by Anthony Ryan
“A warning,” he explained to a perplexed Scriberson. “Looks like this feat of theirs wasn’t managed without some trouble.”
The ravine grew wider as they moved on, transforming into a canyon whilst the ledge they traversed narrowed considerably. “Best slow it right down, Scribes,” Clay said as his gaze followed the course of the track. Two hundred yards ahead it made a sharp turn to the right where a long cross-beam wooden bridge spanned the canyon. He took the fact that the bridge was still standing as a good sign, however, the blackened state of its woodwork did much to undermine his confidence.
“Can’t be drake fire,” Skaggerhill said. They had come to a halt just short of the bridge, dismounting to assess the damage. “It’d be ashes already.”
Clay saw his reasoning. The burning suffered by the bridge was irregular, dark in one place, lighter in another, speaking of many small fires rather than the continual blast of flame delivered by a drake. “Spoiled,” he said. “Revenge for that horror back there.”
“Seems they made a lousy job of it,” Braddon said before turning to Scriberson. “You’re the closest we got to an engineer. Will this thing make it over?”
Scriberson gave the bridge a long moment’s scrutiny before replying simply, “There’s no way to tell.”
“Whole heap of use you are,” Skaggerhill said, rolling his eyes.
“You’re insistent upon my honesty,” Scriberson pointed out. “And the fact is, I can’t judge if it’ll bear the weight of the engine. The beams seem sturdy and unbowed, which is encouraging. But hardly conclusive.”
“So we leave the engine here,” Clay said.
“Wandering through these mountains on foot ain’t a notion I relish,” Braddon said.
“The risk’s too great, Uncle . . .”
He was interrupted by the boom of a longrifle. They all spun as one, sinking into an instinctive crouch. Preacher stood atop the coal tender, rifle smoking as he jacked another round in the chamber and aimed it back down the track, speaking a single word, “Spoiled.”
At first it seemed to Clay there were only a few dozen of them, a knot of warriors in buckskins charging along the track, bows and spears raised as they vaulted the body of the one Preacher had shot. Then he saw the great mass following behind, so many some were forced over the edge of the cliff and into the canyon. Unfortunately, this didn’t seem to dampen the ardour of their onrushing comrades one bit.
“Seems we’re out of options,” Braddon observed, raising his rifle to fire off a quick shot before rushing to the engine. “Everybody aboard! Young man, all speed if you please!”
Clay scrambled onto the platform alongside Scriberson, shovelling coal into the fire-box as fast as he could whilst the astronomer got the engine in motion. Preacher and Braddon stood tall atop the piled coal in the tender, firing regular aimed shots to conserve ammunition whilst Loriabeth and Foxbine moved to lean from the sides, guns at the ready. Steam blossomed in a thick cloud as Scriberson sought to increase the speed, the engine taking a full agonising minute to reach more than a walking pace, by which time the first of the Spoiled had reached them. One leapt onto the boiler and clawed his way towards the platform, scaled and misaligned features made even more ugly by a snarl of fury. Loriabeth put a bullet through his head before he could get within striking distance, but another two followed, with more sprinting alongside, bows raised to launch their arrows. Foxbine cut them down with a rapid salvo from her carbine, but not before a flint-tipped arrow had thrummed within an inch of Clay’s head.
The two remaining Spoiled on the boiler leapt onto the platform, flint-bladed knives flashing. Clay dodged back as a blade left a nick on his forearm, drawing the Stinger and lashing out with a kick at the same time. The Spoiled recoiled then renewed his attack with barely a pause, Clay still attempting to pull the Stinger clear of its holster and wishing he had had the foresight to swallow some product. A loud clang sounded as the coal shovel came down on the Spoiled’s head, making him stagger. Firpike gave a somewhat hysterical and high-pitched cry as he brought the shovel down again, but this time the Spoiled was quick enough to parry the blow, forearm stopping the shovel blade short of his head and drawing his knife back for a thrust. The Stinger finally came free of Clay’s holster, bucking in his hand as he blasted the Spoiled off the platform.
