by Anthony Ryan
Clay glanced up at him, memories of Ellforth suddenly at the forefront of his mind. But he could see no threat in Scriberson, just guarded necessity. “See a lot, don’t ya?” Clay asked.
“Observation is my profession. Do your companions know what you are?”
“They know. But they don’t know I got product of my own. A secret I’ll oblige you to keep, since you got me to thank for bringing you along.”
“Of course. I just . . . It’s very important I complete these observations. If you could guarantee my safety. I have additional funds . . .”
“I been out here only a short time, Scribes.” Clay returned his eye to the optic, smiling a little at the stark beauty of the distant world and wishing Joya were here to share it. “But that’s long enough to learn there’s no guarantees to be had in the Interior.”
—
They spent three days trekking through the jungle fringing the eastern bank of the Krystaline, Braddon setting a steady but not exhausting pace. Skaggerhill had advised moving with a cautious step as the climes south of the Falls were said to be rich in wild Greens. Silverpin took the lead, keeping a good dozen feet ahead of Clay and moving with the kind of natural grace that made her appear at home in this place. He had grown used to the stink of it by now, not so fearful of every shadow or unexpected sound, even finding the occasional glimpse of beauty amongst the crowding green walls. Birds of vibrant colours and large hooked beaks glided among the tree-tops. Lower down small chattering monkeys were sometimes to be seen hopping from trunk to trunk, long tails curled like whips as they arced through the air.
It was late afternoon on the third day when Silverpin came to a sudden, rigid halt. She stood absolutely still for a second then slowly lowered herself into a crouch, gaze centred on a shaded patch of jungle to her right. Clay held up a hand to halt the rest of the company then drew the Stinger and moved to her side. “Something?” he whispered.
She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on the shadow and drawing a thumb across her throat in an unmistakable gesture. Dead thing. Human too, since why else would she stop?
He turned and beckoned Foxbine forward, pointing to the shaded spot. She knelt and trained her carbine on the jungle as he and Silverpin went to take a look. The bodies lay in a circle just beyond the wide trunk of an ancient tree, rifles lying close to hand, some with the bolts drawn back. They were several days gone by Clay’s reckoning, flesh blackened and sloughed off the bones, mostly eaten away by the swarms of flies still abuzz over the scene. What remained of the uniforms, however, was strangely well-preserved though torn and scorched in many places.
“Greens,” Skaggerhill pronounced a short while later. “Looks like those Protectorate soldier boys from the tower made a stand here.” He gave an irritated glance at Scriberson, who was loudly engaged in losing his lunch near by.
“I count twelve,” Braddon said. “There’s near eighty men in a full company. And they had the artillerymen with them too.”
“Got separated maybe. Greens’ll do that. Split smaller groups off from the herd.”
“They ain’t been ate,” Loriabeth said, face thickly sheened in sweat and evidently fighting a rising gorge with admirable determination. “Still . . .” She swallowed as Scriberson gave another heave. “Still got most of their flesh and all.”
“That’s a curiosity, true enough.” Skaggerhill shook his head, grimacing in consternation as he surveyed the bodies. “Skulls intact also. Greens like to crack ’em open and scoop out the brains. Never known a pack not take time to feed.”
“No drake bodies either,” Clay pointed out.
“Soldier boys ain’t Contractors,” the harvester replied. “Probably wasted their ammo shooting at the body ’stead o’ the head. Means this musta’ happened awful fast though.”
“We’d best check ’em for papers,” Braddon said. “Might find some clue why they lit out from the fort.”
Clay concealed a groan, stepping forward in anticipation of the order.
“Not you,” Braddon said, turning to the bent-over form of their newest member. “Mr. Scriberson. Time to start earning your keep, young man.”
—
“Just letters from wives and sweethearts,” Scriberson said. He sat close to the camp-fire, thumbing through the blood-stained papers he had taken from the corpses. Braddon had them cover another few miles before making camp on a shingle beach on the lake-shore, a well-chosen spot that gave them only one flank to guard come nightfall. Scriberson’s face was haggard from prolonged vomiting, though he had taken to his grisly task without complaint. “No diaries or orders. No clues as to what they were doing out here. I took these also.” He held up a brace of copper discs, each bearing a name and a number. “So at least the Protectorate can notify their families.”
