by Anthony Ryan
“So where’s this leave us?” Skaggerhill said, poking at the coals in their miniature fire. Of them all he seemed the most inclined not to notice Clay and Silverpin’s altered relationship.
“Richer in knowledge, if nothing else,” Braddon replied, keeping his gaze on Clay. “And entirely reliant on our contracted Blood-blessed.”
“Next trance is in two days,” Clay said. “We’ll just have to see what the lady’s got to tell me. If the Corvantines ain’t got her yet.”
“That likely?”
“They knew about this little jaunt. Who’s to say they don’t know about her? Looks like we may have to call an end to this whole venture, Uncle.” With any luck, he added inwardly, though the thought made him wonder if his one hundred thousand scrip would still be forthcoming should the expedition prove a failure.
“I say when we call an end, boy.” A deep, barely controlled anger had crept into Braddon’s voice. It’s back, Clay realised, seeing the familiar hungry glint in his uncle’s eye. Worse now he knows the great myth ain’t a myth. Now he’s got something real to chase.
“Preacher,” Clay said, turning to the marksman. “You’re a book-learned fella. Just how big is Arradsia, would you say?”
“One point eight million square miles,” Preacher replied without hesitation.
“One point eight million,” Clay repeated, turning back to his uncle. “Lotta ground to cover with no real idea of where to look.”
Braddon got slowly to his feet, staring down at Clay and speaking in slow, emphatic tones. “I say when we call an end, boy.”
Silverpin suddenly stiffened against Clay’s side, her hand snatching up the spear at her feet. “It’s alright . . .” Clay began to soothe her but she sprang away, panther fast, leaping over the fire and bearing Braddon to the ground.
“Don’t!” Clay shouted, surging to his feet then reeling away as something buzzed past his ear, leaving a stinging pain in its wake. It thudded into the sand just beyond where Silverpin had his uncle pinned to the flakes. Clay put a hand to his ear, staring in shock as it came away bloody.
“Spoiled!” Foxbine called out, whirling to face the darkened dunes, carbine at her shoulder. Silverpin rolled off Braddon to crouch with spear in hand, glancing over at Clay and urgently beckoning him to her side. He could only stand gaping with blood running down his neck.
“Dammit, young ’un!” Skaggerhill sent him sprawling with a sweep of his leg, the harvester lying prone, shotgun at the ready. “Skin that iron. We got work to do.”
Clay fumbled for the Stinger, wincing as Skaggerhill’s shotgun sent a loud, booming blast into the darkness beyond the fire. Clay managed to work the weapon free, cursing the whole while. He reached for the stock on his back then flattened himself to the flakes as the air above thrummed with multiple unseen projectiles. One sank into the ground a bare six inches from his face, an arrow, shuddering with the impact. It was fashioned from bone, he saw, sparsely fletched with dried grass. A series of harsh guttural shouts dragged his attention from the arrow and he turned in time to see half a dozen ragged figures charging out of the darkness, clubs and knives in every hand.
Skaggerhill fired again, cutting down one, then a salvo from Foxbine’s carbine felled two more. The Stinger bucked in Clay’s hand and another collapsed just yards away. He couldn’t remember aiming or drawing back the hammer. He thumbed it once more and fired again, the Spoiled taking the bullet full in the chest less than an arm’s length short. Clay ducked as the last one swung at him, the club whistling over his head. A flurry of shots from the rest of the company sent the Spoiled jerking and spinning until he collapsed onto the fire, his blood drawing a sizzle from the coals.
Multiple snicks in the gloom as they reloaded, Clay marvelling at the absence of a tremble as his fingers fed fresh rounds into the Stinger’s cylinder. He finally managed to get hold of the stock and slotted it into place, pulling it tight against his shoulder as he hunkered down, using the body of the last Spoiled he shot as cover. He could see its face in the meagre light, scales and spines contrasting with an oddly peaceful expression.
“We get ’em all, y’think?” he hissed at Skaggerhill.
