The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  Mount Reygnar wasn’t a particularly tall peak in comparison to the steep giants of the Coppersoles, but still the cold made the going hard. Thankfully, the mountain’s flanks consisted of black, hard-packed ash that was largely free of ice so the route wasn’t overly treacherous. A four-hour climb interspersed with numerous rest stops got them to the summit where the ground dropped away into a crater some fifty feet wide. The bottom of the crater consisted of a pile of boulders that appeared to have been undisturbed for many years.

  “Guess she’s lost her spark,” Skaggerhill observed in a ragged gasp, slumping down onto the ash.

  “Sometime ago, I’d judge,” Hilemore said, casting a critical eye over the crater. “Otherwise, I suspect we would be looking out on a stretch of open water.” He turned to the south and extended a hand to Clay. “The sketch, if you please, Mr. Torcreek.”

  Clay took the paper from the depths of his heavy overcoat and handed it over. “I’d judge the viewpoint to be some miles south-east,” Hilemore said after a moment’s study of their surroundings. “Given the shape of the peak as depicted here.”

  “Just over twenty miles south-south-east,” Preacher said, standing with his longrifle cradled in the crook of his arm as he pointed out the bearing.

  “You can see it, sir?” Hilemore asked with a sceptical frown.

  “An eagle’s got nothing on Preacher, Captain,” Braddon said. “He says he sees it, he sees it.”

  Hilemore extended his spy-glass and moved to Preacher’s side, following his extended arm to find the target. “Impressive eyes,” he said with a faint smile of satisfaction. “Mr. Torcreek, I believe we have our destination.”

  Clay came to his side as Hilemore handed him the glass. It took a moment to bring the thing into focus, the great twisted spire seeming little more than a malformed thorn at this distance. But it was unmistakably the same structure from the vision. He felt no joy at this validation, the confirmation that his visions weren’t simply the conjuration of a traumatised mind. If anything the sight stirred a sinking sensation in his gut; a sense of helplessness in the face of the vision’s commands. We were always going to be here.

  • • •

  The ice became easier to traverse south of the mountain, covered by a thin blanket of powdery snow and the going more even. The sleds skidded across the surface easily and they made good progress, covering the distance to the spire in the space of three days. The size of the thing became more evident with every passing mile, towering above the haze to such an altitude that they had to crane their necks to see the top. The base came into view halfway through the third day, Clay estimating it to be over a hundred yards wide where it met the ice. From the slanted flanks it was clear it grew to even broader proportions beneath the surface. At the sight of it the entire party came to an unbidden halt, standing in silence as their breath misted the air. Clay could understand their awe. The vision hadn’t done justice to the scale of the spire, nor captured the sensation of insignificance engendered by being so close to it.

  His eyes tracked over the spire’s surface, finding it dark and mostly featureless. As he looked closer he saw that the shade varied a little, straight lines and hard angles forming a pattern that confirmed this thing to be unnatural. Someone, some thing, had made it. As his gaze ascended, the spire’s flanks took on a definite twist, becoming more acute near the top where it narrowed to a sharp point.

  “They’ll have someone’s eye out with that,” Skaggerhill said, which drew only muted laughter.

  Clay tore his gaze from the spire at the sound of boots crunching across the snow towards him. He found himself shuddering as he turned to face Hilemore, a fresh ache lurching in his head as the vision and present reality became one.

  “So,” Hilemore said, “this is where we save the world, Mr. Torcreek.”

  II

  BENEATH A STARLESS SKY

  “BLESSED DEMON” STRIKES AGAIN

  Death Stalks the Marsh-Wold

  Rogue Blood-Blessed Suspected

  “Protectorate Constabulary Incompetent” Claims Voter Agitator

  Inhabitants of the Marsh-Wold Holdings were yesterday thrown into a fresh state of terror by the advent of another grisly discovery amongst the normally placid fields of their pastoral refuge. The victims on this occasion were the entire Shrivemill family, numbering three adults and six children, together with several employees at the family estate located in the heart of the Wold. Loyal readers will know this to be the fourth such outrage in this holding in as many weeks, bringing the total number of victims to thirty-six, at least half being of the managerial class.

