by Anthony Ryan
“Captain!” Steelfine’s large hand gripped his shoulder, the Islander pointing to something off the port beam. Assuming they were about to face another onslaught of Reds, Hilemore straightened his back and raised his gaze. A cluster of figures were struggling in the water twenty yards away, Zenida easily recognisable in the midst of them by virtue of her voice, loud enough to reach his ears, “Are you just going to let us drown?”
* * *
• • •
Unwilling to stop the ship unless in absolute necessity, Hilemore had Kriz and Sigoral haul the survivors aboard, plucking them from the sea with Black and depositing them on the fore-deck.
“Clever,” he said as Zenida shook the salt water from her hair. “Abandoning ship the moment they pressed home their attack. Lost your ship but saved your crew.”
“Not all,” she said, face grim. “Left ten behind to burn.”
“Victory demands a blood price,” he told her in Varestian. It was an old saying, one he knew to be beloved of pirates, and was gratified to see it bring a faint smile to her lips.
“I would like to make a statement,” she said.
“And that is?”
She moved close, pressing a kiss to his lips, brief but far from chaste. “I need to find some product,” she said, moving away. “I trust you have some left.”
Hilemore cast a brief glance around the deck, but it seemed the crew were too preoccupied with hosing away the copious amounts of drake blood from the boards to have noticed. He proceeded swiftly to the bridge, ordering the engines to dead slow and instructing Scrimshine to bring them about. He had the deck-hands play their hoses over the Viable as they passed by, although a good portion of the fires seemed to have already been extinguished. Despite this it was evident the ship was out of this fight, smoke leaking in a dense black cloud from her stacks and her paddles idled in the water. Seeing a signal lamp blinking atop her bridge Hilemore recognised the rigid form of Captain Trumane, working the lamp with one hand whilst pointing to the shore with the other. “See to your duty,” the message read.
“Send an acknowledgment, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Then signal the engine room to increase speed to one-third.”
His briefly uplifted spirits plummeted upon clearing the wallowing hulk of the Viable and it was a struggle to keep the dismay from his features as the situation ashore stood revealed. The White’s army were boiling up the slopes of the ridge, resembling a huge swarm of ants as they clambered over one another, the bodies forming together to create a ladder of flesh. They fell by the hundred to the defenders on the walls above, massed rifle and repeating guns reaping a terrible toll, but the tide of drake and Spoiled continued to rise inexorably.
Hilemore called down to Steelfine to rig the shells to detonate on impact and have the guns fire into the base of the massed bodies. Their first pass succeeded in reducing the height of the mass by several yards, blasting grisly red holes into it that seemed to be healed almost instantly. The Superior circled around for another pass, achieving less impressive results. The shells evidently killed a large number of Spoiled and Greens, but the mound continued to grow. Raising his spy-glass, he soon saw why. The Spoiled were gathering up the bodies and parts of those killed by the barrage and pushing them back into the mass. They were using the flesh of their fallen as building material.
Raising his glass higher, he saw that the top of the mass was now only yards away from cresting the Redoubt walls. In desperation he brought the Superior round again, moving at dead slow to allow a maximum number of broadsides, the guns this time ordered to aim at the top of the mass. This succeeded in reducing its height in some places, but not all, forcing Hilemore to an unwelcome conclusion. We are only one ship, and the ammunition won’t last forever.
Their stocks of explosive shells were already down to six rounds per gun, although they did have copious stocks of cannister but the range was too great for it to be effective. He had only one more manoeuvre to try and, although the consequences were obvious, it was either this or just sail away.
“Mr. Scrimshine,” he said, “prepare to steer hard a-starboard on my command. Mr. Talmant, spread the word to the crew. Load cannister and stand ready to run aground.”
He saw in annoyance that Talmant wasn’t listening, instead the lieutenant had his ear pressed to the crow’s nest speaking-tube, eyes wide in shock. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore snapped, causing the young officer to snap to attention.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just . . . crow’s nest reports ships to the north.”
“There are ships all over this particular stretch of sea, Lieutenant. Sadly, none of them seem to be in a position to assist us at present.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Not Varestian ships . . .”