The harvester snapped closed the breech of his shotgun and rested it on his pack. “Just scouts. Take a sniff and you’ll get an idea.”
Clay frowned in bafflement but nevertheless widened his nostrils to taste the air, face soon bunching in disgust at the thick scent carried by the westerly wind. It smelled worse than Ellforth’s breath, rich in a corruption that warned of deep and lasting sickness. “Stinks like product gone bad, don’t it?” Skaggerhill commented. “I’d say we got us a full war-party out there, at least.”
“How many’s that?”
The harvester’s face was grim, as was his tone. “Too many.”
Clay’s hand stole into his shirt, clutching Ellforth’s wallet. He had begun to open the flap when the Spoiled charged again. For a while everything was a whirl of gun-shots, war-cries and falling Spoiled. The Stinger bucked repeatedly in Clay’s hand as he aimed and fired on pure instinct. They came on so fast there was no time to think. He gave an involuntary shudder as the Stinger’s hammer clicked on an empty chamber, the Spoiled he had been aiming for charging on, teeth bared and the spiny ridge of his forehead gleaming. Clay reversed his grip on the pistol and got to his feet, stepping close to trap the Spoiled’s club arm and hammering the butt into his forehead. The Spoiled reeled back a few feet then twisted into a bloody pirouette as Skaggerhill sent the contents of both barrels into his chest.
A lull descended, Clay sinking down behind the corpse once more as he reloaded, casting a glance around the camp. They were all still breathing and apparently unharmed. Silverpin crouched at his uncle’s side, spear blooded down to her fist whilst Braddon methodically slid fresh cartridges into his longrifle. Foxbine had apparently emptied her carbine and had both pistols in hand. Just in front of her lay the bodies of seven Spoiled. From her expression, equal parts rage and hunger, Clay judged she didn’t think her haul sufficient.
“Don’t suppose we scared them off, huh?” he asked Skaggerhill.
“They don’t scare. Just keep comin’ till we’re outta bullets or they’re outta bodies.”
A sudden rush of wind brought another wave of the Spoiled’s stench, even thicker than before. Seer-dammit, there’s more gathering out there. He abandoned any hope of secrecy and reached for Ellforth’s wallet. All of it, he decided. Not a time for half-measures.
He had begun to pull Auntie’s vial free when a great roaring sound erupted out in the darkness. He looked up to see a wall of flame rising fifty yards out, birthed by a jet of fire cast down from above. The Spoiled were dancing, not in celebration but agony, their screams cutting through the roar of the flames. A gust of wind swept across the camp and Clay saw the stars above blacked out for an instant as something large passed overhead. A few seconds later another jet of flame swept down fifty yards to the south. More dancing Spoiled, more screams. Clay caught sight of the drake’s wing outlined against the rising flames as it swept low over the desert.
It made several more attacks, circling to cast its flames down at the milling Spoiled until the camp was entirely ringed by fire. No-one spoke, Clay seeing only dumb amazement on every face save Silverpin’s. She alone stood regarding the spectacle with narrow-eyed suspicion. A cry echoed down at them from the sky as the flames began to die leaving behind a glowing orange ring of melted iron: the piercing scream of a triumphant drake.
“There!” Foxbine said, pistols pointed at something out on the sands. It stood just outside the glowing circle, a small figure swaddled in rags clutching a walking-stick. For a second Clay’s swaddled man stood regarding them in stillness. None of the Longrifles fired, some primal instinct telling them they looked upon their saviour. The small figure hefted its stick, turned and walked off into the darkness. After a few moments they
heard the rush of wind and thrum of wings that told of a drake alighting on the earth. A moment later it took to the sky, Clay catching a glimpse of its silhouette as it passed across the face of Nelphia. The Black from the river. Somehow he knew it, knew the beast and whatever commanded it had tracked them from the Firejack to the Badlands and back again. And, although it was just a small speck, he could have sworn he saw the swaddled man perched on the drake’s back before it angled its wings and disappeared from view.
