The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “I . . . can’t!” he grated, spittle flying from between tight-clenched teeth. “You . . . go! Now!”

  He saw a spasm of deep sorrow pass across her face before she resumed her climb.

  “Where is Pendilla?” the tall man in the boat asked as Tekela clambered aboard.

  “Dead,” she replied shortly.

  The tall man stared at her for several seconds, face and body frozen until a pat to the arm from the stocky man set him in motion once more. He pushed the lever on the engine, which immediately coughed into life, a set of blades fixed to its side whirling into invisibility. Tekela and the stocky man cast a number of sandbags from the boat and the balloon rose.

  Sirus found the White’s will diminished as the balloon ascended higher, removing all chance of preventing their escape. “Head north!” he called out, the strange contraption now reduced to toy-like proportions. “There will be fewer Reds there!”

  Whether they heard him or not he couldn’t tell as the craft sailed from view.

  Sirus cast a final glance at Katrya’s body before walking from the workshop, making for the docks where the babble of voices in his head told him there was more work to do.

  CHAPTER 51

  Clay

  A lone White made a final, desperate attack as the waters rose to within a hundred feet of the roof. The three sun-crystals had slipped beneath the tide by now, their light dimmed but not extinguished, though they flickered continually. It made for a somewhat nightmarish spectacle as the White streaked towards them, skimming the water and spouting flame like a demon glimpsed in the chaos of a lightning storm. The flames swept over the gondola’s windows without apparent effect before the White crashed into the exterior, its claws leaving deep scars on the glass, which failed to break despite the fury of its assault. It continued to batter the gondola with claw, tail and flame as the waters rose ever higher. Finally, as the top of the aerostat met the roof and water began to lap at the lower edge of the windows, it collapsed in exhaustion, gasping out a final unheard shriek before slipping into the depths.

  “This thing ain’t likely to leak is it?” Clay asked Kriz as the water crept higher over the glass.

  “I’ve sealed the air-intakes,” she replied, eyes focused on the dials. “Hopefully we won’t be submerged long enough for it to matter.”

  She waited until the water had completely covered the windows before pulling a lever on the side of the panel. A loud hissing sound came from above and the aerostat immediately began to sink, the view beyond the window transformed into a murky fog, thick with floating debris. Kriz started the engines and used the central lever to guide them towards a distant column of dense bubbles.

  “We need to wait for the flow to stop,” she said.

  “A craft that can fly and move below the waves,” Clay said, shaking his head as he peered at the flickering blue-grey haze outside. “Your people really were something.”

  Kriz slowed the craft as they neared the column, waiting until the bubbles thinned then disappeared completely. “Hold on to something,” she said before taking a deep breath and reaching for the steering lever. She restarted the engines and retracted the steering lever to tilt the aerostat on its back at a sharp angle. Clay saw a dark, jagged shape slide into view above: the hole left by the shaft’s collapse. It grew larger as Kriz fed more power to the engines, taking them into the newly made portal.

  The darkness closed in swiftly, leaving them in pitched darkness but for the faint glow of the small crystal above the panel. Clay began to worry that the passage might be closed, choked with fallen rubble, but then saw a small glimmer of light far above. It swelled as they rose higher, Clay’s relief swelling with it, then fading as the aerostat slowed to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Kriz, who was busy pushing her palm hard against the engine levers.

  “The engines weren’t designed for this,” she said, sighing in frustration as her free hand moved to another, smaller lever at the base of the panel.

  “What’s that?” Clay asked, seeing how her hand trembled.

  “Rear main valve,” she said, still hesitating. “I can vent all the remaining helium at once, it might provide enough thrust to get us to the surface.”

  “Might?”

  The moist helplessness in her eyes told him all he needed to know about their chances. “Can’t stay here, that’s for sure,” he said, hauling himself forward. Reaching out he closed his hand over hers, placing it on the lever. “And I got no intention of going back.”

