The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  Hilemore brought his hand down just as the marine officer began to open his mouth in a warning shout. All three guns fired at once, Hilemore seeing the marine officer’s tall form shredded into several pieces by the hail of canister and chain, along with approximately half the marines behind. Smoke momentarily obscured the neighbouring launch but when it cleared he was rewarded with the sight of it listing in the water, waves lapping over its side and oars hanging limp. The marines aboard lay in a twitching ruin.

  The response from the other launches was immediate, their small cannon slamming three high-explosive shells into the Viable’s upper rail. The damage to the ship was slight but the resultant explosions cast enough splintered wood and metal into the assembled crewmen to leave at least half a dozen writhing or dead on the deck.

  “Leave them!” Hilemore barked at one of the ensigns, who was attempting to haul away a wounded man. “Time for that later.” He stood, raising his voice to a roaring pitch. “Riflemen up! Independent rapid fire!”

  The riflemen moved to the rail and began firing immediately, the initial volley scything through the ranks of the marines in the third launch as it attempted to navigate the channel between the two ruined boats. Hilemore saw several Corvantines fall into the sea as their comrades attempted to find cover in the confines of the boat. He allowed the riflemen a few more seconds’ fire before ordering them to shift their aim to the other launches. However, the marine officers had been annoyingly quick to react, ordering the oarsmen to increased efforts and closing the distance. One had drawn up to the Viable’s side just fore of the paddle casement and another was casting ropes at the stern.

  Recognising the greatest danger lay where the defenders were thinnest, Hilemore ordered the ensigns to fall in behind and moved forward, gathering the gunners along the way. A marine was already clambering onto the rail when they got there, teeth gritted as he hauled himself up the rope towards the iron grapple hooked onto the Viable’s side. Hilemore shot him in the face, the body tumbling back onto the boat below. Another marine managed to get a foot on deck before the combined fire of the ensign’s revolvers sent him over the side in a welter of blood. Hilemore leaned over the rail and emptied his revolver into the dense ranks of marines below, near oblivious to the shots that came in response, one whipping close by his ear and another shattering the jaw of a gunner who had rushed to his side.

  “Keep firing,” he told the ensigns, ducking back down to reload. The three youngsters responded immediately, their fear now replaced by the fury of combat as was often the case once battle became joined and all uncertainty fled. The gunners moved up to add their rifles to the barrage, all whooping in excitement or casting obscenities at the unfortunate marines below as they poured out a desperate barrage. When Hilemore raised himself to fire again, a fresh cylinder in his revolver and eyes alive for targets, he saw a boat filled with corpses or wounded. A few survivors were swimming away, making for the cruiser where their most likely reception would be a noose. The Corvantines were notoriously intolerant of cowardice.

  A fresh upsurge of rifle fire tore his gaze back to the stern. The riflemen had evidently fired a final volley before moving in with the bayonet, thrusting at the wall of green-clad bodies now clambering over the side. Fresh firing had also erupted to port, indicating Steelfine’s men were now battling the other two boat-loads of marines.

  Hilemore holstered his revolver and drew his sword, ordering the ensigns to follow suit and ensuring the gunners had fixed bayonets. “With a will, if you please, lads,” he said, moving forward at a steady run. The marines had managed to force back the riflemen by a few yards by the time he led his small band into their flank, laying about them with his sword. He hacked down a marine desperately attempting to slot a fresh round into the chamber of his rifle, then slashed open the face of another who raised his bayonet a fraction too late to ward off the blow. Seeing his charge the Viable’s crew gave a savage shout of defiance and launched themselves at the marines with renewed vigour, bayonets stabbing and rifle-butts clubbing. The marines were forced back to the rail, though their sole remaining officer proved a valiant fellow. Standing straight and immune to either injury or fear, he steadied his men into a tight defensive knot around the aft anchor mounting, taking careful aim with his revolver as he dispatched three riflemen in quick succession.

  “Pull back!” Hilemore told the crew, drawing his own side-arm. “Reload and finish them with a volley.”

