The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “One more should do it,” he said, extending a hand to Hilemore.

  “We only have one left,” the captain replied with an emphatic shake of his head. “And who’s to say when we’ll need it.”

  “We came too far to quit now,” Clay said, fighting a wave of fatigue.

  Hilemore crouched, eyes tracking over the ice and the revealed aperture in critical appraisal. “We know the powder won’t hurt the spire,” he said. “But it should shatter enough ice to allow access, if there’s any to be had.”

  Braddon rigged the fuses with Steelfine’s assistance. They hacked a hole into the bottom of the small cavern that Clay had crafted, placing both barrels side by side and inserting the fuse-wire before climbing out and retreating to a safe distance.

  “W-won’t it shatter the ice b-beneath us?” Loriabeth chattered, breath misting from the narrow hood that mostly covered her face.

  “Take more than a few barrels for that, missy,” Scrimshine told her, baring his few teeth in an attempt at a reassuring grin. “Ice goes down a long ways here.”

  “Everybody hunker low as you can and cover your ears,” Braddon said, striking a match and touching it to the fuse-wire. Clay watched the ball of sparks dance across the ice before disappearing into the cavern, then lowered his head and clamped his gloved hands to his ears. The blast came two seconds later, the force of it enough to lift him clear of the ice for a second and cover them all with a fine dusting of displaced snow. Before the boom faded, Clay rose and hurried towards the cavern, sliding down its walls to the bottom where a three-foot-deep fissure had been blasted into the ice. The floor of the cavern was also cracked all over. He called to Hilemore for a flask of Black and used it to clear away the icy boulders and prise up the shattered chunks, casting them away into the darkening sky as he dug deeper. He had always found Black far less taxing than Red and he made rapid progress, adding another five feet to the cavern’s depth by the time he was done.

  The others slid down to join him as he stood staring at what he had uncovered.

  “What in the Travail is that?” Skaggerhill asked. They could only see the upper half of what appeared to be a giant cog sitting within a circular recess. With the light failing, Hilemore ordered lamps lit before they moved in for a closer inspection.

  “Part of some engine, maybe?” Braddon wondered, running a hand over the thing’s surface. It seemed to be made from the same material as the spire, but of a darker hue.

  Clay checked the seam between the cog’s teeth and the surrounding wall, straightening in surprise at what he found. “It’s buckled,” he realised, lifting a lamp to illuminate a large indentation in the cog. It looked as if it had been punched inward by some impossibly huge fist.

  “What could be capable of that?” Skaggerhill asked, eyes wide and round beneath his bushy brows.

  “The ice,” Hilemore said. “The pressure of it. But it must have taken centuries to have such an effect.”

  “There’s a gap,” Clay said, his lamplight revealing a space between the cog and the wall. It was a few feet above his head so they would need ropes to reach it, but it was wide enough for a grown man to gain entry. “Looks like we got us a way in.”

  • • •

  Hilemore insisted they wait for morning before venturing inside. The decision grated on Clay’s burning desire to know what lay behind the great cog, but his undeniable fatigue prevented him from voicing an objection. He fidgeted and groaned his way through a fitful sleep, waking with head pounding and his body wracked all over in protest at the previous day’s exertions. It took a hearty swig of Green to banish his various aches and another before he became fully mobile.

  “Lieutenant Sigoral,” Hilemore said, having once again forbidden Clay from being first into potential danger. “When you’re ready.”

  The Corvantine shouldered his carbine before taking a firm hold on the rope. He reached the gap in a few heaves of his athletic frame then paused to haul up an oil-lantern. He played the light over the gap for a short moment then carefully lowered the lantern inside.

  “I can’t see much,” Sigoral reported to Hilemore. “Some sort of passage-way, but it goes on too far to see the end.”

  “Stay put when you get inside,” Hilemore instructed. “We’ll join you shortly.”

  Sigoral nodded and unfurled another rope from his back, fixing the grapnel in place and casting the line into the gloom below the gap. The opening was an easy fit for a man of his proportions and he levered himself through in short order. After a short delay they heard his echoing shout of assurance.

