The Waking Fire
Page 35
The explosion ripped through the bridge and crew quarters, transforming them to scrap in a heart-beat and birthing a rising blossom of orange flame roiling amidst a pall of black smoke. The frigate immediately fell away as her rudder lost all trim, the bows swinging to starboard and her deck listing sufficiently to cast several crewmen into the sea. Flame must have found her magazine for Lizanne was treated to the sight of her exploding a few seconds later, her hull broken into two swiftly sinking pieces before the Wave Dancer turned the bend in the river and she was lost from view.
“Miss?” Arberus had climbed up to join her. She saw that he had a rifle in hand, presumably taken from the smugglers. From the smoke rising from the barrel he must have been trying to ward off the Corvantine sharpshooters.
A fresh wave of exhaustion seized her and she found herself collapsing against him, the vestiges of Green dwindling away and her vision dimming into an all-consuming void.
CHAPTER 23
Clay
“It has long been theorised that there are in fact four other planets in close orbit around the sun, rather than three. And with this”—Scriberson patted his long green-leather case—“I may well be in a position to prove it.”
Braddon exchanged a glance with Clay. He had led the astronomer to the Falls’ quay-side where the Longrifles were gathered to await the commencement of his uncle’s scheme. He had made no comment so far upon hearing Scriberson’s tale, but now his gaze betrayed a slight glimmer of interest. “What you got in there, young man?”
“This, sir”—Scriberson set the case down on the flagstones and began to undo its straps—“is the pinnacle of modern optics. The product of extensive analysis and experimentation in the Consolidated Research workshops.” He undid the case, splitting it in half. It contained two items nestling into recesses of cushioned velvet. One a folded-up wooden stand of sturdy appearance and the other a long brass tube, or rather three brass tubes fitted together in order of diminishing size. The smallest tube had an eyepiece that resembled that of a spy-glass.
“I give you”—Scriberson stood back a little, a note of pride in his voice as he gave a somewhat dramatic flourish at the tube—“the New Model Consolidated Research Astronomical Field Telescope. Capable of three times the magnification of any other portable optic currently available.”
“A remarkable and valuable item to be sure.” Braddon inclined his head in appreciation before turning a less-than-impressed gaze on the astronomer. “But I’m bound to ask, what in the Travail’s it got to do with me or my company?”
“Mr. Scriberson,” Clay said, “why don’t you tell my uncle about the place where you intend to train this here device on the alignment.”
He saw Braddon’s interest deepen at mention of the alignment as Scriberson spoke on. “There is a place spoken of in the records of the earliest expedition to venture into the Coppersoles. The account was written by a somewhat erratic Corvantine and has often been dismissed or ignored due to its often impenetrable and rambling language, all set down in an archaic derivation of Eutherian. However, a research project commenced at my behest managed to confirm many of the historical and geographic details in the documents, adding considerable weight to its veracity. It relates how a Corvantine expedition made its way to a ruin atop a tall mountain, fighting off Spoiled attacks along the way as one might expect. The account becomes confused at this point, but one aspect that remains clear is that the explorers witnessed an alignment upon reaching the mountain top, ‘a view of such clarity and majesty as never glimpsed by civilised eyes,’ apparently. Arradsia is well known for the unique spectacles its sky-line offers the astronomer, but this appears to have been something very special indeed.”
“And you came out here all on your lonesome to see it?” Braddon’s voice conveyed equal parts scepticism and grudging admiration.
“Well, not initially.” Scriberson shifted a little in discomfort. “I arrived in Rigger’s Bay with six companions some three months ago. All Consolidated Research employees of good standing and varying areas of expertise. The expedition was intended to encompass botany, biology and geology as well as my own discipline.”
“And where’s these experts now?”
“Sadly, expertise does not equate to courage. We were obliged to employ an escort from Rigger’s Bay, a Contractor company recommended by the local Consolidated office. Unfortunately, they proved unworthy of our trust.”
