by Anthony Ryan
She paused, watching his sorrow for a time and wondering if his irksome fanaticism might have eroded amidst all this fury. He would be so much more interesting without it. “I believe I have been remiss in not thanking you before now,” she said. “Mrs. Torcreek told me it was you who pulled me from the harbour.”
He gave a half smile. “I wondered where you’d gone to after such an intense conversation with Mr. Tollermine. As for pulling you out, I had help from a couple of Blood-blessed stevedores. It seemed they were appreciative of your work in the trenches. To be completely honest, we’d probably both have drowned without them.”
A scream sounded out in the darkness beyond the walls and a ripple of alarm ran through the soldiers and Contractors on either side. The moons were hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud so the night was an unknowable void, pregnant with whatever fears the mind chose to conjure. “Green,” one of the Contractors said, a youthful marksman Lizanne recognised from Captain Flaxknot’s company. “Pack-leader I reckon.”
They listened in silence for several minutes but no more screams came. “What is doing this?” Arberus wondered aloud in Eutherian.
Lizanne hesitated before replying, uncertain how much she should reveal. After a moment’s consideration, however, it occurred to her that circumstances made her deeply habituated secrecy redundant. “The White,” she said. “The White is doing this.”
Seeing his bafflement she sighed and spoke on. “Ironship sent a company of Contractors into the Interior, guided by whatever intelligence I might discover during my mission. It transpires Burgrave Artonin’s suspicions were correct; the White, sadly, is no myth.” She went on to describe Clay’s discovery of Ethelynne Drystone and the drake’s memory she had shared. “The Longrifles are at the Coppersoles now,” she concluded. “Where it seems they may actually have a chance of finding its lair.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Torcreek will attempt to kill it and put an end to this havoc.”
“Is such a thing even possible?”
She gave a short laugh and took a final draw on her cigarillo before flicking the butt out into the darkness. “I am increasingly of the opinion that, when it comes to this continent, the notion of impossibility has little meaning.”
CHAPTER 37
Clay
Clay woke to find himself lying near a camp-fire, the sky dark overhead and the Longrifles all sitting around in grim silence. On seeing him wake, his uncle got to his feet and kicked dust over the fire. “Gotta keep moving. Spoiled might well find a way around that canyon.”
So they marched through the night, Clay stumbling along at the rear of the company as they followed the tracks ever deeper into the mountains. The passage was narrower now, and the walls of rock on either side taller. The absence of cover forced Braddon to set a punishing pace, calling a rest when the channel finally opened out into a broad valley and the track descended to follow the course of the river running through it. They made camp on a low rise a short distance from the track, where Clay sank down to huddle close to the fire. He had only his duster for warmth, most of everything having been lost with the engine.
“You threw the rope, right?” he asked Silverpin as she came to his side. His teeth chattered a little as she wrapped her arms around him. The effects of ingesting such a copious amount of product so quickly were taking a while to fade. Also, inhaling so much smoke left him with a grating cough. “Quite a feat. Wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t seen it.”
She just shrugged and held him closer until sleep claimed him.
—
There were no words said for Foxbine, no ceremony or exchange of reminiscences. In fact the only acknowledgment of her passing came when Braddon handed Loriabeth the gunhand’s revolver. “You’re First Gunhand now. She would’ve wanted you to have this.”
Loriabeth took the weapon with barely a nod, though Clay could see she was fighting tears. No time for grief in the Interior, he realised, seeing how Braddon resisted the urge to reach out a comforting hand to his daughter.
“So what now?” Firpike asked, hunched over and staring at the smoking embers of the camp-fire.
“We keep on the track,” Braddon told him simply.
“I don’t wish to speak out of turn, Captain,” the scholar said, not looking up, though a cautious anger had crept into his tone. “But I can’t help but notice our complete lack of provisions.”
“We could always eat you,” Loriabeth muttered. “Though I’d most likely choke on your bitter flesh.”