He turned in time to see Scriberson haul the other Spoiled away from Loriabeth, his arm fixed on the warrior’s throat in a choke hold as he thrashed. Loriabeth put the muzzle of her revolver against the Spoiled’s head then cursed when the hammer fell on an empty chamber. She flipped the revolver, catching hold of the barrel and repeatedly clubbing the Spoiled until he sagged, whereupon she and Scriberson wrestled his limp form off the engine.
A shout dragged Clay’s attention to the coal tender and he whirled to see Braddon grappling with a large Spoiled almost his equal in stature whilst Preacher and Skaggerhill were fully engaged in methodically shooting the archers running alongside. Silverpin leapt towards Braddon, spear-point lancing out to skewer his assailant neatly through the neck. Another clambered over the side at her back, raising a flint-bladed knife for a killing strike then falling dead as Clay put two shots into his back.
He turned back to the engine, Stinger ready as another group of Spoiled attempted to launch themselves on board. However, Scriberson had built enough steam now to out-run them and the Spoiled could only howl in frustration as their arrows clattered against the engine’s iron flanks. The firing died down as they drew away from the pursuing mass, Clay realising they were about halfway along the bridge’s span.
Something flickered in the corner of Clay’s vision and he turned to see a cascade of fire-arrows arcing away from the massed Spoiled at the edge of the canyon. He prepared to duck but quickly realised the arrows were aimed at something else. Following the stream of flaming shafts he saw them streak below the span of the bridge, impacting on something ahead of the engine. After a moment a large wall of smoke began to blossom and Clay leaned out from the platform to peer through the bridge’s beams.
“Stop!” he shouted, seeing the burgeoning flames below. They spread quickly up the bridge’s criss-crossed timbers, unnaturally quickly it seemed to him. “Stop, dammit!” he yelled at Scriberson.
The alarm in his voice clearly held sufficient weight for the astronomer to haul on the brake-lever, sparks flying as the engine began to slow. Watching the flames rise ever higher Clay knew with sickening certainty that they weren’t going to make it.
“Jump!” he cried out, pushing Loriabeth off the platform. Luckily she proved too surprised to combat the hard shove he gave her, falling free with a sudden and profane exclamation. Firpike had evidently already seen the danger and jumped clear without any urging, quickly followed by Silverpin and Scriberson.
Clay was about to jump himself when he saw his uncle and Skaggerhill crouching at the rear of the engine platform. “We gotta get off this thing!” he said, rushing towards them then drawing up short at the sight of Foxbine. She lay on her back, revolver in one hand whilst her other clutched the arrow embedded in her chest. Her face was drained of all colour though some life lingered in her eyes. Skaggerhill and Braddon made ready to lift her but she gave a soft shake of her head, lips moving as they formed a smile. Clay couldn’t hear the words above the growing roar of flames but could read the meaning. “One hundred and twenty of the bastards. Who’d have thought it?”
“Uncle!” Clay said as Braddon and the harvester continued to kneel, even though Foxbine’s eyes had closed.
Braddon glanced up at him before gently disentangling Foxbine’s revolver from her hand and nodding at Skaggerhill. Clay didn’t linger, launching himself from the platform with what proved to be an unwise amount of energy. He skidded over the beams towards the edge of the span, arms windmilling as he gaped at the rushing water far below. Someone grabbed the scruff of his shirt and dragged him back.
“Hope you got some product left,” Braddon said, releasing him and nodding at the engine. It had drifted into the flames now, a barely discernible bulk amidst the roiling smoke. After a few seconds a great cracking noise rose from the bridge, accompanied by a shudder that made the beams tremble beneath their feet. The span beneath the engine gave way with a shriek of rent metal as the rails buckled, locomotive and tender plummeting down into the gap, taking Foxbine with it.
“Must’ve coated the bridge in oil,” Braddon mused, turning to regard the Spoiled who were now standing in a large cluster at the far end of the bridge. “Chased us right into a trap.”
“Never suspected they’d have the brains for a thing like that,” Skaggerhill muttered.
