Rel rode over to the inhumanly sized corpse. In death its skin was dark grey, deep spiral scars over two thirds of its body. Its four arms were curled about it, embracing itself. The hairless head was a pulp. Aramaz recoiled from it and paced back, exhibiting no desire to eat it.
“Gun got this one,” he said.
“It’s the only way to kill them,” said Deamaathani. “I wouldn’t want to fence with one of these.”
“Why did they do it?” said Rel. “They left nearly all the supplies, they didn’t do it for valuables. That engine is four-tenths silver.”
“Slaves. Meat,” said Deamaathani. “The dogs are all gone as well as the workers.”
Zorolotsev came to them. “Captain, where they come from, I not know,” he said. “Modalmen tracks are very easy to see. They start outside the ironweb from all sides, nothing to show from where.”
“How many?”
“Difficult to say, lots of tracks cross each other. More than six, less than twelve.”
“Which way did they go?” asked Rel.
Zorolotsev pointed. “That way. Northeast. Two lines, mounted, driving captives between them.”
Rel wheeled Aramaz about, away from the modalman corpse “We will follow the trail, see what we can do.”
“Is that such a good idea?” said Deamaathani.
“Have you got a better one? We have to scout their forces before reporting back to the fort.”
“Very carefully,” said Deamaathani.
“Am I ever anything but? Some of the workers might have survived.”
The dragoons gathered together at the ridge top. There, in the tangle of the broken iron web, they found a set of footprints peeling away from the tracks of the modalmen and their captives, the prints of a dray dog running with it.
“An escapee,” said Rel. He looked up the line of the tracks. They crossed over a flat run of desert before going up over a low dune.
“No,” said Zorolotsev. “This is from before.” He pointed at the ground. “These tracks of the raiders go over this one.”
“They probably got him too, and his dog,” said Veremond.
“Only one way to find out,” said Rel. He spurred his dracon. The others came behind him. The tracks became confused halfway to the dune. Zorolotsev halted his dracon. “Here, the tracks join.” Prints of man and dog were intermingled. “He got on the dog. See? Dog tracks deeper, no sign of human feet.”
They continued on down the line of tracks. They went up and over the dune, and headed out toward a space between two low crags some three hundred yards ahead.
“Fine place for an ambush,” said Rel.
“Yes,” said Zorolotsev pointing at a patch of brightness. “The dog. Hyah!” he spurred his dracon ahead of the others.
Half-hidden between the crags was the body of a dog, its fur a contrast to the flat black of the sand. Rel galloped up to Zorolotsev, Dramion and Merreas with him. Veremond and Deamaathani fanned out either side, riding up to the tops of the rocks.
“Dead dog,” said Dramion. Zorolotsev was by its side.
“You idiot, that’s a Sorkosian leader,” said Rel. “Someone get me some water!”
“What is he on about? It’s just a dog,” said Dramion.
“It’s a talking dog, you twat,” said Merreas.
“Too late captain, it is dead,” said Zorolotsev.
“Who had one of them out here? It must have been worth a fortune,” said Merreas.
“Ain’t worth nothing now,” said Dramion.
“There are only a couple,” said Veremond. “This one looks like the one that belonged to that Karsan merchant. Baskovan or something.”
“That’s not a Karsan name,” said Rel.
“Karsarin’s not my strongpoint. Could have been Buskovin.”
“Boskovin?”
“Aye, that’s it. Still doesn’t sound very Karsan to me.”
“It’s not, not originally, it’s Farthian, but the family has been in Karsa for years. The Boskovin clan are quite well-to-do,” said Rel. “Merchants, the lot of them. I wonder what one of them was doing all the way out here?”
“Well-to-do! Get him,” said Dramion.
“You speak Maceriyan like a duke, captain,” said Merreas.
“I had a duchess for my wet nurse, you oik. Veremond, go with Merreas back to the fort. Let them know what happened. Tell them the state of the track, let them know that the engine might be salvageable. The track bed is still sound. Make sure Estabanado listens to my recommendation, the workers need proper protection. It’s happened once, it’ll happen again. Get Zhinsky to put the case for more men, and soldiers from the garrison, not hirelings. It’s time we got ourselves out of that fort.”