  “I’ll go next,” Hilemore said. “Then you Mr. Torcreek.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Braddon asked.

  “We have no notion of what awaits us in there,” Hilemore replied, drawing his revolver. He turned the cylinder a few times to ensure it hadn’t seized in the cold, then holstered it. “I won’t risk more lives than necessary. At least, not until we have a sound estimation of the dangers.” He turned to Steelfine. “Lieutenant, you have command in my absence. Wait until tomorrow morning. If we fail to return, do not follow.” He held the Islander’s gaze for a moment until he received a terse nod.

  “I c-can’t stay out h-here,” Loriabeth stated. She huddled between Braddon and Skaggerhill, both standing close to provide more warmth.

  Hilemore seemed about to dismiss her with a reassuring platitude but stopped at the sight of her hollow and shivering face. It was plain to all present that another night on the ice might well kill her. “Can you climb?” he asked instead.

  “To g-get out of this c-chill . . . I’d climb a S-seer-damn mountain.”

  “Very well. You follow me.” He turned and started up the rope, reaching the top to clamber halfway in then waited for Loriabeth to follow. He was obliged to grab her arm and haul her the last few inches as her hands began to slip. After they had disappeared inside Clay took hold of the rope, then paused to address his uncle.

  “The captain’s right,” he said. “Don’t linger too long and don’t follow.” He glanced at Steelfine. “Regardless of what he does.”

  Braddon said nothing and Clay knew he had just wasted his breath. Neither his uncle, Skaggerhill nor Preacher would simply walk away if they failed to come back. He was also fully aware that Steelfine had no intention of following his captain’s orders.

  “Well, anyways,” Clay said, starting to climb and grunting with the effort. “Here’s hoping this damn thing ain’t empty.”

  • • •

  He dropped to Hilemore’s side a few minutes later. Both the captain and Sigoral had lanterns in hand and were casting their light at the huge tube-like passage ahead. Loriabeth sat against the cog, deep breaths echoing along the passage-way. “You alright, cuz?” Clay asked.

  “It’s . . .” she began, then forced a smile, “. . . like a green-house in here.”

  In fact, the interior of the spire was only marginally less cold than the air outside, but even a small upturn in temperature brought welcome relief. “I’m guessing it’ll feel a sight warmer the farther in we go,” Clay said, helping her to her feet. “Where’s your iron?” he enquired, putting a judgemental tone into his voice. “You still a gunhand or not?”

  “Eat shit, cuz,” she muttered, reaching into her coverings to extract one of her revolvers.

  “If you’re quite ready,” Hilemore said.

  “Lead on, Captain.” Clay drew his own pistol and moved to Hilemore’s side.

  “I’ll take the lead,” the captain said. “Lieutenant, Mr. Torcreek, guard the flanks. Miss Torcreek, rear-guard, if you please.” He hefted his lantern, the beam swallowed by the gloom barely twenty feet ahead. “Let’s be about it.”

  Hilemore set a slow pace, continually playing the beam of his lantern from left to right. There were indentations in the walls every few yards and Clay soon understood that the passa
ge had been fashioned from a series of huge rings placed end to end. Apart from the indentations, the walls remained as featureless as the exterior until Sigoral’s lantern alighted on something that broke the monotony.

  “Is that writing?” he said, pausing to let the light linger on a symbol carved into the passage wall. It was large, a good ten yards wide and twice as high. Clay saw no meaning in it but the way the form curved and entwined stirred immediate memories of the script he had seen in the city beneath the spike.

  “Mr. Torcreek?” Hilemore prompted as Clay continued to stare at the symbol. “Do you have any notion of what this means?”

  “It means we’re in the right place,” Clay said. “Beyond that, I got no clue.”

  They moved on, taking only a few minutes to traverse the passage before coming to an abrupt halt.

  “No way the ice did that,” Loriabeth said, eyeing the pile of rubble ahead. It seemed to Clay that one of the rings had collapsed, filling the tube from floor to ceiling.

  “A blast of some kind, perhaps?” Sigoral said, crouching to scoop up a handful of dust from the floor. He let it fall through the beam of his lantern in a glittering cascade.