“Robbed you and left you adrift in the jungle, huh?”
“Quite so. They took all our funds and equipment, though they were kind enough to leave us alive. It seems they were not so lucky. We found their bodies when making our way back to Rigger’s Bay. From the state of them I deduced the indigenous denizens of this continent felt they had a grievance to settle. They left most of our equipment intact, however.”
“Your company sent you into the Interior with a bunch of headhunters.” Braddon’s chuckle was echoed by the other Longrifles. “You any idea how lucky you are to be alive, young man?”
“Fully aware, sir. As were my companions, who decided their adventuring days were at an end. I alone chose to proceed.”
“You walked through the jungle all the way to the Falls?” Loriabeth asked.
“Actually, miss, I constructed a raft and made most of the journey by river. There were difficult moments, I’ll not deny, but I had ample provisions and a keen sense of purpose. There will be but one chance in my lifetime to witness the alignment from such a vantage point. I had intended to seek passage south on arriving at Fallsguard but, sadly, the Spoiled have contrived to imprison me here for the past ten days.”
“May I assume,” Braddon said, “you’re in possession of a map to guide you to your destination?”
“Lost to the thieves and the Spoiled, sir. However”—Scriberson tapped a finger to his temple—“I am blessed with a very efficient visual memory.”
Seeing the calculation on his uncle’s face, Clay said, “Mr. Scriberson offers a generous fee if we escort him south, Uncle. Plus, he says he knows a way into the Coppersoles, an old trail that leads into the heart of the mountains. Lotta Black nesting in the highest peaks, right, Skaggs?”
“So they say,” the harvester agreed. “Never been there myself, though.”
“Fee?” Braddon asked Scriberson.
“Indeed, Captain. I can offer fifty thousand in exchange notes.” He went to one of his leather-wrapped bundles and extracted a wallet bulging with currency. “The Spoiled saw no use for the thieves’ booty.”
“What makes you think we won’t just steal it like they did?” Loriabeth enquired, offering the astronomer a bright smile.
“I took the precaution of asking around before approaching Mr. Torcreek. Your company has a creditable reputation for honesty, amongst other attributes.”
“That we do,” Braddon said, casting his gaze over Scriberson’s gear. “If you’re gonna travel with us, most of this will have to go. Be quick about choosing what to take, only what you can carry in comfort. We leave as soon as it gets dark.”
—
“Where’s your weapon?” Clay asked Scriberson as they hunkered down in the boat. It was one of the Firejack’s life-boats left behind at his uncle’s insistence, shallow-hulled and of sufficient size to carry them all. The astronomer sat down at Clay’s side, his telescope case clutched tight and a small pack of sundry belongings on his back. He had been visibly perturbed at leaving most of his books behind, though Loriabeth had agreed to carry one, professing herself curious as to the contents.
“A Natural History of Arradsia,” she read, squinting at the title. “That mean there’s an unnatural history out there somewhere?”
“I don’t carry a weapon,” Scriberson told Clay, the sweat on his face shining in the gathering dark. “I have rather an aversion to such things.”
“Can’t walk the Interior without a weapon,” Clay said.
“Very true, miss,” Scriberson said. “I’m sure I shall be perfectly fine, Mr. Torcreek. Having survived one jungle sojourn without need of a fire-arm, I’m sure I can survive another.”
Braddon emerged from the shadowy bulk of Fallsguard and strode towards the boat, climbing in and settling himself next to the tiller. “The major’s agreed to a short barrage only, so we’ll need to be quick. Anyone falls, they get left. No exceptions.”
“The lift?” Skaggerhill asked.
“Still intact, least as far as my spy-glass can make out. Prob’ly should’ve made use of Mr. Scriberson’s tellyscope doodad.”
“Assistance I’m happy to render, sir,” Scriberson offered, relief colouring his tone as he half rose from his seat.
“Ain’t got time.” Braddon jacked a round into his longrifle’s chamber and laid it across his knees. “Let’s get gone. Barrage starts precisely one half-hour from the second we set off.”