—
That is certainly very curious, Miss Lethridge commented as he shifted his mindscape to replay the events on the Sands, the intervention of the swaddled man and his apparently tame Black being a particular point of interest. Clay showed her the piled bodies of the Spoiled, all twisted up and scorched, some forged together by the heat of the drake’s fire.
The remainder of your journey was uneventful, I trust? she enquired.
Saw no more sign of the Spoiled, nor the man. The trek back to the Firejack had been a mostly quiet affair, each of the Longrifles marching in preoccupied silence whilst Clay tried not to fiddle with the bandage Foxbine had secured over his ear. Although Clay knew they all prized discovery above most things, he wondered if what they had witnessed the night before had been one wonder too many, a thing best left unseen.
You may not have found the egg but your uncle should still consider this a success, Miss Lethridge told him. At least we now have confirmation of Ethelynne Drystone’s account. I expect Madame Bondersil will be very pleased.
I’ll be sure to tell him, he replied, pausing to take in the sight of her whirlwinds. They spun with considerable energy but lacked the cohesion he had seen before, and there seemed to be a lot more red in the mix. More complications? he asked.
The past two days have been . . . eventful, but productive. Look here. She pulled a small, pale twister closer, opening it out into a sheet of paper.
That a map? he asked.
Indeed it is. I have reason to believe it holds clues to the whereabouts of our quarry. Be sure to memorise it as I taught you.
He scraped a copy of the map into the dirt of his mindscape, a colourful re-creation of Nelphia’s surface, his various memories formed into valleys and mountains. A considerable improvement, she had complimented him when the trance was joined.
You any idea what all this means? he asked when the drawing was complete. The drake saving us like that? The Spoiled feeding themselves to the White?
Perhaps, if as your Preacher opines they truly worship this thing, they felt they had no choice. As for the drake’s actions, that is one of many things currently beyond my understanding. However, with the wealth of documents and the device in my possession, hopefully answers will be forthcoming when I return to Carvenport.
Mission’s over, huh?
This part of it, at least. Though extraction is likely to prove hazardous so don’t be too surprised if I fail to appear at the next trance.
He didn’t like the matter-of-fact tone to her thoughts and was surprised to find he actually cared if she made it out safely. He put it down to some side-effect of the trance, mutual concern being inevitable when two minds were joined.
You be sure to take care, he told her. The Corvantines’ve got a lead on both of us now, don’t forget.
Her thoughts betrayed a faint amusement, though also a small glimmer of gratitude. Why thank you, Mr. Torcreek. And congratulations, by the way.
For what?
The Island girl. Though you may want to have a care. I hear they mate for life. With that she was gone, leaving him pondering a means of better guarding his secrets in the trance.
—
“The Coppersoles.” Skaggerhill grimaced as he straightened from the map Clay had drawn. “That’s Briteshore holdings, Captain,” he said to Braddon. “And they ain’t partial to trespassers.”
“They rarely venture more than twenty miles from shore,” Braddon replied, fists resting on the table and gaze fixed on the map. “Too busy digging treasure out of their mines. Can’t see them bothering us none.”
He touched a finger to the map, tracing the dotted route that ran south from Morsvale, skirting the Badlands and the Red Sands until it intersected the Greychurn on the other side of the Badlands from where the Riverjack was currently moored up. From there the dotted line continued on, tracing around the Red Sands and the southern Badlands before coming to Krystaline Lake. From there it continued south in the dense confines of the Coppersole Mountains. Upon reaching the foothills, however, the line abruptly ended in a symbol Preacher confidently translated as the Corvantine equivalent of a question mark.
“It’s a long way,” Clay observed, wondering if he shouldn’t have sketched a different route, one that led them to a settlement with a decent-sized port and ships available for charter. However, he was aware his uncle knew him far too well to allow for any deception. “And, seems clear whoever drew this ran out of clues just short of the mountains.”
“But at least we have us a due date for arrival.” Braddon tapped a finger to the note scrawled alongside the question mark. Clay had copied it exactly as it appeared in Miss Lethridge’s shared memory, finding it meaningless since he didn’t know any Corvantine. His uncle, however, was apparently more learned. “The tenth of Margasal,” he translated then glanced up at Preacher.
