The Empire of Ashes (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  When he saw her it was like everything else went away, fading into a mist with her at the centre, so bright, so utterly captivating. She moved with a peerless grace across the ball-room, gliding into a curtsy as Burgrave Artonin presented her to the Governor General. Her smile was a thing of wonder and her necklace glittered in the glow of the chandelier as she gave a delighted laugh at the governor’s witticism.

  But it hadn’t been like that. Her smile had in fact been nervous and forced, often veering into a scowl as she scanned the other ladies present with badly concealed disdain. When she danced it was a clumsy, inelegant spectacle that drew titters from the other guests. Also her necklace, Sirus saw now, hadn’t glittered very much at all. The jewels were glass set into a brass chain. Sirus discovered later that her father had sold much of her mother’s jewellery to fund his expeditions to the Interior.

  He had thought that the many humiliations he endured over the following months had been inevitable, that his helpless pursuit of her had been beyond his control given how completely she had captured his heart that night. He was her slave, after all. Except he wasn’t. He was a foolish youth who had convinced himself he was in love with a beautiful but, on occasion, deeply unpleasant girl. He had made a choice, because a free mind can do such things and in time he had learned what it was to have no freedom at all, not in mind or body.

  Until now Sirus had been shutting out the other Spoiled, the babble of their minds in the midst of battle a low, ugly murmur at the edge of his consciousness. Now he let them in, all of them, and shared the gift of long-dead drakes.

  At first it was like pouring cold water on white-hot coals. Thousands of Spoiled minds snatched from the fury and chaos of battle roiled in confusion as the gift spread through the multitude. Some slipped instantly into madness, their minds breaking at the sudden intrusion of a sensation they had never suspected might return. Others fought it, raging against the separation from the all-powerful consciousness of their White god. But most welcomed it, joy filling them as the invisible shackles fell away. As the gift leapt from mind to mind like a fire let loose in a dry forest, Sirus felt more and more souls blink out of existence.

  They’re dying, he realised, pausing to look through the eyes of a Spoiled, seeing those around him standing still, faces drawn in wonder or shock as bullets and cannon flayed them from above. I’m killing them. The thought was accompanied by panic that came from an awareness of how little time he had left.

  Sirus flitted from mind to mind, searching the now-silent and immobile army for a soul that might save them, finding it close to the Redoubt gates. He found Forest Spear lying only seconds from death as his life seeped out from the many bullet-holes in his chest, his mind filled with memories of his days hunting through the jungle with his brother warriors. Sirus touched minds with him, feeling a pulse of gratitude before the darkness fell. He moved on, finding Veilmist under a mound of dead and dying Spoiled. There were hundreds of them, all seemingly cut down in an instant, by what means Sirus couldn’t know. Veilmist had survived the calamity but the weight of so many corpses would soon crush the air from her lungs.

  Help her! Sirus commanded. The Spoiled were slow to respond, some stumbling in confusion, others taking advantage of their new-found liberty to rejoice in the novelty of refusal. Please, he added. You know me. I want you to live. All of you.

  He felt a pulse of recognition run through them, shot through with a sense of trust and empathy. He had been a slave like them, and now they felt his desperate desire to preserve their lives. Several hundred Spoiled surged towards the gates, braving the continuing fire from the walls above to drag Veilmist from beneath the mound of corpses.

  Get them away from the walls, Sirus told her. He found the Islander’s mind warm with welcome and a seemingly endless well of gratitude.

  Where are you? she asked. We will come to you.

  It doesn’t matter. Just . . . Sirus felt a growing chill creep over the fringes of his awareness, the combined vision of so many eyes rapidly eroding, shrinking to just a few images, one of which brought a fierce urgent need to cling on to life.

  The White!

  He could see it, mighty wings spread wide as it came to earth on the plain, the slim figure of Catheline slipping from its back. Lying near by was the body of a large Black drake.

