The Empire of Ashes (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  CHAPTER 51

  Sirus

  He’s here! Sirus could feel Catheline’s hungry exultation as she shared the image of the man riding on the back of a Black drake. Her excitement was mirrored by the White, the beast letting out a long, rumbling growl that seemed to shake the ground. Sirus watched in dismay as the great flock of Reds began to abandon their attack on the enemy fleet, rising and wheeling away towards the approaching drake and rider.

  “Their mission is not complete . . .” he began, abruptly falling silent as his jaw clamped shut at a glance from Catheline.

  “Their mission is what I say it is, dear General,” she said. “The second line of trenches is about to fall. Concentrate your efforts there.”

  Sirus withdrew as much of his mind from hers as he could, worried his sudden rage might lead her to some unfortunate conclusions. Turning his attention to the assault on the trenches, he took some satisfaction from the fact that the fighting had progressed beyond the second trench line. The defending humans once again clustered around their Blood-blessed, loosing off volleys of rifle fire as the encroaching Greens and Spoiled attempted to fight their way past invisible walls of Black and scorching waves of Red. He searched for a point of weakness, somewhere to concentrate his reserve battalions, but this time the defenders appeared to be equally resolute all along their line, even pushing back in some places thanks to the Blood-blessed.

  It all hinges on them, he decided, quickly conducting a mental search for the keenest marksmen in his army. He picked out a hundred in all, ordering their fellow Spoiled to hoist them up above the attacking throng, one simple command filling their heads: Kill the Blood-blessed.

  The first fell within seconds, her head blown to pieces by five expertly aimed shots. Another two fell in quick succession, Sirus swiftly sending his lead battalions against these points in the line and ordering the reserves forward. Seeing the danger the defenders immediately clustered around the remaining Blood-blessed, shielding them with their bodies as they beat a hasty retreat to the third trench. The enemy defence collapsed soon after, the humans turning and running towards the only remaining refuge.

  Sirus attempted to launch a rapid pursuit, hoping to use the momentum of the advance to overrun the third line, but found the effort frustrated by a sudden loss of discipline amongst the Greens. Combat and the overpowering scent of blood stoked their hunger beyond the point of resistance. They began a feeding frenzy, creating a series of obstacles as they gathered in thrashing mobs around the bodies littering the ground, human and Spoiled. This soon created a gap between fleeing defenders and attackers.

  Arberus, evidently not one to forsake an opportunity, had the cannon on the Redoubt lower their sights and begin a rapid barrage. The attackers were close enough to the wall to bring them into range of cannister-shot, the rain of iron balls and metal shards tearing holes in the Spoiled battalions stalled around the feasting Greens. They were also now in range of the repeating guns positioned along the Redoubt. Sirus felt the minds of over two hundred Spoiled blink out of existence in the space of ten seconds as cannon shells and tracer bullets lashed the army.

  Pull back to the second line, he ordered in resignation. Bring up the artillery. It would be a costly difficult business, but he would use his own cannon to suppress the fire from the walls, hopefully providing sufficient cover for the final assault.

  He turned to Catheline, intending to ask that she impose some order on the Greens, but found her staring fixedly at the sky to the east. Following her gaze he saw that the Reds had formed a broad, swirling barrier over the shore-line, a barrier that appeared to have just had a hole punched through it. He could see two aerostats, tracer flickering around them as they fought to keep the hole open, and between them a lone drake.

  The White let out a sudden, deafening roar, Sirus looking up to see it rearing, wings spread wide and head raised as it bellowed out a challenge. Sirus looked again at Catheline, hoping for an explanation as to what might be happening. She began to turn to him, then froze, all light seeming to fade from her eyes as she collapsed.

  A pain shot through Sirus’s head, sharp enough to make him stagger, vision blurring as confusion reigned in his mind. Memories churned in a rapid visual soup. Katrya . . . Morradin . . . Greens feasting on the corpses of children . . . Feros burning . . .

