by Anthony Ryan
“Well, that’s cheery,” Loriabeth muttered.
“We are Seven!” Preacher said, Clay wincing a little as his grip tightened. “Joined in purpose and now joined in faith. I know the Seer blesses our endeavour.” He lowered his gaze once more, saying, “Heed the words of the Seer.”
“Heed the words of the Seer,” Braddon repeated, Clay and the others doing the same.
Silence reigned for a time as they stood there, holding hands in silent contemplation until, from somewhere out on the darkened plain, there came the shrill cry of a drake.
“Shit!” Loriabeth drew both pistols and threw herself flat, the circle breaking apart as the rest of them armed themselves and hunkered down. “Sounded a mite too high-pitched for a Green,” she said.
“Plains Green,” Skaggerhill said, drawing back the hammers on his shotgun. “Little smaller than jungle Greens, but a good deal more cunning. They move in packs of six or more and hunt at night. Most likely caught the scent of the Cerath we rode here on. Be after the young ’uns.”
“And if they ain’t?” Clay asked.
Skaggerhill sighed and reached for his pack, placing it in front of him and laying the shotgun on top. “Then we’re in for a very long night.”
* * *
• • •
Either through blind luck or disinterest they spent a nervous night untroubled by any Greens. Clay eventually ordered the resumption of the watch rota and each of them managed a few hours’ sleep before dawn. They set off after a short breakfast of canned sea rations washed down with a larger-than-usual quota of coffee to stave off the lingering fatigue. It took two of them to carry Kriz’s apparatus, the bulky device lashed into a tarpaulin suspended between two poles. Clay had been taking his turn lugging the apparatus when they came upon the body of a juvenile Cerath.
Flies buzzed in greedy swarms around the empty cavity of the animal’s stomach and the many wounds that scored its hide. “Like I said,” Skaggerhill commented, “after the young ’uns.”
“Got a dead Green over here,” Braddon said, pointing to something in the long grass near by. “Looks like its head got stoved in. Guess momma Cerath got herself some vengeance.”
“You wanna stop and harvest it?” Skaggerhill said. “Won’t take too long.”
“No,” Clay said. He grunted and settled the poles on his shoulders before resuming the trek. “The lake’s only a coupla miles away, and we already got us a decent stock of Green.”
Krystaline Lake came into view just after noon, the plains suddenly descending in a gentle slope towards the shore that stretched away on either side. The water was as blue and deceptively inviting as Clay remembered, and at this latitude so broad that the jungle covering the eastern shore was lost to view.
“We’re gonna need another boat,” Braddon said. “Or at least a raft.”
“Need some notion of where to look first,” Clay said as he and Sigoral set the apparatus down. “I’ll trance with Miss Lethridge toni—”
The rush of fear hit him like a punch, sending him to his knees, a pain-filled yell escaping his clenched teeth as thoughts that were not his own flooded his head: A great host of aquatic Greens, seen from below, sediment billowing, Jack’s huge heart hammering in alarm as he let out a plaintive warning cry.
“Clay?” his uncle was at his side, holding him as he convulsed, Jack’s need for reassurance dominating his thoughts.
STOP!
Clay forced the command through Jack’s terrorised babble, reaching into the core of his mind to crush the worst of his fear. Jack calmed, his huge body ceasing its desperate coiling as he sought to conceal himself in a cloud of raised sediment. Clay had Jack cast his gaze upwards once more, seeing that the Green pack had passed overhead now. They were clustering together on the surface a short way off, forming some kind of barrier. Clay turned Jack about, seeing the narrow hull of the Superior cutting the surface towards them, its wake diminishing as it came to a halt. Jack’s incredible hearing was full of the massed clicking and chirping of the Greens directly to the Superior’s front and keen enough to detect a similar cacophony of another pack behind. From the way the sound echoed around he was also able to deduce they were in a narrow channel.