“Provided you live long enough to hand them in,” Foxbine muttered. She sat facing away from the fire, carbine resting in her lap and gaze ceaselessly scanning the jungle. Clay saw his uncle frown at the gunhand’s fatalistic tone though he said nothing.
“I got a question,” Loriabeth said to Scriberson, patting the book she had carried from Fallsguard. “Says here no-one knows for sure where we all come from.” She paused to leaf through a few pages, stumbling over the pronunciation of a particular phrase, “The Evo-, erm, Evalootnary Paradox.”
“Evolutionary,” Preacher said, breaking several days’ silence, though he appeared content to leave it at a single word.
“That’s quite true, miss,” Scriberson said. “There is no general consensus on the evolutionary origin for the higher orders of animals inhabiting this planet. Thanks to the fossil record we know that some microbial and insect species, have clearly developed into their modern form over countless centuries of adaptation. Whereas, larger species, including our own, have left behind no ancestor more than ten thousand years old, and those are virtually identical to their modern descendants.”
“Ten thousand years is a long time,” Clay said.
“In human terms, yes,” Scriberson replied. “But in evolutionary terms it’s not even the blink of an eye.”
“Somebody must have a notion,” Loriabeth insisted. “I mean we can’t all just have sprung up from nowhere.”
“There are various theories. Dr. Avaline, the biologist who accompanied my expedition, was an advocate of the Arradsian Progenitor hypothesis. He believed that all the so-called ‘orphan species’ have ancestors which simply haven’t yet been found, but may well one day be unearthed in the unexplored wilds of this continent. He had hoped to find some supporting evidence in the mountains, but failed to appreciate that scientific progress is rarely made by fearful souls.”
“The heavens torn asunder,” Preacher said, leaning forward to meet the astronomer’s gaze across the fire.
“I am a scientist, sir,” Scriberson returned in a curt tone. “Not a theologian.”
“What’s that?” Loriabeth asked.
“And from the great tear in the world poured forth all manner of foulness,” Preacher went on, his voice possessed of a strident cadence, as if he were back in his pulpit. “The drake being the most vile, for its blood is rich with the taint of wickedness.”
“Mere legend dressed up as visionary insight,” Scriberson said, though Preacher kept on, his voice becoming louder with every intonation.
“Hear my words and heed my warning for I tell all who have the wisdom to know truth, the drake will make us its slaves. Eternal bondage its sole promise. Know that the Travail is coming. Know that twenty-one score and ten years from the day of my passing will come the days of fire and iron . . .”
“Preacher,” Braddon said. It was softly spoken but apparently carried sufficient weight to cause the marksman to abandon his sermon. He had risen to his feet and stood blinking in the fire-light, as if waking from a dream. After a second he reached for his rifle and stalked away into the dark without a
word.
“Shouldn’t someone . . .” Clay began but Braddon shook his head.
“He’ll be here come the morning.”
“That was Seer Scripture, right?” Loriabeth asked.
“The Prophecy of the Travail,” Scriberson said. “Gibberish scribbled down by a madman, or a Blood-blessed if you believe his more deluded followers.”
“The Seer was a Blood-blessed?” Clay said. He hadn’t known this. In fact, most of what he had heard about those who followed the teachings of the Seer seemed to regard the Blessing with considerable suspicion, if not outright hostility.
“It’s just one theory amongst many,” Scriberson said. “Conceived in an effort to explain the more outlandish claims made about his life. The claim is that, despite the fact that he lived and died two centuries before the opening of the Strait, he somehow gained access to drake blood and the Blue-trance gifted him with visions of the past and the future. Hence his vision of drakes falling out of some great tear in the sky, and his many lurid descriptions of the Travail. The fact that no Blood-blessed in history has ever experienced such a thing would indicate delusion rather than prophecy, even if he did secure himself a supply of product, which seems doubtful.”
