The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  Lizanne forced herself to remain still as Bloskin reached into his inside pocket to extract a bundle of papers bound with a black ribbon. “I believe, Miss Lethridge,” he said, proffering the papers, “it’s time to renegotiate your contract.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Hilemore

  “Lighthouse in view, Captain,” Steelfine reported, glass raised to his eye as he peered through the early-morning mist. “She’s still lit.”

  Someone’s alive here, at least, Hilemore thought, his relief tempered by the suspicion that the Spoiled, or whatever commanded them, were not beyond mounting a ruse to lure them into an ambush. “Best take no chances, Number One,” he said. “Sound battle stations. Split the riflemen into two sections and spread them along both rails.”

  “Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted and strode from the bridge as Lieutenant Talmant sounded three long blasts from the steam-whistle.

  “Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore said, turning to the tall man in the green-leather duster. “If you would care to oblige me, I believe your eyes will be best employed in the crow’s nest.”

  The Contractor’s leathery features betrayed a slight smile as he inclined his head, presumably in recognition of the respect Hilemore had continued to show him throughout the voyage from Hadlock. “Glad to, Captain,” he said, hefting his rifle, a .422 Silworth from the ship’s armoury. “I’ll take Preacher too. Ain’t much his eyes’ll miss, even in this fog. Lori and Mr. Skaggerhill will take their place with your riflemen. Don’t want it said we don’t earn our keep.”

  “Also,” Hilemore added as Torcreek moved to the hatch. “Your nephew’s presence would be greatly appreciated. Captain Okanas is required in the engine room should we need to make a rapid escape.”

  He saw a shadow pass over the Contractor’s face before he replied with a slow nod. “He’s . . . resting. But I’ll make efforts to rouse him.”

  “Very good, Captain.”

  By the time the Lossermark lighthouse came fully into view the ship was ready for battle, a demonstration of hard-won expertise that stirred a small glimmer of pride in Hilemore’s breast. Despite everything the Viable Opportunity remained a battle-worthy ship of the Maritime Protectorate, although he had reason to believe she might be the last such ship in the entire Arradsian region.

  The lighthouse was of less impressive dimensions and design than the curve-sided wonder that guarded the approaches to Hadlock, having been constructed much longer ago by engineers lacking the insights of modern science. It rose from a cluster of wave-battered rocks to a height of little more than sixty feet, a plain octagonal tower painted red and white to draw the eye, though the colours had faded over the years. The light, however, remained strong and bright. Hilemore blinked moisture from his eye as he trained his spy-glass on the tower’s apex, picking out two faint figures through the glare. He took some comfort from the fact that the figures were waving, but whether in warning or welcome he couldn’t say.

  “Lamp signal, Mr. Talmant,” he said. “Send in plain: ‘Is this port safe?’”

  “Aye, sir.” Talmant relayed the order via the speaking-tube and Hilemore heard the clacking shutter of the Viable’s signal lamp through the wheel-house roof. However, the only response from the two lighthouse keepers was yet more waving. Hilemore tried to pick out their faces but the lingering mist was too thick. Spoiled or human, he had no way of knowing.

  “I could take a boat over, sir,” Talmant suggested. “See what’s what.”

  “No,” Hilemore replied, lowering the glass after a moment’s consideration. “Can’t wallow about so close to these rocks. Helm, maintain course.”

  He went out onto the upper works, gazing ahead at the faint outline of the south Arradsian coast. It had taken six days to get here, mainly due to his desire to husband as much Red as possible. With the loss of Carvenport the flow of product into corporate holdings would have been reduced to a trickle, perhaps halted completely meaning there was no certainty of procuring more. Before that they had been obliged to spend three tense weeks in Hadlock whilst Chief Bozware repaired the Viable’s many wounds and the crew gleaned what supplies they could from the ruined port. It hadn’t amounted to much, sundry small arms, some powder barrels, which went only partway to replenishing their stocks, and a few dozen cans of preserved vegetables. More concerning than the meagre pickings, however, was the fact that amongst all the rubble they hadn’t found a single survivor.