Got themselves trapped in the Cut, Clay realised. Bet the captain’s pissed about that.
He centred Jack’s gaze on the twisting coil of the Green barrier, several yards thick and growing thicker as more drakes swam to join it. It’s time to fight, Jack, Clay told the Blue, which caused an immediate resurgence of his fear. Clay tried to calm him again but this time the terror couldn’t be stemmed. I’m sorry, Clay said, guilt and resignation mingling in his heart. But I need Last Look for this.
He dived deep into the Blue’s memories, pulling together all the messy remnants of Jack’s life, forming them into an ugly ball that throbbed with violence. Clay pushed himself into the ball, fighting nausea at the blood-lust he found. Rummaging through the shifting mass of slaughter and madness felt like sinking his hands into a charnel-house trough. Finally, he found what he was looking for, the still-living core that had been Last Look Jack. It was a dark, twisted thing, denuded of much of its being but still holding on to all that useful hatred.
See them? Clay asked it, focusing the Blue’s gaze on the Greens once more. They ain’t drakes, they’re men. He took an image of one of the Greens and remoulded it, shrinking the tail and growing the limbs, sculpting the head into a ball rather than a spear. Jack’s hunger swelled at the sight, then blossomed further as Clay spread the remade image of the Green to its brethren. Within seconds what had been a mass of drake flesh had become a mass of men, and Jack required no further encouragement.
The shared awareness began to fragment as Jack surged upwards into the Greens, flame erupting from his mouth. Clay felt himself convulse as the subsequent kaleidoscope of horrors played out, man after man roasted or snapped into bloody remnants, except they weren’t men. Even at his worst Jack had never experienced such an ecstasy of vengeance. His mind exulted with it, as if this were the pinnacle of his quest to rid the seas of humankind.
Clay was vaguely aware of the Superior passing by, but Jack was too preoccupied with his feast to pay the ship much mind. Soon, however, he began to feel pain amongst the fury, Clay’s hands scrabbling at his body as he felt the Greens tear at his hide. He started to choke and gasp as the weight of them bore him down, Greens worrying their way past his scales to the flesh beneath whilst flames licked at Jack’s eyes. Clay let out a groan as ever more of the Blue’s blood seeped into the sea and his mind became a distant, withered remnant.
I’m sorry, Jack. He sent the thought after the Blue as his mind flickered in the depths, flared bright for one last second and then died. I’m so sorry.
* * *
• • •
He didn’t wake until the next morning, blinking the blur from his gaze to find a ring of concerned faces staring down at him. “Told you he weren’t dying,” Loriabeth said, poking Sigoral in the ribs.
“Fever’s gone,” Kriz said, crouching to press a hand to his forehead. “Your temperature was a little alarming for a while.”
Clay shook his head, finding he had only the most dim recollection of the previous few hours. There had been dreams, he knew that, but he had a sense of being fortunate not to remember them.
“What was that?” Kriz asked. “Has it happened to you before?”
“Jack died,” Clay said, climbing to his feet. “The ship ain’t waiting for us in the Torquils no more. We’ll have to find another way back to it.”
He shrugged away their helping hands and turned his gaze to the lake. Jack’s demise kept replaying in his head, provoking a sick, guilty jab at his gut with every repetition. “Uncle’s right,” he said. “We need a raft. Time to find some trees.”
Constructing a raft of sufficient dimensions took two full days, much of the time spent ha
rvesting the necessary wood from the infrequent trees found on the lake’s western shore. Kriz oversaw the design whilst Skaggerhill and Sigoral did the bulk of the construction, they being the most familiar with water-craft. When it was done they had a square platform some twelve feet wide complete with four oars for steering. They carried it to the shore for a test launch, which confirmed it could actually float and bear the weight of Kriz’s apparatus.
“Now we just need somewhere to look,” Braddon said.
That night Clay drank Blue and sank into the trance, his relief surging at finding Lizanne waiting for him though he was surprised to find her usually neat whirlwinds a roiling mess.