“Looks like we won’t have to worry on that score,” Skaggerhill said, standing and nodding to the south where a large winged shape descended through the misty-morning air. Lutharon flared his wings as he approached the camp, talons opening to deposit the carcass of a large-horned goat in their midst before coming to earth a short distance away.
“Quite the mess you made,” Ethelynne said, climbing down from the drake’s back. “I would estimate two thousand Spoiled are now rushing in pursuit. They’re at least a day behind though, so no need for immediate concern.” She paused to survey their diminished company. “The red-haired lady?”
Braddon gave a wordless shake of his head.
“Oh, my condolences. Still, I have news which may brighten the day.” She pulled Scriberson’s sketch from her coat of rags, holding it up with a slightly smug expression. “I found it.”
Braddon had contrived to secure their maps before leaping from the engine and spread them out on the ground so Ethelynne could point out their destination. “There’s a Briteshore settlement at the base of the mountain,” she said. “It looks to have been abandoned, though they left behind a good quantity of mining gear. I assume their surveyors found the place worthy of exploration thanks to the platform carved into the mountain side, it clearly being of artificial construction.”
“Looks like a steep climb,” Skaggerhill commented, tracing the flanks of the mountain with his stubby finger. “Unless your drake’d be willing to carry us all up there one at a time, ma’am.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said with a cryptic grin. “You’ll see why when we get there.”
“Ten days’ march,” Braddon said, eyes intent on the chart. “Maybe more depending on how rough the country is.”
“Then we’d best be getting on,” Clay said, rising to his feet. A hearty meal of roasted goat had restored a good deal of his strength. Also, his brief trance with Miss Lethridge that morning left little doubt as to the urgency of their situation. He had chosen not to impart the news to the others, unsure how they would react and keen not to allow any distractions from their course. It may well know you’re coming, Miss Lethridge had warned after replaying the memory of Madame Bondersil’s aborted betrayal and the Corvantine fleet’s destruction. I wish I had some guidance to offer . . .
Doubt there’s much you could say right now that could help, he replied. Gotta find this thing and kill it. That’s all there is.
—
They left the track behind two days later, striking out towards the west across a series of hills. Lutharon kept them well supplied with goats come the evenings and Ethelynne provided reports on the progress of their pursuers. “They grow in number every day,” she said on the third night since leaving the track. “Several tribes appear to have joined forces. All very strange since they usually spend as much time fighting each other as they do the Briteshore Headhunters.”
“Maybe they got tired of being hunted,” Clay suggested. “If Briteshore was stepping up its claims here, could be they decided it was time to band together or die.”
“Nah,” Skaggerhill said, slicing a chunk of meat from the flank of the goat he had roasted. “Something’s changed ’em. Like those we saw at Fallsguard and the temple. Like the lake Greens. Can’t help but take note that a lotta things been changing since we started on this course.”
Preach
er stiffened a little and Clay knew he was resisting the urge to give voice to some more scripture. However, Firpike clearly had no reluctance in speaking his mind. “I do grow ever more curious as to what exactly your course is,” he said, looking intently at Braddon. “It’s plain to me that you aren’t on any drake-hunting expedition. And no-one has stated explicitly what you expect to find at this mysterious destination.”
Skaggerhill turned towards him, face dark and lips forming a threat, but stopped as Braddon raised a hand. “You’re a clever fella, Doc. I feel sure you can reckon it out.”
Firpike’s gaze flicked over them all, narrowing in calculation. “And if I do you’ll finally have a reason to kill me?”
“Got plenty of those already,” Loriabeth muttered.
“The White,” Scriberson said, favouring Firpike with a humourless smile. “They’re here for the White, on Ironship orders if I’m not mistaken.”
Firpike started a little and Clay realised this particular notion hadn’t factored into his thinking. He watched the scholar’s eyes widen then narrow again. “It’s a myth,” he said finally. “It’s extinct, if it ever truly existed.”