  When it cleared he found himself on his knees, hands clasped to the side of his head. The pain slowly ebbed, and as it receded he realised something was different. She’s gone. He looked at Catheline lying next him, eyes vacant and body limp, feeling not the slightest touch of her thoughts. Catheline’s mind was gone.

  Furthermore, his mental connection to the White was greatly diminished. He could still feel the Spoiled, the link with them was as strong as ever, but the White’s thoughts were muted now, like distant thunder, and that distance brought a single thought to the forefront of his mind.

  I have slaughtered thousands.

  He looked at his hands, clawed, scaled, powerful enough to rip a man apart if he chose, and in the midst of battle he had. His plan had been a delusion, he saw that now. A hopeless lie he told himself to preserve some vestige of sanity. Win the war in the hope the Spoiled’s loyalty to him would overcome their enslavement to the White. We are its creatures. That will never change. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been permitted this delusion, that Catheline had known all along. It had made him so useful after all. Forging a bond with Morradin as they conspired together, unifying them in the need to win freedom through victory. All just another link in his invisible slave chain.

  “You knew,” he said, staring at Catheline’s perfect, unresponsive face. “Didn’t you? All this time. All that affection. How much you must have enjoyed the game.”

  Anger. Another lesson he had learned from Morradin. Anger could mask his thoughts just as well as fear. He let the anger surge into a hot, all-consuming rage, feeding it with the countless horrors in his head, feeling the connection to the White shrivel in its flames. It didn’t break, not completely, but for one brief instant it burned down to little more than a thread of purpose, the White’s dominance lifted enough to allow his own will to blossom.

  He got to his feet, moving swiftly for fear that any delay would allow the White to reassert control. Drawing his revolver, he thumbed back the hammer as he trained it on Catheline’s forehead. He began to squeeze the trigger but was momentarily distracted by the sudden appearance of something in his eye-line. It resembled a spear-point, catching the light as it turned, Sirus seeing blood dripping from its sharp point down to the scaled skin that formed its base.

  A soft hiss came from above and he looked up into the White’s eyes. Sirus began to form a thought, something he might say, even though no human ears would ever hear it, but all thought fled as the pain arrived, and he screamed instead. The White blinked and tore its tail spike free of Sirus’s body. He fell, still screaming, feeling his blood leak away in a warm torrent. A chill descended, numbing him enough to banish much of the pain.

  “No.”

  He looked up to find Catheline standing over him, fully awake now, tears shining in her inhuman eyes. “My dear General,” she said, hands cupping his face, lips pressing against his. “We had so much still to do. If that bastard hadn’t snared me in the trance . . .”

  “You . . .” The word emerged in a cloud of blood, staining her face though she barely seemed to feel it. “You . . . knew.”

  “Your mind was unique,” she said, tears falling over her lips which now formed a fond smile. “Far too bright and interesting to waste, regardless of whatever little schemes you came up with over the years ahead. I was greatly looking forward to it all.”

  Her face bunched and she stifled a sob, raising her face to the White. For once there was no awe or reverence in her eyes, just hard, judgemental reproach. “You didn’t have to,” she whispered. “I locked the gutter-born bastard’s mind away. It’s don
e. You didn’t have to . . .”

  The White flicked its tail, spattering her face with Sirus’s blood before letting out an impatient growl. Catheline’s eyes clamped shut and she shuddered in pain, Sirus realising she was being subjected to more punishment. When it ended she let out a low, rasping moan, taking a few seconds to master herself before once again fixing her gaze on Sirus, the red coals of her eyes now dimmed with grief.

  “I will miss you, dearest General,” she said, pressing another kiss to his lips before rising and moving away. Dust rose and Sirus felt a hard gust of wind, seeing the White ascend into the sky with Catheline on its back. When they flew out of sight he continued to stare into an empty blue sky. He could feel the battle raging, share the sight of so many Spoiled compelled by the White to renew their assault and realised in a flare of guilt that he would actually miss being a general.

  An inquisitive squawk caused him to slowly turn his head and he found himself looking into the eyes of a juvenile White, tongue darting over its bared teeth. It gave another squawk and hopped closer.

