The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “Been hearing about his remarkable powers my entire life,” the clan leader said, switching to Eutherian as he turned to Lizanne. “But never seen him do a damned thing, except eat and drink all the offerings my people piled outside his tent. Nice to have one’s suspicions confirmed, even if it is by an enemy. Name’s Ahnkrit, by the way. Tenth of his name, slayer of a hundred men and leader by the gods’ will of the Red Eagle Clan.” He inclined his head, turning his horse about and trotting back towards camp. “Nice to meet you, miss. Come and have a spot of lunch, why don’t you?”

  • • •

  “It’s all a matter of honour, I’m afraid,” Ahnkrit told her, sipping wine as he reclined on a cushion of wolf pelts. “I assured Sefka I’d have my lot visit their barbaric worst on your rebellious swine, you see? It’s just not done to break a promise to an old friend.”

  “Old friend?” Lizanne enquired. She had been provided with a generous plate of undercooked venison and a large goblet of wine, neither of which she had touched. Despite the clan leader’s sudden affability, she couldn’t discount the possibility of poison.

  “Oh yes,” Ahnkrit replied. “You could say we went to school together. I was but a toddler when dear old papa sent me off to the Imperial Court. Officially as a guest but in actuality a hostage to his continued loyalty to the crown. Sefka was one of the few high-born brats who bothered to talk to me. Fifteen years of courtly etiquette and noble education did wonders for my manners, as you can see. However, it did make for a slightly troublesome home-coming. Papa had been busy siring bastards in my absence, none of whom relished the prospect of surrendering the first saddle to a youth who spoke Eutherian better than he did Selvurin.” Ahnkrit’s face clouded a little in sorrowful nostalgia. “It’s a hard thing to kill one’s own brother, I must say. But, like anything else, it got easier with practice.”

  Lizanne’s gaze went to the shelter’s entrance where the light had begun to dim. “I would have thought survival would trump honour,” she said. “And as for promises, I can promise that you and most of your people will be dead come morning if you don’t break camp and leave now.”

  “A less enlightened man might take that for a threat.” Ahnkrit sat up, leaning forward to regard her with intent scrutiny. “But that’s not it, is it, my dear Miss Blood? Is it all the little kiddies? Worried what may become of them, are we?”

  “I’ve seen a great deal of death this past year,” she replied. “Dead children included. And I believe I’ve seen enough.”

  “My people do everything as one, including going to war. Nor do we spare our young the horrors of the world, for they will have to face them soon enough. Custom, you see. Like silly old Tikrut and his magic gourd. I am a prisoner of custom.” He proffered his forearm, pointing to a fresh cut behind the wrist. “I blessed my sabre with my own blood and swore I would lead this clan to riches in the southlands.”

  “Riches?” Lizanne asked. “Rather than victory?”

  “What care we for your revolt? Win it or lose it, we’ll make treaty with whoever comes out on top. Pragmatism is also a custom in this clan. But I cannot simply pick up sticks and march off, not just because some foreign witch rides into my own camp and makes a fool of my shaman, a nice gift though it was.”

  Lizanne concealed a sigh of frustration, her brow furrowing in consideration until a singular notion popped into her head. Riches trumps victory. “There’s a place,” she said. “A burning city to the south. Scorazin. You’ve heard of it?”

  “The Emperor’s prison city, recently brought low.” Ahnkrit shrugged. “What of it?”

  “There is a great deal of silver waiting to be dug out of it. Rich seams as yet undisclosed to any outside authority.”

  The clansman’s lip curled in disdain. “My people are not miners, miss.”

  “You don’t have to dig it out, just be in possession of the city when the war ends. Whatever regime holds power will be in dire need of funds and willing to negotiate, I’m sure. I also know the location of a hidden cache of silver ore, if your people require a more immediate incentive.”

  “Scorazin is still burning.”

  “Only the sulphur mines. Or is the Red Eagle Clan afraid of a little smoke?”

