by Anthony Ryan
“Greens eat Spoiled just like they eat everything else,” Skaggerhill said. “But not today. Today, seems like they both just want us.”
A ripple ran through the long line of Spoiled, all of them moving with a parade-ground precision as if in response to some unspoken command. Clay could see most had raised their arms, thinking perhaps a homage to this place, but then a closer look saw they all held something.
“Down!” he shouted, whirling away, snagging Braddon’s duster to drag him along. The arrows rose in a black cloud, some striking the edge of the platform whilst others described a narrow arc to plummet down. Clay huddled behind the golden pillar, making himself as small as possible, hearing the sharp raindrop-like clatter of flint striking stone all around. Someone issued a pained grunt near by and he winced as a fleck of shattered flint stung his cheek.
He raised his head as the clatter faded, eyes instinctively seeking out Silverpin. She was crouched at Foxbine’s side, the gunhand’s face tensed in pain as she gave forth a torrent of profane fury, bloodied hands clamped around the arrow embedded in her thigh. “Sons-a-bitching fucking freaks!”
Clay moved to where his uncle stood staring down at the spectacle below. Eadsell and his men lay scattered about the second tier, pierced all over by arrows. Below them the Greens had begun to climb, making slow but steady progress as they latched their claws on the blanket of vines, still screaming all the while.
“That Product you got hidden,” Braddon said to Clay, slotting a round into his longrifle. “I’m thinking now would be a good time.”
He moved away before Clay could say anything else, barking orders. “Preacher, you and me will take the front. Lori, cover the right. Skaggs, on the left. Silverpin, look to the rear. Clay, choose your own ground. Mark your targets and make ’em count. Ammo costs money.”
He and Preacher immediately resumed their barrage at the Greens below, the steady boom of their longrifles punctuating the increasingly loud chorus of drake screams. It wasn’t long before they came within range of Loriabeth’s pistols and Skaggerhill’s shotgun, and for a few moments all was noise and rising gunsmoke, dimming occasionally as the Longrifles reloaded.
Clay saw Firpike huddling at the base of his beloved pillar, eyes closed tight against the din, and hugging the vine-encrusted gold as if worried it might be snatched away. Clay considered hauling him off the thing but then saw Scriberson raising himself up to cast a curious glance over the edge of the roof. The astronomer reeled back almost immediately as a blast of drake fire licked the edge of the platform. Clay rushed to Scriberson’s side, helping him pat away the patch of flame on his sleeve. Clay took out Auntie’s vial and gulped down some Black before risking a glance over the edge.
Two Greens clambered straight towards him, claws blurring and smoke rising from their snapping jaws. He raised the Stinger and began firing, loosing off two shots to no good effect before forcing himself to take a calming breath. The head, always the head.
His next shot impacted on the snout of the Green on the left, forcing it to halt but failing to kill it. He raised his aim a fraction as the beast shook blood from its snout, slotting a round cleanly into its skull and sending it tumbling onto its brethren below.
Clay shifted his sights to the other Green, which had now scrambled to within a dozen feet. It sprang to the side as he fired, the bullet tearing a chunk of flesh from its foreleg but failing to dislodge it from the vines. It launched itself upwards as he fired his final round, tail whipping and jaws gaping as the bullet impacted on its belly, drawing blood but barely slowing it down. It scrambled up the remaining distance in a blur of shifting colours, claws shredding vines and calling out its piercing scream. Clay fought panic and locked his feet in place, fixing his gaze on the drake. There was no time to reload and he had only one weapon left. He waited until it came within a yard of the temple’s summit then unleashed the Black in a single blast. The Green’s head jerked back from the force of the wave, Clay hearing the crack of breaking bone before it was cast off into the air, tumbling end over end to disappear into the jungle.
“Down to my last ten rounds, Captain!” Preacher called out. Clay turned to see him methodically reloading his longrifle, smoke streaming from the barrel, which had taken on a reddish glow from furious use. Near by, Skaggerhill loosed off both barrels of his shotgun then drew his revolver and snapped off two shots. Foxbine had evidently refused to let her wound lay her low and stood with her back propped against the golden pillar, bloodied bandage on her leg and a revolver in each hand.