  CHAPTER 52

  Lizanne

  The Hurricane exploded as they headed back to the Redoubt. There was no warning and it had been several minutes since a Red had even come close. A sudden burst of flame in the upper rear portion of her envelope followed by a booming thud as the whole structure blew apart, then she was gone, just more flaming debris falling into the sea.

  “A Red must have lit a small fire earlier on,” Morva opined, face grim as she regarded the fast-fading wreckage. “Took awhile to spread.”

  Lizanne refused to let her gaze linger on the sight, moving to the rear hatch as they neared the Redoubt. A quick survey of the battlefield made for unwelcome news. The second line of trenches had fallen and Spoiled and Green were mounting a fresh assault on the third. They were met by a blizzard of Growler and Thumper fire, the ground midway between the second and third trench lines becoming marked by a growing mound of dead. Lizanne discerned a lack of cohesion in the White’s forces now. The discipline and tactical organisation that had marked their previous assaults had been replaced by a seemingly desperate desire to charge straight at the human defenders, regardless of any weight of fire-power they now faced. However, Lizanne took only small comfort from the mounting enemy casualties. A brief glance to the west revealed substantial reinforcements trooping across the plain.

  We must have killed close to half by now, she reasoned. But they have the blood to spend. We don’t.

  At her order the Typhoon’s gunners expended what little ammunition they had left as they flew over the battlefield, aiming for the Spoiled rushing to join in the assault. It might buy the defenders some small respite. Tekela closed the throttles as they passed over the walls of the Redoubt, turning the aerostat around in preparation for landing.

  “It’s flying,” she said, hands pausing on the controls as she peered through the front window.

  Lizanne moved to her side, seeing the White ascending from the hill-top where it had perched for most of the battle. She turned her gaze to the sky, finding the large Black wheeling about over the plain. She quickly injected Blue and slipped into the trance, found no sign of Clay and slipped out again. What are you doing? she thought, eyes fixed on the Black as it continued a seemingly placid circular glide, apparently oblivious of the White now dragging itself into the sky with broad sweeps of its huge wings.

  “Get us down,” she told Tekela. “We need to rearm.”

  Upon landing she ordered fresh Swarmers loaded and went to find Arberus. He was engaged in directing the fire of cannon on the western end of the walls, attempting to impede the advance of the mass of Spoiled closing in on the outer trench line. The cannon scored hits with every shell fired, it being impossible to miss, but the Spoiled swept on below undaunted. Lizanne noticed again how all order had apparently been forgotten and they appeared possessed by nothing more than an unreasoning desire to throw themselves at the human line.

  “Can you hold them?” she asked, coming to Arberus’s side.

  One look at the grim resignation on his face was sufficient answer. “When the ships resumed their bombardment, I thought we might have a chance,” he said, nodding at the sea. “But now . . .”

  Lizanne turned, seeing that the Reds had resumed their attack on the fleet. Their strength had been eroded in the first assault but, judging from the number of burning ships, they were still capable of inflicting substantial damage.

  “Is there anything you can do?” she said. They both knew evacuation was now impossible, and there was no line of retreat from this place.

  “I can pull what’s left into the Redoubt,” he said. “Since the enemy seems to have abandoned all rational tactics, it might buy us time.”

  Lizanne shifted her gaze to the sky above the plain. The White was still flying towards the gently circling Black. At least I know where it’s going, she thought. “Do it,” she said, turning and running back towards the courtyard. She drew up short, however, at the sight of the Firefly taking off. The small aerostat drifted towards the walls before revving up its engines and flying away. Lizanne stared after it, quickly discerning that it was headed for the hill-top where the White had perched. Turning back to the courtyard, she saw Morva raising her arms in a helpless shrug.

  “She took off before I could stop her!” she called up to Lizanne.

  Tekela! Lizanne realised, gaze snapping back to the Firefly as it flew an unerring course towards the hill-top. Gone to keep her promise.