Talmant’s voice was drowned out by a loud whooshing sound that filled the bridge as something very large passed overhead at considerable speed. He managed to catch sight of the point of impact, the explosion dwarfing the Superior’s efforts with a blast that exceeded all the shells they had fired that day. The detonation turned the world white and sent the ship reeling back from the shore, Hilemore feeling a hard, stinging impact to the back of his head before the whiteness turned to black.
CHAPTER 54
Clay
This is not my body . . . He repeated the thought, over and over, jerking as he fought the pain. My body is whole. There is no pain. This is not my body, my body is whole, there is no pain. This is not my body my body is whole there is no pain!
He let out a shout as the pain vanished, his shattered spine fusing back together, reforged by sheer effort of will. But though he could exert control over his own mental image, the prison that held him rested in the mind of Catheline Dewsmine, who at this juncture seemed unlikely to return.
Clay got to his feet, eyes roving the featureless iron cube of his cell. Clever or not, he thought, she’s still crazy. There has to be a crack somewhere.
He scoured the walls, hands tracing over the rough metal, looking for some small fissure in the surface, something he could pry apart. Several minutes of searching produced nothing but, as he retreated from the walls, grunting in frustration, something scraped beneath his boot. Looking down he saw it was one of the pictures that had fallen from the mantelpiece above the fire when it transformed. The fire-place was gone now but this picture remained. Crouching, he picked it up, expecting to find an image of Catheline in her younger days, or a photostat of her unfortunate parents. Instead it was a Spoiled wearing a military uniform. The same one from the hill-top, Clay realised, recalling Lizanne’s shared memories from recent trances. Sirus. Guess she must like you to keep your image in her favourite memory.
As the thought rose, rich in self-recrimination at allowing himself to be trapped, he saw the image shift in the frame. The deformed face of Sirus turned, looking out at him in clear recognition. Clay stared back, watching Sirus’s lips move. He brought the picture closer, straining to hear the words.
I’m dying, Sirus told him in a strangely matter-of-fact tone. It struck Clay as the voice of a man entirely accepting of his fate, free of fear or desperation. He almost envied him. She kept something of me, Sirus went on. I suppose she wanted to be able to talk sometimes. I suspect she gets very lonely.
Yeah, Clay said. That’s too bad. You got anything useful to share?
I don’t think so. I had a plan, you see? A grand scheme to free us all, set the Spoiled to rebellion and bring down the White. But it was just a childish folly. She knew. The Spoiled cannot be freed. Once it takes us, it binds us forever.
No, Clay told him. That ain’t right. There were free Spoiled once. They helped bring it down before.
The picture-frame suddenly became hot in Clay’s hand, the image of Sirus emitting a soft glow. How?
Ain’t something to be said. More something to be felt. It was the gift of the Black drakes, they showed me. And I can show you.
/> The frame grew hotter, the glow brighter. Clay felt Sirus’s thoughts lose their reflective apathy, replaced by a fierce, rage-fuelled need. Do you have it? he demanded.
Clay found the required memory quickly enough, but as this was not his mind the ability to form it into something he could share was limited. In his own mindscape he could have refashioned Nelphia’s surface, here all he had was what he carried with him. He drew his revolver, remoulding it into a ball of gun-metal the size of his fist. Concentrating hard, he brought to mind the crystals he had seen in the Enclave, and the Black crystal Kriz retrieved from Krystaline Lake. The ball of grey metal began to change, growing spines and the hard dull surface turning to glass. With the crystal complete, Clay summoned the memory Lutharon’s ancestors had shared with him. The crystal began to take on a soft glow as Clay poured in the memory.
Here, Clay told Sirus, extending the picture towards the floating crystal. The picture-frame suddenly became white-hot. He dropped it, yelping in pain. Focusing on his singed fingers, he banished the pain and returned the charred tips to their previous state. When he looked again Sirus’s picture was glowing bright enough to dazzle him. Squinting, he watched as it began to melt the iron floor of the cell, the metal glowing red then white before dropping away, creating a wide hole. The picture disappeared into the hole, quickly followed by the crystal, leaving Clay standing over it in indecision.