  “Should be more bodies, Captain,” one of the riflemen told him as they picked over the remains of the Ironship offices, hoping to find some product secreted away in the vaults. Instead they uncovered nothing more than a mound of blackened scrip notes.

  “More?” Hilemore asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the man insisted. “Been in and out of this port more times than I can count. Always a lively place, must’ve been home to nigh on twenty thousand folk, not counting all the sailors coming and going.”

  A brief check of the ship’s books had confirmed the man’s reckoning, though he had under-estimated Hadlock’s population by some three thousand. Unwilling to impose the grisly task on the crew Hilemore had personally conducted a count of the corpses, though he was obliged to estimate the number they had found floating in the harbour on arrival as most had now subsided beneath the water. When added to the rapidly putrefying remains littering the ruins he came up with a figure of only eight thousand. It was a singular puzzle and he knew of only one person who might hold an answer.

  “Spoiled took ’em,” Claydon Torcreek told him simply. He sat regarding Hilemore from across the ward-room table, wearing the same vaguely interested expression that had dominated his prematurely aged features since that first meeting with his Contractor company.

  “Where?” Hilemore pressed. “Why?”

  “I’m guessing the White has a use for ’em.”

  “What use?”

  “I don’t imagine it’s anything good.”

  Hilemore resisted the officer-born impulse to shout. This man was not technically under his command after all. “Mr. Torcreek,” he said in as patient a tone as he could manage. “I have listened to your story in exhaustive detail, and, whilst I find it convincing in many respects, your continual attachment to cryptic responses does little to further your cause.”

  Clay’s face momentarily lost its preoccupied cast, instead forming something that resembled an amused and insolent adolescent. “None of this matters, Captain,” he said. “Don’t matter if you believe me. Don’t matter where all those poor townsfolk went or what the White’s doing to them. Don’t matter how many days we spend in this dump fixing doohickeys and scraping shit from the hull.” He leaned forward, the insolence fading into a regretful certainty. “You and me, we’re going south to the ice. And there ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

  “To save the world,” Hilemore said.

  Clay reclined, shrugged and sighed, “Just repeating your words.”

  “Words I have no memory of speaking.”

  “Not yet. But you will.”

  The White’s blood. Hilemore still wasn’t sure he believed it, this man had been gifted a vision of the future by drinking the blood of a White Drake, a creature once thought a legend. It was the stuff of fables, not the rational reality of the modern world. There’s a place, Clay had said that first night in Hadlock as they wandered the empty, wrecked streets together. A place where we’ll get answers, perhaps the biggest answer of all. How do we kill it? He went on to describe the spire he had seen in his vision, and Hilemore’s presence there. There was a strong temptation to dismiss it all, offer these Contractors a berth on the Viable in return for service and sternly forbid any more nonsensical talk of visions and saving the world. But he hadn’t. He told himself it was the corroborating testimony of Torcreek’s uncle and the other Contractors that swayed him, but in reality it had been the look in Clay’s eyes when they first met. The absolute
sense of recognition on the man’s face was undeniable. He knew me.

  They stayed only a few more days until Chief Bozware reported he had done all he could to return the Viable’s engines to their previous level of efficiency.

  “Could do with a lot more grease,” he said. “And more product. If we’re really going south, that is. She’s a tough old bird, Captain. But she ain’t built for the ice.”

  “Can you make it so she is?”

  “Maybe, with sufficient iron to buttress the bow and stern. It’ll slow her down a good deal though.”

  “The Eastern Conglomerate owns a shipyard at Lossermark,” Hilemore remembered. “It’s where they build most of their Blue-hunters, as I recall.”

  He saw a glimmer of anticipation creep in the Chief’s gaze. “And fine ships they are, sir.”

  • • •

  He smelled Lossermark before he saw it, the familiar coal-fire scent mingling with the sickly stench he knew came from the port’s harvesting plant. Despite the unpleasant aroma seeping through the mist he took it as an encouraging sign that this town retained some vestige of a human population.