Clay glanced down, seeing another half-dozen Greens begin the long climb to the summit, with more still clambering out of the canal behind. The Spoiled continued to stand at the tree-line, still as statues. Clay couldn’t know what they were waiting for but doubted it was anything good. He checked the vial in his hand, finding less than half left.
He reloaded the Stinger and took careful aim at the leading Green below. The range was long but worth a shot. It’ll have to pause whilst it clears the second level; there’s a gap in the vines . . . The vines. He watched as the Green clambered up, noting how brittle the vines were under its claws. Dry as tinder, he realised.
He lowered the Stinger and hurried to Braddon’s side. “Got an idea,” he said. “Get everybody back from the edge.”
He ran for the stairwell, ignoring the shouted query his uncle cast after him, sprinting down the steps and into the second tier before reaching for his wallet. It was the scratch of claws on tile that saved him, pure instinct sending him sprawling. The flames missed him by inches, the heat of the blast singeing the hairs on his arm as he rolled away. The Green screamed, the shadow that concealed it lingering on its skin as it leapt for him, teeth gleaming amidst the black. The Stinger roared and red blossomed in the descending silhouette. The Green landed atop him, leaking enough product to have killed an unblessed. As it was, the burn of it on his neck was sufficiently painful to make him yell and kick free of the corpse in a scramble. He shot it again as he got to his feet, more out of spite than necessity.
He took a moment to wash away the blood with the water from his canteen, then reached for the wallet once more. “Right,” he gasped, extracting a vial and looking around at the many gaps in the walls and the vines beyond. “Let’s see if Skaggs is right about you fuckers burning like anything else.”
He drank a quarter of the Red, staggering a little as it mingled with the lingering Black in his gut. Ellforth’s stock wasn’t the best quality and the dilutions didn’t mix well with the more refined product Auntie had given him. The combination made for a nauseous gut and a thumping headache, but it couldn’t be helped. Once his vision cleared, he concentrated on the biggest gap in the wall, the vines beyond bursting into flame instantly. He cast his gaze around in a slow circle, fire blossoming wherever it lingered, pausing to gulp down more Red as it dwindled in his blood-stream. Within minutes the fire had taken hold and the heat was fast becoming unbearable. He ran to the next tier and repeated the process, lighting several more fires that soon merged with the flames rising from below. He stopped when the smoke thickened into a choking fog and made his way back to the summit, fatigue rising due to the intense use of so much inferior product, forcing him to crawl the last few steps.
Braddon and Silverpin rushed to him as he clawed his way free of the smoke, dragging him to the edge of the octagonal hole in the centre of the platform. They were all huddled there, forced back by the heat. Clay could hear the drakes screaming through the swirling fog, in pain now rather than rage. One came clambering up, heaving itself over the edge with difficulty, hide blackened and blistered. It made an effort to crawl towards them, jaws opening and closing spasmodically until a shot from Loriabeth put it out of its misery.
“Seems you saved us and killed us both, young ’un,” Skaggerhill commented. The flames were now licking above the summit’s edge and the smoke grew thicker by the second, so it seemed likely th
ey would choke before they burned.
“Do—” Clay began then fell to coughing, the fit violent enough to see him retching. He grunted, gesturing frantically at the hole and pointing downwards.
“Skaggs, Lori,” Braddon said, rising from Clay’s side. “Fix ropes to the pillar.”
The smoke was near blinding by the time they had two ropes fastened in place. Mr. Firpike apparently saw little need to observe a chain of command by immediately lunging for one of the ropes and commencing a rapid but inexpert descent. “Can’t we just shoot him now?” Loriabeth asked her father.
“Too low on ammo.” He gestured for her to go next then told Foxbine to follow, the gunhand’s descent accompanied by a loud chorus of profanity as she forced animation into her wounded leg.
