by Anthony Ryan
By the eleventh hour at least two-thirds of the warehouse district was aflame along with a sizable portion of the Dockside buildings. Only valiant efforts by the Sonora Fire Watch, augmented by the City Constabulary, prevented the fire from spreading into residential environs. For a time it appeared that the blaze might be contained and the damage, whilst severe, would at least have been manageable. It is at this point in the narrative that your humble correspondent must ask his readers to trust the veracity of the subsequent account. Incredible though it may appear, I can only attest with simple honesty that what follows is the unexpurgated truth as witnessed by my own eyes.
Having been roused from my slumber at some point past the 10th hour by the general discord rising beyond my bedroom window, I proceeded, as all dutiful correspondents must, to the scene of the action. On reaching the Dockside my progress was impeded by a cordon of City Constabulary who were stringent in forbidding any closer approach. Fortunately, I espied a near by crane and duly made good my ascent to its topmost platform whereupon I found myself afforded a most excellent view of the dreadful spectacle below. A single glance proved sufficient to confirm the loss of most of the warehouses, the centre of the inferno blazing with such intensity that to look upon it pained the eyes. However, I could see the hoses of the Fire Watch hard at work on the fringes of the blaze and at that instant it appeared well contained and unlikely to pose further danger to the wider metropolis.
Then she appeared.
Regular readers will know well this correspondent’s repeated scepticism with regard to the so-called “Blessed Demon” said to have conducted a fiery rampage through the Marsh Wold and beyond in recent months. It is therefore with great humility that I must now attest that this monster is in fact all too real.
She came striding out of the smoke that covered the wharf beyond the constables’ cordon, tall and straight of back, one might even call her bearing elegant but for the rags she wore. The raging fire at her back cast her face in shadow but for a single instant. Just as she fixed her gaze upon the line of constables and called forth the fire in her veins, her face became clear and it was a face I knew well.
I know not whether it was the shock of recognition that froze me to the spot, or witnessing the horror of her unnatural flames consuming the servants of the law. In either case I must confess to a moment of absolute immobility in both mind and body as I stood and looked upon none other than Miss Catheline Dewsmine.
I should like to report that the face I looked upon was that of a madwoman—a cackling, wild-eyed hag bent on mindless havoc. But that was not the case. The countenance I beheld was not one of insanity, but serenity. In the past I had many occasions to look upon the face of Catheline Dewsmine and often felt there to be a certain artifice to those finely made features. Her smile strained a fraction, her eyebrow arched a little too high bespeaking a well-concealed contempt. I saw no such artifice now. The woman I watched commit mass murder was possessed of a contented certainty the like of which I have never witnessed in another human being.
She saw me as the last constable writhed his final agonies, glancing up to regard the solitary statue of a man standing atop a crane and pondering the imminence of mortality. I assume it was the certainty of my doom that unfroze me, a desire to meet my end with at least a semblance of dignity. So, standing as straight as I could I called down to her with the only greeting that came to mind: “Miss Dewsmine. Are you well?”
She stood regarding me in silence for some time, long enough in fact for a thick sheen of sweat to form upon my flesh as the inferno crept closer. Then she spoke, and I must report that as her face was absent any madness, so too was her voice. It was, in fact, the same rich, melodious voice I recalled from so many society gatherings.
“I am very well, thank you, Mr. Talwick,” she greeted me in return. “And you, sir?”
“In point of truth, miss,” I replied, somewhat startled by my own poise, “I must confess to a modicum of alarm at this very moment.”
“Alarm?” she enquired, then gave a small laugh of realisation. “Oh yes, my little diversion,” she went on, casting a glance at the encroaching flames. “I’m afraid I shall have to crave your forgiveness, sir. But necessity has spurred me to some . . . excesses of late.”
“Necessity, miss?” I enquired, my gaze taking in the measure of her form. Underneath all the soot she remained as beautiful as ever, if noticeably thinner and clad in what appeared to be the torn and tattered remnants of a dress more suited to a high-status ball than a scene of wanton destruction.
“Yes indeed,” she replied. “A most pressing and important matter.” At this point she felt it appropriate to offer an apologetic smile. “One which requires me to cut this pleasant interlude short.”
“I see,” I said, standing straighter still and compelling my gaze to meet hers.
“Oh, don’t concern yourself, Mr. Talwick,” she assured me and I noticed a familiar arch to her brows, the form they adopted when she found herself in the company of one she knew to be her social and intellectual inferior. “I should like people to know, you see,” she continued, waving an elegant hand at the blazing storm now barely ten feet from where she stood. “It’s only fair after all.”
“Know what, miss?” I enquired, my previous poise quickly eroding towards panic.
“Why, what’s coming of course,” she told me. “I believe it will make things so much more entertaining, in time. And with that, sir”—she gave a brisk smile and inclined her head—“I must bid you a fond farewell.”
