The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  Keep moving! he ordered his company, raising his rifle and loosing a shot at the trees. Fire back!

  They responded immediately, falling in on either side as he continued to wade towards the beach, firing and reloading with each step. Around them more barges were beaching on the sand-bar, disgorging their troops to add further weight to the advance. The Islanders in the trees, however, seemed uncowed by the sight of such an onslaught. They kept up an accurate and deadly fire throughout the three long minutes it took for Sirus to struggle clear of the surf, by which time he had lost fully half his company and the waves had turned a pale shade of crimson.

  Lie down, Morradin ordered. Harassing fire.

  Sirus duly had his company lie prone on the beach and fire at the muzzle flashes in the trees. His refashioned eyes made it easier to pick out the vague shapes of the island’s defenders, counting at least a hundred directly to their front with more on either side. The fire of his company, all expert shots, took a steady toll as the rest of the assault force made a costly but inexorable progress to the beach. Some three thousand of them waded clear of the sea, leaving dozens of bodies bobbing in the swell around the barges. In accordance with Morradin’s command they lined out on either side of Sirus’s company, lying down to send a withering hail of bullets into the trees. For a few moments the air was filled with the cacophony of massed small arms, Sirus seeing numerous Islanders fall before Morradin gave another order.

  Fix bayonets. Advance at the charge.

  The entire line of Spoiled rose as one, steel glittering as they slotted their bayonets into place. There were no bugles or shouted exhortations to accompany their charge, just the sibilant rumble of many boots on sand and the now-intermittent crackle of the defenders’ fire. Sirus could sense Morradin’s excitement, glancing to see the large shadow of the Red drake that bore him as he swept low to witness the spectacle. Hoping for another fine old show.

  They had closed to within thirty yards of the trees when the first cannon fired, the air around Sirus instantly filled with what sounded like a thousand angry hornets. He knew what it was thanks to the shared memory of a former soldier who had time to name the new threat before his torso was torn to shreds. Canister.

  The five Spoiled charging on Sirus’s left were transformed into a cloud of red mist and flensed flesh, whilst those to his right fared little better. He threw himself flat, this time needing no command from Morradin. He found himself face-to-face with Katrya. Like him, she appeared to be unscathed but the spines on her forehead were bunched in angry consternation. Where did they get those?

  They ducked as another salvo of cannon fire blasted out from the tree-line, cutting down those Spoiled who had resisted the instinctive urge to duck. Sirus could see that the whole line had stalled, their ranks broken by several large, red-smeared gaps. The defenders’ rifles started firing with a new intensity, finding easy targets at such shortened range. Sirus could feel his fellow Spoiled dying around him. It was a curiously painless experience; like watching a hundred candles being snuffed by the wind one after the other.

  Clever bastard, Morradin enthused from above. Waited for the charge before revealing his guns. I’m liking this Shaman King more and more.

  Sirus watched the Red carrying Morradin angle its wings, aligning itself parallel to the tree-line. Another dozen Reds glided out of the sky to fall in behind as the beast flew lower, mouth gaping to breathe out a stream of fire that swept the trees. The following drakes followed suit, bathing the forest in flame along the whole length of the beach. Sirus looked at the inferno raging to his front, hearing the screams of the defenders above the roar.

  Left you a gap, Morradin informed him, communicating an image of an untouched avenue through the forest a hundred yards or so to the left. Renew the advance. There’s some kind of fortification a mile inland. Surround it and wait for orders.

  The remnants of the assault force formed up behind Sirus as he led them into the trees. There were just over fifteen hundred left, some with wounds both minor and severe. It wasn’t unusual for the White’s Spoiled servants to keep fighting despite mortal injury. The Spoiled to his right, a petite young woman who would have probably been described as of delicate appearance in her human days, trotted along with one hand clamped over the wound in her stomach. Sirus could see a pink bulge between her fingers and a steady trickle of blood seeped from her mouth as she ran, her face betraying not the slightest twinge of pain.