“What about the waystations?” said Veremond.
“Stop and warn them all. No, order fourteen through seventeen back to the fort, that takes us down to the Deep Cut spur. Leave it staffed, but see if you can get some men sent back to guard it.”
“Aye,” said Veremond. The two men dipped their heads, and spurred their dracons into fast bobbing trots. The dracon’s legs kicked up clods of damp sand as they raced westwards. In minutes they were gone from sight.
“What about the rest of us, sir?” asked Dramion.
“We’ll get on with searching the camp for survivors. I want to be done before we lose the light.”
“Tonight?” said Zorolotsev.
“We’ll camp. Not too close to this charnel pit. Deamaathani, can you salvage enough of the web to ward us?”
“Of course.”
“And tomorrow?” said Dramion. “What do we do tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we follow the trail. They won’t have got far, not with men on foot. Nothing outpaces a dracon.”
“But the desert...” said Dramion disbelievingly. “You can’t be ordering us out into that...”
“We’ve got a magister-mage with us, or did you forget? No one else has any chance of finding these poor bastards. Or are you suggesting we leave them to their undoubtedly terrible fate?”
“No, sir,” mumbled Dramion.
THE NIGHT LASTED long. Strange noises troubled them all, bubbling cries that came drifting on the wind. Wet snufflings skirted the light of their fire, but when Deamaathani flung back his blankets and conjured a blaze, nothing could be seen. The sounds returned as soon as Deamaathani’s witchfire dimmed. Their minds always on what lurked in the darkness, none but Zorolotsev slept soundly. They welcomed the sun gladly.
The attackers had come from nowhere, as far as they could tell, but were unable to repeat the trick. The tracks ran true, straight as the railway through the desert of changing character. Needles of worn sandstone, red as the dawn, grew from the black sands. Small and widely spaced at first, they became denser until they were as tall and numerous as trees in a forest.
Zorolotsev stopped often to refer to the sun, noting his observations carefully in a book. The tracks carried on their course to the northeast, heading always deeper into the desert and away from the railway. They changed heading only once, turning suddenly directly north.
Noon was well past when Zorolotsev held up his hand and put his fingers to his lips. The desert was deathly quiet, no living thing moved, the wind was a dying breath. Over the thump of his heart Rel heard nothing.
“Wait here,” said Zorolotsev.
Rel nodded. Zorolotsev rode on, his dracon dodging between the pinnacles of rock. Five minutes went by, then ten. Then fifteen.
Rel was close to ordering the rest forward to find Zorolotsev when the Khusiak returned. His face was grim.
“Captain,” he said. “You had better see this.”
ZOROLOTSEV TOOK THEM to a place where the pinnacles grew closer, merging to become a cliff face. There he had them dismount. They left Dramion below minding the dracons, and climbed up a treacherous slope. Zorolotsev held his finger to his lip then motioned for them to go forward on their bellies.
The looked down into a large depression in the desert, su
rrounded by walls of rock, a crater like one of Three Sisters, only far larger. Three miles or more across, and every scrap of space was occupied by modalmen.
“By all the driven gods,” whispered Rel. “How many are there?”
Skin tents the height of towers dotted the camp. Cages barred with bones held human captives in abject misery, bloody piles of offal near them indicating their fate. Huge corrals contained enormous six-limbed animals saddled for riding. And everywhere went modalmen, armed and gigantic, a camp of monsters fit to despoil any nation of the Earth.
“Over two thousand,” said Zorolotsev. “And there is that.” On the far side of the camp was a stone stockade, studded with spikes whittled from long bones.
Rel made to get his glass, but the Khusiak shook his head. “Reflections give us away,” he said.
“What is in there?”
“Wait.”
A scaly crest flashed over the wall. A head lifted high, like those of their dracons but immeasurably larger. The creature shook out the frills around its jaw and horns, showing a long neck bound about with chains of bronze, then sank once more from view.
