The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “An achievable time-scale,” Sirus said, tapping a finger to Morradin’s proposed landing site. “We land the main force here and Feros is no more than a six-mile march away. Night will provide additional cover as well as confusing the defenders, since they don’t enjoy our advantages in the dark.”

  “The General Staff also intended a simultaneous attack on the harbour,” Morradin said. “Considered vital to disrupt the enemy defences and divide their forces.” He shot a brief, malicious glance at Forest Spear. “Send the savages. They’re nothing if not expendable.”

  Sirus was obliged to still Forest Spear’s upsurge of anger with an implacable pulse of command, freezing the tribal in place as his hand flew to the knife on his belt. Only this man could breed disunity in an army of joined minds, Sirus thought, turning a hard gaze on Morradin.

  “Kill him,” Avris, the former artillery sergeant said. The memory of his flogging was a permanent dark stain on the man’s memories and this was not the first time he had made this suggestion.

  “He weakens us, darling,” Katrya said, moving to Sirus’s side and smiling sweetly in Morradin’s direction. “Why do you keep him?”

  “Because he remains useful,” Sirus replied simply, sending out another thought pulse that forbade further discussion on the subject. He returned his attention to the map, mind churning over the plan, drawing pertinent detail from the wealth of knowledge acquired over recent months. He could see plenty of risks, for war was always risky, but no obvious flaws. It was tempting to send Morradin to command the attack on the port itself, squeeze some more use from him whilst hopefully orchestrating his death in the process. But there was another factor to consider, one he was careful to conceal.

  “Marshal Morradin will command the landing force,” he said. “I will lead the assault on Feros.”

  • • •

  Katrya’s anger was fierce, making her thrash and scratch at him as they coiled together in the captain’s cabin on the Harbinger. Had he still possessed a fully human form her attentions might well have been fatal; as it was they were merely painful, if irresistible.

  “Do you hate me?” she asked as her passion finally began to subside, her tongue licking along the cut she had left on his scaled brow.

  “Of course not,” he told her, sharing a memory of their time together in the Morsvale sewers. For all the terror of those days he still preferred them to this enslavement.

  So you want it to end? she persisted, returning to thought-speech. You think death will bring freedom?

  The White wants its victory. The attack on the harbour has a greater chance of success if I lead it. It was a carefully constructed lie, possessing enough truth for plausibility but shot through with sufficient uncertainty to conceal the deception. At least, he had hoped so. Katrya, however, was not so easily fooled.

  It’s her! Her thoughts lashed at him and her steel-hard nails added another cut to his face as she tore herself free of the bed. Isn’t it? You think you’ll find her there!

  He saw no point in denial. Simply sitting up to regard her in silence as the blood coursed down his face.

  “She’s dead!” Katrya hissed at him, elongated teeth gleaming in the darkness. “The little bitch is dead!”

  No she is not. He let the thought bubble to the surface of his mind. His investigations had been cautious, surreptitious intrusions into the minds of those captured at Carvenport. Those taken alive when the city finally fell amounted to barely a dozen people, all but four considered too old or infirm to be worthy of conversion. But there was one, a former stevedore whose pistol had misfired when he attempted to kill himself after a valiant stand at the docks. The man possessed a vivid recollection of the day Miss Blood’s rag-tag fleet had sailed from the harbour to fight their way through the blockade of Blues. She strode onto the deck of a warship to greet the captain and, at her side, a disconcertingly pretty young woman of diminutive stature. Her bearing was different, less stiff and formal than he remembered, her face lacking the scowl of one in constant search of something worthy of criticism. But it was undoubtedly her, Tekela, still alive and about to sail to safety in Feros.

  “So she’s alive,” Katrya said, speaking aloud in clipped, angry Varsal. “Think she’s waiting for you? Think she’s dreaming of the day you come knocking at her door? If you were beneath her notice before, what do you imagine she’ll think of you now?”

  “A monster,” he said and shrugged. “And she would be right. Soon this will be a world of monsters. I would spare her that, if I could.”