Clay peered through the beams once more, watching the fire leap from timber to timber, building all the while. He looked at the gap left by the engine’s fall, judging the distance as a good twenty feet and then another twenty feet of bridge to reach the other side. Easy for him, not for them. He took the wallet from his pocket, extracting one of the two Green vials and casting a desperate glance at his uncle.
“Loriabeth and Silverpin,” Braddon said, gaze steady and brooking no argument.
Clay nodded and drank a full vial. The others had all come running to stand nearby, the expectation of imminent death writ large on each face. Clay strode towards Loriabeth, grabbing her about the waist without preamble and hoisting her over his shoulder. “What in the . . .” she began, starting to struggle then stopping as he squeezed her tight enough to force the air from her lungs.
“No time, cuz.”
He sprinted for the gap and leapt, covering the distance easily. They landed hard enough to jolt Loriabeth from his shoulder. She lay gasping on the rails, staring up at him in blank amazement. “No lingering, Lori,” he told her, pointing to the edge of the canyon ahead.
“Pa . . .” she began but he had already turned away. Another leap brought him down next to Firpike who babbled a desperate entreaty before Clay ran to Silverpin. He found her face more confused than he could remember, mingling anger and reluctance but his Green-borne speed gave her no time to object. He felt the product ebbing quickly as he landed the second time. He paused only for a second to press a kiss to Silverpin’s cheek before making the return leap, landing amidst a flurry of arrows. The Spoiled had seen what he was about and didn’t like it.
Braddon and Preacher were firing their longrifles at the few Spoiled who had chosen to charge across the bridge, willing to die rather than allow their escape. Clay took Scriberson next, batting away Firpike’s clutching hands before launching himself across once more.
“You don’t have enough, do you?” Scriberson asked, coughing as the flames and smoke rose ever higher.
Clay just pointed him towards the far end of the bridge and drank his last vial of Green. Skaggerhill had to be wrestled into submission before Clay could convey him across whilst Preacher simply shouldered his rifle and stood in expectant silence. On landing he got to his feet and strode wordlessly towards the other side.
“Uncle . . .” Clay began upon his next landing, casting a pointed glance at a now-hunched and weeping Firpike as Braddon fired off another longrifle round. “I don’t have enough left . . .”
“Take him,” Braddon said.
“Uncle . . .”
“On your way, Claydon.” Braddon jacked another round into the chamber and raised the rifle to his shoulder. Clay knew he could over-power him, carry them both over then watch Firpike’s fiery demise as the bridge finally gave way. But he couldn’t. His uncle was the captain after all.
“Get up, you bastard,” he told Firpike, jerking him to his feet. The scholar was all tears and thanks as Clay launched them into the air, choking off as they landed. Flames were licking up through the beams now so he used up the last of the Green by throwing Firpike towards the others, now gathered on hard ground where the bridge met the canyon edge.
He turned back, fumbling for the wallet and peering through the smoke to find Braddon’s shadowy form. His gaze snapped towards the faint report of a rifle-shot and he pulled the vial of Black from the wallet; Auntie’s gift, still almost half-full. He threw it down his throat, grimacing at the burn and casting the force out like a whip. He felt rather than saw it take hold, concentrating hard. He had lifted heavier things than his uncle before but this was still tricky. Blood-blessed rarely used Black on other people unless to do deliberate harm, the force unleashed being so powerful and hard to control. Relief surged through him as Braddon rose clear of the smoke, staring down at his nephew as he passed overhead with the only expression of surprise Clay had ever seen on his face. He guided Braddon over the rest of the span then released him a few feet above the ground.
A wave of nausea made him stagger, sending him to his knees, coughing in the smoke. The shadow, he thought, recalling the trance and feeling the bridge shudder as something vital gave way. Seems some stories ain’t so fanciful . . .
Something looped over his head and drew tight around his chest. He had time to recognise it as a rope before it tightened yet further, drawing an involuntary yell as the cord dug into his flesh. The bridge issued a final, almost plaintive moan accompanied by the matchwood-like cracking of multiple timbers, then he was falling, heat washing over his skin in brief but painful waves before he met the unforgiving embrace of the canyon wall. He hung there for a time, gazing down at the bridge’s remnants, smoking timbers and mangled rails cascading into the white water to be swept away in a cloud of steam.