  “Seer’s balls, that stings,” Clay said, face bunching and eyes blinking rapidly against the smell. He had finally chosen to grace the bridge with his presence, even going to the trouble to arm himself with a revolver.

  “I’m told you get used to it,” Hilemore said. “But it takes a year or so.”

  The dark curtain of Lossermark’s harbour wall resolved out of the mist a few minutes later. It was of unusual construction in that it lacked a central opening. Instead it was formed of a series of huge copper doors suspended from an iron frame that stretched between the two rocky cliffs forming the harbour mouth. Each door was broader than two ships side by side and could be raised individually. Today, however, they were all firmly lowered.

  “All stop,” Hilemore commanded, tracking his glass along the top of the wall. He could see a knot of people clustered around a bulky apparatus he recognised as a signal lamp. After a short delay the lamp began to blink out a series of bright, rapid flashes. The message was sent in plain code so he had no trouble reading it: “This port is closed. State your business.”

  “Reply Mr. Talmant,” he said. “‘IPV Viable Opportunity seeking leave to enter in order to procure supplies. Our intent is peaceful.’”

  He watched the light from their own signal lamp flickering on the greenish copper then trained his glass on the knot of people, watching them engage in an animated and lengthy discussion before apparently deciding on a reply. “‘Contact with other stations lost one month ago. Do you have news?’”

  “‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore sent. “‘Will share after making port.’”

  More commotion and gesticulation, then another message. “‘Do you have a Blood-blessed aboard?’”

  He glanced at Clay, who seemed to be regarding this whole palaver with only mild interest. Don’t matter . . . We’re going south.

  “‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore replied. “‘We have contact with Feros. Willing to negotiate services in return for safe anchorage.’”

  He watched the people at the signal lamp discussing their options. He sensed more resignation than enthusiasm in their demeanour, evidenced by the hesitancy with which the next message was delivered. “‘Leave to enter granted. Be advised, Corvantine vessel also at anchor here. You are reminded this is a neutral port.’”

  “Trouble?” Clay enquired as Hilemore exchanged a sharp glance with Mr. Talmant.

  “I thought it didn’t matter,” Hilemore said, moving to the speaking-tube. He called down to Steelfine to convey the news and issue strict instructions that no weapons were to be fired without his explicit instruction. “Just one shot and I’ll hang the man who fired it.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  A great grating squeal rose from the door directly in front of the Viable’s bows, steam billowing atop the wall as the engines that drove the door laboured to raise it.

  “How much Black do you have?” he asked Clay.

  “Two full vials,” he replied. “No Red, though. Your Islander wouldn’t let me have the smallest drop.”

  “On my orders.” He nodded at the door, now grinding itself free of the sea. “There’s a Corvantine ship on the other side of this. I doubt their reaction to our presence will be friendly, however I’m determined not to fire the first shot. Should they do so, I’ll need you to ensure they miss.”

  “Diverting a shell in flight.” Clay’s eyebrows rose in consideration, face free of any particular alarm. “Miss Lethridge did it. Might tweak her nose a little if I could match the feat.”

  “Can you do it or not?” Hilemore demanded, patience wearing thin.

  “Maybe.” Clay gave a mock salute and turned towards the hatchway. “Guess we’ll find out in short order.” Hilemore watched him descend the ladder to the deck and make his way forward. He took up position beside Skaggerhill, the Longrifles’ harvester, and extracted a vial from his duster as the door reached its apogee fifty feet above.

  “Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore ordered, gaze fixed on the revealed harbour ahead. He could see a line of Blue-hunters moored along the quay but no sign of a Corvantine warship as yet. The Viable slipped through the opening at a crawl, Hilemore forcing himself to appear as calm as possible though the tension was clear in the bead of sweat he saw trickle down the helmsman’s cheek.

  “Steady lad,” Hilemore told him. “If their whole fleet couldn’t sink us in the Strait I’ll be damned if just one of their tubs will sink us now.”