  Ahnkrit’s face took on a still, expressionless aspect, his dark eyes half-lidded. She couldn’t tell if he was pondering her proposal or suffering her insult. “This People’s Freedom Army,” he said finally. “Would I be wrong in thinking that your attitude towards them is uncoloured by any radical notions?”

  “You would not,” she replied. “But you would be wrong in thinking I might be enjoined to betray them.”

  “I do not require your betrayal, miss, only your honesty. Give me your unbiased and unprejudiced opinion, if you would. Do you believe they will actually win?”

  Lizanne’s mind traced through everything she had seen since arriving in Corvus, all the people she had met, from Hyran to the Electress. She recalled the day Scorazin fell, and what had since been dubbed the Battle of the Road when a mob of criminals and barely trained civilians had overrun the best troops in the empire. Caranis died and the great pantomime died with him, she thought. Now all that’s left is for the audience to give their verdict on the performance, and it is far from favourable.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do believe they will.”

  “In that case”—Ahnkrit leaned closer, smiling the brisk smile of a born trader about to strike a fine bargain—“I’ll agree to your terms. I’ll take my people off to find this silver, on the understanding that, witch or not, no corner of this earth will hide you should your words prove false. I’ll hold the smoking ruins of Scorazin until adequate compensation is paid to my clan, thereby leaving the road clear for your rebels to march on Corvus. But”—his smile became cold, his previously affable tones transforming into something entirely serious—“I require you to perform for me an additional service. And it is not a matter for negotiation.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Sirus

  He could feel the Red’s hatred, it seemed to emanate from beneath its crimson scales like a constantly stoked fire. You want nothing more than to eat me, Sirus observed, allowing the thought to slip free of his shields. Do you?

  He wasn’t entirely sure of the degree to which the lesser drakes could discern the thoughts of the White’s enslaved minions. Communication between drake and Spoiled was limited to the exchange of images, shorn of nuance or deeper understanding. He had made some tentative attempts to connect with the animals’ minds, finding the experience akin to hearing a distant echo spoken in an alien tongue. But, although a true joining of minds appeared to be impossible, the beast’s emotions were easily read. This ability Katarias at least appeared fully capable of mirroring. A shudder of revulsion ran through the Red’s huge form from end to end and it opened its jaws to cough out a thick cloud of foul-smelling, yellow smoke. The rushing air-current swiftly conveyed the noxious miasma directly into Sirus’s face, leaving him choking for several seconds as he clung to the spines on the beast’s neck.

  When I free this army your death will be my delight, he thought, careful to cloud the vow in a thick covering of fear. Katarias gave another shudder, as if sensing the emotion behind the thought, a loud rumble issuing from its throat. Sirus couldn’t escape the notion that if a drake were capable of laughter, he may have just heard it.

  Katarias had carried him about fifteen miles north of the Isles, describing a zigzag course across the sky until their quarry appeared beneath. Following close behind was a pack of ten more Reds, all large specimens capable of carrying heavy loads. In addition to the lone tribal Spoiled on their backs they all clutched another, bulkier cargo in each of their talons. Sirus could see the ship now, its wake a bright spear-point in the dark expanse of the ocean. Although he knew this to be a blood-burning frigate the ship moved under steam power at less than a third of its top speed.

  After c
onceiving his plan and communicating it to the White, the Reds had kept a constant watch on the northern coast-lines of those islands held by the Spoiled army. At Sirus’s instruction numerous camp-fires were lit along the coast, giving the impression of greater numbers and hopefully providing a tempting target for the Maritime Protectorate’s raiders. The frigate below had been the first to take the bait, steaming in close to shore at sunset to pound one of their decoy camps with a brief but intense barrage. The ship had then turned about and steamed due north, using her blood-burner for close on an hour as her captain no doubt assumed such speed would deliver her from any pursuing Blues.