Well, he thought, preparing to jump. Can’t see any other way out of here.
* * *
• • •
The waking world returned with a jolt, Clay gasping in shock as a heavy buffeting wind came close to dislodging him from Lutharon’s back. He grabbed hold of a spine and held on, ears filled with the challenging roar of a drake, but this time it wasn’t a Red.
The White streaked towards them, the roar swallowed by the flames jetting from its mouth. Lutharon banked hard, Clay gripping the spine with both hands as the Black stood on a wing-tip, deftly avoiding the flames before flaring his wings and pivoting about. The White spread its own wings, wheeling around to hover some twenty yards away, Lutharon following suit. Clay saw that the White was not alone. Catheline was perched atop its back, staring at him in evident puzzlement. Thought she’d locked me away for good, Clay surmised, reaching into his satchel and drawing out a grenade, but the White attacked before he had a chance to arm it.
Lutharon folded his wings and dived as the White surged forward, Clay hearing the snap of its jaws above his head. Lutharon extended his wings and went into a tight turn, opening his jaws to blast out a stream of fire at the White, catching the larger animal in mid-turn. It let out an enraged roar, lashing out with its tail as Lutharon swept closer, the spear-point leaving an ugly red scar on the Black’s neck. Lutharon coughed flame directly into the White’s face, momentarily blinding it before rearing back to lash out with his talons, tearing into the scaled flesh of its opponent. Clay could only hold on as Lutharon pressed his advantage, head stabbing forward to clamp his jaws on the White’s neck, blood welling as he bit deep.
The White screamed in pain and rage, its own talons slashing at the Black, their blood mingling as they tumbled about the sky, Lutharon holding on despite the wounds scoring his hide. There was a sound like a miniature thunderclap, Lutharon’s teeth tearing clear of the White’s neck as he was propelled backwards. As they were pushed away Clay caught sight of Catheline, staring at them in intense concentration as she unleashed a powerful wave of Black. The force wave continued, pushing them down towards the earth. Clay glanced over his shoulder to see the plain rushing towards them and, realising he had somehow managed to keep hold of the grenade, tugged the arming pin free and used the last vestiges of his Black to propel it at Catheline.
The White moved in a blur, tail whipping to intercept the grenade before it could strike its target. The explosion broke Catheline’s concentration, cutting off her stream of Black and leaving the White minus the spear-point at the end of its tail. The severed tip leaked blood as the White whirled about and went into a steep dive. Lutharon twisted and spread his wings wide, stalling their fall then sweeping back up into the sky. Clay looked down to see a fire erupting on the plain as the White chased them with its flames.
Clay armed another grenade and tossed it over his shoulder, quickly followed by two more, reasoning gravity would provide the required distance. He was rewarded with the sound of three rapid explosions, but a backwards glance revealed the dispiriting sight of the White still labouring in pursuit, albeit with one side of its face blackened and leaking blood. He could feel Lutharon’s strength fading, seeing the blood streaming in thick torrents from his many wounds, but still he turned to fight.
Drawing in his wings, Lutharon turned over and streaked down to meet the White head-on. Clay met Catheline’s eyes as the drakes sped towards one another, finding them full of hate but also something more. She’s afraid, he realised, seeing how her eyes widened as the massive Black plummeted towards her. Even the mad can learn to fear.
He quickly drew his revolver and began to fire, managing four shots before a wave of Black blasted it out of his hand, Clay hearing the snap of breaking bones as it spun away. He ignored the flare of agony and unleashed all his remaining Red in a rapid stream. He had the satisfaction of seeing Catheline’s hair take light before the two drakes collided.
The impact jarred him loose of Lutharon’s back, and the surrounding air turned briefly into fire before he fell clear, trailing smoke as he tumbled towards the ground. The impact came sooner than expected, Clay careening across the earth in a cloud of raised sod before sliding to a halt, stunned and winded. He lay there, dragging air into his lungs and trying to force animation into his limbs, hearing the sweep of very large wings drawing closer.