  “Enemy vessel twenty degrees to starboard, sir!” Talmant snapped. “One of the new ones by the look of it.”

  Hilemore soon saw he was right. The Corvantine ship sat high in the water, sleek lines bare of paddles and a single stack angled back towards the stern. Her length and the number of guns singled her out as a frigate, smaller than the Viable and not so heavily armed, but probably almost as fast thanks to her screw propeller, even faster if she proved to be a blood-burner. She had clearly been in the wars, her paint-work blackened and hull dented in several places. It also appeared the rear section of her upper works had been wrecked, though the bridge remained intact. It took Hilemore a moment to pick out the Eutherian letters embossed aft of the forward anchor chain: INS Superior.

  “I count only six crew on deck, sir,” Talmant reported. “Her guns are unmanned and she’s not making steam.”

  Hilemore’s gaze was drawn to the frigate’s mast as a flag was hauled up, unfurling in the wind to reveal a white circle in a black background. Truce-flag. Too much to expect them to surrender, I suppose.

  “Mr. Talmant, run up the truce pennant,” he said. “And tell Mr. Steelfine to stand down from battle stations.”

  • • •

  A small pilot tug guided the Viable to her anchorage, a length of quay at the extreme western end of the harbour, as far from the Corvantine frigate as they could get. Despite the exchange of truce signals it seemed the port authorities didn’t want to chance a clash of warships within the confines of the harbour. A platoon of twenty soldiers were waiting to greet them on the wharf, all clad in the grey uniform of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies, the name given to that company’s version of the Protectorate. They were an irregular force, a hard core of contracted professional officers augmented by sailors and shipwrights called to the Levies in times of crisis. From the state of their uniforms and the lack of cohesion in their line Hilemore concluded it had been some time since they had faced a proper inspection. Nevertheless, there was a hard-eyed wariness to their gaze and he noted that, whilst their uniforms could have benefited from a thorough laundering, their rifles were clean and held by experienced hands.

  “Major Ozpike.” The platoon commander greeted Hilemore with a precise salute as he stepped onto the quayside. “Commander Lossermark Defence and Security Levies.” The ma
jor was a South Mandinorian of sturdy build, his clean and pressed uniform contrasting markedly with the appearance of his men.

  Hilemore came to attention and returned the salute. “Captain Corrick Hilemore, Ironship Protectorate Vessel Viable Opportunity.” He glanced around at the surrounding buildings, seeing no sign of damage. “Glad to find you in such good order, Major.”

  Ozpike blinked and cast a cautious glance at his men, regarding the exchange with a uniformly keen interest.

  “So that ain’t the case elsewhere?” one of them asked, a diminutive fellow of Dalcian heritage as were many Eastern Conglomerate sailors.

  Hilemore scanned their faces, seeing a great deal of fear and uncertainty. “You truly have no notion of recent events?” he asked Ozpike.

  “Only what the Corvies told us,” the Dalcian replied before the major could answer. “Said a great mass of Blues rose from the sea around Carvenport and tore their fleet to pieces. That true, Skipper?”

  “Matters for discussion with the Comptroller,” Ozpike barked with a military authority that seemed to carry little weight.

  “I got family in Carvenport,” the Dalcian went on. “The mail packet is three weeks late and not a single Blue-hunter’s returned to port in all that time. We got a right to know, Major.”

  “And you will,” Ozpike said, forcing what Hilemore judged to be an unaccustomed note of conciliation into his voice. “But the Comptroller needs to speak to this officer first.”

  A growl rose from the rest of the platoon and their already loose formation turned into a cluster of angry men, all demanding answers.

  “Stand fast!” Hilemore shouted, his voice apparently compelling some vestige of discipline for they all froze as one. Their obedience may also have been informed by the sudden appearance of Steelfine at the Viable’s rail along with the full complement of the ship’s riflemen. Hilemore allowed a few seconds to pass before speaking again, seeing the soldiers’ anger vie with their trepidation.