  The terrible events at Shrivemill Manor closely follow the same pattern of previous massacres; the main residence and lesser buildings reduced to cinders whilst those who had escaped the fires are found strewn about the grounds in various states of evisceration. Most of the injuries suffered by these unfortunates are too gruesome to detail at length but one witness to the aftermath of the Shrivemill atrocity described to an Intelligencer correspondent “a tree, made up of bodies, all smashed up and twisted together . . .” At this point the witness became so distressed by their recollections they were obliged to disgorge their breakfast.

  The nature of these crimes has inevitably led to assertions that they are the work of a rogue Blood-blessed, a figure quickly grown to the status of dark legend in the vicinity, having earned the grim pseudonym of the “Blessed Demon.” The suspicion that these atrocities may be the work of a Blessed hand is given further credence by the fact that all the high-status households so far targeted for destruction were known to keep private stocks of product on their premises—a fairly common habit amongst the managerial class since refined product does not spoil and can be counted on to retain its value regardless of the vicissitudes of the market. Could it be that this foul agent of death is as intent on thievery as they are slaughter? The Protectorate Constabulary have been quick to play down such suspicions with several officers—who did not wish to be named—voicing allusions to foreign-born brigands or members of the labouring class banding together under cover of darkness to pursue a bloody vendetta against those of managerial status. So far, however, no suspects have been arrested and such theories continue to arouse scorn from the Protectorate’s critics.

  Miss Lewella Tythencroft, recently elected Chair of the radical Voters Rights Alliance, has dismissed the notion of low-born agitators as “utter tripe of the worst kind.” In a letter to the editor of this periodical Miss Tythencroft stated: “The Protectorate Constabulary is attempting to avoid the consequences of its own incompetence whilst fostering fear and discord between the social orders. It should be plain to even the most addle-brained buffoon that the people of the Marsh-Wold have become targets for at least one insane Blood-blessed, most probably some poor wretched soul driven to delusion by service in one of the Ironship Syndicate’s ceaseless wars, the recent Arradsian disaster being the most likely.” Miss Tythencroft goes on to demand the appointment of experienced detectives from one of the constabulary’s urban precincts and the deployment of specially contracted Blood-blessed to capture the elusive “Demon.”

  In the interest of balance, it is this correspondent’s duty to point out that Miss Tythencroft’s views may be influenced by the tragic news that her fiancé, Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore, an officer in the Maritime Protectorate and decorated hero of the Dalcian Emergency, is currently listed as missing, presumed dead following the recent unfortunate events in the southern hemisphere. It should also be noted that the constabulary has doubled the number of officers in the Marsh-Wold and instituted regular mounted patrols. Their task is not an easy one, the Wold being a difficult terrain to police with its myriad water-ways and culverts. Added to these obstacles is the fact that witness reports have provided scant clues as to the true culprit’s identity.

  As ever, it is the nature of cases such as this to generate a plethora of false rep
orts and unlikely tales from the erratic or drunken mind. This correspondent has been gravely assured that the atrocities are the work of a wild drake somehow transported from Arradsia and set loose upon the Wold by Corvantine agents. A more spectral suspect arises in the form of “Billy the Burner,” a famed arsonist hanged for his crimes some two centuries ago and now apparently risen from his grave to wreak vengeance. Added to this are various fables regarding resurrected gods from the Shadow Age and the curious figure of “Scarecrow Annie,” a more recent addition to the canon of local ghosts said to take the form of a skeletal woman in a burnt dress many swear to have seen wandering the marshes at night whilst spouting a continual diatribe of gibberish.

  Whatever the truth of these fables, it is clear that the danger posed to the people of the Marsh-Wold is very real and, given the holding’s proximity to Sanorah itself, the prospect of even worse carnage cannot be discounted. The Intelligencer urges all its readers to remain vigilant and report any relevant suspicions to the constabulary forthwith.

  Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—13th Rosellum 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sirus

  The Islander screamed out a war-cry as he swung his axe. Like most who made their homes among the Barrier Isles he was tall and fair of complexion, long blond hair trailing as he sprinted into battle, blood streaming from the many cuts to his muscular torso. Sirus’s first impulse was to shoot him, as he had shot three other Island warriors this morning, but he could sense the White’s growing dissatisfaction with the death toll. Dead enemies were of no use if it was to build its army.

  So, as the axe came round in a blurring arc towards his head, Sirus ducked under the blade and brought the butt of his rifle up to slam into the Islander’s chin. His new Spoiled-born strength was enough to lift the attacker off his feet, sending him to the sand, limbs limp and face slack in unconsciousness. Sirus crouched, touching a hand to the man’s chest to ensure he still breathed before binding his arms and legs with a length of cord. His first live capture of the day and his tenth of the week.

  He straightened as Morradin’s thought-command reached him, as terse and grating as any spoken word: They’re massing at the village. Circle round to the north.

  Sirus relayed the orders to his company, a three-hundred-strong contingent drawn mostly from the Morsvale survivors. Majack and Katrya had taken on the role of senior lieutenants, though the strictures of military hierarchy were often irrelevant in an army where all soldiers could hear every order instantly. Even so, the chaos of battle often made centralised control impossible and Morradin found it easier to communicate with select individuals once the fighting began in earnest.

  Sirus took a moment to ensure the beach had been secured, ordering the badly wounded Islanders littering the sand to be finished off. He left a dozen Spoiled to stand guard over the survivors and the barges, then led the remainder into the jungle at a steady run. As they moved Morradin’s mind conveyed a stream of images showing the island from above. A large group of warriors had organised a barricade around their village and were doing an impressive job of keeping Morradin’s main force at bay. The Islanders’ weapons were a mix of fire-arms, cross-bows and axes, and they were all raised as warriors from birth. A lifetime of ingrained martial skill made them fearsome enemies, but also valued recruits. Consequently, Morradin’s assault force refrained from firing their rifles as they attacked, keen to preserve as many warriors as possible. If the battle wore on for too long, though, Sirus knew the White would convey enough impatience for such restraint to be abandoned and the struggle would quickly descend into a massacre.

  On reaching the northern edge of the village, Sirus organised his company into a tight formation and led them in a charge against the point where the Islanders were most thinly concentrated. The defenders they met were all women, mothers guarding their clutches of infants against the onslaught of deformed monsters. The Island women fought with scant regard for their own safety, cutting down a dozen of Sirus’s Spoiled before they were overcome. Most displayed such maternal savagery that capturing them proved impossible and Sirus allowed them to be shot down, leaving the children to fight on alone. They had learned quickly that Island children could be as formidable as their parents, especially if they had sufficient numbers to swarm over their assailants in a biting, scratching mass, as was the case here. Sirus lost another five Spoiled before the last child fell. There was no need for restraint in dealing with the children, the White having no use for them.

  Watching his Spoiled bayonet the small twitching bodies, Sirus wondered at his lack of revulsion. He knew on a conscious level that he was now more of a monster than he could have ever imagined being, that whatever soul he might possess was forever stained and beyond hope of redemption. And yet he stood and regarded the massacre of innocents without the faintest stirring of nausea. He knew, or rather hoped, that this was the White’s doing, that somehow the conversion process had eroded his capacity for trauma. Or it could simply be his mind adapting to new conditions. He was, and would remain, a prisoner in his own body, so what use compassion or guilt now?

  We’ve broken through, Morradin told him. Runners coming your way.

  They caught most of the runners. They numbered only about thirty and were easily overwhelmed and clubbed down. Inevitably, a handful slipped through to escape into the jungle. They would be left for the Reds and Greens to hunt down over the coming days whilst Morradin reorganised his forces for the next assault. Three islands taken in less than five days, but the next would not be so easy. It was time to face the Shaman King of the Northern Isles.