  His order had clearly drawn the marine officer’s attention, for he fixed him with a keen eye before his revolver swung round for another carefully aimed shot. Hilemore’s arm came up in response, blurring with the speed of it, his shot loosed in tandem with the marine’s, the two bullets passing each other in mid air. He felt something pluck at his shoulder, numbing the flesh beneath his tunic, but stopped himself looking at the wound. Instead, he stepped to the side and drew back the revolver’s hammer for another shot, only to find it wasn’t necessary. The marine officer had slumped back amidst his men, a large red hole in the centre of his forehead. An instant later the riflemen fired a single deafening volley, blood pluming in crimson blossoms on the tunics of the remaining marines as they were driven lifeless to the deck.

  Hilemore turned to the port rail, finding Steelfine’s men engaged in a frantic struggle with two boat-loads of marines. The Master-at-Arms had eschewed a rifle for a sea-axe and could be seen in the thick of the fight, the axe blade trailing blood from his tireless blows. His face had taken on an oddly serene expression, for all the world a man content in his labour.

  Hilemore opened his mouth to order the surrounding crew into a firing line, intending to warn Steelfine to drop to the deck whilst their volley sent the marines reeling over the side. At that moment, however, the Viable Opportunity lurched into renewed life.

  Those marines still clambering up the Viable’s side were jolted into the sea as her paddles swung into motion and a gout of steam rose from the stacks. A cheer rose from the crew and they immediately launched themselves at the remaining Corvantine marines, most of whom took the prudent course of jumping over the side. Within seconds the remainder were dead, each pinned to the deck by a clutch of bayonets, some in the act of surrendering.

  “You there, Tollver,” Hilemore called to the lanky ensign who stood staring at his bloodied sword in dim-eyed fascination. He snapped to attention quickly, however. “Get to the engine room. Tell Mr. Bozware to make smoke, as much as he can.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hilemore paused to order the marine bodies cast over the side and the guns reloaded then made his way to the bridge. “North-north-east, sir,” Talmant said, hands firm on the wheel.

  “Very good, Ensign.” He checked the speed indicator, finding that the Viable had already accelerated to twenty knots. Clearly, the Chief’s repair had been less of a bodge than he warned. He found the captain’s spy-glass lying undamaged on the floor and trained it towards the south. Those Corvantine vessels in sight had evidently come to a near halt in the aftermath of battle, either to claim prizes or pluck prisoners from the sea. Some were piling on steam for a pursuit, including the sleek cruiser that had launched the marines. Clearly, their admiral was still keen to get his hands on the Viable’s engine for none of the Corvantines fired a shot.

  “Mr. Talmant, make ready to turn hard a-starboard at my signal,” he told the ensign.

  “Aye, sir.” The boy hesitated. “Won’t that take us into the islands, sir?”

  “With any luck.”

  The smoke-screen blossomed from the stacks a few moments later. They were fortunate with the winds today, the relative stillness of the air allowing the smoke to settle over the Viable’s wake in a thick grey blanket. “Make your turn, if you please, Ensign.”

  The boy swung the wheel as ordered until the compass-needle settled on dead east, whereupon he brought the rudder back to midships. Whatever restraint had curtailed their pursuers had
evidently been lifted and the flat boom and whine of shells could be heard through the smoke, though none came within a hundred yards. The Corvantine gunners had assumed they would maintain a northerly course and laid their fire accordingly. After all, Hilemore reflected, only a madman would take his ship into the Isles. A madman . . . or a pirate.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lizanne

  “As close to Carvenport as I could get without running afoul of the Corvantine Fleet.” Kaden smiled thinly and tossed Major Arberus another canteen.

  “It’s fifty miles away,” Arberus returned. “With who knows how many Corvantine scouts patrolling the jungle.”

  “Then you had best not linger. I now consider our debt settled and will certainly kill you the moment I see you again. You can keep the rifle.” With that the smuggler turned and strode back to the wheel-house. A few moments later the Wave Dancer pulled away from shore and began to turn about. Night was coming on and her stack glowed a little in the gloom as she made her way back up-river, fading from sight a short while later.

  “He didn’t even say thank you,” Tekela observed.