“Thought some of it came true,” Clay said. “He predicted the fall of the old empire, right? And he said ships would one day cross the seas without sails.”
“An educated guess, in both cases. The Mandinorian Empire was in the process of a long decline in his own day and early experiments with steam locomotion had already been conducted.”
“Remind me,” Braddon said. “When exactly did he die?”
“The most reliable accounts relate that he expired of plague during the great outbreak of eleven sixty-one, by the Mandinorian calendar . . .” The astronomer trailed off, a frown of annoyed realisation creasing his brow.
“Yes, young man,” Braddon said with a sombre grin. “Exactly twenty-one score and ten years ago.”
—
They came upon more bodies the following afternoon, similarly scorched and mutilated to those found the day before but lying singly or in pairs. The surrounding ground was liberally seeded with spent cartridge cases and discarded kit. “Running battle, I’d reckon,” Skaggerhill said, hefting a half-empty pack. “Casting off anything that might slow ’em down.”
They heard the shots a few miles on, faint cracks echoing through the trees from the east. “Still some kicking, at least,” Foxbine said, raising a questioning eyebrow at Braddon.
“If they’re busy with the soldiers they’re less likely to come for us,” Skaggerhill pointed out.
“Seems they’ll be done with them before long,” Clay said. “Then they’ll be on our trail anyways.”
Braddon thought for a moment longer then unshouldered his rifle. “Silverpin, Preacher, you’re in the lead with me. Miss Foxbine, Skaggs on the flanks. Clay, Lori, keep Mr. Scriberson company in the rear. Eyes on the trees.”
They moved at a sedate walk rather than a rush which might spoil their aim. Clay had the Stinger drawn and stock in place, mimicking his uncle by moving with it already at his shoulder so the barrel pointed wherever he looked. As ordered he continually swept his gaze over the branches above, eyes alive to anything that might betray the presence of a drake and trying to ignore Scriberson’s heavy, fear-laden breaths at his side. “Betcha wish you had a weapon right now, huh?” Clay asked in a whisper.
Preacher claimed the first kill. They had covered another two hundred paces or so, the distant cracks of rifle fire becoming louder with each step, when the marksman stopped and fired a single shot. Thirty yards away a bulky form slumped down amidst a patch of dense jungle. There was a second’s frozen silence, the jungle’s myriad voices suddenly stilled as the echo of the bullet faded, then a bellowing roar sounded directly ahead and a large Green exploded from the jungle. It charged towards them in a blur, shredding foliage in its wake, jaws agape and its hide a whirl of shifting hues. Braddon put a bullet through its mouth from fifteen paces.
“Rear-guard,” Clay heard Skaggerhill mutter as they moved past the Green’s twitching corpse.
Another twenty yards on saw the jungle open out into a broad glade, whereupon they all came to an abrupt and astonished halt.
“What is that?” Loriabeth breathed.
“A city, miss,” Scriberson replied, all trace of fear now vanished from his voice. It was overgrown by vines, the stones cracked by roots and age, but it was still, unmistakably, a city. Spires, unfamiliar in construction and thickly shrouded in leaves, rose on all sides, some over thirty feet high. Partly ruined steps ascended to broad avenues and promenades flanked by numerous one-storey buildings with low, sloping roofs. They could see no sign of the drakes or the soldiers but the rifle fire continued to echo unabated somewhere amidst the ruins, now accompanied by the angry baying of a large pack of Greens.
“Guessing this place ain’t on your map?” Clay asked Scriberson, who nodded, gaze still enraptured by the sight of the city.
“Ain’t got time to gawp,” Braddon said, moving forward. “Look lively. There’s work to be done.”