I don’t have long, she told him, mind curt and urgent. Here.
One of the whirlwinds swept towards him and unfolded into what at first appeared to be a confused, vaguely circular jumble of scribbled text. Co-ordinates, Lizanne added, pushing a set of numbers into his mind with an uncharacteristic clumsiness.
Ow! Clay protested, the intrusion sending a pulse of discomfort through his mindscape. What—?
No time.
And she was gone, leaving him dazed on Nelphia’s dusty plains.
* * *
• • •
“Five miles north along the coast,” Sigoral said after plotting the co-ordinates onto his map. “Just under three miles from shore.”
“Three miles is a lot,” Skaggerhill said. “’Specially on a lake as rich in Greens as this one.”
“Can’t be helped,” Clay said. “We’ll go out only in daylight, for just a few hours at a time. Me and the lieutenant will accompany every trip.” He pulled on his pack and moved to take one of the ropes securing the raft to the shore. “Best get to towing this thing whilst there’s still daylight.”
They reached the required stretch of coast by midafternoon, towing the raft along the shore-line until Sigoral confirmed they were in the right place.
“You don’t want to wait for tomorrow?” Clay asked Kriz as she prepared her breathing apparatus.
“There’s plenty of daylight left,” she said, fixing a pipe onto the pump then connecting the other end to the helmet she would wear whilst underwater.
“Seems pretty simple,” Clay went on. “Maybe I should . . .”
“It’s not,” she said. “And you shouldn’t.”
They launched the raft a short while later, Clay and Sigoral imbibing Green and manning the oars to ensure a swift transit, whilst Braddon and Preacher kept a close watch on the surrounding waters. Kriz took charge of the tiller, keeping an eye on Sigoral’s compass as she steered them towards the required spot. After a quarter hour of rowing the raft took on a wayward spin, Clay noticing that the lake’s surface had become much more lively.
“I think this is it,” Sigoral said. “The chart you drew indicated a circular current surrounding the site.”
They pressed on for a short distance until the water became calm again. They had crafted a makeshift anchor by gathering up as many boulders as they could and wrapping them in a tarpaulin bound with rope. Clay pushed it over the side and the raft slowly came to a halt.
“Depth one hundred and thirty-five feet,” Sigoral reported after checking the markers whitewashed onto the anchor rope.
Kriz nodded and adjusted a valve on her apparatus before donning a leather belt which had been fitted with several lead weights. “Green and Black,” Clay said, handing her two vials. “Drink all of it now.” When she had done so he slipped a vial of Blue into the top pocket of her overalls. “Just in case,” he said.
Kriz sat on the edge of the raft as Clay readied the helmet. Even with Green in his veins it was a weighty item fashioned from some old boiler plate with the assistance of Chief Bozware. The plate had been hammered into two half-spheres and riveted together, a hole then cut through one side and a sealed glass window fitted.
“You see any Greens come straight back up,” he told Kriz, who replied with an impatient nod, gesturing for him to get on with it. Clay placed the helmet over her head and settled it onto the padded-leather collar about her neck before moving to the pump. It was a simple hand-powered device that would have benefited from an engine, but there hadn’t been time to construct one before leaving the Superior. However, Kriz had concluded that a Blood-blessed with sufficient Green would easily provide the required amount of air.
Clay refreshed his Green before taking hold of the pump-handle, the lever it was attached to blurring as he started to turn it. Sigoral moved to tie a rope around Kriz’s waist after which she took a few breaths before slipping into the water, sinking down immediately in a cloud of bubbles. Clay kept turning the pump-handle, his gaze fixed on the patch of disturbed water as Sigoral played out the rope.
“That’s it,” he said as the rope stilled in his grip. “She’s on the bottom.”
