The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “This was a road once?” he asked Kriz, who nodded.

  “Very old,” she said. “Need to . . . walk with care.”

  “It would be wise to wait for first light before starting across,” Sigoral said, casting an uneasy eye over the steep sides of the ridge. “This is not a place to lose one’s footing in the dark.”

  “But we’re so close,” Loriabeth said, nodding at the shaft. “Just an hour or two more.”

  “We keep going till it gets dark,” Clay decided, striding forward. “Camp in the middle if we have to.”

  “It’s too exposed,” Sigoral contended, gesturing at the sky with his carbine. “If there are more Whites . . .”

  “Look around,” Clay replied, taking his first steps onto the ridge. He concealed a sigh of relief when the slabs beneath his boots failed to crumble away. “There’s no more cover to be had here anyways.” He moved on, hearing their footfalls as they followed after a long moment of hesitation.

  The track atop the ridge did indeed prove precarious, even treacherous at times. More than once the apparently whole stone slabs on which they walked revealed deep cracks at the mere touch of a boot. Kriz was obliged to save Clay from one near-disastrous tumble down the near-vertical slope after a slab turned to fragments under his foot. She managed to grab hold of his pack in time, dragging him back as they collapsed together.

  “Thanks,” he said, his hammering chest adding an unmanly tremble to his voice.

  She grinned and nodded, then frowned as her hand pressed against his pack and detected the large round object within. “What this?” she asked.

  “Just a souvenir,” he replied, getting to his feet and turning away.

  “Egg,” she said, her voice hardening as she rose and hurried after him. “You take egg.”

  “Killed its ma. Seemed the least I could do.”

  “It hatch. Kill us all.”

  Clay’s hand went to the vials around his neck, playing over his growing collection of heart-blood. Only three more for the set. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Besides, without the waking fire it ain’t hatching anytime soon.”

  She fell silent though he could sense a lingering discontent. For the first time it occurred to him that Kriz harboured a real hatred for the drakes inhabiting this strange world. The joy she had taken in killing the Blues back at the ocean and the fierceness in her gaze when she took aim at the White told of something more than just the triumph of survival.

  He came to a halt, surveying the ruined brickwork around them. It had clearly been a substantial piece of construction in its time, now it was just old stone gradually crumbling to dust. “Wasn’t always like this, huh?” he said, turning back to Kriz. “This place. Something went pretty badly wrong once upon a time. What was it?”

  Her face took on a familiar guarded aspect and she merely returned his gaze, saying nothing.

  “The drakes,” he realised. “This place wasn’t made for them. It was made for you. They took it over, didn’t they?”

  Kriz’s brow creased as she pondered the right response. “Made . . . for both,” she said finally. “They took all . . . as I slept.”

  “Uh, Clay,” Loriabeth said. He saw she was standing close to the edge of the ridge, peering at something far below. Clay followed her gaze, eyes scanning the mist-shrouded depths. At first he saw nothing then noted a shimmering through the mist, as if the fading lights had caught the course of a fast-flowing river. Then he saw that it was growing, the shimmer fragmenting into many different points of light glittering on a rising dark tide. He heard the screams then, echoing up to assail his ears with grim familiarity. It was a sound he hadn’t heard since the temple back in the jungle bordering Krystaline Lake, the frenzy song of massed Greens.

  They emerged from the mist in a wave, scrabbling over the rocky flank of the ridge. Clay raised his carbine for a closer look and soon realised these were not the pygmies of the forest but similar in size to full-grown Arradsian Greens. They were still different, however, their limbs and tails possessed of the same spindly quality as the White. Also, their hides had the same mottled appearance, something the carbine’s optic revealed to be glistening wet sores in their flesh. None too healthy, he realised, lowering the carbine as the rising mass of Greens swept closer. Still plenty fast enough, though.

  Loriabeth started firing, her repeating rifle sending lengthy salvos into the advancing horde and sweeping a dozen or so off the ridge to tumble back into the gloomy depths.

