by Anthony Ryan
“Small, eh?” The Electress smiled. “Which means it’ll now be mostly empty since we killed nearly all those bastards. Am I right?”
“They may have been reinforced by now,” Arberus said, pausing for a moment’s calculation before adding, “Although it’s unlikely. Most of the Imperial troops in this prefecture are concentrated in the north to guard the approaches to Corvus.”
“How far to Hervus?” the Electress enquired.
“Two days’ march, if we push hard.”
“Then push away, General.” The Electress rose and stomped off towards her tent. “And let’s hope they have some fucking smokes there, I’m gasping.”
CHAPTER 36
Clay
Clay followed Kriz’s slender form, outlined in the bobbing glow of the lantern as she descended the stairs with a sure-footed swiftness. He suspected she was unwilling to let herself stop, as if the slightest pause would undo her determination to confront what lay below. It took several minutes to reach the bottom, Kriz striding through the narrow opening they found there with the same purposeful lack of hesitancy. Clay followed her then came to an unbidden stop at the sight that greeted him.
They were in a large chamber, most of it shrouded in darkness but he was able to gain an impression of its size as Kriz’s lantern beam swept around. He heard her stifle a choking gasp as the light caught a bulky shape near the centre of the chamber. She rushed towards it, the light revealing a curved form that stirred an instant note of recognition. Moving closer, he saw it was a large stone slab that possessed a vague resemblance to a segment of orange. Full recognition dawned when Sigoral followed Loriabeth into the chamber, his sailor’s lamp adding enough light to afford a fuller view of the chamber.
Not an orange, Clay thought, his gaze picking out the outline of an identical segment near by. An egg. It was the same as the huge segmented egg back in the structure where they had encountered Kriz. That one had been wet and, he now understood, recently opened. This one, however, was dry and covered in pale yellow dust.
“More over here,” Loriabeth said, tapping the toe of her boot to another slab several feet away. Clay scanned the chamber, seeing numerous slabs all lying in their dusty shrouds. He did a quick count and estimated there were enough segments to make a dozen eggs. But it was clear that whatever had been waiting to hatch had done so a very long time ago.
A soft keening drew him towards the centre of the chamber where he found Kriz on her knees, hands playing over the dust-covered surface of a different object. This one was smaller than the eggs, with a more jagged appearance. As Kriz smoothed some of the dust from its surface he saw how it caught a bright gleam from her lantern.
“Crystal,” he murmured, moving closer. It was much the same dimensions as the glowing rock from in the island structure, but this one lay dark and lifeless on the chamber floor.
A stream of words issued from Kriz’s mouth in a rapid jumble, too fast to follow but Clay was sure one of the words translated as “alone.”
“She lost her mind?” Loriabeth asked.
“I don’t think so,” Clay replied, then nodded at the surrounding shapes. “I think there was something here she hoped might still be around.”
“This is a tomb,” Sigoral said, rubbing dust between his gloved fingers. “All bodies will turn to dust with sufficient time.”
“I don’t think she was expecting to pay her respects to the dead.” His mind ransacked the evidence, coming up with an unpalatable but undeniable conclusion. The opened egg back at the island . . . “Ten thousand years . . .” “It was a storehouse,” he went on. “Or a barracks, depending on how you look at it.” His gaze tracked from the crystal to one of the sundered eggs. “She slept in one of these for a very long time, not knowing she’d be all alone when she woke up.”
“Slept?” Sigoral asked, clearly finding the notion absurd.
“We’ve seen a lot since we got ourselves trapped down here,” Clay replied. “Folk who could build this place, and everything else, ain’t too much of a stretch to imagine they could contrive a way for people to sleep for years at a time.”
Kriz let out a sob, so full of pain and loss he gave an involuntary shiver. The sense of being observed was strong here, as if the silent scrutiny of those gone-to-dust souls were pressing in from all sides.
“Guess something went wrong at some point,” he went on, moving to rest a hand on Kriz’s shoulder.