  She gave a tight smile and nodded. “You better strap in,” she said, waiting until he had manoeuvred himself back into his seat and buckled on the straps.

  “Best hold on tight back there!” he called to Loriabeth, glancing back to make sure she had secured herself and Sigoral. The lieutenant appeared to have fallen into a fever, either through shock or the lingering pain and sat slumped in his seat, the meagre light glistening on his burns. Clay watched Loriabeth fasten her own straps before turning back to Kriz. “Ready when you are.”

  She took a firm grip on the steering lever then flipped the valve lever with a quick flick of her wrist. The effect was immediate, Clay finding himself pushed back into his seat by the force of the acceleration. The dark confines of the passage blurred as the aerostat sped through it, Kriz somehow managing to keep the craft on track as it veered about. Then they were out, the light that had been a distant glimmer broadening into a shimmering plane of blue.

  The aerostat continued its rapid ascent, the blue shimmer filling the forward window then disappearing in an explosion of white as they broke the surface. Clay found himself floating in his straps as the aerostat reached the top of its arc, then felt a bone-jarring thump as it slammed back down onto the water. The force of the impact jerked Kriz off her feet, Clay reaching out to grab her arm as she tumbled towards the rear of the gondola.

  The gondola bobbed on the surface for a second then slowly keeled over onto its port side. Water lapped at the starboard windows but for the moment the craft showed no sign of sinking and Clay found himself gaping at the clear blue sky above.

  “That’s a welcome sight alright,” he whispered.

  “Something’s out there.”

  Clay twisted in his seat, finding that Loriabeth had unbuckled herself and was crouched atop one of the starboard windows, peering at the murk below. He heard it then, a faint high-pitched moaning from outside. It wasn’t one he had heard before but the pitch of it was dreadfully familiar.

  “Blue,” he said. “We gotta get out. Now.”

  Kriz slipped free of his grip and clambered towards the panel whilst Clay undid his straps and went to help Loriabeth with Sigoral. They carried him to the front of the gondola where Kriz waited at the hatch.

  “You might want to brace yourselves,” she said before taking hold of the lever on the locking mechanism. The hatch tore itself free of her hand as soon as she turned the lever, Clay wincing in discomfort as all the air inside the gondola seemed to rush out at once, birthing an aching whistle in his ears. When it cleared he looked up to see Kriz clambering outside. He went next, climbing onto the outer hull then crouched and reaching back inside to grab hold of Sigoral’s arms. Some animation seemed to be returning to the Corvantine’s features and he grunted out a few short phrases in garbled Varsal as Clay and Kriz hauled him clear and set him down.

  “Didn’t truly think I’d ever see it again,” Loriabeth said, poking her head through the hatch, eyes raised to the pale blue sky above.

  Clay’s grin of agreement died at the sight of something cutting through the becalmed waters. It was a good distance off but still recognisable, and growing larger by the second. Hilemore was right, Clay decided as the huge spine of Last Look Jack drew closer. We didn’t kill the bastard after all.

  “The bomb-thrower,” Clay said to Loriabeth, who promptly ducked back inside, returning a fe
w seconds later with the chunky brass-and-steel weapon.

  “You better take it,” Clay said, passing the weapon to Kriz. “Got more practice.”

  Loriabeth retrieved the packs and the rest of the weapons before clambering out to join them on the hull. Clay looked around, seeing they were in some kind of channel perhaps a half-mile wide fringed by dense drifts of icebergs on either side.

  “Cuz!” Loriabeth said, rifle trained on the fast-approaching spine. Clay moved to her side, reaching into his pack for a fresh carbine magazine.

  “Sh . . .” Sigoral slurred, causing the gondola to rock as he attempted to rise.

  “Settle down, Lieutenant,” Clay said, reaching out to calm him.

