by Anthony Ryan
“Been lighting fires without any trouble,” Loriabeth said, turning a spitted bird over a healthy flame. “Greens’ve been content to leave us be.”
“We killed many,” Sigoral said. “Perhaps all of them.”
“Or they just learn faster than these birds,” Clay said, biting into a small drumstick as he cast a wary eye at the Reds circling above. “Have to hope this lot learns the same lesson if they try their luck.”
• • •
Loriabeth had filled a whole canteen with product harvested from the pile of dead Greens they left in the forest. Clay tasted a little before they set off across the plain. The blood was heavily diluted with water but the effects made him conclude that, tiddlers or not, the blood of the drakes in this place remained just as potent as their larger cousins’.
Progress was inevitably slowed by Clay’s infirmity. He soon managed to get the hang of the plant-and-swing motion needed to propel himself forward on his crutches, but his leg ached continually and the depredations of his injury forced him to halt every few hundred yards. Sigoral and Loriabeth displayed some muted frustration with his slowness but neither voiced a rebuke and, to his eyes, remained remarkably free of desperation or panic despite their circumstances.
Miles beneath the ice trapped in a giant cavern with wild drakes, he thought, watching Sigoral pause and raise his gaze to the Reds circling above. And yet they never thought of leaving me.
The notion stirred unwelcome thoughts of Silverpin’s ghost. Didn’t you ever wonder why they were so willing to follow you? He didn’t want to think about the question overmuch, though it nagged at him as they inched their way across the treeless plain. He had convinced all the surviving Longrifles, half the crew of a Protectorate ship and a handful of Corvantine captives to follow him to the worst place on earth. All on the promise of something he saw in a vision, a vision only he and Miss Lethridge had seen. I ain’t never been that persuasive, he knew, pausing to wipe a slick of sweat from his brow. And yet they followed me here.
The barrenness of the surrounding landscape drew his mind back to the Red Sands and that day they found the crater, the near-feverish need to find the White he had seen in his uncle’s eyes, a need placed there by Silverpin. Images of the Longrifles’ journey through the Arradsian Interior played out in his head as he stood, swaying a little on his crutches. She birthed a hunger in them. His gaze shifted to Loriabeth and Sigoral, both now halted and regarding him with deep concern. What did I birth?
“Clay?” Loriabeth asked.
He wanted to ask her if she had ever truly pondered their reasons for coming here, if the blind acceptance of so much danger ever gave her pause. And, if so, did those doubts disappear whenever she was in his company? Have I doomed you, cuz? he wondered, groaning as he looked away. He was pondering the wisdom of voicing his suspicions when his gaze caught something several miles ahead. The heat cast by the three suns produced a low hazy shimmer on the plain and he had to squint to fully make it out: a thin vertical line ascending from the tunnel floor into the black sky.
“You seeing this?” he asked, pointing. “Or did I pass out again?”
• • •
It grew clearer with every mile covered. A thin dark thread descending from the blackness above, slowly resolving into another shaft just like the one that had conveyed them to this place. Clay increased his pace as much as he could, but the effort soon left him gasping.
“We’re stopping,” Loriabeth decided as Clay came to an unsteady halt, head sagging and shoulders slumping between his crutches. She unhitched her fire-wood-laden pack and dumped it on the dusty ground. The lights had drawn ahead of them again and the trailing shadow lay only a short distance behind.
“Just a few more miles,” Clay insisted, swinging himself forward and promptly falling over. He issued a profuse and enthusiastic torrent of profanity as his leg punished him with a fierce burst of pain. “Sonovabitching fucking thing!”
“You finished?” Loriabeth asked, bending to help him sit up.
“You should go on,” he said, gritting his teeth as she settled a pack under his leg. “It’s only a coupla hours away.”
“Shut up, cuz,” she muttered and went about building the fire.
“I mean it,” he said. “Leave me here. Go see what’s what . . .”
“I said shut up!” She glared at him, Clay suffering a fresh upsurge of guilt in the face of her implacable resolve.
“It’s my fault,” he groaned, head lolling as the guilt gave way to fatigue. “You followed me . . .”