“Father . . .” Kriz’s voice was a whisper. She remained huddled on her knees, tears dripping from her face, but there was a sibilant anger to her tone that hadn’t been there before. “Father . . .” she repeated, forming the words with care, “went . . . wrong.” Without warning she threw her head back and screamed, “FATHER!”
The scream echoed through the chamber like thunder, full of rage and accusation, then slowly faded without reply.
“We, uh,” Loriabeth began after a short interval during which Kriz subsided back into herself, slender shoulders moving in gentle heaves. “We should go.”
• • •
Once outside Kriz didn’t pause, striding away from the opening without a backward glance. A few times she faltered, succumbing to brief bouts of grief that saw her choking down sobs. Clay made no attempt to talk to her. The depth of sorrow on her face made him doubt she could hear him just now. She only seemed to regain full awareness when Loriabeth spotted an unusual feature in the landscape ahead.
“That smoke I see?” she said, pointing at a large opening marring the otherwise smooth surface of a cliff some ways off to the left. Clay surveyed it through the spy-glass on his carbine, finding it dark and weathered but with a hard-edged quality that made him doubt it was a natural feature. If anything in here could even be called natural, he thought, watching a thin but continuous stream of grey smoke rising from the opening.
“Could climb up and take a look,” he mused aloud, turning to Sigoral. “Feel up to it, Lieutenant?”
“No!” Kriz moved to Clay’s front, shaking her head. Her grief seemed to have evaporated for the moment and her voice was hard. “No climb!”
Clay’s gaze lingered on her emphatic frown for a second before tracking back to the opening. “Something bad in there?” he asked. “More long-dead folks turned to dust?”
She ignored the question, flicking her gaze about as if searching for something in the surrounding rocks. “We go,” she told Clay, moving off with a rapid stride. It seemed clear to Clay that this time she had no intention of waiting to see if they followed.
“We’d best move on,” he told the others with a final glance at the smoking hole in the cliff. “If something’s got her this spooked it’s probably not a good idea to linger.”
Kriz led them on through ever-steeper country for another hour before calling a halt atop a broad rocky shelf overlooking a shallow canyon. “Kinda lacking in cover for my liking,” Loriabeth said, casting her gaze at the gathering gloom above. “Nowhere to shelter if a Black comes calling, and this is their sorta country.”
Clay surveyed the surrounding landscape. The trees had all but vanished now, leaving them in a region of rock-covered hills he knew would soon become mountains. “Can’t see much of an alternative,” he said. “We’ll keep double watch just in case.”
Kriz had perched herself on the edge of the shelf, legs dangling as she gazed down at the canyon below. Clay and the others sat around and finished off some sea-biscuits whilst Kriz continued her silent vigil.
“Can’t be more than thirty miles off,” Loriabeth said, turning to regard the silver line of the shaft. “That’s a two-day march in country like this.”
“Then you’d best get some rest, cuz,” Clay told her, having opted to share the first watch with Kriz. Sigoral had already settled down for the night, using his jacket as a blanket and pack as a pillow, as was his custom. His eyes were closed and his face slack in slumber, though he st
ill had a firm grip on his carbine.
“Pops off in seconds, every time,” Loriabeth said, covering herself with her duster. “Must be a sailor’s habit.” She paused a second before correcting herself. “Marine’s habit.”
“Must be.”
Clay waited until his cousin was safely asleep before moving to sit at Kriz’s side. The faux-night had come on fully now, casting a silver outline over her profile, which barely twitched as he joined her. It was evident her earlier grief had returned, at least partially.
“Sorry about your folks,” he said, failing to produce a response. “I’m guessing that was your folks back there, or at least people you were close to.”
Kriz’s slim shoulders moved in a listless shrug, giving no indication of understanding or interest in his sympathy.
“Seemed awful aggravated at your pa,” he forged on. “That I can understand. My pa was a worthless, headhunting shit-pile and I ain’t felt a moment’s sorrow over blowing his brains out, mostly anyways. That what you’re planning on when we find your father? Got an account to settle?”