  Katrya’s rage subsided at that, the bestial grin fading and her claws becoming hands once more. You intend to kill her, she thought, her mind roving through his thoughts as he lowered his barriers. Like you killed those Blood-blessed.

  Even a monster can be merciful.

  She came to him, leaning down to kiss his wounds before taking hold of his hand and pressing it to her belly. Soon there will be three of us. When you look upon our child will you see nothing more than a monster?

  He wanted her to be lying, but he could feel it in her thoughts and her body. A new life grew inside her. A life they had made.

  A life made in love, she said. Slaves we may be. Monsters we may be. But if we can be merciful, can we not love too?

  CHAPTER 44

  Clay

  “That’s enough, Seer-dammit!” Clay grabbed the barrel of Sigoral’s carbine and forced it up. Sigoral tried to tug the weapon free but the Green lingering in Clay’s veins wouldn’t allow it. The marine’s rage at Kriz had come close to overturning his reason and he spent several seconds swearing at her in Varsal, his trigger-finger twitching continually until Clay decided to forestall any unwise actions. They stared at each other, Sigoral refocusing his rage on Clay, removing a hand from the carbine’s stock to reach for the pistol at his belt.

  “Don’t!” Loriabeth said, moving closer to clamp a hand on the marine’s arm. “Won’t do no good,” she added in a softer tone, holding on until he turned to her, the rage fading from his gaze.

  “I told you we couldn’t trust her,” he said, voice coloured by weary resignation. Clay released his grip on the carbine and Sigoral pulled free of Loriabeth before turning away.

  “So,” Clay said, moving to Kriz’s side and nodding at the egg. “He’s in there, right? Your father.”

  She nodded and sagged, Clay reaching out to catch her before she fell. “How do we open it?” he asked, holding her upright.

  She drew the small needle gun from her belt and looked up to meet his gaze with a weak smile. “We . . . trance.”

  • • •

  “There’s not much left,” Clay said, eyeing the vial resting in the needle gun’s chamber. He snapped it closed and turned to Sigoral and Loriabeth. “Don’t know how long we’ll be under. Or what I’ll find,” he added, glancing at the egg.

  “Your point, cuz?” Loriabeth enquired.

  Clay turned to Sigoral, gave a bland smile which drew a quizzical frown from the marine, a frown that turned to alarm as Clay quick-drew his pistol and levelled it at the Corvantine’s head. “Point is, I ain’t keen on leaving my cousin in such uncertain company,” he said, gaze locked on Sigoral’s. “I’ll thank you to remove your gloves, Lieutenant.”

  Sigoral stood stock still for several seconds, then his face betrayed a flicker of grim amusement as he slowly pulled off his gloves. “Let’s see it,” Clay ordered and the Corvantine extended his hands, turning them over. It was hard to spot in the gloom but Clay found it, a small pale mark on the palm of the marine’s left hand.

  “Blood-blessed,” Loriabeth breathed, gaze narrowing as she stepped to the side, raising her rifle.

  “How did you know?” Sigoral enquired.

  “General demeanour,” Clay said, unwilling to elaborate in front of Loriabeth. “And you never took off your gloves. You’re Blood Cadre, right?”

 
“Certainly not,” Sigoral responded with a disdainful sniff. “I am an officer in the Marine Division of the Corvantine Imperial Navy. I also happen to be the appointed Blood-blessed to the INS Superior.”

  “So the ship’s Blood-blessed didn’t really die off Carvenport. That’s how you got her all the way to Lossermark. Guess you ran out of product during the voyage, huh?”

  “All but a few drops of Blue. I intended to report your arrival in Lossermark to the Imperial Fleet Command the very night Captain Hilemore seized the Superior. For obvious reasons I chose to be somewhat economical with the facts when telling him my story. Otherwise he might not have been so willing to allow me to join this very interesting expedition. My men knew their duty and kept quiet as to my true nature.”

  “Have you tranced since? Told your bosses what we’re up to?”