“A dragon?” said Rel. “A dragon?”
“We can do nothing for the prisoners,” said Deamaathani. “To go down there is suicide.”
Rel spoke quickly. “We have to go. Now. Get back to the fort, get a message back to the west that there’s an army of modalmen out here. If this lot fall upon Railhead we’ll lose it in an instant. They’ll invest the fort, it’ll be a disaster.”
“Yes, captain,” said Zorolotsev.
“They might be big,” said Rel. “But I’d like to see them shrug off a cannonade.”
They slid away undetected, mounted their dracons and rode fast from the forest of stone.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The King of the Drowned
“WARE! WARE! FLOTSAM ahead!” Fog muffled the lookout’s voice, stealing the power of his words. The ship’s bell tolled, two rings. The bow of the boat was invisible, the deck fading out into white blankness halfway down the length of the ship.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Trassan growled. “Isn’t there something you can do about this, Tullian? Wish the fog away.”
“Regrettably not, goodfellow,” said Ardovani. “Meteoromancy is but a hobby, and this is no normal fog. Perhaps Mage Iapetus might?”
“I’ve not seen him all damn day.”
“Be quiet now goodfellows,” said Captain Heffi quietly. “My men—your men— know what they are doing.”
Steersman Tolpoleznaen stared into the mist, still with concentration. His hands alone moved, making minor adjustments to the ship’s wheel, sending the vessel gracefully round the mat of wreckage. Heffi’s other men stood ready, ears straining.
A thin shout came back from the prow. “Ten degrees starboard!” Another voice repeated it. A sailor stationed at the door spoke into the wheelhouse.
“Ten degrees starboard.”
Tolpoleznaen was already turning the wheel, hands shifting quickly on the pins.
“Should we not turn with the paddlewheels?” said Trassan. He spoke under his breath, mindful of disturbing the crew.
“No we shouldn’t,” said Heffi tersely. “The tiller is enough. We go slowly under the screw. The less disturbance we make to the water the better. With luck and the guidance of the one, we will cross the Drowning Sea without so much as a whiff of the dead. Now with sincerely meant respect, goodfellow, shut up.”
Shouting came from the invisible prow, loud and frightened. Other voices relayed it, more than those given the task.
“The king! The Drowned King!”
“Fuck it, Heffi, you spoke too soon. Ardovani, come with me.”
“I will join you momentarily, goodfellow,” he said, and headed for the steps at the back of the wheelhouse that led below.
Trassan rushed from the wheelhouse, pushing past the sailor at the door. A commotion was breaking out on deck.
Heffi followed Trassan out into the fog, stopping at the railing to the balcony round the wheelhouse while Trassan took the stairs to the main deck three at a time.
“Where the hells do you think you’re going? Wait for the damned emissary!”
“What if there isn’t one? Get Bannord, Iapetus and my brother up here!”
“Trassan!” yelled Heffi. “Let us handle this!”
Trassan ignored him.
The ship’s bells rang, calling everyone to arms. Bannord was already on deck, the ship’s twenty marines behind him, all armed to the teeth. They each carried a fusil, a pistol and a heavy falchion. They wore jerkins of thick anguillon leather, and half-sets of plate—spalders, vambraces, open faced helmets and a light breastplate.
“He’s showed up then?” said Bannord, falling in next to Trassan. His men jogged behind them.
“Looks like it.”
“What are your plans?” Bannord grinned. Trassan got the impression Bannord was enjoying himself.
“Spread out, keep a look out. Don’t fire until I say.”
“Sounds good to me.” Bannord slowed. “Fan out! Firing positions!” Trassan had allowed Bannord to choose his own men, and he seemed to know his work. They needed little direction. They took their positions, rested their fusils and aimed out across the water. The third and second mates went about the ship followed by two sailors carrying sword chests, distributing weapons among the ratings.
The crew was experienced, and prepared quickly. The activity of their preparation had been a welcome break to the eerie silence of the sea fog, but it ceased and the quiet enveloped the Prince Alfra again.