  They met further opposition upon leaving the beach, warriors charging out of the roiling smoke alone or in small groups, crying out their war cries as they hacked and stabbed. Sirus could pick out the words “Ullema Kahlan” amongst the furious babble as the Islanders were shot down or bayoneted. These suicidal attacks were costly but barely slowed the Spoiled advance, Sirus ordering a halt at the sight of Morradin’s Red circling a large stockade.

  Resistance continued as they surrounded the stockade, the Islanders eschewing their mad charges in favour of sniping from tree-tops. Sirus felt the rush of a passing bullet, which splintered the trunk of a tree a few inches from his head. His Spoiled-born eyes and reflexes reacted with automatic swiftness, picking out the dim shadow of the marksman perched atop a tall palm-tree, Sirus’s bullet taking him between the eyes a half-second later. He ran to the body, retrieving the man’s rifle for inspection. The words Silworth Independent Arms Company Mark VI .422 were engraved in Mandinorian on the brass plate fixed to the stock, an image he instantly conveyed to Morradin.

  Standard Protectorate issue, the marshal mused. It appears Ironship have been making new friends. Explains where they got those cannon from.

  Sirus turned his gaze on the stockade, which was in fact a substantial fortress of thick wooden walls standing twenty feet high. Meaning they’ll have more in there, he thought.

  Of course they will. Sirus could feel Morradin’s keen anticipation. But that means they’ll also have a great deal of powder. Continue to mop up the perimeter. See if you can actually capture a few. I sense our drake god isn’t altogether happy with today’s butcher’s bill.

  • • •

  The battery of cannon fired at once, muzzle flashes bright in the gloom as they cast their shells at the fortress. Sirus saw the projectiles strike home, each aimed with expert precision to impact on the same point. Over the past few hours repeated salvos had torn a large splintered rent in the fortress’s south-facing wall, but as yet had failed to craft a breach. Morradin had initially intended to launch a massed assault, ordering the army to cut down trees and fashion scaling ladders, but then the White arrived.

  Sirus could feel the great beast’s simmering discontent as it soared high over the trees before finding a perch on the flanks of the volcano. Whilst the White would occasionally form thoughts into coherent words, for the most part its intent was divined through the emotions it conveyed. They consisted mostly of different shades of anger with the occasional pulse of satisfaction. So far the only joy the White exhibited came when it looked upon its clutch of infants and even then it was a dark, near-alien sensation; more like a swelling of sympathetic hunger as he watched the juveniles feast on yet another unfortunate captive. But now its feelings were far from joyous. The entire Spoiled horde stiffened as the White shared the sight of the many bodies littering the shore, colouring the images with a sharp note of dissatisfaction, most of it directed at Morradin.

  So they set their ladders aside and brought up their small train of artillery to begin the long process of blasting a breach through the fortress’s thick wooden walls. Morradin, unable to keep the stain of frustrated blood-lust from his thoughts but nevertheless keen to placate the White, ordered Sirus to take a third of the army and commence a hunt for captives. Most of the live Islanders they found were suffering from incapacitating wounds or severe burns. The unscathed or lightly injured proved a difficult quarry, fleet of foot and familiar with the many hiding-places offered by the island’s dense
forest and rocky coast-line. When cornered the fugitives were often suicidally unwilling to succumb to capture, several sinking a knife into their own throats as their pursuers closed in. By nightfall they had barely three hundred Islanders bound and awaiting conversion, less than a fifth of the casualties suffered in the initial assault and subsequent fighting.

  The general lack of success resulting from this attack made Sirus consider the true level of the White’s intelligence. It had been clever enough to spare Morradin and put his generalship to use, but was apparently unable to discern the particular characteristics that had once caused the marshal to be dubbed “The Butcher” by his own troops.