He passed out as they began to haul him up the rock-face with hard, jolting heaves. Silverpin, he knew. Somehow it could only have been her. What is she . . . ?
CHAPTER 36
Lizanne
Waves. She drifted for a time, lost in the numbing grasp of the harbour depths. She thought she must have died, for there was a memory of darkness, a moment when all sensation fled and she felt the beating of her heart slow to a weak, arrhythmic flutter. But then came hard, insistent jolts and a flaring agony in her chest as something pressed down into her sternum, shoving and shoving. After a while it all went away again and she lost herself in the water’s welcoming chill, and now she could see waves up above, the surface seen from below, catching the light of a fading sun. A pleasing sight to take to wherever she was going . . .
A grating catch caught in Lizanne’s throat, provoking a coughing fit. She convulsed as the cough continued, tears streaming from her eyes and chest aching from the effort. When it faded she lay back, feeling something soft beneath her. The sea-bed, she decided, looking up at the waves once more. She blinked and the waves were abruptly transformed into the wind-ruffled canvas of a tent roof. Further frantic investigation revealed that she was in fact lying on a narrow cot rather than the mud of the harbour floor.
“I’m alive,” she tried to say, but instead the words birthed another round of coughing.
“Easy now, young miss.” Soft but insistent hands on her brow and her back, easing her down onto the cot. Lizanne blinked again, the tears clearing to reveal a kindly face of Old Colonial complexion, a face it took her a moment to recognise.
“Mrs. Torcreek,” she said, the words scraping from her throat like wood on sandpaper.
“Indeed so.” Fredabel stepped away for a second then returned with a cup of water. “And you are Miss Lethridge. Here, drink this.”
The liquid slid down her throat bringing blessed relief, and also a rush of memory. “The Blues!” Lizanne jerked upright, mind filling with the sight of the Corvantine fleet facing destruction. “They were at the mole . . .”
“Still are. Swimming back and forth and roasting anyone fool enough to venture out there.”
“The Corvantines?”
“All their ships are either sunk or fled. And their army ain’t in any better shape. Never been so thankful to live in a city with walls.”
“Their army?”
&nb
sp; Fredabel glanced at the tent-flap behind her. “Got folks waiting to tell you all about it. But you need a sight more rest first.”
“The device,” Lizanne said, pushing the woman’s restraining hand away and pulling back the blankets. “I had a device . . .”
“Big Corvantine fella’s got hold of that, don’t you worry. Same one fished you outta the harbour.”
The jolts to her chest . . . He brought me back. “I can’t stay here,” she insisted, but Fredabel quickly dispelled any notions of rising by the ease with which she pressed her back onto the mattress. “Green,” Lizanne said, feeling her vision dim. “Give me a vial of Green.”
“Oh no.” Fredabel shook her head and firmly tucked the blanket around Lizanne’s limp form. “You’ve had enough of that for now. Dealt with the worst of your breaks and burns, but I seen folks die if they partake of too much.”
She gave a tight smile as she smoothed the hair back from Lizanne’s forehead. “Miss, I gotta know. You have anything to tell me about my family?”
“They were alive,” Lizanne said, the words emerging in a murmur as the wall of sleep descended. “When last I looked . . .”
—
“You would have me believe Madame Bondersil was in the employ of the Imperial Cadre?”
Garrison Commander Stavemoor was a bewhiskered man of portly dimensions. Lizanne estimated his age as closer to sixty than fifty and could see the greyness of his skin beneath the voluminous facial hair, the complexion of a man nearing exhaustion. In addition to the commander, the Ironship delegation consisted of a reed-thin woman Lizanne knew to be the Exceptional Initiatives Agent-in-Charge in Carvenport, and two senior managers, one of Accounts, the other Personnel. These last two were both so nondescript and cravenly avoiding of responsibility her mind hadn’t bothered to retain their names.