the others all managed to fall asleep the moment they hit their bunks, whilst Clay lay awake for hours. He had reason enough to ensure there were no eyes or ears to witness what he needed to do, but the lingering effects of Ellforth’s grip ensured sleep was denied him in any case. Added to the palsy was the lingering image of the headhunter’s leering face, the evident delight in what he was doing, not to say the stench of his breath. It all combined to raise a singular question in his mind: Was that me? He thought back over all those vicious back-alley confrontations in the Blinds, the times he had used Black to settle a score or collect a debt. He had been cruel at times, he knew that, but never needlessly and those on the receiving end had been more than deserving. He hadn’t been an Ellforth but after a few more years, and a war with Keyvine, who knew what he might have become?

  He slipped from his bunk when Skaggerhill began to snore, that the cacophony failed to wake Preacher or Braddon was ample sign they were sound asleep. Outside the night was clear and the sky lit with a vast panorama of stars. Only Nelphia was visible tonight, denied the company of her smaller sisters as she made her imperceptible progress across the twinkling back-drop. He remembered that Joya had liked to sit out on the roof and gaze up at the heavens, for hours at a time some nights. He had often felt the urge to go sit with her but never did, thinking it an intrusion; this was her time and they asked enough of her as it was. So she would watch the moons and he would watch her; it had seemed a fair trade at the time.

  He chose a spot near the port paddle casement, glancing around to ensure there were no crewmen in sight before reaching into his shirt to extract his prize. He was gratified to find Ellforth’s lack of personal hygiene didn’t extend to his vials. The padded green-leather wallet was shiny from regular wiping and the glass tubes themselves free of any besmirching grease that might contaminate the contents. He checked each one in turn, grunting in annoyance at the meagre stocks. There was barely a drop of Black left, meaning the bastard had taken a full dose before approaching Clay. He supposed it was flattering. The Blue was similarly denuded but there was about a quarter vial of Green and Red. Added to Auntie’s gift he now had a half-decent supply of product, not counting Blue but he doubted he’d be making much use of that when the time came.

  He took only the smallest sip of Green, letting it settle on his tongue before swallowing it down. As expected the tremble immediately vanished from his hands and the residue of nausea still clutching at his guts loosened then faded completely. He swept the river with his enhanced vision, finding the waters now transformed into a swirling mist through which clouds of small fish darted, gleaming like fire-flies. He raised his gaze to the lonely moon and an involuntary gasp escaped him. So clear, he wondered, eyes tracking over Nelphia’s surface. Usually monochrome, now it stood revealed as a pleasing patchwork of crimson mountains and vermilion valleys, the sparsely cratered plains a soft shade of azure. It was mesmerising, capturing his complete attention for the full sixty seconds it took for the Green to fade
and lodging a memory he knew was unlikely to dim.

  As the last of the Green ebbed away and Nelphia’s surface resumed its grey-black pallor, he recalled Miss Lethridge’s advice to find a visual template for the trance, a mindscape she called it. He decided it was worth a try. The moon was as good an image as any and compelling enough for him to sustain a facsimile during the trance. Also, it might spare him another lecture.

  He added Auntie’s gift to the wallet and returned it to his shirt, knowing he would have to find a better hiding-place come the morning. He made his way back to the hatch leading to their shared cabin then paused at a new sound from the stern. It was soft but high-pitched, like the whimper of a pup in distress. Keenly aware of the fact that he had left the Stinger in the cabin he briefly debated going back for it before moving towards the stern; he had the wallet after all. More whimpering came as he neared the cluster of crates and barrels lashed to the aft deck, the sound clearly human but also possessed of a wince-inducing fear.

  He found Silverpin lying on a large coil of rope, clutching herself tight as if chilled, her tattooed features alternately slack then tense in response to whatever horrors lurked behind her closed eyes. She bared her teeth as she whimpered again, the sound transformed into a snarl as she lurched and lashed out. Her hand was empty but he saw that it gripped an invisible knife, jabbing and thrusting with expert savagery before it fell limp onto her side.