  “Whatever it was,” Clay said, “it was enough to turn this stuff to powder.”

  “Whilst we haven’t been able to scratch it,” Hilemore added.

  Clay lifted his own lantern, playing the beam on the top of the piled rubble. “Can’t see a gap.”

  “I’ll find it,” Loriabeth said, shrugging off her outer layer of coverings, “if there is one.” She started to clamber up before they could protest, moving with a sure-footed energy that belied her former weakness. Clay found that his guess had been right; the air was definitely warmer now.

  “Jammed,” Loriabeth called down after a brief inspection of the rubble. “But I can feel air rushing from somewhere beyond this thing. Some of these boulders don’t seem too heavy either.”

  “Guess I got some more work to do,” Clay said, holding his hand out to Hilemore.

  “Just enough to get us through,” Hilemore said, handing over a flask of Black. “I’d rather the whole thing didn’t collapse on us.”

  Clay told Loriabeth to come down and then had them concentrate their lanterns on one spot at a time. He used just enough Black to dislodge the topmost pieces, lifting several chunks clear and placing them carefully at the base of the pile until they had a decent-sized gap.

  “Still blocked,” Loriabeth said, having climbed up once more. “Think a decent push will see us through, though.”

  Clay clambered to her side, seeing the way ahead blocked by a large slab. He took a sip of Black and concentrated on the slab, finding it stuck fast. Another few sips and the barrier began to give, grinding against the enclosing rubble until finally tumbling free.

  “Me first,” Clay said, scrambling into the opening and pretending not to hear Hilemore’s stern command to stop. He crawled through in short order, pushing his lantern ahead of him and emerging to be confronted by a black void. His lantern beam roved the darkness finding nothing for several seconds until it caught the edge of a narrow surface below. “Got a walkway here,” he called over his shoulder before clambering down.

  He moved to where the walkway met the edge of the rubble, tapping an experimental foot to its surface. “Seems solid enough,” he said as the others climbed down to join him. Clay watched Hilemore’s narrow gaze survey the walkway and assumed he was debating whether to bring the rest of the party inside before continuing.

  “It’s gotta lead somewhere,” Clay said, fighting the impulse to simply stride off on his own.

  Hilemore hesitated a moment longer then nodded. “Single file. Miss Torcreek . . .”

  “Rear-guard.” She sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

  The walkway didn’t take long to traverse, though the echo birthed by their footfalls told of a very deep drop on either side and made for a nervous few moments. After thirty yards it broadened out into a round platform about twenty feet across. The only feature was a lone plinth about four feet high positioned where the walkway met the platform.

  “We must be in a shaft,” Hilemore said, his lantern revealing the platform to be the top of a cylindrical column that descended far into the void below.

  “It’s different,” Sigoral said, stamping a boot to the surface of the platform and raising a dull echo. Clay lowered his gaze and saw the Corvantine’s meaning. This platform had been fashioned from familiar stone, some form of granite by his estimation, rather than the impermeable material that formed the spire. The surface was formed of interlocking curved slabs, giving it a maze-like appearance that bespoke a remarkable precision in its construction. Ain’t seen nothing like it, he thought, not since the city beneath the mountain.

  He moved to the plinth, finding it also constructed from the same granite as the platform. There was an elegance to its form, almost as if it had grown from the stone even though closer inspection revealed it to have also been fashioned from interlocking bricks.

  “What is that?” Loriabeth asked, stepping to his side and playing her lantern over the upper part of the plinth where it broadened out into a near-flat surface, in the centre of which sat a crystal about the size of a fist. Once again Clay’s memories of the city stirred, recalling the statues and the floating crystals in the White’s lair.

  “Diamond maybe,” Loriabeth went on, leaning closer to tap a finger to the crystal.

  Both Clay and Loriabeth gave an involuntary yelp as a bright yellow glow appeared on the crystal, accompanied by a low, almost musical note that thrummed the surrounding air. The four of them stood stock still as the sound and the glowing point in the crystal faded away, all clutching their weapons and waiting. Clay saw the sweat shining on his cousin’s skin and took some small comfort from the fact that at least they wouldn’t freeze in here.