  It is limited, Sirus realised, careful to accompany the thought with as many images of the day’s slaughter as he could. He had learned that the more visual stimulus crowded his thoughts the less his fellow Spoiled were able to discern his reasoning. It doesn’t really understand us, any more than we understand it.

  Do you have to? Katrya asked, drawing back with a painful wince.

  Sorry. Sirus muted his thoughts and she settled against him once more. They had found a resting-place near the cannon, a hollow created by the roots of a large tree that would offer welcome shade from the sun come morning.

  He killed his wife, you know, Katrya mused as the cannon blasted out another salvo.

  Who? Sirus asked.

  Majack. Strangled her a few years ago when he was drunk. Thought she’d been tupping his sergeant. He wrapped the body in an old carpet and dumped it in the jungle for the Greens, told everyone she’d run off with a sailor. It’d been bothering him ever since. I think he wanted to die.

  Then he got his wish. This particular memory of Majack’s had escaped him as he had never felt the need to exchange more than the most basic thoughts with the former soldier. He shared that with you? he asked.

  He dreamt it. Kept it buried deep down when awake, but you can’t bury your dreams.

  Sirus summoned another collage of imagery as her thoughts birthed an inevitable conclusion. But this time his memory shield wasn’t enough.

  Yes, she told him, entwining a scaly hand in his, I see yours too, my darling. I see who you dream of every night. But I also see that, in your dreams at least, you see her as she really was. Not how you wanted her to be.

  • • •

  Another full day’s pounding with the cannon and the breach was finally opened. It seemed far too narrow for a successful assault to Sirus, just wide enough for two men at a time, but Morradin’s commands left no room for discussion. In common with previous assaults Sirus’s company had been chosen to make the first attack. As he formed his troops into a narrow column Sirus allowed himself the suspicion that Morradin, driven by their mutual detestation, might well be attempting to orchestrate his death.

  Not my choice, boy, the marshal informed him, reading his mind with ease. It seems you hold the favour of our White god. The perils of having such a disciplined mind, I suppose. The rest of these morons don’t respond half as quick as you.

  They crouched in the long grass that dominated the ground between the trees and the fortress, waiting for nightfall. The Spoiled had little difficulty seeing in the dark which gave them an advantage over the Islanders, although Sirus doubted it would count for much in the confines of the breach. Morradin’s command came as the first stars began to twinkle in the sky. NOW!

  Sirus rose and led his Spoiled forward at a run, covering the distance to the breach in less than a minute. He expected an immediate hail of rifle fire from the defenders on the walls but the charge was completely unopposed, the whole affair proceeding in an eerie silence broken only by the rasp of the grass as they ran. Saving their ammunition, Morradin mused as Sirus reached the breach. It’ll be any second now, boy. Best brace yourself.

  Sirus increased his speed, sprinting through the jagged fissure as fast as his monstrous body would allow, expecting a volley to come crashing down from above at any second. Instead, he cleared the breach in a few seconds and found himself standing amidst a scene of slaughter. The Islanders lay everywhere, at least three hundred strewn about a broad inner courtyard, each one with their neck laid open.

  Knew what they were in for, Morradin judged. Didn’t want to add to our numbers. It seems they’re learning.

  Sirus crouched next to the body of a woman. She was young and tall, with the supple muscles and scars typical of Island warriors. Dark congealed blood covered her throat and the blade of the knife lying in her limp hand.

  This happened hours ago, Morradin decided. Search the place. Find him.

  They scoured the stronghold from top to bottom, finding only more bodies. Any of the men could be him, Sirus pointed out to Morradin. None of the other Islanders in our ranks ever saw his face.

  No. Morradin was emphatic. He’s not here. Maybe he never was. Slipped away and left us to waste time and ammunition on this fortress of corpses.

  Eventually one of the Spoiled reported finding something in the bowels of the fortress. Sirus made his way down a series of wooden steps to a large, cellar-like chamber where one of his troops stood next to a narrow hole in the dirt floor. A tunnel, Sirus reported, crouching to inspect the find. Recently dug.