“You ready?” Braddon asked, crouching at Clay’s side when the others had all climbed down.
“Guess I’ll have to be.” Clay groaned as his uncle hauled him upright, head thumping fit to burst and the gut ache worsened by the stink of smoke and burning flesh.
“Take it slow,” Braddon cautioned as he took hold of the rope and swung himself over the edge of the hole. A good five yards of rope slipped through Clay’s grip before he found purchase, letting out a yell from the effort and the burn to his hands. He hung there for a short while, gasping the slightly clearer air, then began to descend, arms and legs shuddering as he inched his way down. He knew he wasn’t going to make it after only a few more seconds of effort; there simply wasn’t any more strength left in him. He stopped, wrapping his legs and arms around the rope, head lolling as he turned to Braddon, now hanging at his side.
“How’d you know?” he asked. “’Bout the product?”
“Thief’s a thief,” Braddon replied with a shrug. His face darkened as he took in Clay’s evident exhaustion and drooping eyes. “Wake up, boy! We ain’t done here!”
Clay could only manage a slow shake of his head. “Wasn’t lying,” he said, his voice sounding faint and far away to his own ears. “’Bout Keyvine. Wasn’t me . . .”
“Claydon! You hold on, now!”
“She made me a gift . . . Take good care of her, Uncle . . .”
He was aware of the rope slipping through his grasp, of his uncle’s shouts being drowned out by something else, presumably a concoction of his fading and befuddled mind. A drake’s call, far louder and deeper than the screams of the Greens, the sound cutting through him, forcing his eyes open as he fell, staring up at the pale, smoke-shrouded octagon above and the dark shadow growing in its centre. The sound intensified as the shadow grew in size, sprouting wings that banished the smoke with a single flap before it descended into the temple. Clay’s exhaustion finally overtook him just as the shadow came into focus and he knew he was greeting death with a fever dream, so impossible was the image. A Black drake, streaking towards him with mouth wide and talons outstretched, and perched on its back, a small figure swaddled in rags.
CHAPTER 27
Hilemore
“Fifteen effectives,” Dr. Weygrand reported. He sat at the ward-room table, grey-faced with fatigue and his shirt richly decorated with a spatter of red and brown. It was customary for officers to don full uniform and remain standing when making after-action reports, but Hilemore saw little need to observe tradition at this juncture. “Another twenty wounded. I expect eleven will survive, five are possibles, the other four won’t last two days.”
“The captain?” Hilemore asked.
“One of the possibles. He remains comatose, though his pulse is regular and he shows occasional signs of movement. He’s lost a good deal more blood than I’d have liked, though.”
“Green stocks?”
The doctor shook his head. “All gone within an hour of joining battle. Unless some of the crew had a private stock.”
“A good point. Mr. Steelfine.” Hilemore turned to the Islander, the only one present who had opted to remain standing. He had also found the time to change into a clean tunic. “Please conduct a search of the crew quarters, see what you can unearth. Wouldn’t be the first crew to hide a little product aboard.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hilemore shifted his attention to Chief Bozware, who appeared to share the doctor’s state of near exhaustion. “How long until the auxiliary is back on-line?”
“Another day, at least. And we’re down to a quarter vial of Red.”
Hilemore suppressed a frown of annoyance. They had followed a slow, winding course through the Isles until nightfall forced a halt. As he had expected, Zenida Okanas proved capable of navigating these channels without falling afoul of reefs or sand-bars, guiding them to a sheltered bay where they could drop anchor. Despite making a successful escape from the Maritime Protectorate’s worst military debacle, Hilemore knew their immobility counted as a failure. The Corvantines badly want our engine, he knew. And what chance their admiral won’t risk some smaller vessels to get it?
“Very well,” he said, forcing a brisk note into his voice. “We remain at anchor until the auxiliary is repaired. In the meantime we shall heal the Viable’s other injuries and see to our fallen. Mr. Talmant, notes for the log, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.” The ensign lifted his pen and held it poised over the open log-book.