  Lizanne shouldered her pack and held up one of the canteens they had been given. “I think this is the sum of his gratitude.” She glanced at the dark wall of jungle crowding the river-bank. She knew every drake pack in this vicinity had been hunted to extinction over a decade ago, but her brief experience of the Interior had bred a healthy respect for the many uncertainties lurking beyond the walls of civilisation.

  “We’d best put in some miles before it’s too dark to see,” she said, starting forward. “Miss, do not stray more than two feet from my side.”

  “I surely won’t,” Tekela replied in a small voice, her gaze bright with alarm as it roved the jungle.

  They managed only an hour’s travel before darkness forced a halt. Lizanne had found a trail of sorts, presumably a track left by some of the small deer that populated this region in ever-increasing numbers since there were no drakes to thin their herds. The trail led to a small glade where they made camp for the night, Tekela huddling close to Lizanne for warmth as the major had been vocal in forbidding a fire.

  “Morradin will have his cavalry well ahead of the main body,” he said, rifle cocked and ready as he sat scanning the jungle. “I should know, I would have been amongst them.”

  “Do you know his plan of attack?” Lizanne asked.

  “Only the broad strategy. Morradin is not a particularly verbose man, nor particularly trusting. The army will advance en masse from Morsvale, screened by cavalry and skirmishers, and approach Carvenport from the south-west. The fleet, provided they manage to secure the Strait, will bombard the town in preparation for the final assault. Hardly subtle, I know, but he’s not the most subtle commander. His record speaks for itself, however.”

  “How many troops in total?”

  “Two full divisions, plus the Morsvale militia companies. I’d say twenty-five thousand, altogether.” He glanced over at her. “You intend to trance this to your contact in Carvenport, I assume?”

  “The next scheduled trance is tomorrow evening. Hopefully, I’ll give the Protectorate some prospect of organising a defence.”

  “The Carvenport garrison numbers no more than three thousand troops, and only four batteries of artillery. They’ll be lucky to last a day.”

  “The empire’s spies have been busy, I see.”

  He gave a humourless laugh, muttering, “Spies are always busy.”

  She watched him closely as she spoke another word, resisting the impulse to partake of some Green to enhance her sight as she had precious little left. “Truelove,” she said.

  Nothing. No reaction beyond a faintly puzzled glance in her direction. “What?”

  He’s not that good an actor, she decided. The name means nothing to him. “Never mind.” She settled next to Tekela, putting an arm around her shoulders to ward off her shivers. “Wake me when you get tired.”

  —

  There has been no word from the Protectorate Fleet for two days, Madame told her, mindscape simmering like an unappetising soup on the boil. A decidedly ominous development that forces me to conclude the Strait has been lost to the Corvantines. Nevertheless, the Board has ordered Carvenport held at all costs pending relief, which they promise will arrive within the month.

  A month may as well be a year at this juncture, Lizanne replied. Morradin has a full picture of our strength, not to mention agents at large in the city.

  Reduced in number as of this morning, I’m happy to say. All known Cadre operatives were arrested at dawn. The interrogations have revealed another four agents previously unknown to us.

  There are undoubtedly more.

  Certainly, but hopefully this little demonstration will be enough to keep them quiescent, at least for now.

  Truelove?

  Not a sign nor a clue. The name is unknown to any of the operatives we arrested. A now-familiar black web appeared in Madame’s mindscape, the tentacles spreading and coiling about the clouds with a vibrant energy before she reasserted control. The web froze but lingered and Lizanne was unsurprised by the next question. The device is intact?

  Quite intact, Madame. As are the documents I was able to retrieve.

  Excellent. I have a select group of scholars awaiting their arrival. We should have a much clearer picture to communicate to Mr. Torcreek within days.

  Presuming we can hold the city that long.

  Allow me to worry about the military tedium, Lizanne. The grand marshal will find we have a few surprises for him. In the meantime, make your way here with all haste, safe delivery of the device being your sole priority, sentimental attachments notwithstanding.