  “More here!” Sigoral called, Clay turning to see him standing at the opposite side of the ridge. The marine put his carbine to his shoulder and began to fire, sweeping the barrel from side to side in order to hit as many targets as possible. Kriz moved closer to the edge, her palm slamming a lever on the stock of her bomb-thrower and a now-familiar hatred marring her features.

  “Forget it!” Clay said, reaching out to grab the strap of her pack. “There’s too many!” he called to Sigoral and Loriabeth as they continued to blaze away. “We gotta go! Now!”

  He paused just long enough to ensure they were following then turned and started to run. His earlier caution was forgotten now as he sprinted across near-vanished walkways and leapt over stunted walls. The frenzy song of the Greens seemed to thicken the air at his back, pushing him on and banishing the ache in his leg. A Green scrambled over the edge of the ridge just ahead, tail whipping as it whirled to face him, jaws gaping. Clay kept running, raising his carbine and letting loose with a stream of bullets as he closed with the drake. The concentrated burst of gun-fire tore into the Green’s forelegs and shoulders, vapourising flesh and bone into a red cloud. The beast screamed and writhed, spraying blood from its myriad wounds. Clay fired again as he neared the thrashing drake, a short burst of fire that blew its head to pieces. He vaulted the corpse and ran on.

  The end of the ridge came in view after what seemed a few seconds, by which time the exertion was finally starting to overcome his fear-born energy. His momentary elation died at the sight of the deep crevasse between the ridge and the flank of the peak beyond. Too wide to jump for anyone but a Blood-blessed with Green in their veins. He didn’t pause, stumbling onward and dragging his wallet from the inside pocket of his duster. He gulped down as much Green as he could, covering the final few yards to the end of the ridge in a blur and leaping high. He overshot the gap by several yards, thumping into the side of the mountain with enough force to have shattered several bones but for the Green. He slid to the narrow ledge opposite the ridge and rolled quickly to his feet, finding the three of them gaping at him from the other side. The sense of betrayal on Loriabeth’s face was particularly striking, although Sigoral’s grimace of fury displayed little surprise. Kriz spared him only a glance before she turned about and started firing bombs at the onrushing swarm of Greens. They now covered the ridge from end to end in a dark roiling mass that barely seemed to notice the bombs exploding in its midst.

  Clay extracted the vial of raw Black and drank down half the contents, fighting the convulsive retch as the product made a fiery progress to his gut. He took Loriabeth first, lifting her over the gap and depositing her close by. The urgency of the moment left little room for finesse and she gave a pained grunt as she landed on her rump. She shot him a reproachful but nevertheless relieved glare before getting to her feet and taking aim at the Greens. He returned his attention to the far side of the gap where both Sigoral and Kriz were firing furiously at the on-coming drakes. Clay hesitated, the Greens were so close now and it was possible he couldn’t save them both. I need answers, he decided, fixing his gaze on Kriz. Sorry, Lieutenant.

  At that moment, however, Sigoral’s carbine fired empty. The Corvantine immediately began to reload but it was clear the Greens would be on him before he managed it. Clay acted through instinct, reaching out with the Black to snare the marine and drag him across the divide. His landing was even harder than Loriabeth’s, slamming
into the ledge at a shallow angle and rolling away with unnatural speed thanks to the momentum conveyed by the Black.

  Clay immediately refocused his gaze on Kriz. She stood facing the Green horde with her bomb-thrower held limp at her side, apparently empty. The Greens were only yards away now and she gave no sign of panic or even concern as they came on, flames blossoming from the jaws of those in the lead. Clay lifted her clear of the horde just as they reached the end of the ridge, leaping and snapping at her dangling feet. A dozen or more tumbled into the crevasse whilst the rest milled about on the ridge-top, screaming their frustration.