Minutes ticked by with grating slowness, Clay never faltering at the pump, his eyes tracking the bubbles as they moved away from the raft and more and more of the air-line was drawn over the side. This was a bad idea. The words kept repeating in his head with every turn of the pump-handle, the growing certainty fed by his still-raw guilt over Jack’s death. This was a bad idea. This was . . .
“Two tugs,” Sigoral said, the rope jerking in his hands. “She’s coming back up.”
It seemed to take an age for her to reappear, bobbing to the surface a few yards from the raft. Sigoral and Braddon hauled her closer before removing the helmet. Kriz hung onto the side of the raft, breathing heavily but her sweat-beaded face flushed with excitement. “I found it,” she told Clay, pointing. “One hundred yards that way.”
“No Greens?” he asked.
Kriz laughed, shaking her head. “Not one.” She raised her arms and he and Sigoral hauled her on board. “Let’s go,” she said, nodding at the oars.
“Getting late,” Braddon said, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the sky. “Better to wait for tomorrow.”
“It won’t take more than an hour,” Kriz insisted. “We should take the chance while there are no drakes in the vicinity.” She met Clay’s gaze, an insistent plea in her eyes. “We’re so close,” she added in her own language.
“Captain’s call,” Braddon told Clay, keeping his tone neutral, though Clay could see the shrewd appraisal in his uncle’s gaze.
“She’s right,” Clay said, his desire to get this hazardous enterprise out of the way overcoming his caution. “The more days we spend around here the more likely the Greens will catch our scent.” He moved to take up his oar, gesturing for Sigoral to do the same. “Let’s get it done.”
* * *
• • •
Her next dive was considerably longer, so much so that Clay used up a full dose of Green at the pump and was forced to change places with Sigoral. Clay’s growing agitation was made worse by an inability to perceive much of anything below the lake’s surface. However, this didn’t stop him continually attempting to do so as he stood at the edge of the raft, staring fixedly into the depths.
“Just gone past the hour,” his uncle said, holding up his pocket-watch. “Reckon it’ll be dark before long.”
Clay didn’t need any further persuasion. “I’m calling her back,” he said, reaching for the rope and giving it two hard tugs. He waited, the rope twisting a little in his grip but failing to slacken. He muttered a curse and began to tug again, but stopped when Preacher spoke a single terse word: “Green.”
Braddon instantly brought his rifle to his shoulder, moving to stand beside Preacher’s kneeling form. The marksman had his rifle trained on what seemed to Clay to be an empty stretch of water to the south, but he had learned by now to trust the man’s eyes.
“How many?” he asked.
“One. Just over a hundred yards out.”
“There’ll be more,” Braddon said, sweeping his own rifle from left to right.
Clay tugged on the rope once
more then fell back as it lost all tension. “Shit!” He began to draw it up, hands moving in a rapid blur until the ragged end of the rope emerged from the water.
“Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral said, nodding at something twenty yards away, Clay seeing a great mass of bubbles rising to the surface. A split-second later the air-line began to twist and coil like an elongated snake. Clay immediately began to haul it up, knowing he would also find it severed even before he got it out of the water.
“Sliced through,” his uncle said. He stepped closer, putting a hand on Clay’s shoulder, though any commiseration he was about to offer was drowned out by the boom of Preacher’s longrifle. Clay turned in time to see a long tail whipping the surface fifty yards to the south, the water flashing both red and white.
“She’s gone, Clay,” Braddon said, tugging his shoulder.
Clay returned his gaze to the water, staring hard into the depths. No . . . Blue, I gave her Blue. He reached for the vial in his wallet, raising it to his lips then stopping as an image blossomed in his head . . . Greens, a pack of them, gliding through the misty depths, their shapes rendered vague and distorted, as if he were seeing them through scratched glass . . .
It was as clear and real as any trance he had experienced, made more so by the near panic that accompanied the image. He looked at the vial in his hand, still full. I tranced with her, he realised, astonishment momentarily freezing him in place. I didn’t drink but I still tranced.