  It’s there! he told them, putting every ounce of will and strength he could in the thought, the last command he would ever give to this army. Kill it!

  The Spoiled left him then, the tumult of rage and blood-lust fading away. He blinked and found himself looking up into Tekela’s eyes once more. He raised a hand, pressing it to her cheek and took joy in the affection he saw in her face, a face he found himself content to take with him into the dark.

  CHAPTER 56

  Clay

  For a time he lay stunned, vision clouded as he sought to refill his lungs, the ominous sound of fast-approaching wings loud in his ears until it was swallowed by the roar of engines. He blinked, vision clearing to reveal Lizanne staring at him from the hatchway of her aerostat. It hovered above, engines pointed towards the ground. He lifted a hand to wave in greeting but then a loud, ragged exhalation drew his gaze and he saw Lutharon lying some twenty yards away, wings flapping and tail coiling weakly. Clay tried to stand, found he couldn’t, and cursed as he reached for the product in his duster, drinking down a full flask of Green. Rising to his feet he half-stumbled to Lutharon’s side, letting out a groan of dismay at the sight of his injuries.

  Ragged, deep gashes had been clawed into Lutharon’s hide, leaving his chest and belly a gory mess. Blood welled from a bite mark in his neck as he tried to raise his head towards Clay.

  “Lie still, big fella,” Clay told him, smoothing a hand over the Black’s brow as he looked into his eyes. He could feel his pain and fear, and the gradually slowing beat of his heart. “It’s fine, we did all we could,” Clay said, exuding as much calmness as he could. “You don’t have to stay on my account. They’re waiting for you.”

  He stood and watched the light fade from Lutharon’s eyes, knowing that in his dying Ethelynne would die with him, although the memory of both would live on as long as there were Black drakes to carry it.

  He turned, hearing a change in the pitch of the aerostat’s engine, watching as it came to earth a short distance away. Lizanne emerged from the gondola and they stood regarding each other, apparently neither having any notion of what to say. Finally, she said, “Do you have any Green? I’m running short.”

  “Yeah, I got another flask.”

  He began to reach into his duster, then his gaze jerked back to the aerostat as the air became filled with the sound of roaring flames. The White reared up from beyond the curved bulk of the aerostat, flames jetting from its mouth to bathe the craft from end to end. Clay gaped in shock as Lizanne, instead of running clear, immediately leapt back inside. He dragged his satchel round, pulling out a grenade before reaching for his product once again. He gulped down some Black and focused his gaze on the White, now in the process of crouching amidst the smoke from the burning craft. Clay raised the grenade, summoning his Black in preparation then found himself in the air, the grenade flying away to explode harmlessly well wide of its target. He landed a good fifty yards from Lutharon’s body, the Green in his veins preventing serious injury, though he was obliged to spend several seconds lying stunned before managing to scramble to his feet.

  “Gutter-born bastard!”

  Catheline advanced through the grass towards him, weaving from side to side as if drunk, blood streaming through the fingers she had pressed to the wound in her stomach. Guess I’m a decent shot after all, Clay concluded. Much of Catheline’s golden hair had been burned away, leaving behind a seared and smoking scalp. Her skin was marble-white from loss of blood, but her red-black eyes glowed bright, lit with a vibrant hatred.

  She screamed as she sent another wave of Black towards him, Clay
leaping to the side with Green-assisted speed and replying with a burst of his own. It struck her squarely in the chest, sending her flat on her back. Clay leapt high, focusing his gaze on Catheline’s prone form, intending to expend all the remaining Black in crushing her into the ground until she was just a red smear on the earth.

  The White’s tail slammed into his midriff, sending him spinning in the opposite direction. Had the tail still possessed its spear-point tip the blow would certainly have been fatal, instead of inflicting enough agonising pain to leave Clay stunned and helpless as he rolled to a halt. He heard the White’s claws scrape at the earth as it came closer, moving with unhurried intent. Looking up, Clay saw its head poised above, blackened and bleeding from his grenade but possessed of a gaze as knowing and full of malice as he remembered.