  Follow it, Morradin commanded and Sirus leapt into the opening, finding he had to crawl on all fours to make his way along the passage. The tunnel’s hasty construction was evident in the loose dirt that fell on him continually as he struggled along, expecting the roof to collapse at any second. It took the better part of an hour’s crawling before he came to the tunnel’s end. Sirus halted, eyeing the dim moonlight streaming down from a roughly hewn hole in the roof, drawing an impatient query from Morradin. What’s the delay, boy?

  They didn’t collapse the exit, Sirus replied.

  Perhaps they didn’t have time. Or perhaps there’s an entire war-party waiting above to hack your head off the instant you pop up. We won’t know until you do, will we?

  Butcher indeed, Sirus muttered inwardly, squirming to take a firmer hold of his rifle and wiping the soil from the breech. A dozen Spoiled had followed him into the tunnel and he ordered them to clean their own weapons before crawling forward and rising to a crouch. The opening was four feet or so above his head, a leap beyond his former body, but well within the capabilities of this one.

  He leapt as high as he could, clearing the hole and landing on his feet, rifle ready and eyes tracking the surrounding trees for enemies. Nothing. Spread out, he told his troops as they leapt to join him.

  Sirus waited a moment to gauge his surroundings, seeing a mostly unremarkable patch of jungle, then his ears detected the sound of rushing water some way off to the left. He led his Spoiled towards the sound at a steady run, spurred on by Morradin’s mounting impatience. After a hundred paces the trees thinned to reveal a large pool. The pool’s surface lapped gently against the encroaching rocks, fed by a curtain of water that glittered in the moonlight as it fell from the edge of a high cliff. There were several large rocks rising from the water, each one featuring an ornamental stone of some kind. The few converted Islanders in their ranks had provided some insight into their spiritual beliefs, and Sirus knew these were shrines to the ancient spirits who were said to have first inhabited the Barrier Isles before the coming of man. His gaze soon went to the largest rock, a flat boulder upon which a small man sat, surrounded by bodies, all Island warriors of typically impressive stature. Like their brethren back at the fortress, they had all clearly died by their own hand, throats slashed open and their mingled blood seeping over the rock and into the pool in a billowing red cloud.

  The Shaman King, if I’m not mistaken, Morradin mused as Sirus shared the image of the small man and his dead guards. I thought he’d be taller, didn’t you?

  The small man barely glanced over his shoulder at Sirus before returning his gaze to the shrine, head bowed and lips moving in some unheard prayer or invocation. He was certai
nly a contrast to the other Islanders, his limbs spindly and his back bent, though he possessed their usual fair colouring.

  A new thought pushed its way into Sirus’s head, far stronger and more implacable than Morradin’s: Not needed. The White added a hard jab of urgency to his command that made Sirus shudder as he raised his rifle. He trained the sight on the centre of the small man’s back where the bullet would be sure to shatter his spine before going on to pierce his heart. An easy shot at this range.

  He had begun to squeeze the trigger when the entire surface of the pool exploded upwards. The water rose into a solid wall of white and red before blasting outward with sufficient force to send Sirus and the other Spoiled sprawling. He scrambled to his feet quickly, finding himself within a swirling maelstrom of raised water. Near by, he saw one of his Spoiled lifted off his feet and dragged into the enveloping wall of vapour. Through the confusion Sirus could see the vague shape of the body being dashed against one of the rocks in the pool before being cast away into the storm. Something hard slammed into Sirus from behind, throwing him flat once again. He looked up to see two more of his troops being borne high then slammed together, once, then twice, then once more before being flung aside. The bodies landed close to Sirus and he saw the force of the last impact had been enough to enmesh their part-shattered rib-cages, two pairs of lifeless slitted eyes staring at him in blank astonishment.