  “Shhip!” Sigoral said, glaring at him with his one good eye and pointing. Clay followed his outstretched arm, at first unable to make out anything of interest amongst the backdrop of icebergs which seemed like just a jumble of angular shadows. Then he saw it, the long dark hull and tall masts of a sailing ship. Not just a ship, he realised, his eyes picking out the sight of people lining the rail. He raised his carbine and trained the optical sight on the ship’s rail, almost immediately alighting on the bearded, gaunt but still-familiar face of Captain Hilemore and, standing at his side, Uncle Braddon. They were waving with furious energy, breath steaming as they called out desperate warnings.

  “Seer damn me to the Travail if that ain’t something to see,” Clay said, lowering the carbine.

  “People you know?” Kriz asked.

  “Family,” he said. But too far away to be any help. He returned his gaze to the front of the gondola, keen to keep an eye on Last Look Jack, but found the huge spine had vanished.

  “Went under a coupla seconds ago,” Loriabeth reported, tracking the muzzle of her rifle across the water. “Gone too deep to make out.”

  Clay spent a fruitless few moments scanning the water, a hard, chilly certainty gripping his guts. “Is there any way to move this . . .” he began just before the sea exploded.

  There was a moment of weightlessness, as if he were floating in a rain-storm, then he realised they had been cast into the air. Through the cascading water he saw sunlight glitter on blue scales before it caught a gleam from something large and yellow, something shot through with red veins surrounding a black slit. Eye to eye with Last Look Jack, he thought, doubting he would ever get to tell the story.

  His limbs flailed as he fell, slamming into the water with enough force to dislodge the carbine from his grip. Although the sea had been heated sufficiently to melt the ice, it was still shockingly cold, birthing an instant flare of pain in his chest and head that threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. He could see his companions struggling in the water near by whilst the gondola sank a short ways off. The craft raised itself up on one end before sinking from view, leaving a diminishing patch of foaming water to mark its passing.

  The huge spine circled the four of them at an almost leisurely pace for a few seconds then, as if sensing the cold was about to rob him of his prize, the Blue reared up out of the ocean. It rose to at least twenty feet above the surface, though most of its bulk remained hidden from view. Jack began to open his jaws then jerked as something impacted on his skull, producing a bright plume of blood. The monster turned towards the ship, a rattling growl of irritation issuing from his throat. Clay could see a tall, familiar figure in the Crow’s Nest, raising his longrifle for another shot. Jack, however, didn’t betray any particular concern as he once again lowered his massive head towards his prey, jaws opening wide and the haze of new-born fire rising from his gullet.

  If there was ever the right time, Clay thought, his hand going to the vials around his neck. Thumbing the stopper from the vial of Blue heart-blood, he raised it to his lips and drank.

  CHAPTER 52

  Sirus

  Veilmist calculated the total death toll resulting from the capture of Feros as amounting to just over forty-five thousand people, plus eight hundred drakes, mostly Reds and Greens. Despite predictions, fighting had been fiercest and most costly north of the port where Morradin’s forces met with well-organised, often savage resistance. The Protectorate Commander had taken the ruthless, if undeniably correct, decision not to reinforce the city itself following the assault on the harbour. Instead he consolidated his remaining forces atop the surrounding hills from where his artillery could pound the attackers with relative impunity, much to Morradin’s delight. “Always more satisfying to defeat a commander who knows his business,” he stated with uncharacteristic cheerfulness the morning after the initial assault. “No sport in it otherwise.”

  It required a complex assault by air and land over the course of two days to take the hills, a victory that yielded barely three hundred prisoners, and most of those wounded. Even then the fighting wasn’t over.

  The Carvenport refugees used the time purchased by the Protectorate’s stand to construct a redoubt amidst their cluster of hovels. Commanded by a man named Cralmoor, and assisted by a small coterie of Blood-blessed, the makeshift fort managed to fight off a dozen assaults before being overrun by a massed charge of Greens. In the aftermath it became clear that this had been a delaying action designed to allow the refugees’ children to escape. A rag-tag fleet of fishing-boats and small steamers had set sail from a fishing-port a few miles up the coast whilst the battle raged. The White seemed indifferent to the escape of so many and the Blues were not sent in pursuit. Children were no use as soldiers after all.