They pushed away from the quay and were soon speeding down-river, having no need of oars thanks to the swiftness of the current. Braddon worked the tiller, guiding them into the centre of the flow and past the foam-ringed boulders that proliferated along this stretch. It wasn’t long before Clay heard it, a faint hiss at first that soon rose to a murmur, then a roar. He could see a fine mist rising ahead as the river opened out once more before seeming to disappear way short of the horizon.
“Oars out!” his uncle barked. Preacher and Skaggerhill heaved their paddles into the rowlocks and began to pull as Braddon steered them towards the eastern bank. They scraped to a halt amidst a cluster of rocks, Foxbine leaping clear with rope in hand, quickly joined by Clay. Together they held the boat in place whilst the others climbed out, Scriberson coming close to disaster when his foot slipped on the damp stone. Skaggerhill managed to grab him before he tumbled into the river, telescope and all.
“Anything?” Braddon asked, crouching at Foxbine’s side as she peered at the shadowed bank. The jungle was sparse here, only a few patches of tree and bush littering the rocky ground.
“Seems quiet, Captain,” the gunhand replied. “Maybe they missed us . . .” She trailed off at the sound of many voices rising from the left, a great hubbub of excited rage. “Then again.”
“Get low,” Braddon told the rest of them, crouching behind a broad boulder and pulling the rim of his hat down about his ears. “This is gonna be quite the kerfuffle.”
Clay saw the Spoiled come boiling out of the tree-line, an anonymous charging mass, raised spear-points gleaming in the moonlight. It seemed to him there were significantly more than they had faced on the Sands, more in fact than they had bullets to kill. They had charged to within a hundred yards when the first cannon shell hit, slamming into the ground just left of the main body, a dozen or more thrown high by the blast. Clay had time to glimpse the flashes lighting Fallsguard’s south-facing wall before five shells arced into the ranks of Spoiled in quick succession, Clay shielding his eyes against the blast of flame and wind as the flat, hammer-blow sound of the explosions slapped against his ears. Around them waterspouts rose as debris rained down. When he looked again the ground was carpeted with still or crawling bodies and beyond them the dim shapes of surviving Spoiled fleeing back into the jungle. There was a pause as the gunners adjusted their aim then a fresh salvo fell amongst the trees, presumably to keep them running.
“Up!” Braddon shouted, surging to his feet. “Won’t take them long to gather for another try.”
They had to hop from rock to rock before making the bank whereupon Braddon led them at a run towards the roaring fury of the Falls. The ground fell away into a sheer cliff where it flanked the great tumbling cascade of water, Clay finding himself momentarily enraptured by the sight of it. A quarter-mile-long crescent where uncountable gallons rushed over the edge every second to plummet into blackness. Stretching out below was the mirror-like expanse of Krystaline Lake, a broad blade of silver extending to the horizon and beyond.
“Clay, over here, dammit!”
He turned and trotted towards his uncle’s voice, finding him wrestling with the lock on a cage similar to the one they had used to ascend to the Fallsguard battlements. However, this one was much larger, hanging suspended by chains fastened to all four corners of its roof. The chains looped through a series of pulleys fixed to a large T-shaped scaffold above. The cage hung from one arm of the T whilst a larger chain hung from the other, its length swallowed by the gloom below the cliff-edge. Counterweights, Clay thought.
“It’s seized,” Braddon said, stepping back from the lock and drawing his revolver. A single shot was enough to shatter the lock and soon he and Preacher had hauled the cage’s door wide. Clay turned to cast a glance behind them, realising the barrage had stopped. He could see a fresh swarm of Spoiled rushing along the river-bank, war-cries audible even above the roar of the Falls. Silverpin gave an insistent tug on his arm and he followed her into the cage where Braddon was hammering the butt of his longrifle against a long lever that descended from the cage’s ceiling.