  “It would be best if you didn’t do that again, miss,” Hilemore told Loriabeth, receiving an apologetic smile in response.

  Lieutenant Sigoral moved to the edge of the platform and fished a small coin from his pocket. “A full crown,” he said, tossing it into the void. “I trust you’ll reimburse me in due course, Captain.”

  Clay counted off twenty full seconds before detecting the very faint note of the coin connecting with whatever lay below.

  “That’s quite a drop,” Sigoral observed.

  “Very well,” Hilemore said, holstering his revolver and striding back towards the walkway. “I’ll order the rest of the party to join us. We’ll establish a camp in the passage-way and prepare for further exploration tomorrow.”

  “It’ll take all the rope we have to reach the bottom,” Sigoral pointed out.

  “Then we’d best tie some strong knots.” Hilemore strode onto the walkway and paused, turning to Clay with an impatient frown. “I’ll have no argument from you on this, Mr. Torcreek.”

  Clay cast a final glance around the platform, his gaze lingering on the now-lifeless crystal gleaming dully in the plinth’s surface. “You give the orders, Captain,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow and flicking it away before starting after Hilemore.

  They froze as the crystal sprang to life once more, the glass flaring bright and a series of notes filling the air. The light was of such intensity Clay found himself momentarily blinded. He blinked to clear his vision, finding that the crystal was shimmering now, flickering with a rapidity that brought an ache to his head. He moved closer, squinting through streaming eyes and making out the few dark droplets of moisture on the crystal’s blazing facets. My sweat, he realised. It felt my sweat . . .

  All semblance of rational thought vanished as the platform shuddered beneath his feet, and a vast echoing boom ascended from below. A near-deafening grinding cacophony filled the shaft, putting him in mind of the Superior’s engine room if its mechanicals were fashioned from stone rather than metal.

  He reach
ed for Loriabeth’s hand, intending to drag her to the walkway, but the platform began to descend before he could take a step, plummeting down at such a rate it was a wonder it hadn’t left them flailing in thin air. He managed to lock eyes with Hilemore for a second, standing on the edge of the walkway and staring down at them in impotent shock. But soon the captain’s face was a dim pale speck, vanishing completely as the lights blinked out and darkness swallowed them completely.

  CHAPTER 20

  Lizanne

  It was impossible to see the whole mine through the drifting clouds of smoke and steam, but Lizanne estimated the huge bow-shaped pit to cover a quarter-mile square. One side was formed from soil layered in steps where teams of Furies shovelled away at yellow patches of earth. The opposite side was solid rock, the surface shot through by dozens of shafts and encrusted in a web of scaffolding so haphazard in its construction that Lizanne half expected it to come tumbling down at any second. The floor of the pit was a brownish-yellow teardrop a hundred yards long where steam rose in constant billows from a small pool.

  “Is that a hot spring?” Lizanne asked Melina as they paused at the top of the scaffolding.

  “That it is,” the tall woman replied. “It’s where the sulphur comes from. I wouldn’t be tempted to take a bath though. Water’s hot enough to boil the flesh from your bones, if the stink doesn’t kill you first. Here.” She handed Lizanne a leather face-mask. “Best put this on till we get inside the shaft.”

  Lizanne examined the mask before donning it. It was a surprisingly ingenious design, large enough to cover the mouth and nose with slits on the outside and a thick gauze on the inside. “Tight-weave cotton soaked in old piss,” Melina explained, pulling on her own mask, which muffled her voice somewhat but not enough to make it unintelligible. “Not pleasant but it’s better than a lungful of powdered sulphur.”

  She moved to a ladder and started down without delay. They descended successive tiers of scaffolding, Lizanne finding she had to hurry to keep up thanks to her companion’s long-legged stride. Melina exchanged nods and a few muffled greetings with the miners they met on the way. Most seemed keen to maintain a respectful distance although at one point she was obliged to pause and deliver a warning back-hand cuff to a bleary-eyed fellow who displayed an overly tactile interest in Lizanne. The man staggered backwards, blood staining the thin kerchief he wore as a mask, and would have tottered over the edge if one of his fellow miners hadn’t reached out to steady him.