“The following appointments are made under my authority as acting captain of the IPV Viable Opportunity. Master-at-Arms Steelfine to receive a battlefield commission and brevet promotion to the rank of second lieutenant. Accordingly, he will undertake the duties of First Officer.”
The Islander’s only apparent reaction was a slight stiffening to his back, though Hilemore saw him blink a little more than was customary.
“Ensign Talmant is also promoted to the rank of third lieutenant and will undertake the duties of Second Mate.”
Talmant’s pen slipped, spilling ink onto the log which he instantly began to blot away. “Apologies, sir.”
“It’s quite all right, Lieutenant. The former prisoner Zenida Okanas has been contracted as Blood-blessed to the Viable Opportunity. She will also undertake the duties of navigation officer. The terms of her appointment will be appended to the log in due course.”
There were some exchanged glances across the table but, either through agreement or weariness, none of those present felt compelled to voice an objection to allowing a pirate onto the ship’s list. Hilemore got to his feet, obliging the others to follow suit.
“Doctor, Chief,” he said. “I am also ordering you to take at least five hours’ sleep. Can’t serve this ship if you’re dead on your feet.”
—
He had given Tottleborn’s cabin over to Zenida Okanas and her daughter. The girl opened the door at the fifth knock and Hilemore was surprised to find her holding one of the fallen Blood-blessed’s periodicals, this one even more lurid than usual. “She-Wolf of the Isles” the cover proclaimed, the letters emblazoned in red and carefully arranged so as to cover the breasts and nethers of the implausibly proportioned and muscular warrior-woman it depicted.
“That isn’t for you,” he told her in Varestian, reaching for the publication. The girl jerked it out of reach, mouth taking on a defiant grimace as she glared back.
“She likes the pictures,” her mother said. She lay on the bunk, a forearm across her eyes and voice weary. “Can’t read the words in any case.”
“The content is unsuitable,” Hilemore stated.
The woman voiced a soft laugh. “I’ll wager my daughter’s seen more unsuitable things than you have. Varestians don’t coddle their children.”
“Nor teach them to read?”
“She can read a compass and a map. My people rarely have other uses for writing.” She groaned and sat up on the bed. “More orders for me, Captain? I’ve already plotted you a course through the Isles that’ll see us to open water in three days. What more do you want of me?”
“Open water will be ou
r grave without product to fire the blood-burner. Corvantine patrols will intercept us before we’ve covered half the distance to Feros.”
“I have no product.”
“I see that. But we both know there is a place where it might be obtained. A place where only one of us will find welcome.”
The pirate’s face clouded a little in realisation. “The Hive.”
“Quite so.”
“I may have found welcome there once, when I had a ship and loot to fence. The only welcome I’m likely to receive upon stepping ashore from a Protectorate launch will be a lynching, if I’m lucky.”
“They might be less aggressive if our guns were to cover your landing. And much of your loot still rests in our hold.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to her daughter and Hilemore saw something pass between them, the girl’s face taking on a warning cast. “He’s right,” Zenida said, slipping into Varestian. “We have little choice.”
“He’ll kill you and steal me,” the girl said, the first words Hilemore could remember her speaking. In fact, he had come to suspect she might be mute.
“I will never allow that,” the pirate told her daughter in emphatic terms.
“I have no intention of causing harm to either of you,” Hilemore said, somewhat puzzled.
“We weren’t talking about you,” the girl sneered in oddly cultured Mandinorian.
“Really?” Hilemore looked at her mother. “Then who?”
Zenida Okanas gave no reply, merely coming to her feet with a tired groan. “I’ll need to plot a fresh course.”
—
Bozware’s estimate proved to be overly optimistic, the repairs to the auxiliary engine taking two full days and even then the Viable could only make five knots at full clip. Fortunately, the confined waters of the Isles required more manoeuvrability than speed, as well as an expert hand on the wheel. Hilemore had soon come to appreciate the pirate woman’s gift for angling the rudder precisely so as to take full advantage of the fast-flowing currents between the islands, and her deftness in avoiding the many hidden treacheries in these waters.