Then she was gone, transformed into a blur in the thickening smoke, no doubt the result of a recent intake of Green. Any hopes she may have vanished for good were soon dashed by the sounds of alarm rising from the harbour itself. I turned to see fire blossoming from the deck of a freighter moored twenty yards from my position. Then a few moments later a great gout of flame rose from the vessel’s stack and a boom shook her from bow to stern, a boom that told of an exploding boiler. A few heart-beats later and another ship took light with similar results, then another until it seemed as if every vessel moored at the quay-side was wreathed in flame.
I cannot attest to the full horror of what unfolded in the harbour that night, preoccupied as I was with climbing down from my imperilled perch in order to make good my escape from the advancing conflagration. Suffice to say that the scale of destruction being wrought on those ships at anchor compelled the harbour-master to raise the gate and allow the surviving vessels to sail clear. This also had the beneficial effect of permitting the tidal waters to wash over the quay and extinguish the inferno before more damage could be done. Unfortunately, this in turn resulted in the flooding of dozens of homes fringing the Dockside District thereby providing an impetus for the riots that have been raging in our city for much of today.
No trace of Catheline Dewsmine has been found, although the appointed Protectorate investigators have assured this correspondent that exhaustive efforts are being employed to hunt her down. However, it is this correspondent’s opinion that such efforts will prove fruitless, for I believe the “Blessed Demon” is no longer within their reach. Enquiries at the harbour-master’s office reveal that six vessels were destroyed at anchor in Sanorah Harbour and twenty-three others are known to have escaped through the opened door. Of these only twenty-two have been subsequently accounted for. One vessel, the South Seas Maritime passenger liner the SSM Northern Star, has not returned to port and her whereabouts are unknown.
A full accounting of casualties has yet to be made public but it can safely be assumed to be in the hundreds. The Dockside District is now blackened wasteland and the cost in commerce and revenue so enormous as to defy easy calculation. And yet, your humble correspondent is forced to entertain the notion that what he witnessed the previous night was but a portent. Catheline Dewsmine, risen from death and rendered monstrous by means unknown has escaped this continent and gone to complete her “most pres
sing and important matter.” It is this correspondent’s grim duty to report his firm suspicion that we have not yet seen the last of her.
Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—23rd Rosellum 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.
CHAPTER 34
Clay
His left hand scraped over ten feet of bare rock before finding purchase on a shallow fissure barely an inch wide. Clay shouted as the shock of his arrested tumble jolted through his arm to his shoulder, threatening to dislodge his grip. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into the fissure, ignoring the pain and the wet rush of blood that told of a displaced finger-nail or two.
He hung there, dragging air into his lungs and fighting panic. Loriabeth kept calling his name from atop the cliff, becoming more shrill with each plaintive cry. Clay’s mind raced through various escape scenarios, none of which seemed to offer much prospect of success. The wallet containing his product sat in the right inside pocket of his jacket, meaning he would have to engage in some frantic manoeuvring to recover it. Even should he manage to retrieve it without separating himself from the cliff, the chances of getting it open and safely extracting a vial were remote. He considered attempting a descent, but a few careful probes with his dangling feet revealed an absence of ledges where he might find purchase. To add insult to his predicament the burnt and severed end of the rope dangled only a few feet above his head. Clay glared up at it in a spasm of helpless reproach, an emotion that soon turned to alarm when he saw a bright bead of blood swelling on the blackened stub. It wasn’t his blood.
He could see the Black’s severed neck dangling above, emitting a crimson cascade that coursed down the face of the cliff and inevitably found its way onto the rope. He watched as the bead detached from the rope and descended towards him, impacting on the upper side of his forehead. Had he been un-Blessed there would have been a hard jab of flaming agony as the blood met his skin. Instead, the undiluted substance produced just a warm wet tap, no doubt leaving a pale and permanent reminder in his flesh for the rest of his life, however short that proved to be in the current circumstance. Strangely, the bead’s fall brought a new clarity to his thoughts, banishing the panic and allowing a certain realisation to dawn.
Black. He raised his gaze, watching another red bead swelling on the rope’s ragged end. Black for the push . . . But what to push? The wild notion of employing Black to move his own body blossomed then died immediately. No Blood-blessed had ever successfully accomplished such a feat, and those that tried had merely gifted the world with a spectacular new form of suicide. It was an early-learned lesson for all those who shared the Blessing: Black never flows inward. And there ain’t nothing to push, he concluded with a sigh, slumping against the unyielding rock, then frowning as another notion came to mind. Nothing . . . ’cept the cliff.
He levered himself back from the cliff-face as gently as he could, eyes exploring the rock. The fissure into which he had thrust his hand was part of a long crack that narrowed as it descended, Clay finding it extended nearly the length of his body. He could see it was in fact the edge of a narrow protrusion in the cliff, a thin slab of rock that might well come loose with enough prodding.
Another wet peck at his forehead returned his attention to the rope. It was now red from end to end, the blood winding along its braids in thick rivulets to birth a steady stream of droplets. Clay craned his neck and opened his mouth wide, letting the product flow down his throat. He had thought the taste of undiluted Green would be the worst thing ever to befoul his mouth, but it transpired that raw Black was an order of magnitude worse. He gagged as the thick, acrid liquid burned its way past his tongue and gullet before finding his belly, then shuddered at the instant upsurge of nausea. He forced himself to keep drinking, despite the spasm that began to make his whole body vibrate. He needed all he could stomach if this was to work.
