by Anthony Ryan
Zenida arrived, shaking the water from her hair before taking the wheel from Talmant. “There’s no way to chart a course in this,” she told Hilemore, then spun the wheel to turn the Viable into an on-coming wave, the bow rising and falling in a stomach-churning heave. “We’ll just have to ride it out and hope.”
She stayed at it for over an hour, steering the ship with an expert’s eye for the chaos raging beyond the bridge window. However, the wind defied prediction this night, whipping up waves from all directions, one of which proved too tall and too swift to turn into in time. The Viable took the full force of it on the starboard side, Hilemore hearing the clang of sundered iron as the armour on the paddle casement gave way under the blow and the Viable was shunted to port. The impact threw Zenida off her feet and Hilemore lunged for the now-rapidly-spinning wheel. He caught it and began to spin it to midships but then felt a hard, grinding vibration course through the ship accompanied by the scream of protesting metal.
Zenida regained her feet and retook the wheel as he rushed to the speaking-tube. “All stop!” he shouted. “We’re aground!”
“I know!” came Bozware’s reply. “Got half the bloody sea rushing in down here!”
—
“Plugged up the worst of it,” the Chief said, a feverish hour later. His stokers, in company with a dozen crewmen, were busy pounding timbers into place between the starboard hull and the engine-room deck. They worked in three feet of water, moving with an energy born of survival that negated the water’s chill. The buckled hull plate had been hammered into a rough semblance of its former shape then buttressed with timber before Bozware went about securing it with his steam riveter. Even so water continued to seep in as the repair was far from perfect.
“Luckily the reef seems to have lifted us clear of the worst of it,” the Chief went on. “Otherwise . . .”
“I know, Chief,” Hilemore told him, steadying himself as the ship rocked back and forth. The reef they were perched on was unwilling to let them go, but also didn’t make for a comfortable resting-place as long as the storm raged on.
“Got the pumps working full tilt,” Bozware said. “Should keep the levels from rising too fast. But she’s still taking on way too much.”
“I’ll organise a bailing line,” Hilemore told him, making for the hatch. On the way he spied Akina busily sorting out a box of fresh rivets and scooped her up, carrying her under his arm as he made his way up top. She yelled abuse in Varestian all the way to the bridge, falling silent only when Hilemore deposited her at her mother’s feet. Zenida pointed her to a corner with an expression that promised dire consequences should she move again.
They worked through the night to ward off the sea, the Chief’s crew labouring away to seal every leak whilst a line of crewmen passed buckets of sea-water from engine room to rail. The storm began to ebb with the first glimmer of morning light, and by sunrise had faded into a harsh but blessedly rain-free gale.
“Levels falling, sir,” Bozware reported via the speaking-tube. “Looks as if we might actually float today.”
“Good work, Chief. Get the men and yourself fed then take an hour’s rest.” Hilemore straightened and looked out at the rough seas, pondering the best means to work themselves loose from the reef. Reverse paddles, perhaps. But that’ll use up a good deal of product. Could unship the launches and try hauling her off . . .
“Crow’s nest reporting, sir,” Talmant said, breaking into his thoughts.
Hilemore’s irritated response died as he saw the boy’s pallor shift from pale to grey. “Enemy vessel approaching from the north, at speed.”
—
The Eutherian letters on her side proclaimed her as the INS Imperial, a light cruiser with no paddles and far too many guns for Hilemore’s liking. Blood-burner too, he judged gauging her speed through the spy-glass. Twenty-five knots at least. Even if the Viable hadn’t been shackled to this confounded reef it would have been an unequal contest, though they might have stood a chance of out-running her. He raised his spy-glass to the Corvantine’s masts. The signal contained in her pennants was easily read, it being universally recognised. Strike your colours and prepare to be boarded.
“Mr. Talmant,” he said, lowering the glass.
“Aye, sir.”
“Gather the ship’s books and charts into a weighted bag and throw it over the side.”
The boy hesitated but a glance from Hilemore was enough to see him scurrying off. Hilemore went to the speaking-tube. “Chief?”