“Really?” Braddon said, raising an eyebrow in Ethelynne’s direction. “Guess that makes you a liar, Miss Drystone.”
Firpike stared at her for some time as she smiled and ate her supper. “Ethelynne Drystone,” he said finally. “The Wittler Expedition.”
“Quite so,” she said.
“And the only living soul to have clapped eyes on a real live White Drake,” Braddon said. “Guess that’ll be something you can write another book about. But it’s the only profit you’re like to make from this enterprise, Doc, ’cause I’ll be Seer-damned if you’re getting a share of my company’s earnings.”
—
The better part of three days’ march brought the mountain into view. In accordance with Scriberson’s description it stood amongst the tallest peaks they had yet seen, its flanks steeper and more forbidding than those around it, rising to a point that resembled a sharpened spike at this distance. “Briteshore chart calls it ‘The Nail,’” Braddon said, checking the map. “Guess you can see why.”
The settlement stood at a short remove from the base of the mountain, smaller than the installation on the lake-shore but similarly protected by a tall defensive wall. Ethelynne’s cryptic response to Skaggerhill’s request that she have Lutharon fly them to the platform was explained by the series of pylons extending away from the settlement to ascend the mountain, dual cables arcing between each pair.
“Hope it’s in working condition,” the harvester said, casting a wary glance at the mist-shrouded peak above.
The settlement proved to be unravaged and well-stocked. The former inhabitants had left without pausing to secure the gate or pack up any of the copious supplies. “Spoiled scared ’em off, maybe?” Loriabeth suggested.
“Or perhaps they didn’t like what they found here,” Scriberson said.
“Check the cable-car wheel-house, if you would, young man,” Braddon told him. “Skaggs, go with him. Everyone else spread out and see what you can find. Not you, Doc,” he added as Firpike took an eager step towards the hut bearing the sign “Site-Manager’s Office.” “You get on up that ladder and keep watch. Be sure to sing out real loud if the Spoiled come along.”
“Take an age to sift through all this,” he said, a short while later after he and Clay had gone through the office, finding desks and cabinets fairly brimming with documents. “Mostly accounts and work schedules, far as I can tell. Can’t see nothing that gives a clear idea of their purpose here.”
Clay noticed a calendar on the back of the door and took it down to flip through the months, finding various notes scribbled here and there. “‘Cable project complete,’” he read, pointing to the 37th of Mortallum. “Near two months ago.” He flipped forward, skimming over brief references to supply runs and pay-days, stopping at the final entry on the 9th of Verester, which read: “First excavation initiated.”
“Nothing after that.” He turned the other pages. “Looks like they started digging then took off soon after. This place has been empty for the best part of a month.”
“Clay,” Braddon said, pulling a sheaf of papers from the desk. “This seem familiar to you?”
“Looks kinda similar to the city,” Clay said, eyes roving over the characters pencilled onto the papers. Line after line of pictograms possessing a faint resemblance to the inscriptions Ethelynne had spent so much time translating in the ruined city. However, that writing had displayed a certain flowing elegance in the way the different characters were shaped and arranged, their meaning unknowable but their form still capable of conveying an impression of poetry. This script was much more ordered and precise, the characters formed with a uniform exactitude. “Copy of something they found in the mountain, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Braddon agreed, frowning at the last sheet in the bundle. “If so, looks like they got awful tired of it.” The characters inscribed on this sheet began like the others, neat and precise at the top, but becoming much more contorted as they proceeded down the page. It looked to Clay as if whoever had scribbled this down had done so in haste or with an increasingly palsied, near-frenzied hand. The final set of symbols had been inscribed with such energy the paper was ripped in several places.
“Miss Ethelynne might be able to read it,” he said. “We’ll show her when she gets back.”