  “Hate me as much as I hate you, huh?” Clay asked it in a pained grunt. “Guess that’s fair. It’s what we do, us folks, us people. Hate’s what’s worst about us, and grows worse with the hating. You were made to hate, because we made you.”

  The White let out a faint huff of smoke, head tilting as if in consideration. Clay had no notion of whether it understood him, or even if it cared for anything beyond its own malice. But somehow he had given it pause, and that was all he needed.

  “Got something for ya,” Clay said, “gonna make you hate me even more.”

  He snapped his gaze to the side, focusing on Catheline. She had managed to get back on her feet and resumed her stumbling walk towards him, eyes glowing bright as ever. Clay used all his Black at once, unleashing it too fast for her to deflect or evade. In one swift motion he reached out to grasp her neck with an invisible hand and snap it.

  The White let out a roar as Catheline’s body collapsed, rearing back from Clay, shaking its head in confusion. Clay fumbled for his satchel, clumsy hands trying and failing to grasp a grenade. By the time he had managed to drag one of the devices free of the satchel the White appeared to have recovered some of its senses, turning back to him and rearing up, a haze of heated air forming around its mouth. Then it stopped. The White stood frozen, the flames blossoming from its jaws but shooting into the air instead of at Clay. His gaze swivelled to the aerostat, now a smoking ruin, but standing in the foreground was Lizanne, staring fixedly at the White as she directed her Black at it. Slumped on her knees at Lizanne’s side was a young woman Clay didn’t know, but evidently also a Blood-blessed from the signature Black-fuelled focus with which she stared at the White.

  Clay’s gaze swung back to the beast, seeing how it shook in the invisible chains that bound it, neck slowly coiling as it fought against its bonds, its head inching closer to the point where its still-blossoming flames could be brought to bear on its victim. Clay hooked a finger into the grenade’s ring and pulled, letting out a shout of pure agony when his broken digit lost purchase. Spitting curses he switched hands, sweat bathing his scalp as the heat bore down . . . then disappeared.

  He looked up to see the White drowning in a dark wave. Lizanne’s black had faded and it thrashed and flamed in the tide that swamped it, biting and tearing as the wave swept over it, a wave of flesh rather than water. The White continued to fight, its tail and claws leaving dozens of Spoiled rent and dying, others blasted by flame or snapped in two by its jaws. But the weight of numbers proved unstoppable. The Spoiled tore at the White with their claws, stabbed it with their bayonets or hacked at it with their war-clubs. Blood and scraps of scaled flesh rose in a cloud as they bore the beast down, thousands of them crowding in to rend at the beast in a crimson fog. Clay was struck by the fury on their faces, lacking the blank purpose he had witnessed in Lizanne’s shared memories. The Spoiled, like the White, had learned to hate. Their destruction of the White took place in silence, free of shouts or screams of vengeance, the only sounds the wet tearing of the huge drake’s flesh and its last few, guttural breaths.

  When it was over Clay found himself surrounded by Spoiled, all standing in immobile silence. He started to rise, finding it difficult and jerking in instinctive fear when the Spoiled helped him up. Looking around, he saw that most of them regarded him with curious, even expectant faces like an audience waiting for a speech. One of them soon worked her way through the throng towards him, a diminutive female with the blonde hair typical of Island folk. She addressed him in perfect Mandinorian with a slight managerial accent, her tone formal if a little guarded.

  “On behalf of those present,” she said, “I offer our surrender. But we have conditions.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Lizanne

  They burned Sirus on a pyre constructed atop the hill where he died. The Spoiled lay his body on a pile of Green corpses, the plain being so lacking in trees. The bones and shredded flesh that constituted the White’s remains were added to the pile, along with the bodies of the two juveniles. The body of Catheline Dewsmine had been left where it lay, none of the Spoiled showing the slightest inclination towards touching it. When it was done Lizanne injected Red whilst Clay drank a vial and together they blasted the pyre with heat, the blaze soon consuming its grisly fuel and birthing a thick, foul-smelling smoke that rose into the darkening sky.