  Clay turned Kriz about as he carried her over the gap, looking up to find her smiling down at him as she floated closer. It was a smile he hadn’t seen on her face before, possessing a genuine regard, even affection. He found it so surprising and captivating he failed to notice the Red until it was almost upon her.

  CHAPTER 39

  Lizanne

  “The Emperor’s Ravens and the Iron Watch,” Korian said. “Plus three batteries of artillery and a full regiment of dragoons. That’s just the vanguard. There are at least three other regiments of conscripts a few miles behind.”

  The Electress had convened a council to hear the Brotherhood leader report the results of his most recent reconnaissance. She had purloined a command tent from the stores at Hervus which was large enough to accommodate the army’s captains. Lizanne was unsure if she should be reassured or worried by the fact that Atalina had made a point of ensuring Miss Blood attend this meeting.

  “Pretty much the entire Household Division,” Arberus mused. “Or what’s left of it after the Scarlet Legion were destroyed at Carvenport. It appears Countess Sefka doesn’t want to take any chances.”

  Lizanne found his reflective tones somewhat odd given Korian’s report. Together, the Emperor’s Ravens and the Iron Watch comprised the elite infantry of the Corvantine Imperial army, each possessing a fearsome reputation equal to that of the now-extinct Scarlet Legion.

  “At least six thousand men in the vanguard and another nine thousand following,” she said. “We may have gathered plenty of recruits in recent days but not that many.”

  “Numbers aren’t everything,” the Electress stated, her words accompanied by a glower that warned against any further unasked-for opinions. “Where?” she asked, turning back to Korian.

  “Fifteen miles north-west as of this afternoon. Looks like they’re keeping to the Corvus Road.”

  “So they’ll already have encamped for the night,” Arberus concluded. “And won’t be too hard to find, even in the dark.” He straightened, addressing his next words to the Electress. “We should break camp, a night attack offers the best chance of success.”

  Lizanne managed to contain her appalled exclamation but others present were not so restrained. “Are you fucking mad?” Varkash asked. “Dis lot against the empire’s finest troops? In duh dark?”

  “Better the dark than daylight,” Arberus replied. “The Household Division is a formidable enemy, it’s true. But having fought alongside them, I know their strength lies in the rigidity of their discipline. In close ranks with a clear field of fire they could prove unbeatable, but such discipline comes with a price. The Ravens and The Watch are like automata, responding to orders without thought or individual initiative. Confusion will be our ally, and darkness breeds confusion. Also,” he added after a moment’s pause, casting a reluctant glance in Lizanne’s direction, “all manner of terrors.”

  Lizanne’s gaze moved from him to the Electress, who now wore a broad smile. “Miss Blood,” she said, “will be our key to victory.”

  “I cannot work miracles,” Lizanne stated flatly. “And there may well be Blood Cadre in their ranks.”

  The Electress’s smile broadened further. “Best kill them first, then.”

  “Even wid her, it’s too much of a risk,” Varkash persisted, his objection soon echoed by Captain Jarkiv and a few others.

  “This is what you fuckers signed up for!” Atalina’s voice cut through the rising babble like an axe blade. She rounded on them, teeth bared and shoulders hunched as if about to charge. “What did you think? It’d be a gentle stroll all the way to Corvus? We paid in blood to escape Scorazin, now it’s time to pay again, but this time we escape the biggest prison of all. Defeat the Household Division and people will flock to us. An ocean of people that’ll sweep all the way to the Imperial Sanctum.”

  She stood, glowering at each of them in turn, daring any to raise an objection. They all looked away as her gaze fell on them, except Varkash, who stood returning her glare in equal measure. “If I’d had more of my Fools left after Scorazin . . .” he began.

  “You didn’t,” the Electress cut in. “Take your people and go if you’re determined on it. But know that once we bring down this empire the books they’ll write in the aftermath will make full note of Varestian cowardice. Is that really the name you want to carry back to the peninsular? Varkash the shiny-nosed coward, Shame of the Seas? If so, good luck finding another crew.”