  “I attempted to, when we reached the ice. There was no one to receive my communication, something so unheard of it forces me to conclude the empire may have suffered some form of calamity.”

  “Horse shit,” Loriabeth said. “He’s lying. For all we know he’s got orders to kill us and steal whatever we find here.”

  “My cousin makes a good point,” Clay told Sigoral. “Seems the smartest thing would be to kill you now.”

  “Yes it would.” Sigoral slowly let his hands fall to his side. He regarded each of them in turn, expression free of any fear, and also any defiance. “A servant of the empire must hold to his duty. But, for what it may be worth, I bear you no ill will and am proud to have made this most enlightening journey in such company.”

  “Journey ain’t over yet,” Clay said. “You got any product on your person?”

  “A small amount of Green, harvested in the forest when Miss Torcreek’s attention was elsewhere.”

  “Best wait on using it till you really have to.” Clay holstered his revolver and turned back to Kriz. “My own supply is pretty low.”

  “Cuz?” Loriabeth said, gaping at him.

  “Got a better chance of getting out of here with two Blood-blessed in our party,” Clay told her. “And if killing us was his object, he’d have done it long since.”

  He went to crouch at Kriz’s side, pressing the needle gun’s muzzle to her forearm. “Ready?” he asked.

  Kriz had recovered a great deal thanks to the crystal’s healing light but he could see the lingering pain in her red-tinged eyes. Nevertheless she nodded, forcing a smile. “Ready.”

  Clay squeezed the trigger, pushing half the Blue into her veins, then pressed the gun to his own forearm, pausing at Loriabeth’s softly spoken question, “What if you don’t come back?”

  He looked up at her, smiled and nodded at Sigoral. “Try not to hate him too much. It’ll be awful lonely for you down here otherwise.”

  She replied with a scowl that slowly softened into a tense smile. “You don’t come back I’m gonna spend what time I have left killing all the drakes I can find. He can do what he likes.”

  “Uncle Braddon . . .” Clay began, then faltered, struggling for the words. “Reckon he’d be right proud, seeing you now. First Gunhand indeed.”

  Her smile broadened a fraction and there was a catch in her voice as she replied, “Reckon he’d be proud of both of us, Clay.”

  He nodded, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  • • •

  They looked out upon mountains bathed in the light of the three moons. At first Clay thought they were in the Coppersoles, but soon saw differences in the landscape. These mountains were not so tall, their dark flanks largely free of snow or frost. This was a place he had never seen.

  “I don’t have your skills,” Kriz said. She stood near by, close to the edge of the promontory on which they stood, spreading her arms to encompass the view. “Still a little fuzzy around the edges.”

  Clay scanned the mountains once more, seeing a subtle shift to the peaks and valleys, as if it swayed in some mighty wind, though the air was completely still. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “Should’ve seen my first mindscape.” He raised his gaze to the sky, eyes taking in the sight of the moons. Nelphia and Morphia were slightly overlapped with Serphia drifting off to the right. “Got the moons right, anyways,” he said.

  “I remember them very well. This”—she nodded at the mountains—“this I never saw. Nor has anyone else for twelve thousand years.”

  Clay frowned at her, watching a grim anticipation settle over her face as she also raised her gaze to the heavens. “If you never saw it, how’d you make it?” he asked.

  “There are . . . were paintings, sketches. This is my best guess. I needed something suitably impressive to help you understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  She gave a small jerk of her head, Clay seeing a small glimmer of light swelling in her eyes. He followed her gaze to find a new light in the sky, a bright orange ball trailing fire across the faces of the moons. “My father called it the Catalyst Event,” Kriz said as the fiery ball grew ever larger. “One moment that forever altered the destiny of this planet.”

  The fire-ball made a silent descent towards the mountains, streaking down to slam into the peaks a few miles away. The entire range shimmered as a huge blast wave spread out from the impact, ancient stone transformed to powder in the blink of an eye as the sky turned black with displaced dust. For a second the mindscape disappeared, swallowed by the dark, and when it returned Clay found himself standing in a crimson desert.