Kriz turned to him, features bland and eyes dim, a soul sunk deep into sadness. “Can’t . . . talk,” she said, then added, “now.” With that she turned away and lowered her gaze to the canyon once again where the faint light danced on a stream winding its way through the rocks.
“Those markings back at the island,” Clay persisted, reaching out to take her hand when she didn’t respond. She tried to pull away but he held her in place. He used his finger to trace the two lines and the circle on the back of her hand then pointed at his own eye. “I’ve seen it before,” he told her. “In a place far to the north of here. Another hidden place. Did your people build that too?”
Kriz gave an annoyed grunt and succeeded in tugging her hand free. She got to her feet and stalked away, Clay following at a cautious distance lest he provoke her to violence. “You lost your people,” he said. “Your world too, I guess. But there’s another one, up there.” He moved into her eye-line, pointing to the black sky. “My world, and something’s fixing to tear it all to pieces. You understand?” He stepped closer, speaking in an urgent rasp. “We came here for a reason. You got answers and I need them.”
He reached for his wallet and extracted the Blue vial. At the sight of the product Kriz shook her head and stepped back from him, arms crossed in stern refusal. Clay bit down on a shout of frustration, fighting the urge to grab her and force the product down her throat, an act he suspected would see one of them nursing an injury or two.
“People are dying up there,” he said, letting the anger leech from his voice. “Thousands are dead already and there’ll be thousands more before this ends. And it’s my fault, ’cos I woke it up.” He blinked and felt tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he said, his voice a thin croak as he held the vial out to her. “Please.”
Kriz maintained the same posture for some time, arms tight about her chest, though he saw her gaze track the tears coursing down his face. “You . . . not . . . understand,” she said, Clay detecting a wince of apology as she tapped a finger to her head. “What I . . . show.”
“Think I’m too dumb to grasp it all, huh?” He grunted a laugh and wiped the tears away, still holding the vial out to her. “I’ll try to follow as far as my dimwit’s brain allows.”
Kriz closed her eyes for a second, taking a short breath as if summoning some reserve of strength, then reached to take the vial.
The scream split the air like an axe blade, rebounding from the surrounding rocks to produce a piercing echo that made it impossible to discern the source. Loriabeth and Sigoral came awake instantly, surging to their feet with weapons raised. An unspoken instinct drew the four of them together so that they stood back-to-back, eyes straining against the encroaching dark as the scream faded.
“Black,” Loriabeth breathed. “Leastways, I think so. Never heard one so loud, though.”
“No,” Clay said, a dreadful recognition churning his stomach. He found his hands trembling as he tried to keep his carbine steady. “That’s a White.”
CHAPTER 37
Lizanne
Arberus spent several hours formulating a detailed plan for the seizure of Hervus. The Brotherhood’s riders were sent to scout the approaches and the regiments were drawn up to assault the town walls in several places at once. The army’s two cannon would be used to pound the bastion that housed the main gate, principally as a diversion whilst the assault parties scaled the walls with hastily constructed ladders. So it was with some small amusement that Lizanne noted the disappointed frown on Arberus’s face when they approached to within a mile of Hervus, finding the gates standing open and a truce-flag flying above the bastion.
“Never mind,” Lizanne told the major with a grin. “I’m sure it would have worked.”
She attached herself to the delegation accompanying the Electress as she made her way to the gate. Atalina bounced gracelessly on the back of a massive dray-horse she had named Dropsy. Lizanne thought the woman made a defiantly impressive sight as she dragged her mount to a halt a few yards short of the town’s gate, the impression of bulk and purposeful aggression overcoming any humour aroused by the otherwise unedifying spectacle she made. Lizanne watched her take in the grisly spectacle that greeted her at the bastion; six naked bodies hanging by their ankles from the arched entrance. The corpses were perhaps two days old by Lizanne’s reckoning, the blood dried on their flesh into brown stains and their skin not yet begun to blacken. Their wounds were clustered around the chest and abdomen in a pattern Lizanne knew well. These men had died by firing squad. Beneath the bodies stood a cluster of young men wearing the uniforms of mixed Imperial soldiery: short-jacketed cavalry troopers, infantrymen in their grey-green long coats and blue-jacketed artillerymen. The motley group numbered twenty in all, fidgeting in silence under the Electress’s scrutiny until she deigned to address them, “Who the fuck are you lot?”