  “Get on board!” she shouted, running to the Typhoon and clambering into the gondola. She flung herself into the pilot’s seat, restarting the engines and pulling back the levers to angle them towards the ground.

  “We’ve only loaded half the Swarmers,” Morva protested as they took off. “And the gunners aren’t aboard.”

  “No time,” Lizanne told her. “Stand ready at the ignition tube.”

  She brought the Typhoon to three hundred feet, angling the prow at the now-distant silhouette of the Firefly before calling out for Morva to ignite the blood-burner. The ground blurred below as the Typhoon shot forward, Lizanne opening the throttle as wide as it would go. They had closed half the distance to the other aerostat when she saw a trio of Reds diving towards it. Lizanne looked out of the port window, seeing the White pass by in the opposite direction. Craning her neck farther she saw the huge Black finally respond to the danger, abandoning its serene glide to angle itself towards the White.

  You already made your choice, Lizanne told herself, turning back to the Firefly. There was nothing she could do to prevent whatever was about to befall Claydon Torcreek, but she could still save Tekela.

  The three Reds were less than fifty yards from the Firefly now. Tekela had evidently spotted the danger and put the aerostat into a sharp turn. As the drakes veered towards it they passed directly in front of the Typhoon. The range was fast diminishing thanks to their speed, bringing the Reds close enough for Lizanne to try her luck with the forward-facing guns. The first two flew through the bullet stream unscathed but she had the satisfaction of seeing the third twist in a spiral of blood, wings flailing as it plummeted down.

  “Hold on!” she called out, hitting the switch that took the blood-burner off-line then reversing the angle of the port engine. The Typhoon hadn’t been designed for such sharp manoeuvring, the entire craft letting out a metallic howl of protest and shuddering as she wheeled about, bringing the Reds back into Lizanne’s sights. She blew the second Red out of the sky with a concentrated burst, then adjusted the craft’s angle to take aim at the third. It was considerably larger than the average Red and made an easy target. Lizanne let the Typhoon settle and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  “Didn’t have time to reload those either,” Morva called out by way of explanation.

  Lizanne gave voice to some rarely spoken profanity and slammed the port engine back into a vertical
angle before reopening the throttles. She drew back the main control lever as the Typhoon lurched forward, angling the craft to the left so Morva could fire at the Red with her mini-Growler. This drake, however, proved far more wily than most, folding its wings and slipping beneath the Typhoon, the stream of tracer missing by inches. Morva kept firing, tracking the drake as it passed underneath, then letting out a shout of surprise as the beast turned on its back and stabbed its talons into the hull. The mini-Growler was jerked from Morva’s grasp by the impact, the weapon tumbling from the hatch into empty space. She came close to following it, managing to grasp a handhold as her legs swung outside, then screamed as flame enveloped the gondola’s exterior.

  Lizanne injected Black and used it to drag Morva inside, setting the automatic controls before leaping from the pilot’s seat. She let out another blast of Black to banish the flames licking at Morva’s legs, then lifted her from the gondola’s floor as the Red’s talons stabbed through the thin hull once more. Metal screamed as the talons tore at the hull, slicing open a large rent. Lizanne looked down, finding herself matching gazes with the Red and realising she had seen it before. An impressive scar marred the scales around its eye, left there by Lizanne’s exploding bullet. The beast’s gaze narrowed in obvious recognition and it renewed its efforts to tear open the hull, snout poking through and jaws widening. Lizanne threw Morva to the rear of the gondola, cast her gaze around until it alighted on her Smoker and used Black to pull it into her hands.

  She unleashed all her Red as she trained the carbine on the Red’s gaping maw, scorching its eyes and jamming the barrel deep into its throat as the Redball ignited. The bullet must have met the onrushing combustible gas from the beast’s gut as it detonated, the explosion sending Lizanne into the gondola’s ceiling whilst filling the interior with a thick crimson vapour. Lizanne landed hard next to the rent in the floor, watching the Red’s talons lose their grip as it tumbled headless towards the earth.