  Clay watched as her heaving chest slowed to a regular rhythm and her shivering subsided, feeling a surge of guilty arousal at the sight of her sweat-beaded skin. He switched his gaze to her face, seeing the features take on a placid, almost serene cast. He retrieved an unused tarpaulin from the deck and draped it over her, taking care to do so at arm’s length lest she awaken with a start, this time with a real blade in hand. He sat on a crate and watched her sleep for a while, thinking it odd how harmless she appeared. Despite the tattoos and the predatory leanness, he saw now that she was scarcely older than he. He wondered how old she could have been when, if as Skaggerhill had claimed, she took up with a pack of headhunters. As old as he had been when Uncle cast him out into the Blinds maybe? Younger even. If so, it was hardly surprising she might suffer the occasional nightmare.

  Feeling the tug of sleep he rose from the crate and started back to the crew quarters, pausing when he saw Silverpin’s lips moving. No sound came from them but it was clear she was speaking, the lips forming words in a silent torrent. He could make little sense of it, but he did detect one word, repeating over and over. Mother . . .

  After a short while the flow of words stopped and she became serene and apparently content under the tarpaulin with no trace of distress to mar her features. He stared at her for some time but she slept on in tranquil silence, her lips free of the slightest twitch. Eventually, as Nelphia slid farther to the west and his eyelids began to droop, he turned away and started back to his cabin, a single question defying his fatigued mind. What is she?

  —

  “There,” Skaggerhill said, pointing a stubby finger at a patch of swamp land off the starboard bow. In the five days since leaving Edinsmouth the surrounding jungle had thinned, giving way to large tracts of grassy, bug-misted swamp. Clay followed the harvester’s finger, picking out a cluster of dome-like forms amidst a less grassy patch of brown-tinged water. For a moment he thought some river folk had come to grief, perhaps thanks to one of the fabled but yet unseen river Greens, upturned boats the only sign of their demise. But looking closer he saw the forms were moving, each producing a subtle but visible wake in the water.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “Glyptids,” Skaggerhill replied. “Though most folk call ’em shell-backs. You’ll get a better look when we pass by some dryer land. Though you probably won’t credit your eyes when you do. They’re the most unlikeliest-looking beast I ever did see, next to the drakes that is.”

  “They dangerous?” Clay asked, then realised it was a stupid question. Everything out here is dangerous.

  “They ain’t meat-eaters,” Skaggerhill replied. “But you don’t wanna get too close, especially when they got young ’uns around. Glyptid’s got a tail like a hammer. They’ll crack you open from neck to balls with a single sweep. Seen it happen once.”

  A shout came from the upper deck, Clay glancing up to see a deck-hand pointing to the sky. He shaded his eyes against the sun and searched the sky until he found it, a cruciform shape, black against blue. He knew instantly it was no bird. Even at this distance he was able to gauge some measure of its size, an impression confirmed when the shadow of a wing swept over the steamer, shading it from bow to stern. The Firejack’s whistle gave a long, insistent blast which sent the crew running. Uncle Braddon and Preacher soon appeared on deck with rifles in hand.

  “Ain’t after us,” Skaggerhill told Braddon as the drake angled its wings, its neck forming an elegant curve as it peered at the river below.

  Braddon’s gaze went to the cluster of humps in the swamp and he nodded, turning and cupping his hands to yell at the wheel-house. “Steer to port and pile on the steam! It’s going for the shell-backs!”

  The Firejack’s paddles were soon churning at a greatly increased rate as the steamer put a good distance between them and the shell-backs. If the drake had any care for their presence it failed to show it, sweeping around in a slow descending circle. Clay could make out its colouring now, seeing the sun glint on its jet scales.

  “Fifteen-footer,” he heard Skaggerhill say. “He’s a long way from home.”