“Sir?”
“How long would it take to disconnect the blood-burner?”
“Disconnect, sir?”
Hilemore gritted his teeth and gripped the speaking-tube hard. “I am about to surrender to a Corvantine cruiser and would prefer not to do so with an intact engine.”
There was a long pause, then a weary reply. “She can’t be disconnected, sir. Not without tearing the guts out of the ship, and that’d take the best part of a week.”
Hilemore nodded. “Gather whatever diagrams and blueprints you have and give them to Mr. Talmant for disposal. Then await further orders. Mr. Steelfine will be there directly.” He straightened and turned to Steelfine. “Number One. Proceed to the magazine and transport our gun charges to the engine room. The Chief will rig a fuse with a ten-minute delay. We will abandon ship and destroy the Viable in place.”
Steelfine betrayed no hesitation, though his jaw muscles did give the now-familiar bunch of reluctant anger. “Aye, sir.”
He sent Ensign Tollver to the sick-bay with orders for Dr. Weygrand to prepare his patients for transfer to the life-boats and turned to Zenida. She stood staring at the approaching cruiser in strangely rapt fascination.
“Captain Okanas,” he said. “It seems our contract is destined to remain unfulfilled. It might go better for you if the Corvantines think you’re a prisoner.”
She said nothing, continuing to stare at the Corvantine, though he heard her whisper, “Impossible” in Varestian.
“Captain?” He moved to her side, drawing up short at the sight that confronted him. The sea around the Imperial seemed to be boiling, churned into a white fury by something beneath, something moving swifter than any ship.
Both Hilemore and Zenida gave an involuntary shout as it erupted from the sea directly in front of the cruiser, rising amidst a mountain of spume, blue scales glinting in the sun. It rose to tower over the Imperial, massive jaws gaping and the mane of spines on its neck flared red and angry as it delivered a stream of white fire onto the cruiser’s fore-deck. Hilemore could see the crew running in panic or fear as the fire swept over the ship, catching light wherever there was something to burn. The cruiser slewed to port in an apparent effort to evade the assault but the Blue drake hauled itself free of the water in response, wrapping its massive, snake-like bulk around the ship’s works then lowering its great head to spew more fire into the ship’s guts. A flat boom told of a cannon being fired, the Blue convulsing in response, its coils slackening as it gave a roar of pain and a tide of blood cascaded across the cruiser’s deck. It clung on, however, spitting more fire at its enemy, possessed of a seemingly unreasoning fury.
The Imperial had drawn close enough now for Hilemore to hear the screams of the crew, maddened by pain as the Blue’s blood touched their skin or they fell burning into the sea. Cruiser and passenger passed in front of the Viable’s bows, wreathed in smoke, whereupon an ear-paining roar told Hilemore the flames had found the vessel’s magazine. A tall flower of yellow-orange flame leapt high into the air, accompanied by another roar from the drake. The Imperial’s keel had been shattered by the explosion, the ship held together only by the straining iron of the upper works to which the Blue still clung, thrashing and biting at its hated adversary as the waves rose to claim them both. Within seconds all that remained was a patch of burning oil and a slick of blood, soon faded to nothing by the wind-chopped wave
s.
“That did happen,” Zenida said in a small voice. Hilemore noted that Akina had emerged from her corner to take her mother’s hand.
“It did,” he replied.
“It wasn’t some imagining or nightmare,” Zenida went on.
“No,” he said. “It surely wasn’t.”
“Mother!” Akina said, clutching Zenida’s hand more tightly and for once sounding like the little girl she appeared to be. The reason for her distress soon became obvious. There were more shapes moving in the sea, more long, blue-scaled forms catching the sun as they knifed through the waves, more than Hilemore found he could count, and all were heading north.