One of the young men stepped forward, trying and mostly failing to put some stridency into his voice as he provided a clearly pre-rehearsed response, “Elected representatives of the Council of Free Soldiers.” He coughed and pointed to the corpses dangling above his head. “This town has been liberated and those who held us in bondage subject to just execution.”
“So I see,” the Electress replied. “These your officers?”
“Those that failed to join us when we raised the standard of freedom.” The young soldier had gained some confidence now and straightened his back as he resumed his prepared speech, “Too long have the honest soldiers of this empire borne the yoke and the whip of the officer caste. It’s time for a new army, a people’s army . . .”
“Alright, give it a rest, lad,” the Electress said, wincing at the youth’s increasing volume. “How many of these newly free soldiers have you got in there?”
The soldier’s composure faltered a little but he held himself in place with what Lizanne thought was commendable self-control. “Enough to defend this station,” he said. “Should it prove necessary.”
“Balls,” Atalina replied, smothering a yawn. “We killed most of your lot at Scorazin. That’s where we’re from, if you hadn’t guessed. Me and all my friends.” She turned in the saddle, gesturing at the assembled ranks of the army drawn up some two hundred yards short of the gate. “Cutthroats, bandits and killers,” she said turning back and favouring the young man with a surprisingly sympathetic smile. “And that’s just the nice ones. Does this really have to get unpleasant, lad?”
“We want no trouble,” the youth replied, his face paling and voice taking on a thin, reedy quality. “In fact we wish to negotiate an alliance. News of your victory was the second spark to our rebellion.”
“Nice to know. I’m sure we’ll get on famously, ’specially if you’ve got any cigarillos going.” The Electress groaned and climbed down from Dropsy’s back before stepping forward to o
ffer the young man her hand. “Name’s Atalina, but you can call me Electress.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I didn’t inherit the title, but don’t tell anyone, eh?”
“Jarkiv,” the soldier replied, grimacing as he shook the proffered hand and no doubt suffered a demonstration of brute strength. “Corporal Jarkiv.”
“That won’t do.” The Electress released his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Smart lad like you should be a captain at least. Make a note will you, General,” she called, waving Arberus forward. “Captain Jarkiv and the First Free Soldier Brigade welcomed into our ranks on this day.”
Lizanne followed as Arberus walked his stallion closer and dismounted, offering Jarkiv a smart salute, which the youth returned in an automatic reflex. “Welcome, Captain,” Arberus greeted him in brisk tones. “I’ll need a full accounting of your numbers and supplies.”
“Yes, sir!” Jarkiv saluted again, the cluster of soldiers at his back all snapping to attention and following suit. Lizanne suspected that, for all his revolutionary rhetoric, Jarkiv and his comrades were too steeped in the military mind-set not to welcome the arrival of competent authority, however unexpected the source.
“Excellent,” Arberus said, glancing up at the bodies hanging above. “And let’s get this mess cleaned up, shall we?”
“Very good, sir.”
“The second spark,” Lizanne said, making Jarkiv and the others pause as they turned to follow their orders.
“Ma’am?” he asked with a cautious glance at Arberus and the Electress.
“You said our victory was the second spark to your rebellion. What was the first?”
Jarkiv frowned at her in bafflement. “You mean you don’t know? We assumed it’s what sparked your own uprising.”
“Know about what, lad?” the Electress said.
“The Emperor,” Jarkiv told her. “The Emperor’s dead.”