  The Black levelled out then abruptly shortened its wing-span, plummeting down at a steep angle until it was no more than five feet off the water. It spread its wings again, talons skimming the river. On reaching the shell-backs it reared up, the claws of its rear legs slashing downwards. The swamp water erupted into a white maelstrom for a few seconds at it took a firm hold on its prey, Clay feeling the wind-rush as it fanned its wings. It gave a piercing squawk of triumph as it rose higher, something thrashing in its grip. Clay assumed it had taken a juvenile from the size of it, smaller than the others. The shell-back had a blunt, block-shaped head, its mouth agape as it screamed in distress, club-headed tail whirling in panic. The other shell-backs cried out in unison, blocky heads raised from the water to issue a chorus of plaintive dismay as the drake flew away with its prize. It rose to a great height in the space of a minute, soon becoming no more than a speck in the sky.

  “He’ll find some rocky ground to drop it on,” Skaggerhill said.

  “Ever see one so big this far north?” Braddon asked him.

  “No, Captain.” Clay saw there was a troubled cast to the harvester’s gaze. “Not ever. Younger Blacks sometimes venture farther afield in search of a mate, but full-grown males keep to their hunting grounds and guard their females close.”

  “So what’s it doing here?” Clay asked.

  Skaggerhill grunted a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be Seer-damned if I know, young ’un. First Greens attacking Stockade now Blacks hunting in swamp country. Could be this land is trying to tell us something.”

  —

  The swamp grew more shallow with each passing mile and disappeared completely after another three days. The Greenchurn now snaked its way through a mix of arid plains and scrub bush-land. As Skaggerhill promised, Clay was afforded plentiful opportunity to view shell-backs out of the water. They moved in herds of twenty or more, raising copious dust clouds that covered their leathery shells in a reddish-brown shroud. They seemed placid creatures for the most part, happy to munch away at the dense bushes clustering around the river’s numerous tributaries. Occasionally though, two of the larger beasts would go at each other, mouths gaping to roar as they circled around, twisting to deliver thunder-crack blows with their club tails. With little else to do Clay kept watch on the shell-backs and the sky, looking, or perhaps hoping, for another sight of the Black. So far, however, the lumberin
g herds had remained unmolested.

  “Pa says they taste like mutton.”

  Clay turned to find Loriabeth limping to his side. She had finally emerged from her cabin the day before, thinner in face and body and incapable of walking more than a few steps at a time, but otherwise healthy to Clay’s eyes. She also seemed less inclined to habitual insult. “Says I can hunt us one if we get a chance,” she went on, resting her slender arms on the rail and sighing a little from the effort of walking.

  “Would’ve thought they taste like turtle,” Clay replied. “Thought that’s what they are, just big turtles.”

  “Maybe. Guess we’ll find out before long.” She paused, throat working and gaze guarded. “I ain’t thanked you for what you did at Stockade.”

  “Thank Silverpin. Get the feeling she didn’t need my help.”

  “Thanked her already. She just nodded and went back to honing her blades. Known her for four years now and she barely seems to see me. Awful puzzling why she’d risk her neck for mine.”

  “Uncle brought her into the Longrifles?”

  She shook her head. “Was Skaggs that found her back in some shit-hole tavern in Carvenport. Seems she was in the midst of a disagreement with her old headhunter crew. Her skills impressed him enough to make an introduction.” She shifted, wincing a little and clutching at her leg.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  “Aches now and then is all. Foxy says given time it should heal enough that I won’t limp my whole life.”

  He watched her massaging her thigh, seeing the suppressed pain in her face. “Was it worth it, cuz?” he asked. “Coming after us was the most fool thing I ever saw, and I saw plenty in the Blinds.”

  “Pa told me what we’re after. Damn right it was worth it. We’re the luckiest Contractor crew to ever track the Interior, Clay. The White Drake, a thing no living soul has ever seen. Think on it.”