CHAPTER 55
Sirus
He returned to his body to find his left hand clamped between the jaws of a juvenile White. He barely felt it, having lost so much blood that sensation was now just a distant thing. His hand gave an involuntary twitch as the juvenile bit down, causing it to open its jaws and hop back with an annoyed hiss. An answering squawk from the right caused Sirus to turn his head, finding the other juvenile regarding him with its head cocked, yellow eyes blinking in apparent curiosity.
“Wondering why I’m still here,” he said in a guttural whisper. “So am I.”
The juvenile on the right seemed to take this as some sort of challenge, flaring its wings and lowering itself to pounce, mouth opening wide. There was a sharp percussive crack and the juvenile was instantly transformed into two separate pieces. The upper half spun away from the lower, turning end over end in a bloody cart-wheel. It landed a few feet away from its twitching lower half, jaws snapping in a reflex.
The juvenile on Sirus’s left leapt, wings blurring and flame jetting from its mouth, only to be swiftly blasted out of view. Sirus was curiously unsurprised by the face that looked down on him once his rescuer came into view, a face tense with hate and intent on murder.
“I . . .” Sirus began, finding the words choked by blood. He coughed, trying to clear it but Tekela didn’t seem interested in any statement he might make.
“Shut up,” she said, shouldering the carbine she carried and reaching down to pull a bone-handle knife from a sheath on her calf.
“I have . . .” he tried again, blood gouting from his mouth.
“Shut up, Sirus!” She stepped closer and crouched, putting the knife blade to his neck. He saw that she was crying and was pained to have grieved her so.
“I have something to do,” he said, throat finally clear of blood although he could feel more rushing in. He met her damp eyes, hoping she saw some vestige of who he had once been in the monstrous visage she beheld. He managed to raise his right hand, fingers open and palm extended. “Please . . . it’s very important.”
Tekela let out a sob as her gaze tracked from his face to the blood welling from the hole in his chest. “You ki
lled Jermayah,” she said, taking a hard ragged breath. “You killed all those people.”
“Yes,” he replied, his words punctuated by sharp, rasping breaths, each one he knew bringing him closer to death. “And . . . I have done . . . far worse. Soon . . . I’ll die . . . for what I’ve done. You can kill . . . me, if you wish. But first . . . there is something . . . I have to do. For you . . . for everyone.”
Tekela closed her eyes tight, another sob escaping her as she withdrew the blade from his neck. “What?” she said, head sagging and voice laden with defeat. “What is it you have to do, Sirus?”
“Remember . . .” He extended his hand to her again. “Will you . . . help me?”
She stared at his hand, baffled and appalled in equal measure. “How?”
“I need . . . to remember . . . what it was . . . to be free.”
His vision grew suddenly darker, Tekela’s face becoming a vague shadow, as if veiled by a curtain of black lace. He felt her take his hand, the first time she had ever done so. It was smooth against his callused, scaled palm, small but also strong, hardly the hand of a girl. He forced himself to focus on her face, piercing the veil that covered it just for an instant, but it was enough. Once he had thought her a doll, something so beautiful as to be not quite real. Now she had a small bloody scar on her chin and another tracing across her brow into her tousled and unkempt hair. Her eyes were red with tears and dark with fatigue, lips pale and drawn back from her teeth in anguish. She was so very real and he knew she had never been a doll at all. He looked upon a face that possessed only an echo of the girl she had been, a face transforming into the woman she would be.
Sirus closed his eyes, drawing his mind back into himself. The bright shining crystal was waiting, a gift from the Contractor Catheline had imprisoned in her mind. It shone brighter as his purpose found a connection with the memories it held, blossoming out, filling him with its gift. The memory it revealed was strange, but filled with enough visual clues for his archaeologist’s mind to divine that he was seeing a moment from the past, a moment which contained a vital piece of information. He watched the memory play out, and summoned Tekela’s face once more, let it lead him to the moment he had first seen her. It had been some tedious ball his father forced him to attend, trussed into a suit that didn’t really fit him, scratching his collar as he concealed himself in the quietest corner of the room.