  Lizanne retreated from the fierce heat, pausing when she saw Clay lingering, something clutched in his hand as he stared into the flames. He stood with a slight stoop, his face drawn in a persistent pain large doses of Green had yet to erase and she worried what internal injuries he might have suffered. He looks like an old man, she thought. She ran a hand through her hair, thick with sweat and assorted grime, and it occurred to her that her own appearance was hardly any more edifying.

  “What’s that?” she asked him, nodding at the object in his hand.

  He glanced at her, holding it up. It was a vial, the contents impossible to discern in the glow of the fire. “Just some old product,” he said, tossing it into the flames. “Reckon it’s gone bad.”

  They moved back, Lizanne going to Tekela’s side and drawing her into an embrace when she saw the tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” Tekela sobbed into her shoulder. “For flying off . . .”

  “So you should be.” Lizanne drew back a little, smoothing the hair away from Tekela’s face. “Need to get some Green on those scars,” she said, reaching to extract a vial from her Spider.

  “Leave it,” Tekela said, turning back to the fire and resting her head on Lizanne’s shoulder. “They’re not so bad.”

  The surrounding Spoiled, several thousand strong, stood around the hill-top in silence as they watched the fire consume their general. Lizanne could see their brows twitching and knew that however still their voices might be, the mind of every living Spoiled was joined in grief.

  She had used her scant remaining Blue to trance with Sofiya Griffan, requesting that she communicate the terms of the Spoiled’s surrender to Captain Trumane and the rest of the Varestian Defence League’s high command. She found the woman’s trance had changed, the dark forest regaining some colour, though there was a guarded feeling to it, the air shot through with an aura of tense expectation.

  Something to tell me? Lizanne had asked her.

  Sofiya’s trance thrummed with momentary indecision before she replied, Lizanne discerning a great deal more from her thoughts than her words. The Free Protectorate Fleet has arrived, she said. Captain Trumane has accepted a commission as Commodore.

  How fortuitous for him, Lizanne observed.

  Their arrival was fortuitous for all of us, Sofiya returned. Had they not, the battle might have gone against . . .

  How long have you been in contact with Exceptional Initiatives?

  The sky above the forest turned a faint shade of red, Lizanne detecting both shame and defiance in Sofiya’s emotions.

  I recall asking you to pass on the weapons designs to the Protectorate, Lizanne continued. I said nothing about Exceptional Initiatives. I assume the Protectorate never actually received the designs. What else have you told th
em, Sofiya?

  I have a child to think of, Sofiya replied, her mindscape darkening into something wind-swept and hostile. I should like them to grow up in as safe and comfortable a place as possible.

  Was contacting Exceptional Initiatives Captain Trumane’s idea or yours?

  The wind grew stiffer, twisting the branches of the surrounding trees so that they resembled snakes coiling for a strike. The captain has been a good and loyal friend in these difficult times, Sofiya replied, Lizanne sensing a dangerous edge to her thoughts.

  I am glad to find you recovered from your grief, Lizanne told her and ended the trance.

  “Come on,” she said, taking hold of Tekela’s hand and moving to Clay’s side. “The Superior,” she said. “Have you tranced with anyone on board?”

  He nodded. “Lieutenant Sigoral, says they’ve taken some bad knocks but she’s still afloat.”

  “Good. We have to go.” She turned, leading him towards the Firefly. “Now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Morva slipped into unconsciousness during the flight to the Redoubt. Lizanne and Clay carried her to the subterranean chamber where the League had established a makeshift hospital. It was full of wounded, the air musty with stale blood and filled with the constant murmuration of hundreds of people in pain.