“Made my own choice,” she said, piling kindling cut from the stunted bushes found on the plain. “We all did.”
“No . . .” he breathed, the world fading away once more. “You didn’t . . .”
• • •
This time Silverpin failed to disturb his slumber, for which he was grateful. He blinked awake to find a large bug standing a few inches from his face. It was about three inches tall with six legs, fore-pincers and a tail tipped with a wicked-looking spike. The dim light gleamed on its black carapace as it maintained a frozen vigil for a few seconds before turning and scuttling off in a haze of dust. More than just drakes to worry about in here, Clay decided.
“. . . under the ship?” he heard Loriabeth enquire, speaking in low tones so as not to wake him.
“And up the other side,” Sigoral replied. “It’s called keelhauling and is usually only reserved for the worst crimes. The barnacles on the keel will tear a man’s flesh quite terribly, even worse so than flogging. I’d only ever seen it done once before I joined the Superior, and the miscreant in that case had been a drunkard who knifed a fellow sailor over a game of Pastazch. Captain Jenilkin, however, was much less discerning, keelhauling three men in as many months for petty infractions, one of whom perished. That was in addition to the numerous floggings he ordered. ‘Peasants are beasts of burden, Mr. Sigoral,’ he was fond of saying. ‘And what beast doesn’t respond well to the whip?’ I swear, if that Corporatist shell hadn’t taken his head off, the crew would have sooner or later.”
“That how you got to be in charge?”
“No, that came later. The captain died in the Battle of the Strait. Our First Officer was killed when the Blues rose off Carvenport. He was inspecting the forward guns when one of the monsters stuck its head over the side and snapped him clean in two. We had no warning. In seconds it seemed as if the whole sea was on fire. When it was over I found myself the only officer still alive with a crew numbering a dozen men.”
Sigoral fell quiet for a moment. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a note of forced briskness. “Still, doesn’t do to dwell. Although, how we remained afloat long enough to sail to Lossermark is still something of a mystery.”
“Only for us to come steal your ship out from under you.” Loriabeth gave a soft chuckle. “Must’ve been a real pisser.”
There was a pause before Sigoral replied, his voice coloured by a reluctant humour. “It was not one of my better days.”
“How come you speak Mandinorian so well?”
“Takmarin is the principal centre for trade in the southern empire. I grew up hearing a whole host of languages, Mandinorian most of all since it’s the language of commerce in all ports, regardless of what flag flies over the Customs House.”
“Hardly heard anything but Mandinorian my whole life. Pa had a Dalcian in our crew for a while, bladehand before Silverpin. He taught me a few battle poems.” She paused then recited a few lines of Dalcian. Clay heard Sigoral snort as he restrained an outburst of laughter.
“What?” Loriabeth demanded.
“Battle poems?” the Corvantine asked, still struggling to contain his mirth.
“Yeah. So?”
Sigoral took a deep inhalation and forced a neutral tone as he replied, “Nothing. Truly.”
“Tell me.”
“I
’m afraid politeness forbids . . .”
“Just tell me, you Corvie prick!”
Sigoral took another deep breath before providing a carefully phrased response. “In Dalcian ports ladies of a . . . certain profession will stand in their windows chanting to attract . . . customers.”
A long silence. “That bastard,” Loriabeth breathed, provoking Sigoral into a restrained guffaw. “I was barely fourteen when he taught me that. Seer-damn pervert. Glad that Green pack roasted him now.”
Sigoral’s laughter increased in pitch then abruptly faded as a gust of wind swept over the camp, raising dust and causing Clay to reach for his revolver.
“You see it?” Loriabeth asked. Clay turned his head to find them both on their feet, weapons aimed upwards.
“Not even a flicker,” Sigoral replied.
“He must’ve been lower this time.” Loriabeth moved in a slow circle, arms held wide to cover as much of the sky as possible. “Twenty feet, less maybe.”
“This time?” Clay groaned, shuffling into a sitting position.
“Happened twice before,” she said. “Didn’t wanna wake you. Skaggs told me about this. It’s what they do when they’re tracking a pack of Cerath across the plains. Trying to spook them into scattering so they can . . .” She cast a tense glance at him and trailed off, though it wasn’t difficult to discern her meaning. So they can pick off the weakest.