“Rusted,” Braddon grunted, teeth clenched as he pounded harder. “Ain’t been used in months.”
“Time’s pressing, Captain,” Foxbine warned, carbine raised as she stood at the open cage door, the war-cries coming closer by the second.
Clay, seeing every eye fixed on his uncle as he continued to assault the lever, turned away and drew his wallet from his shirt. He extracted Auntie’s gift and gulped down a decent-sized drop before returning the wallet to his shirt. “Here,” he said, moving to Braddon’s side and taking hold of the lever. He made a show of heaving at it, fists tight on the handle and teeth gritted, but his gaze centred on the mechanism to which it was fastened.
“Captain!” Foxbine called, her carbine snapping off three quick shots.
Clay shut out the distraction, focusing on the dense patch of rust visible on the lever’s fulcrum. Two concentrated bursts of force were enough to turn it to powder, the lever jerking forward in his grip. An involuntary shout rose from each of them as the cage plummeted down, chains and pulleys squealing, Foxbine reeling back from the blurring rock rushing past the open door. For one dread-filled moment Clay thought the cage had been freed from all constraints, their fall being so rapid, but then noticed the relief on Silverpin’s face as she entwined her hand with his. From the rate the cliff face slid past the door it was clear they fell at a goodly rate, but not near enough to prove fatal.
“Nicely done, young ’un,” Skaggerhill breathed, gripping the bars to gaze out at the growing spectacle of Krystaline Lake. “Seer-damn me if a sight like this wasn’t worth the trip.”
—
The cage descended to a small, fortified tower carved out of the base of the cliff. They came to a juddering halt some ten feet short of the tower’s upper battlement, indicating the gearing on the scaffolding above must have seized as the counterweight reached the apex of its ascent. They dropped down one by one, finding a deserted structure. Four cannon were arrayed around the battlement but were unloaded and showed no signs of recent firing. Their descent through the tower revealed no occupants though it was clear a company of Protectorate troops had been in attendance. Two criss-crossed flags adorning the mess-hall indicated the garrison consisted of the Third Company of the Seventeenth Light Infantry and the Twelfth Battery of Mobile Artillery. However, there were no rifles in the armoury and a brief inspection of the stores found them mostly empty.
“Gathered up what they could carry and took to their heels,” was Skaggerhill’s guess.
“Still plenty of powder and shell in the magazine,” Foxbine said. “Enough to hold this place against the Spoiled for a good while.”
“Maybe it wasn’
t the Spoiled they fled from.”
“Find a billet and rest up,” Braddon ordered. “We move on at first light. I want four on watch, two below, two up top, three-hour shifts. Clay, you and Mr. Scriberson can enjoy the best view.”
—
Clay watched Scriberson set up his telescope, finding a certain fascination in the way it all fitted together and the expert precision with which the astronomer aligned it. “Brionar is in the ascendant tonight,” Scriberson said. “Its rings should be visible.”
“Rings?” Clay asked. Thanks to Joya he knew Brionar to be the largest planet in the solar system, but didn’t recall anything about rings.
“Brionar has an extensive ring system,” Scriberson explained, adjusting the telescope’s eyepiece a little. “Would you like to see?”
Clay put his eye to the optic, blinking in confusion until it found the focus. He could see a bright spherical smudge in the centre flanked on either side by two smaller spheres. “Looks like it’s got ears to me.”
“The focus must be slightly off. Allow me.” Scriberson turned the eyepiece a fraction and the blurred image abruptly resolved into a green-blue ball ringed by a silver disc.
“Well, that’s something to see, alright,” Clay said. “Must be some size of a thing if we can see it so clear.”
“Thirty times the size of our own world. With ten moons of its own.”
“Makes you wonder if there’s some fella out there looking back at us.”
“It’s doubtful. Brionar is believed to be composed mostly of gas so there would be nothing for him to stand on.” Scriberson paused and gave an uncomfortable but determined sigh. “How much product do you have left?”