He finally stopped when his guts threatened to throw up most of what he had drunk, closing his mouth and flattening himself against the cliff to avoid the continuing torrent of blood. After a few moments to recover his strength he eased himself back and concentrated his gaze on the crack in the rock just below his now-benumbed hand. He tried using just a small amount of Black to begin with, seeking to widen the crack just a little. The rock, however, proved unyielding and his efforts produced only a few flakes of displaced stone. Clay steeled himself against a new wave of fear and prepared to unleash half the Black in a single blast. It’s this or a long drop into nothing.
The result was immediate, the fissure widening by a foot as a cloud of splintered rock erupted around him with a crack like the snapping of a giant’s thigh-bone. The thin slab of stone came away from the cliff so fast it nearly proved fatal. Clay had no time to think, letting go of the slab as it came loose for just an instant as he reached out to grab it with the Black, then scrabbling to regain purchase as it hung in mid air. He held on with a light grip, uncertain of how the Black would affect an object subject to direct contact. He lessened the flow of Black, utilising every scrap of skill he had to concentrate the power on the centre of the slab then shifting his weight so that it slowly began to revolve. Sweat poured into his eyes as he fought to maintain the intense pitch of concentration needed to keep the slab horizontal. His body ached in protest as he slowly got to his feet, allowing himself a small grin of triumph. He was standing on a free-floating platform, a feat never before accomplished by another Blood-blessed, at least as far as he knew.
He looked up, finding the rope still out of reach. He tried using Black to elevate the slab to the required height but it gave an alarming shudder when he made the attempt. Must be too close to it, he realised. Well that’s a quandary. It took a few moments pondering before the solution occurred, whereupon he crouched as low as he dared and jumped straight up, using Black to raise the slab to meet his feet before he descended. He had only ascended about a foot but it was better than nothing. Repeated jumps brought the end of the rope within reach, but he kept going for as long as the Black would allow, wary of grasping the blood-slicked lower end. Finally, as he felt the last vestiges of Black fade from his veins, he took a final jump and gripped the unbloodied stretch of rope just above the drake’s headless corpse.
He watched the displaced slab of cliff tumble away below to shatter on the shingle beach, hearing the dim cheers of his companions above.
“Just hang on, cuz!” Loriabeth called to him. “We’ll haul you the rest of the way.”
“Wait!” he yelled back, turning to the dead Black. Riches not to be ignored. “Got something to do first!”
• • •
The Black’s corpse lay on a broad ledge protruding from a deep cave in the stone. Recalling Skaggerhill’s lessons, Clay punctured the vein at the join of the animal’s neck and filled his canteen with the resulting torrent of product. Foul as it tasted, it was clearly a potent brew. Once full, he stoppered the canteen and began to reach for the rope once more, then found his gaze lingering on the dark interior of the cave.
Don’t, he cautioned himself, nevertheless stepping closer to peer into the inviting gloom. “Dammit,” he muttered, crouching at the cave mouth and knowing he would crawl inside. “A curious nature is surely the worst vice.”
The interior of the cave was musty and remained a gloomy mystery until his eyes adjusted. A part-eaten animal of some kind lay in the centre of the cave. Clay thought it might be a cat from the blood-matted fur, but the mutilation was such he couldn’t be sure. Beyond it he could see a small patch of light glimmering on something. Stepping over the unfortunate creature, he drew up short at the sight of an egg sitting atop a pile of fused animal bones.
Guess that’s why she was so unwelcoming, he thought, sinking to his haunches and reaching out to smooth a hand over the egg. Sorry young ’un. Mama’s gone, and it’s my fault.
The sharp jab of regret was unexpected, Loriabeth hadn’t had any choice after all. But
still, his brief if tenuous connection with Lutharon, and the drake memories Ethelynne had shared with him back in the ruined city, left him with a new appreciation for the true nature of these animals. The Blacks, he knew, were not like the others. They feel, they think. If the evidence found in the temple was to be believed there had been a time when the original Arradsians lived in harmony with the Blacks. Whilst all we’ve ever done is kill them.
He took the egg on impulse, finding it weighing only a half-pound or so. An idea had begun to worm its way into the forefront of his thoughts, a notion stoked by his remembrance of Ethelynne and what she had done to survive the Wittler Expedition all those years ago.
Making his way outside, he consigned the egg to his pack then once again removed the stopper from his canteen. “Don’t worry, young ’un,” he said, taking a hefty gulp and wincing at the taste. “Mama’s gonna make sure you get born after all.”
• • •
They made camp a short distance from the cliff-edge, clustering around a fire as the lights faded. They were once again in a forest, though less dense than the first one. The trees were more akin in form to the jungle giants Clay was familiar with, although, like the drakes, these appeared to be stunted cousins.
“Looks like Green country to me,” Loriabeth said as they made camp, eyeing the surrounding foliage with evident suspicion. “And you can bet there’ll be other Blacks about somewhere.”