  Spying the ship, Katarias drew in his wings and descended at a dizzying velocity. The air-stream became so intense Sirus found himself clutching ever tighter to the Red’s neck spines. At little under thirty feet from the waves Katarias flared his wings and they levelled out, gliding towards the frigate’s stern at a shallow angle. The Red reared up as they came within a few feet of the stern, dipping his head so Sirus could jump clear. He performed a slow somersault as he descended towards the frigate’s deck, pulling the weapons from his belt, a broad-bladed knife in one hand and an Islander’s war club in the other. He also had a pistol holstered under his shoulder but, if all went as planned, he wouldn’t need it. There were two sailors stationed on the stern, both standing in open-mouthed shock at the sight of a Spoiled landing on the deck of their ship barely a few feet away.

  Sirus moved in a blur, making full use of the capabilities of his remade body. The war-club shattered the skull of the sailor on the right and the knife opened the throat of his companion, the warning he had begun to shout choking into a wet gargle as he slid to the boards. Sirus whirled in time to see Katarias open his claws to deposit his additional cargo on the frigate’s upper works before lashing out with his tail to skewer the look-out in the crow’s nest. With that, the huge Red angled his wings and glided off into the gloom.

  Sirus crouched and waited, eyes fixed on the ship’s bridge. The screams were not long in coming, short, piercing shrieks as blasts of flame lit the windows. He looked up at the sound of rushing air, seeing Forest Spear leap from the back of a Red to land at Sirus’s side. The Red swept on, releasing the Greens in its clutches over the prow of the ship. More Reds followed in quick succession, tribal Spoiled landing on the stern and Greens on the works and the fore-deck.

  Sirus could sense the tribals’ lust for combat, the legacy of a life lived as warriors. Nevertheless, he held them in check until the screams emanating from the rest of the ship rose to a crescendo of panic and fear, punctuated by the occasional gun-shot.

  Take the bridge, he told Forest Spear and three others, who immediately sprinted off. He led the remainder towards the hatch he knew led to the engine room. Amongst the army were several former Protectorate sailors possessing valuable knowledge. Down the ladder, follow the corridor to midships, take the ladder on the right to the lower deck. They encountered little resistance, save for a clumsy lunge with a fire-axe from a teenage ensign who scarcely seemed strong enough to lift it. Sirus side-stepped the axe and tapped the war-club against the lad’s temple, knocking him unconscious. The White would be expecting new recruits from this endeavour.

  He found the engine room in chaos. One stoker lay on his back shrieking as a Green savaged his legs. The Chief Engineer and a clutch of others were backed up against the far bulkhead, trying to fend off another Green with their coal-shovels. We need the engineer, Sirus told the tribals as they charged into the fray. Spare the others if you can.

  It was over in seconds, the engineer clubbed down and bound along with two of his men. The remaining three proved overly aggressive and were left to the attentions of the Greens.

  The captain died, Forest Spear’s thought came from the bridge. We have the First Officer.

  Sirus went to the bulky mass of the ship’s auxiliary power plant, shutting it down with a few deft shoves to the requisite levers. There were several engineers in the army in addition to sailors. Secure all captives on the fore-deck, he instructed Forest Spear. Then search the ship for survivors. No more killing.

  Sirus turned to the Chief Engineer, who stared up at him with a mixture of revulsion and defiance. The man’s craggy, oil-streaked features spasmed in impotent rage at the diminishing screams of his men as the Greens feasted on the fruits of victory.

  “What is the name of this ship?” Sirus asked the engineer as the last of the screams faded.

  The man blinked in surprise at the sound of a Spoiled speaking his own language, then clenched his jaws tight and shook his head in refusal. One of the tribals stepped closer and dragged the engineer’s head back by the hair, pressing a knife to his throat. Still the man refused to speak, instead casting a thick glob of spit in Sirus’s direction, his steady gaze conveying a clear invitation for Sirus to do his worst.

  “The Ultimate Sanction!” one of the stokers rasped out, voice pitched high in terror. “She’s called the Ultimate Sanction!”

  “No, that won’t do.” Sirus paused for a moment’s reflection. “She is hereby renamed the Harbinger.”