Clay turned his gaze towards the direction of the shaft, now a thick straight vertical line edged by the burgeoning glow of the three suns. “Reckon there’s another hour until the light returns in full,” he said, stifling a pained grunt as he shifted his weight to reach for his crutches. “We’d best move on now.”
“It might be better if we go back to dragging you,” Sigoral suggested, watching Clay climb unsteadily to his one good foot, crutches splayed so he didn’t topple over right away. “We can rig another litter . . .”
“I don’t need dragging,” Clay broke in. He replanted his crutches and swung himself forward, moving with all the semblance of healthy resolve he could muster. “Leave the fire burning,” he said, swinging himself onward. “Might serve as a distraction.”
• • •
“Well that’s sure shit on our breakfast.”
Loriabeth kicked some sand loose from the gently sloping shore-line, birthing ripples from the placid water beyond. It stretched out before them like a vast mirror, black around the edges and bright in the centre where the three suns illuminated an island. It was small, no more than a hundred feet from end to end by Clay’s reckoning. Sitting in the centre of the island was a structure some thirty feet high with sloping walls of intricate construction. Clay assumed it to be much the same as the structure in the forest, except it was completely free of any encroaching vegetation. The shaft rose from the structure’s roof, disappearing into the haze of the three suns several hundred feet above.
“A forest, a desert, now a sea,” Sigoral mused. “It’s as if someone built a miniature world in here.”
“More of a lake than a sea,” Loriabeth said. “But it’s still too damn broad for my liking.”
Clay blinked sweat as he peered at the island. “Maybe three hundred yards. Not an impossible swim.”
“For us,” Loriabeth said. “Not you. Anyways.” She kicked more sand into the water. “Who’s to say what’s already swimming about in there?”
“If we had enough wood we could built a raft,” Sigoral pointed out.
“Meaning a long walk back to the forest.” Loriabeth looked at the Reds circling above. Their altitude had definitely reduced over the past hour, coming low enough for Clay to gain a full appreciation of their size. Although considerably smaller than an Arradsian Red, they were still of sobering proportions; seven feet from nose to tail with a wing-span even broader. Plus there were twelve of them, enough to overwhelm their guns if they came in a rush.
“We follow the shore,” Clay said, nodding to left and right. “See what we can find.” He chose the right on a whim and started off, glad for the swallow of Green he had taken earlier. He had been strict in rationing his intake, not knowing how much longer this journey would take, and didn’t like to think about the inevitable moment when it ran out.
It was Sigoral who found it, his eyes being attuned to picking out objects of note in a body of water. It rose from the lake’s surface some ten yards off shore, the faux-sunlight gleaming on the crystal it held. Another plinth, just like the one from the platform.
“Well,” Clay said, swinging himself towards the water. “We know it won’t work for either of you.”
He saw Loriabeth swallow a protest before moving to his side, Sigoral falling in behind. As they waded into the water the circling Reds broke their silence for the first time, piercing shrieks cutting through the air as they swung lower still.
“I think we’re making them angry,” Sigoral observed, tracking a Red with his carbine.
“Hungry, more like,” Loriabeth replied, pointing a pistol at the shore-line. “See how they won’t venture over the lake’s edge.”
Clay glanced back, seeing she was right. The Reds, now barely twenty feet off the ground, were wheeling around at heightened speed but veering away every time they came close to the shore-line. Something’s keeping them at bay. He immediately turned his gaze to the water, peering through the surface for any sign of danger but seeing only clouds of silt disturbed by his lumbering passage.
A sudden flare of agony in his leg brought him to a halt as the water seeped through his bandage and into his wound. He cried out, the crutches slipping from his armpits as he shuddered and would have fallen if Sigoral hadn’t caught him about the waist.
“Green,” Clay gasped, his body throbbing and sending white flashes across his vision that told of an imminent faint. It seemed to take several seconds of eternity for Sigoral to fumble the cap from Clay’s canteen and hold it to his mouth. He drank deep, the undiluted product burning its way down his throat and squashing the pain into a small, pulsing ball at the core of his being.