  —

  “Hateful, stinking, bloody place!” Tekela groaned. She was on all fours, her foot having tangled itself in a vine. Watching her climb wearily to her feet Lizanne could see only a small vestige of the scowling, tantrum-prone girl from a few weeks before. Her overalls were besmirched from the filth of the smuggler’s boat and the attentions of the jungle. Her hair had been tied back into a severe bun but lank, unwashed strands hung across her face like emaciated snakes. Then there was the grief, of course, the pain of it deepening now that she had time to dwell on the series of events that had brought her here. She tried to hide it, fixing her face into a mask of quiet determination for the most part, but Lizanne saw it plainly; the haunted cast to the eyes and the inability to smile that told of deep-seated loss shot through with guilt.

  “We’ll rest a moment,” Lizanne said, pointing Tekela to a near by fallen branch.

  “I’m not tired . . .”

  “Just sit, miss.”

  Arberus glanced back at them then rested his back against a tree, drinking deeply from his canteen. In contrast to Tekela, much of his vitality had returned in recent days, though his occasional winces told of scars not yet healed. Also, Lizanne saw no grief in him, just a persistent anger and unwavering purpose. Fanatics are useful, she recalled an instructor saying once. But should always be regarded as disposable resources.

  “Here,” she said, rolling up her sleeve and turning to Tekela. She removed the vial of Green from the Spider and handed it to the girl. “Two sips. It’s the dress-maker’s stock so it’s not as potent as I’d like, but it’ll keep you on your feet for a few miles.”

  Tekela regarded the vial with a suspicious frown. “I’ve never . . . Father didn’t like it, wouldn’t have any in the house.”

  Lizanne stared at her expectantly until she brought the vial to her lips, cautiously drinking down the allotted two sips and grimacing at the taste. “That’s awful . . .” She trailed off as the effects took hold, colour flooding her cheeks and her slumped shoulders straightening. “Oh,” she said, voice just a little below a squeak.

  “Come on.” Lizanne patted her hand and got to her feet. “Two more days and we’ll be in sight .
. .”

  A faint but strident note sounded from the south, echoing through the trees with urgent warning. “Hunting horn,” Arberus said, instantly on his feet with the rifle stock at his shoulder. “Imperial Rangers.” He raised his gaze to the sky, peering through the trees at something far above.

  “What is it?” Lizanne asked.

  “They know where we are.” He pointed at two small winged silhouettes visible through a gap in the canopy. They were directly above, circling lazily. “Hawks. The Rangers prefer them to hounds.”

  The horn sounded again, closer this time.

  “Half a mile?” Lizanne wondered.

  “More like a third. And they’re on horseback.”

  She turned to Tekela, watching her clutch her revolver with a fresh sheen of sweat on her face. The Green had added some colour to her cheeks but the fear in her eyes was palpable. Sentimental attachments notwithstanding . . .

  “Take this,” she said, sloughing off her pack and handing it to Arberus. “When you reach Carvenport you’re to place it in the hands of Madame Lodima Bondersil. No-one else. She is aware of our arrangement.”

  She drew the Whisper and moved to Tekela, briefly clasping her hand. “Go with the major, miss.”

  “Wait!” The girl’s hand tightened on Lizanne’s, refusing to let go. “We go together or not at all.”

  “I can hold them long enough for you to get away,” Lizanne replied. “The major can’t.”

  She gave Tekela’s hand a final squeeze then firmly pulled herself free, turning and running towards the south without further pause. Tekela called after her, the desperate entreaties turning to frustrated anger as Arberus began to haul her away. Lizanne injected a brief burst of Green and increased her pace.

  The first trooper came into sight barely a minute later, trotting his mount forward at a steady clip through a sunlit clearing. He rode with a carbine in one hand and the reins in the other, clad in the grey-green uniform of the Imperial Light Horse. From his weathered features, and the way his eyes constantly roved the surrounding jungle, Lizanne judged him a veteran and no stranger to the Interior. She found a suitable tree and quickly climbed to a third of its height, perching on a thick branch from where she could observe both the trooper and the company following behind at a professionally cautious distance. She put their number at a dozen, though there were certain to be other squadrons near by. However, only this one was likely to pick up the trail left by Tekela and the major.