  • • •

  They sailed back to the Isles where the surviving crew were duly converted. The ship’s Blood-blessed had managed to emerge unscathed from the battle but, as was becoming gruesomely routine whenever they discovered one of his kind, was not so fortunate when he met the White. Once again the great beast undertook a close inspection of the captive, a corpulent fellow who displayed an admirable resolve in the face of what he must have known to be imminent death.

  “When our full fleet sails,” he growled at the White as it leaned closer, nostrils flaring, “your pestilent horde will be rent to nothing.”

  The White betrayed no obvious reaction to the words, continuing its inspection for several seconds before issuing the customary huff of annoyance. Despite his courage, even this resolute fellow couldn’t help but scream upon being tossed to the ever-hungry clutch of juvenile Whites.

  Sirus seized another three ships in less than a week. With the renamed Harbinger under their control it proved a relatively simple matter to approach a Protectorate warship once its location had been revealed by patrolling Reds or Blues. Once the vessel hove into view signal flags requesting urgent assistance were raised and the ship’s speed reduced to a crawl. Only one paddle was left turning and the engine room ordered to make smoke to convey the impression of a damaged vessel. The smoke had the additional advantage of concealing the features of the Harbinger’s crew until her well-intentioned comrade had drawn alongside, by which time their fate was sealed.

  Grapples were hurled to lash the vessels together and gang-planks lowered to bridge the gap whereupon two hundred Spoiled emerged from hiding to rush across and seize the prize. The fighting was usually fierce but short-lived, and the complement of sailors to man the White’s growing fleet grew with every capture. Sirus ensured that no more Blood-blessed were found alive. He concealed his purpose by personally hunting down the Blood-blessed on each vessel and masking the swift death he gave them with a burst of fear. As yet, the White didn’t appear to have detected his merciful subterfuge though the members of Sirus’s ad hoc staff proved more perceptive.

  We can’t fire the blood-burners without Blood-blessed, Veilmist, the mathematical girl-genius pointed out. Her thoughts tended to lack all but the most subtle emotion, possessing a singularity of focus that Sirus suspected had been there long before her conversion. He had convened a council of war in the Harbinger’s ward-room. Although remade into something other than human, they were still compelled by the strictures of human custom, including a ritual obeisance to hierarchy.

  “The auxiliary engines will suffice,” Sirus replied, speaking aloud in Eutherian as had become his habit at these gatherings. “Your calculations please. And talk, don’t think.”

  Veilmist replied in Varsal, her lilting Island accent counterpointed by the precision
with which she enunciated each word. “In the event of a direct assault and given the strength of the Protectorate garrison in Feros we can expect a casualty rate of forty to forty-five percent. Assuming the attack is successful, however, and factoring in the likely death toll amongst the civilian population, the overall strength of the Army will at least double.”

  “And assuming we can fight our way past the naval cordon,” Morradin said. “Four ships won’t be enough.” The marshal’s simmering rage at his loss of status hadn’t abated. But, like all of them, the White’s need for victory left no room for dissent. Also, Sirus could sense the man’s innate inability to resist a military challenge.

  “We won’t be fighting our way in,” Sirus said. “At least not at first. And, the casualty estimate is too high to justify a massed assault on the harbour.”

  He had a map of the Tyrell Islands spread out on the ward-room table. It was another sop to ritual since they all shared the same visual memory. “Feros sits at the end of an isthmus on the southern coast of Crowsloft Island,” he said, pointing to the city’s location. “And no inland fortifications to guard against an overland assault.”

  “Because they’ve never had to worry about it,” Morradin replied. “There aren’t any viable landing sites on the isthmus. But there is this.” He jabbed a stubby finger at a small inlet to the west of Feros. “The Corvantine Imperial General Staff had a plan for an invasion of the Tyrell Islands, to be undertaken following the conquest of Ironship’s Arradsian Holdings. We identified this bay as the optimum landing point. The beach is usually too broad for a successful attack, being overlooked by cliffs all around, but it’s a different matter during a three-moon tide. What was a muddy mile-long tract enclosed by impassable cliffs becomes a short beach fringed by easily climbed slopes.”