—
A search of the settlement revealed storehouses full of mining gear, complete with a scarily voluminous stock of explosives, and more ammunition and food than they could comfortably carry. “Whoever left all this behind is certain to find their contract cancelled,” Braddon said, hefting a pack laden with tinned rations and longrifle rounds.
“Guess we should take some of that,” Clay said, pointing at the heavily sandbagged storehouse containing the explosives. “If the miners had to blast their way into the mountain, could be they left the job unfinished.”
Braddon nodded. “You and Lori take a barrel each. And be sure to bring plenty of fuse-wire.”
They found Scriberson in the cable-car wheel-house applying a jug of grease to the workings of a massive winch. The car itself was a simple open-sided gondola, the cables that connected it to the pylon above issuing a soft whine as it swayed in the wind. “Think they’d at least have put a roof on it,” Loriabeth said, eyeing the contraption with evident unease.
“She working?” Braddon asked Scriberson, nodding at the coal-burning engine connected to the winch.
“Perfectly, as far as I can tell.” Scriberson emptied the grease jug before moving to the engine. “Just a matter of wiping away the dust and lubricating the moving parts. Her boiler’s chilled to the core, though. It’ll take an hour or two to fire her up.”
“Get the car loaded up with this gear,” Braddon told the rest of them. “Then we’ll eat us some of these rations. Must say, I’m heartily tired of goat.”
They repaired to the settlement’s meal-hall whilst Scriberson tended to the engine. Skaggerhill got the stove lit and made a hash of corned beef, ham and tinned potatoes, washed down with some beer the departed miners had been kind enough to leave behind. “Two apiece only,” Braddon warned, casting a hard glance at Loriabeth, who had already begun reaching for her third bottle.
“Here’s to the Contract,” Skaggerhill said, raising his beer in a salute. “And those lost on the way.”
Braddon mimicked him with a grave solemnity that made Clay realise this was another Contractor’s ritual. “Those lost on the way,” he said in concert with the others as they chinked bottles and drank, even Preacher, who Clay had assumed might have eschewed liquor on religious principle.
“Farthest in I ever travelled,” Skaggerhill said. “Been meaning to mention it, Captain, but this is my last trip. Got me a mind to retire.”
“With the
bonus we’ll earn from this, we could all retire.” Braddon laughed, reaching across the table to clap him on the shoulder.
“Where’s Silverpin?” Loriabeth asked, glancing around. “Gonna miss the meal.”
“I’ll get her.” Clay got to his feet, making for the door and wondering if the bladehand might be amenable to a short assignation in one of the store-rooms.
“Might as well get the doc, too,” Braddon told him. “He’s trial enough without an empty belly.”
Clay nodded and went outside, raising his gaze to the parapet above but finding no sign of the aggravating scholar. “Grub time, Doc,” he called, scanning the walls. “It’ll get cold . . .” He trailed off as his eyes found Firpike. He sat near the walkway to the wheel-house, propped against the wall as if taking a rest. Clay, however, knew from the sharp angle of his neck and the emptiness in his eyes that this rest was permanent.
“Uncle!” he yelled, thoughts immediately conjuring images of Spoiled boiling down out of the hills. He drew the Stinger, fixing the stock in place and raising it to his shoulder to track along the top of the wall. Nothing. Then he heard it, the steady clanking rumble of an engine coming to life.
“What?” Braddon said, emerging from the meal-hall with rifle in hand.
“Trouble.” Clay pointed to Firpike’s body and ran for the wheel-house. He found the engine churning away at full power as it turned the belt attached to the great wheel, cables squealing as they were drawn over the iron. The lever that activated the engine lay nearby, sheared off at the root. There was no sign of Scriberson or Silverpin. Also, the car was gone.
Clay rushed to the edge of the wheel-house platform, Stinger raised and thumb clicking back the hammer. He had just enough time to see the car swallowed by cloud. He caught a glimpse of a figure in the car just before the mist closed in, standing and waving a forlorn farewell.