CHAPTER 34
Lizanne
Marshal Morradin launched another assault just after midnight. A short but furious bombardment pounded the defences covering Carvenport’s western approaches followed by another massed ground assault, this time with three full brigades of infantry. The battle raged out of sight of Lizanne’s position but its fury could be gauged by the intensity of rifle and Growler fire, frequently accompanied by the flat crump of a Protectorate cannon. It wore on for more than an hour, flares launched by the artillery spotters illuminating the steady stream of wounded or maddened Corvantines staggering back to their own lines. When the firing finally died down word swept along the line of another Corvantine calamity; five hundred dead or more were piled up in front of the trenches. It seemed the stretch of line Morradin had chosen to attack was held by Protectorate Regulars and, although the Corvantine infantry had managed to fight their way to the third defensive line, the Syndicate troops’ discipline had held in the face of savage hand-to-hand fighting.
“You were right,” Lizanne observed to Arberus after the last sputter of rifle fire had petered out. “Morradin doesn’t appear to have much regard for the lives of his men.”
“Also, I suspect he knew nothing of the Growlers,” the major said, patting the Thumper’s breech. “Or our friend here.”
“If he keeps on like this there won’t be an army for him to command.”
“Don’t under-estimate him. A brute he may be, a fool he is not. We can count on a change of tactics at some point.”
Lizanne looked down at Tekela, curled up next to Jermayah as they slumbered beside the Thumper’s carriage. The need to get herself and the girl away had begun to gnaw at her as the day ground on and the death toll mounted. But every plan that flitted through her mind foundered on the inescapable knowledge that there were but two ways out of this city, and both remained firmly blocked.
“I must say she continues to surprise me,” Arberus commented, smiling a little as he regarded Tekela’s sleeping form. “Always thought she’d grow up to be another version of her mother, but it seems there’s as much Leonis in her too.”
“What was her mother like?” Lizanne asked. “The Burgrave’s servants led me to believe she could be cruel.”
“Cruel? At times. But Tekela was never an easy child, and Leonis dragging them to Morsvale had never been in Salema’s mind when she married the newly ennobled Burgrave with all his medals and, apparently, enjoying the Emperor’s favour. It didn’t make for a harmonious home.”
“Did she know? About the Brotherhood?”
Arberus gave a soft but appalled laugh. “Oh no. Salema was old-money Imperial nobility, but without the money. She used to say the Emperor’s biggest mistake was not depopulating Varestia when he had the chance, and she didn’t say it in jest.”
“She was cover,” Lizanne realised. “What better wife for a man seeking to infiltrate the noble class?”
“You’re judging him according to your own standards. Leonis could be ruthless, for what revolutionary isn’t? But he married Salema because he loved her, despite my strong advice.” His gaze grew more sombre as it returned to Tekela. “Even if he had known of her betrayal, I think he would have forgiven her.”
“Betrayal?”
“Salema’s attitude to marital fidelity mirrored that of her class, in that it was mostly a matter of appearance. It’s how the Corvantine aristocracy while their days away, indulging in affairs and enjoying the associated gossip. I suppose you can’t really blame her for simply following her conditioning.” He caught the calculation in Lizanne’s gaze and shook his head. “She made . . . an approach. When I refused her she looked elsewhere.”
Lizanne looked down at Tekela, recalling the less-than-pleasant meeting at the museum. “Diran,” she said.
“Yes.” Arberus sighed. “Dear old Uncle Diran. Tekela had the misfortune to happen upon them at the wrong moment. Diran came to me in a right old state, worried what it would mean for his friendship with Leonis, not to say access to all his valuable documents and artifacts. I made it very clear to him that this unwise assignation had to end. Salema . . . didn’t take it well.”
Lizanne crouched down at Tekela’s side, drawing the blanket up to better cover her shoulders. The nightmare that woke her that first night, she remembered. I didn’t tell . . .
“I had to pay a sizable bribe to the doctor and the coroner,” Arberus went on. “Leonis was near mad with grief as it was. If he had known it was an opium overdose rather than a lesion of the brain . . .” He shrugged. “What else could I do?”
“But she knew,” Lizanne said, rising from Tekela’s side. “Didn’t she?”
“I expect so. It seems carrying the knowledge did little to improve her temperament.”