“Twenty-seventh Verester in the Mandinorian Calendar,” he supplied, adding after a pause, “the date of the next alignment.”
“Alignment?” Clay asked.
“Visible in the southern hemisphere only once in every twenty years,” Preacher said. “The three moons in alignment with the planets. The moons cause a total eclipse, allowing the planets to be viewed in daylight for only the briefest instant.”
“What’s that got to do with the White?” Clay wondered.
“Breeding cycle, maybe,” Skaggerhill suggested. “All the drakes breed at certain times of year. The Blues only spawn when the three moons are visible in the sky, f’r instance.”
“Ain’t gonna know one way or the other till we get there,” Braddon said, rolling up the map and turning to Captain Keelman. “We make for the Falls. After that, it’s on to Krystaline Lake.”
—
“Dammit, kiddo. Sit still, will ya?”
Clay stalled a reflexive jerk of his head and bit down on an unmanly whimper as Foxbine put another stitch in his ear. She had painted the wound with a few drops of Green, making it sting like the fires of the Travail, but that had been a picnic compared to this. “How much longer?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Sheesh, from all this wailing you’d think the damn thing had been torn away entirely.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Just a couple more. Try not to blub now, your lady-love’s watching.”
They were on the Firejack’s fore-deck, Silverpin sitting near by and observing the gunhand’s work with keen scrutiny. Loriabeth had also paused in her daily constitutional to partake of the scene. “Really neat work, Foxy,” she said. “Looks like Cuz won’t have much’ve a scar to boast about.”
“The lower half of my ear was dangling,” he muttered.
“Trust you to be the only one to get scarred up.” She delivered a playful punch to his shoulder and sat down on a barrel, rubbing her leg. “Got bad, huh?” she asked the gunhand.
Foxbine hesitated before replying, her casual tone sounding somewhat forced to Clay. “Bad as I’ve seen it. Never had to take down so many at one time before, and there was plenty more lining up behind. Still.” Clay winced at another tug to his ear. “Always glad to increase my count. Takes me up to over ninety now.”
“You’ve killed ninety Spoiled?” Clay asked.
“Ninety-two, to be exact. And before this expedition’s done, I expect I’ll make my century.” Her scissors gave a soft snick and she moved back from him. “You’re all done. Don’t go picking at it now. The skip
per ain’t likely to spare us any more Green just to save your ear from dropping off due to infection.”
It was a six-day haul to the settlement of Fallsguard, Clay noting Captain Keelman was now more inclined to set his Blood-blessed to firing the engine whenever possible. Keen to off-load us, he deduced, seeing the skipper’s stern countenance whenever he had cause to speak to Clay’s uncle. Didn’t sign on for this kind of trouble.
Clay spent his days scanning the skies for the reappearance of the Black and its swaddled rider, without result. He did see a few solitary Reds prowling the banks and the plains for prey, and on one occasion a glimpse of the elusive river Green. It exploded from the waters of an inlet shadowed by a thick canopy of overhanging trees, a flickering spectre of white and green, something dog-sized thrashing and screaming in its maw.
“Got himself an otter,” Skaggerhill observed as the drake dragged its prize below the surface. Clay saw its colour change as it passed beneath the Firejack’s hull, from white to greenish brown to match the river-bed. But for the still-struggling otter it would have been invisible.
“Remind me not to go for a swim,” he told the harvester, who bared his teeth in a grin.
“Seems young ’un’s finally learning.”
At night Silverpin would lead him to one of several more private alcoves in the vessel’s bowels. Behind the main boiler in the engine room seemed to be her favourite spot, possibly because the noise obscured the sounds she made in the midst of passion. For a woman who couldn’t talk, she certainly knew how to give voice to certain sensations. The night before they were due to reach Fallsguard she proved particularly vocal, gasping out hard, ragged breaths as she straddled him, face close to his so their breath mingled.