  More useful were the prisoners taken at the headquarters of the Ironship Syndicate, yielding numerous senior managers with heads full of valuable intelligence and two members of the Board itself. Of the three other Ironship Board members known to be in Feros during the attack, two had died in the fighting and the third committed suicide rather than face capture. He had been a large bearded man who somehow contrived to keep his pipe in his mouth even after blowing his brains out with a revolver.

  In all the White’s army had lost over half its strength, losses that might have crippled a human force, but the surviving residents of Feros provided ample reinforcements. The conversion process was much more protracted than in the Isles. So many captives required days of close guarding before they could be forced to take their turn at the crystal. Riots and escape attempts were common, particularly amongst parents desperate to find their vanished children. Sirus had been assiduous in ensuring the slaughter of the infants took place far from the sight of the adults, aware such a spectacle might produce a riot no amount of cruelty could contain. Instead the children were crowded together in a valley beyond the northern hills and left for the sport of the drakes, the White’s dreadful brood taking particular delight in such easy prey.

  Throughout it all Sirus kept a corner of his mind open for any report of a strange, balloon-like craft seen flying away from the city during the first attack. So far it seemed that if any Spoiled had witnessed such a thing the knowledge had died with them.

  Come with us, she had said. Sirus believed this may have been the only occasion where she genuinely seemed to want his company.

  The sight of Katrya’s slumped, lifeless corpse also lingered in his mind. Was I her Tekela? he wondered in quieter moments, thinking how much he wanted to claw his way into his own past and make a different future for both of them.

  He was at the docks overseeing the conversion of the last few hundred captives when lookouts on the eastern shore reported the approach of a ship. Sirus began to order one of the patrolling frigates to intercept the intruder but stopped at a sudden command from the White. No, it told him, Sirus sensing an eager anticipation beneath the thought. It seemed that whatever was coming was expected.

  He went to the outer mole and ordered the harbour door raised. The tide was low enough that it posed little danger but they had kept the door lowered since the city fell lest any escapees attempt to steal a ship. The White’s fleet now stood at fifteen frigates and six cruis
ers plus a number of smaller craft and several civilian freighters. They would all be very useful in the months ahead.

  Sirus watched smoke rise on the eastern horizon as the ship steamed closer, his inhumanly keen eyes revealing her as a mid-sized two-paddle passenger liner. She seemed to him to be in a poor state of repair, the hull streaked with smoke and cast-off waste, a tangle of flags and ropes hanging from her single mast. The SSM Northern Star, he read as the ship came fully into view. A corporate vessel.

  The liner steamed towards the harbour mouth at an excessive speed, forcing her to reverse paddles in order to make her way beneath the door. Sirus could make out the dim shape of the helmsman behind the besmirched glass of the wheel-house, but the only other passenger was a tall young woman standing on the fore-deck. He walked along the mole as the liner entered the harbour, keeping pace with her as she steamed towards the wharf. The young woman wore a ragged dress of some kind, torn and scorched in places to reveal much of her body, though she exhibited no sign of concern at her near nakedness. The woman’s gaze roamed the harbour and docks, a fierce expectant scrutiny on her face as she searched for something. Sirus saw the scrutiny turn to outright, unalloyed joy as a large shadow swept across the harbour.

  As the White flared its wings and landed on the prow of the ship the young woman put her hands to her mouth, and Sirus saw tears streaming from her eyes. As if greeting a lost love, he thought. The liner’s engine died and the paddles stopped turning, a deep hush settling over the entire harbour so that Sirus could hear the woman’s whispered greeting to the White.

  “You called to me . . .” she said, rushing towards the beast with her arms outstretched, “. . . and I answered.”

  And the White spread its wings wide, raising its head to roar out a welcome of fire.