  • • •

  Why do you think about them so much? Katrya’s thoughts were coloured by a faint annoyance as she rifled through the images crowding his head; the piled bodies of the Islanders, old people, warriors they hadn’t managed to capture, and the children. So many children. They had been dumped on the beach in two large mounds, one for the Reds circling above and one for the Greens baying loudly in the barges bringing them to shore. The White was ever keen to reward his drake kin, even when the victory rightly belonged to his Spoiled army.

  We were them once, he replied. Or they were us.

  Not any more. She snuggled closer to him, rubbing her spines against his, something that always seemed to give her pleasure though Sirus found the sensation somewhat dull. They lay together in one of the village huts, spent in the aftermath of a frenzied coupling. She was like this after a battle, as if the slaughter stirred her lust to greater heights.

  We’ll make one of our own one day, she told him, her thoughts betraying a sleepy contentment. I can feel that he wants us to. Not quite yet though. We have so much to do . . .

  He felt her mind subside into sleep, a sleep he knew would be free of any nightmares born of what they had done today. His own sleep, however, would not be so untroubled. She would be there, her doll’s face drenched in blood and her eyes bright with scorn. Sometimes she laughed at him. Sometimes she simply stared and ignored his pathetic pleas for forgiveness. But never would she speak to him.

  Unwilling to surrender to another night’s torment, Sirus disentangled himself from Katrya and rose from their stolen bed. He dressed in the stevedore’s overalls he had found at the Morsvale docks. The White’s Spoiled soldiers had little use for uniformity and wore whatever scavenged clothing took their fancy. Katrya went about in the uniform of a cavalry colonel; she thought the gold tassels were pretty.

  He left the hut and wandered the darkened village for a time, trying to shut out the sounds drifting in from the beach where the Reds and Greens gorged and squabbled over their glut of meat. He often found it strange that, despite his remade body, the drakes aroused just as much fear and repulsion in him now as when he had been fully human. The thoughts seeping from his fellow Spoiled made it clear that such feelings were widely shared. For their part, the drakes regard
ed the Spoiled with either indifference or wary aggression. The vile Katarias was something of an exception, appearing to delight in feasting on those Spoiled too badly injured to be of further use.

  “Shiveh ka.” Sirus turned at the sound of the voice, finding that his wanderings had brought him close to the prisoner pens. There were about sixty of the Islanders lying bound within the confines of a makeshift stockade, awaiting the morning when Sirus knew the White would unveil his crystals and add yet more recruits to his horde.

  “Shiveh ka,” the voice came again, Sirus finding the source quickly. The Islander lay on his side close to the fence, staring up at Sirus through a gap in the planking. He was older than the other prisoners, his long blond hair turned silver at the temples and his face bore the scars of old battles. He was also taller and more muscular than his fellow Islanders. A chief perhaps? Sirus wondered as the man repeated the same words, more urgently this time, his eyes shining with desperate entreaty. “Shiveh ka!” Sirus was surprised to find he couldn’t translate the meaning. He had absorbed the language of the other Islanders following their conversion, but they were finding the various tribes to be rich in unfamiliar dialects.

  He wants you to kill him.

  Sirus glanced up to see Morradin standing near by. The Grand Marshal had an Islander’s drinking-horn in one hand and what appeared to be a cigarillo in the other, though the aroma spoke of something more potent than Dalcian leaf. Still has an effect, Morradin told him before taking a hefty gulp from the drinking-horn followed by a deep draw on the cigarillo. A trifle dulled though. Sirus could sense a certain fuzziness in the marshal’s thoughts, although his usual desire to guard his memories had diminished somewhat. The recent battles loomed large, the scenes of slaughter all coloured by a note of reluctant triumph. It appeared that Morradin was beginning to enjoy his work.