  Something Skaggerhill once said came back to him as he gazed about at the rust-coloured dunes stretching away on either side: Educated fella I knew in Carvenport said it must’ve been a mountain range once . . . thousands a years ago some great catastrophe turned it into a desert.

  “You know this place?” Kriz asked, stirring pink dust as she came to his side.

  “Been here once,” he replied. “We call it the Red Sands.”

  “My people called it the Iron Wastes, though those of a more spiritual outlook termed it the Cradle of Divine Rebirth. All that remains of a range of peaks that stretched across the centre of this continent, brought low by something beyond human understanding, at least at the time.”

  She pointed at something on the crest of a near by dune, a tall figure swaddled in thick clothing, face covered against the dust. The figure strode across the sand towards them, giving no indication of registering their presence. It stopped a few feet away, crouching low to scrape at the iron flakes with a rag-covered hand. The covering on the figure’s face came loose as he crouched lower to peer at what he had uncovered. Clay half expected to find himself looking upon a Spoiled, but instead saw the face of a man. Dark-skinned and weathered with long-healed scars marring his skin, but undoubtedly a man.

  “We believe there were at least half a million people living on this continent at the time of the Event,” Kriz said as they watched the scarred man dig in the sands. “Within the space of a century the population had fallen to barely ten thousand. The planet suffered a hundred-year-long winter, so much debris had been cast into the atmosphere it obscured the sun. Whole species were wiped out, the larger animals went first, followed by the predators that preyed upon them. It’s no exaggeration to say that all life on this continent stood on the brink of complete extinction. The Event came within a whisker of destroying us, so ironic then that it also brought the key to our prosperity.”

  Clay watched the scarred man scrape away another handful of flakes to reveal the glassy, multi-faceted surface of a crystal. “How these people came to know enough to make use of them is lost,” Kriz said, as the crouched figure pressed his hand to the crystal. “We do know they thought them to be gifts from the gods, a few ancient texts call them the Divine Seeds. And so, the people of this continent began to recover, their entire culture forever transformed. But”—she turned away from the crouching man, nodding at something scrabbling in the dust a short way off—“they
were not the only thing to change.”

  It was small, smaller even than the Green that had bitten him, no more than a foot long from nose to tail. Its skin was mostly hidden by a thick pall of crimson dust, but as the beast shifted Clay saw the light catch on gleaming black scales. The drake gave a small, almost kittenish squawk then convulsed, jumping in alarm as a small but intense gout of flame erupted from its mouth.

  “This is just supposition,” Kriz said as the tiny Black coughed out some more flames, its wings flaring in excitement. “We never really discovered how exactly it happened, but somehow a small, reptilian species survived the Event and it . . . changed them. The ability to spit venom became the ability to breathe fire and they grew in size with each generation. Some theorised that crystals disintegrated during the Event and the fragments fused with the drakes. The power they held seeped into their being.”

  “And their blood,” Clay said, squinting at the drake in wonder. “Guess it didn’t take long before folks found out what it could do.”

  “Actually, no.” Kriz turned away from the drake, closing her eyes in concentration. “That took a very long time.”

  The Red Sands disappeared, fragmenting into a million shards that in turn shattered into sparkling motes of dust. They swirled about him like fire-flies, the glow they cast slowly increasing as they came together to form a new scene. When it was done he thought at first she had taken him to another mountain range, so tall were the structures that slid by below.

  “We’re flying,” he realised, looking around to find himself in an oval-shaped cabin of some kind. Wide circular windows ran along the walls, affording a clear view of the mountains below. Not mountains, he thought, looking again as the summit of the structure passed beneath. It rose to well over a hundred feet in height, a greatly enlarged version of the buildings he had seen in the city beneath the mountain. It was connected by branching walkways to similar buildings on either side and they in turn connected to others so that the city resembled a jungle fashioned from stone. He could see people on the walkways, a great many people.