  Varkash straightened, fists bunching and the slabs of muscle on his bare arms tensing. Lizanne entertained some hope he might launch himself at the Electress, the ensuing chaos facilitating a swift exit from the tent whereupon she would find Tinkerer and make good their escape. Sadly, the threat of a coward’s name evidently outweighed the pirate’s fury. After a long moment of simmering rage he crossed his arms and gave a short nod.

  “So then, General,” the Electress said, turning back to Arberus. “What’s your plan?”

  • • •

  “Remember, where their ranks are thickest. The Tinkerer’s new toys lack accuracy.” Arberus held out a revolver, a long-barrelled model presumably scavenged from an unfortunate cavalryman’s corpse at Scorazin.

  “This will do, thank you,” Lizanne said, patting the short-barrelled constabulary pistol in the holster under her arm. “Besides, I doubt any amount of arms will make much difference this night.”

  “If there was another way . . .”

  “Oh, spare me . . . General.”

  She turned her back on him and gestured for Hyran to follow her to the edge of the copse where they had secluded themselves to await nightfall. Like her he wore all-black clothes of loose cotton and was armed with a pistol. His hands played over the weapon, twitching a little as he clicked the cylinder. “Stop fiddling,” she told him. “And don’t fire that unless we’re discovered. Until then product is your principal weapon.”

  He forced a smile, face pale in the gloom, and consigned the pistol to its holster. “Just wish we had more of it.”

  Seeing his wan, tense features, she suppressed the urge to leave him behind. Tonight she would have need of all allies, regardless of ability. “Before this night’s out,” she said, forcing a brisk reassurance into her tone, “I suspect there’ll be product aplenty for both of us.”

  She lowered herself into a crouch and moved into the sparse bushes beyond the reach of the trees, motioning for him to follow. “Now?” he whispered.

  “I see little point in delay,” she muttered back. “Do you?”

  She paused to survey the ground ahead, finding it frustratingly free of cover all the way to the Corvantine picket line. Luckily, it was a lone-moon night so at least the shadows were deep. She cast a glance back at the copse where Arberus waited with the Brotherhood and the hundred or so other mounted troops in the army. A few hundred yards to the rear of them waited the entirety of the Electress’s host, no doubt still tired from the rapid forced march along the darkened Corvus Road. Lizanne considered it a minor miracle no Corvantine scout had discovered their approach. She harboured a faint hope such good fortune might result from an over-confidence on the part of whoever had command of the Imperial expedition. They most likely can’t believe a rag-bag collection of convicts and peasants would attempt something so foolish, she decided, fighting down anot
her flare of rage at Arberus. Not without good reason.

  “Green?” Hyran suggested, eyeing the intervening distance with palpable unease. “We could cover the ground in only a few seconds.”

  “Raising dust and drawing the pickets’ gaze in the process,” Lizanne replied. She lowered herself into a prone position and motioned for him to follow suit. “It’ll have to be the laborious approach, I’m afraid. Stay two feet behind me. Move as I move and stop when I stop.”

  She started forward, covering the first hundred yards in a steady crawl. As the glow of the Household Division’s camp-fires began to grow she lowered herself to her belly and inched her way through the grass in slow, careful increments. She could see the picket line now, tall men in black uniforms patrolling back and forth. The Emperor’s Ravens, she concluded. They were also known as the Black Hearts thanks to the numerous atrocities ascribed to them in the Wars of Revolution. She could make out the face of the closest sentry, finding the stern-eyed, weathered visage of a veteran. Clearly there were no easily scared conscripts to be found in this camp.

  She came to a halt and watched the veteran make a slow progress across her path, rifle unslung and held low as his eyes scanned the grass. His gaze swept over the patch of shadows where she lay then moved on, paused and moved back again. Lizanne stifled a curse as the man’s features tensed, well-honed soldier’s instincts no doubt warning of something out of place. He began to move closer, his thumb easing back the safety lever on his rifle with a soft click.