He looked up as the last flare guttered and died in the sky, the pink illumination it cast replaced by the steel-blue light of the two moons. “I believe we may be done for the night,” he said. “You’d best get some sleep.”
She felt the denial die on her lips, the strain and exertion of the day suddenly weighing on her with irresistible pressure. “As should you,” she said, sitting down at Tekela’s side and pulling the blanket across them both. The girl mumbled something and shifted, a distressed frown forming on her smooth brow until Lizanne pulled her closer and she subsided into sleep once more.
“I’ll be alright for a while,” Arberus said, turning to run a rag over the Thumper’s breech. “Besides, Bessie here needs some attention.”
“Bessie,” Lizanne repeated, eyelids drooping as her lips formed a smile at the ridiculous notion of naming such a terrible thing. “Bessie . . .”
—
She was woken by what felt like twin hammers being rapidly pounded into both her ears at once. She blinked until her vision cleared, finding herself face-to-face with an equally alarmed Tekela.
“Magazine!”
They looked up to see Arberus and Jermayah at the Thumper, wreathed in smoke rising from the open breech. Lizanne shook the vestiges of sleep from her head and reached for the stock of magazines, handing one to the major as she came to her feet to view the scene beyond the trenches. The vision that greeted her made her suspect she might still be dreaming.
“I think I was over-generous in my estimation of the marshal’s abilities,” Arberus said, adjusting the Thumper’s aim as Jermayah slammed the magazine in place.
“Cavalry!” Lizanne breathed, still unable to quite believe the spectacle before her. They came on at the gallop, more horsemen than could easily be counted, streaming from the trees in a charging mass, sabres and lance-points glinting in the morning sun. Dozens of horses and men already lay dead or dying a good two hundred yards from the outer trench where the contingent of Contractors were maintaining a steady and rapid fire, more horses falling by the second, but still they came on.
“Sending cavalry against an entrenched position.” Arberus’s voice was rich in disgusted bafflement. “He must be mad.”
Jermayah drew back the lever to chamber the first shell and patted the major’s shoulder before turning the Thumper’s handle. Arberus had elevated the weapon so the rain of shells arced down just short of the tree-line, tearing through the ranks of on-coming cavalry in
a spectacle of exploding horses and men. An enterprising Protectorate officer had clearly sensed an opportunity by quickly shifting more Growlers to cover this sector, their criss-crossing fire adding further decimation to the Corvantine ranks. Soon a wall of sundered horse-flesh seemed to have formed in a bloody crescent around the trenches. Lizanne could only guess at what threats or promises compelled the cavalry troopers to keep charging, galloping forward to leap the corpses of their comrades only to be cut down, some torn to shreds in mid air.
The Thumper fell silent once more and they began to repeat their well-honed reloading procedure, Lizanne sighing in frustration when Tekela failed to hand her the fresh magazine. “Look lively, if you would, miss.”
Tekela didn’t appear to be listening, standing and staring at something off to the left of their position. “What is that?” she wondered.
Lizanne followed her gaze, grunting in realisation as she saw a small man-shaped figure descending through a cloud of smoke towards the trenches, a leap that could only be accomplished by one thing. As the man neared the ground the air before him shimmered with unleashed heat, a sudden upsurge of flame concealing the sight of his fall, but from the bodies and limbs being cast into the air shortly after his landing, Lizanne deduced he had imbibed a large amount of Green and Black. She could see more of them, at least twenty dark figures leaping their impossible leaps and descending on the defenders in a fury of destruction. Blood Cadre.
“This was just a diversion,” she told Arberus, gesturing at the slaughtered cavalrymen then checking to ensure the Spider was firmly secured to her forearm. “Get word to Madame Bondersil to send every Blood-blessed she can to the eastern sector.”
Tekela clutched at her arm as she started to clamber out of the trench. “Don’t!”
“Stay with the major,” Lizanne told her, the impending violence making her tone harder than she intended and she winced at the hurt she saw in the girl’s face. “Keep your revolver handy,” she added, forcing a smile. “I’ll be back shortly.”