“We gotta go!” Loriabeth said, her words accompanied by the snick of a cocked revolver.
Clay swung his gaze back to the shore, seeing the Reds had all now come to rest on the sand. They shrieked a continual chorus of frustrated hunger, jaws snapping as they fanned their wings, tails coiling like angry snakes. With every shriek they inched closer to the water as predatory yearning vied with fear. He turned back to the plinth and forced himself on, shouting with the effort. By the time he reached it the water was over his belt, and the drakes’ cries had risen to fever pitch. He slumped onto the plinth, slapping his hand to the crystal. Nothing happened.
“Think you can get any from here?” Loriabeth asked Sigoral. They were following in Clay’s wake, backing away from the shore in slow careful steps.
“One for certain,” the Corvantine said, aiming his carbine. “Should I shoot?”
“Not yet. Might stir them up even more.”
Clay grunted in frustration and slapped his hand to the crystal once more then swore as it failed to produce the hoped-for glow. “Seer’s balls! Do something!”
The crystal blazed into life, the sudden flare of light enough to blind him for a second. He blinked tears, hearing a rush of displaced water. When his vision cleared he saw the surface of the lake rising in a huge elongated swell that stirred memories of Last Look Jack. A Blue, he thought wearily. Of course.
But it wasn’t a Blue. The water fell away to reveal a long, narrow structure of algae-covered granite, extending from the shore to the island. A bridge, Clay realised with a laugh that died at an upsurge of squawking from the Reds. The appearance of the bridge seemed to infuriate them, overthrowing their last vestige of fear.
They rose in a cloud of dust, wings drawing thunder from the air. Three came straight at them, skimming low over the water, whilst the others split into two gr
oups and swung out to left and right. Sigoral’s carbine cracked and one of the onrushing Reds tumbled into the lake. Loriabeth’s revolvers blazed, cutting down the other two. Their speed was too great to allow for head-shots, so they failed to die immediately, thrashing wings and tails churning the water white and crimson, distressed shrieks loud enough to pain the ears.
Clay whirled to the right, revolver raised to aim at a Red banking towards him. He fired as it levelled out. His reduced faculties made for a poor shot, raising a waterspout a good foot wide of the target. The Red shrieked in triumph, mouth gaping as it closed. Clay drew the hammer back for another shot, arm trembling as he attempted to aim down the beast’s throat.
The water beneath the Red erupted into a white froth as something shot from beneath the surface, something with a long snake-like body and blue scales that glittered in the cascading water. The Blue’s jaws clamped onto the Red’s neck, plucking it from the air with a crack of breaking vertebrae. The Blue coiled in mid air, seeming to hang there for a second and affording Clay an opportunity to gauge its size. Nine feet long, he thought with an oddly amused detachment. Just a tiddler. Then the Blue was gone, scattering water and blood as it dived back beneath the surface with its prize.
“Come on, cuz!” Loriabeth and Sigoral appeared at his side, each taking an arm and dragging him towards the bridge. The remaining Reds seemed to have fled, leaving the sky empty, but Clay’s attention was now fixed on the water. The appearance of the bridge had raised a great deal of silt from the lake-bed, leaving the water dark and pregnant with unseen menace.
They reached the bridge after a few seconds’ struggle through the water, Clay expecting another Blue to come surging up from the depths at any minute. Sigoral climbed onto the bridge and took hold of Clay’s arms, dragging him up and clear of the water whilst Loriabeth pushed from below.
Once successfully hauled clear, Clay lay at the edge of the bridge. The pain was now so acute his leg seemed to be on fire, sapping his strength so much that he could only lie there and watch Loriabeth offer her raised arms to Sigoral. Instead of reaching down to her, however, the Corvantine straightened, unslung his carbine and levered a round into the chamber. Clay raised a trembling hand as Sigoral lowered the barrel, croaking out an impotent “No!” as flame blossomed from the carbine’s muzzle. He turned, expecting to see Loriabeth slumping lifeless into the water, but instead finding her staring at the bloody, thrashing body of a Blue barely a yard away.