They found more bodies littering the ruins as they made their way into the weed-infested maze. Clay counted over twenty by the time they had cleared the outer ring of structures, finding themselves in a broad, rectangular plaza, the tallest tower they had yet seen rising from its centre. The source of the continuing rifle fire became clear as soldiers could be seen on the tower’s upper tiers, maintaining a dwindling barrage at the pack of drakes swirling around the base. Clay was struck by their size, larger than those he had seen in the north, larger even than the two they had just killed. Their hides had taken on a grey-green hue that matched the mossy surface of the plaza and they seemed to shimmer as they made repeated attempts to climb the tower. Two or three would separate from the pack to scrabble their way up, claws tearing at the ancient stone, until they were close enough to cast their flames at the defenders before losing purchase or being forced back by a flurry of rifle-shots. There were a number of Greens lying dead or close to it around the tower, indicating the soldier’s aim had improved a little during their journey to this place.
“Preacher.” Braddon pointed the marksman to a near by roof-top. “No point waiting. Just kill as many as you can. Miss Foxbine, Skaggs, go with him. The rest of you with me.”
They followed him as he ran to what appeared to have been a building of some importance, featuring two storeys rather than the one that seemed typical of the dwellings here. They found a part-destroyed stairwell inside that led up to the roof. He set Loriabeth to guarding the stairs and had Silverpin and Clay stand alongside him at the roof’s edge.
“They’ll be coming for us when the killing starts,” he said, flipping up the rearsight on his rifle and taking aim. “You need to keep them off me.”
He fired without further preamble, Clay glimpsing a flash of red amongst the mass of Greens followed by an immediate change in the pitch of their roaring. It sounded more like a scream now as the entire pack ceased its assault on the tower and turned to face the new threat. A shot came from the left and another Green collapsed, blood pluming from its skull.
“Steady now,” Braddon said, jacking another round into the chamber.
Instead of the expected charge, however, the pack fled, still pealing out their weird, screaming roar as they streamed away to the south and were soon lost in the mass of the jungle, though the echo of their cries seemed to take an age to fade.
“Seen some strange sights on this trip,” Braddon said, lowering his rifle. “But that surely beats it all.”
CHAPTER 24
Hilemore
“Hard a-port!” The Viable Opportunity heaved over with a groan of protesting ironwork as the hull strained against the swell. They were already at full ahead and it was no time to reduce speed. A bare five seconds after making the turn the salvo of
Corvantine shells slammed into the sea no more than thirty yards distant. To starboard the Contractual Obligation wallowed adrift and burning, smoke billowing from her wrecked upper works to drift across the Viable’s path, providing a welcome smoke-screen in the process. Despite the poor visibility the Viable’s guns continued to fire at every target within range.
Hilemore watched as Mr. Lemhill ordered the pivot-gun into action once more, the crew crouched and hands clapped to ears against the now-familiar flash and boom. Their efforts had clearly borne fruit judging by the sudden appearance of a ball of flame amidst the swirling smoke ahead, though he couldn’t identify the target or the damage caused. It was their seventh successful hit of the action, a more frenzied engagement than Hilemore had ever known, lasting just under twenty minutes since the first Corvantine salvo had claimed the Mutual Advantage. In that time he had seen the Contractual Obligation take a dozen hits before falling out of line, and two more frigates suffer a similar fate before the mingled fog of cannon-smoke and burning ships had frustrated all attempts to follow the course of the battle. From the continuing roar and whistle of shot, however, it was clear the matter remained undecided.
Regardless of the confusion, he knew with some certainty that they had crossed the Corvantine line of battle, perhaps the only Protectorate vessel to do so. Captain Trumane had steered a winding course amongst the fast-moving shadows of the enemy’s fleet, ordering all guns to fire at any target that presented itself and exploiting the Viable’s speed to the full. “See if we can’t shake ’em up a bit, eh?” Trumane had said. “Give the rest of the fleet a chance.”
Hilemore remained uncertain how much of an advantage they had won for their comrades. There had been two huge explosions only minutes ago, lighting up the haze with the kind of energy that could only result from the exploding magazine of a cruiser. Though he tried to push the grim suspicion aside, instinct told him they had to be Protectorate vessels. The Corvantine ships were so fast, matching the Viable in many cases, and the accuracy and rapidity of their gunnery bespoke years of training. This was a trap, he knew. Long laid and well-planned. And we strolled right into it.