They reached the prow. Trassan slipped over, slamming painfully onto the slick wood. He limped hurriedly to the front of the ship. Freezing water droplets coated his skin and clothes.
The lookout had a ironlock pistol in his hand. “Goodfellow,” he said. “Below.”
Twenty yards out, the sea fizzed and heaved, a spout bubbling ten feet ten feet high. Waves slapped against the ship’s hull. Trassan looked down to see bodies in the water, dozens of them. Their flesh was the bloated, fish-white of the drowned. Dead eyes stared back at him. Pallid hands pawed at the sides of the ship.
“My congratulations, goodfellow,” the sailor said. “If this were a floatstone ship, they’d be up over the side and among us already.”
“Aye,” said Bannord. “That’ll buy us a bit of time.”
“You’re not optimistic.”
“A realist, my friend. The Drowned King is a slippery fucker. No pun intended,” said Bannord.
The water burst outward. A giant emerged from the ocean, water streaming from its face. A crown of broken wooden spars and shattered floatstone crowned him. A hundred drowned bodies made up the face, packed together so that their slimy flesh formed one mass, but individual limbs, heads and gleaming bone could be discerned. Long, rank kelp made hair and bearded his lips and chin. Up and up the giant rose, revealing shoulders comprised of many dead men. His chest was a pair of whale carcasses, furred white with rotting blubber, hagfish hanging from their ragged skin so they resembled exposed, diseased lungs. The hull of a wooden Ocerzerkiyan corsair made up part of its belly. Its arms were huge, biceps comprised of dead seamen, pulling as if still at the oars as they flexed, tendons were anguillons, muscles tight knots of fish skeletons. Hands unfurled, each finger the corpse of a drowned man.
The giant ceased to rise when it was half clear of the water, its legs and lower belly still hidden by the sea. Water poured from cracks in its composite flesh, fish and juvenile anguillons slipping back into the sea. Putrid air wafted over the deck, the briny sweet stench of waterlogged meat.
Aarin joined his brother and Bannord, Iapetus timid behind him. Ardovani came a moment later, carrying a magister’s weapon, a large gun of copper and brass, set with diamond down the length of the barrel, yet lacking a hole in its muzzle.
“Go and tell Heffi to get the engines ready,” said Trassan to a rating. The man fled astern, grateful to be
free of the horror unfolding at the prow.
“The King of the Drowned,” said Aarin. “Every unghosted ever lost at sea, made one.”
This hideous patchwork of a thousand stolen lives towered over the Prince Alfra. The eyes, when they opened, only they proved to be the king’s own.
Eyelids made of stolen arms parted. A cold, green light shone from within. Four corpses made his lips. These flexed, parting to show a mouth full of stacked skulls arranged to resemble teeth.
“You trespass in the realm of the drowned,” said the king. A foetid wind blew his words over the ship. “You break the treaty between the Undersea Kingdom and the Kingdom of the Isles.”
“Not so!” shouted Trassan, fighting to keep the tremor of fear from his voice. “I have here a right of passage signed by Prince Alfra of Karsa himself.”
He held it up in a shaking hand. In the swell below, more dead pressed themselves against the ship, beating ineffectually against its unbreakable hull.
“And you, priest of the dead, your kind is forbidden crossing of our domain.”
“I have the sigil of the Dead God,” said Aarin. “I invoke my right to cross to the Final Isle.” The iron medallion flashed in his palm, with the other he scattered silver into the water. “My offering.”
The Drowned King reached out a vile hand. The dead men of his fingers unfurled, reaching for the paper with their own rotting digits. The one serving as the king’s forefinger snatched the paper, and lifted it to empty eye sockets. The corpse dropped the document, and was withdrawn into a fist. The arm lifted back.
“Permission is not granted. We were not consulted.”
“The paper is in order,” said Trassan.
“We were not consulted. The agreement is void. By ancient treaty, the priest’s badge and silver buys his passage, your paper does not buy yours. You cannot pass. Your ship is ours. Your lives are ours.” The water surged before the king, bearing moaning dead halfway up the side of the Prince Alfra before sucking them away.
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