by Anthony Ryan
Lizanne tried to raise herself, which had the effect of dislodging many of the bodies, causing the pile to collapse. She rolled with the slack, lifeless forms, coming to rest on the floor of the pass where she lay, drawing in slow even breaths in an attempt to recover her senses.
It took several minutes to get to her feet, the world seeming to tilt and spin around her. When she finally stood up she found herself confronted by a Spoiled, a tall male in a ragged Protectorate uniform regarding her with his scaled brows formed into a curious frown. She hoped he saw a fellow Spoiled, albeit one with a mass of blood concealing her deformed features, not all of it pig’s blood judging by the warm trickle tracing from the back of her head. Lizanne just stared back at the Spoiled for a brief interval then staggered away in apparent confusion. She could feel his eyes on her and could only hope he put her failure to communicate down to her head injury.
The pass was full of Spoiled soldiery, and some drakes, many injured and all stumbling around in a directionless stupor. Unsure of how long this helpful state of confusion might last, Lizanne kept staggering towards the northern end of the Cut, her pace deliberately slow. She fell several times during the journey, not always of her own volition as her befuddled brain saw fit to randomly deny her control of her legs. If any of the other Spoiled afforded her an unduly long gaze she would fall and remain immobile until they lost interest.
The Spoiled began to regain a sense of order once she came to the mouth of the pass, their confusion slipping away as they stiffened into a semblance of military bearing and began to form companies. Hoping her grievous wound would explain her immunity to this resurgence of discipline, Lizanne continued to stumble and collapse her way clear of the Grand Cut, pausing at the sight of the huge camp only a few hundred yards away.
Where would it be? she wondered, gaze tracking over the neat rows of tents. The answer proved obvious and unmistakable. Rising in the centre of the camp was a very large winged shape, pale in the fading pall of dust. The White. She had only seen it before in Clay’s shared memories and found the experience of viewing it in the flesh both unnerving and irresistible. It’s right there. Well within range.
The temptation to slip back into the trance was strong. Tell Tekela to launch now. Finish this. But she held off. It could just fly away. You came for the crystal. Stick to the mission.
She staggered on, joining a thin stream of wounded Spoiled making a slow progress to the camp. They were all dazed and bleeding like her and thankfully in no condition to attempt communication. She kept to the rear of the group, head lowered as she moved in a stumbling shuffle. The fuzziness in her head finally started to fade as they entered the camp. It was mostly deserted apart from a few Spoiled, all of whom were rushing to form companies and paid the group of wounded no attention.
She had expected the wounded to report to some kind of medical tent but they all began to peel off from the group. She saw one Spoiled, a large man wearing a Corvantine constable’s hat and cradling an obviously broken arm, stagger into one of the tents and lay down on the bedroll within. Before moving on she saw him close his eyes and fall asleep. One by one the other Spoiled followed suit until she found herself alone but for two others.
Lizanne began to drop back, intending to find an empty tent to hide in until they moved on, but the pair came to a sudden halt and turned to face her, eyes narrowed in suspicious scrutiny. They were both female, one with a spectacular head injury deep enough for Lizanne to make out the white bone of her skull through the gore. The other appeared to have only a broken wrist and was consequently much more alert. From the way their brows twitched she realised they were attempting to communicate and knew she had only seconds to act.
There was still a great deal of Green in her system, meaning she was able to close the distance in a heart-beat. The knife concealed in her wrist sheath came free in a blur, gleaming as it slashed left then right. The two Spoiled fell in unison, blood leaking from the gaping wounds in their throats. Lizanne gave a short vertical jump, bringing both boots down hard on the heads of the fallen Spoiled, crushing their skulls and hopefully preventing any alarming thoughts spreading to their comrades.
She moved on swiftly, unwilling to wait for any possible reaction and knowing her time was fast running short. The White was still ahead of her, wings spread wide and head raised. A large swirling pack of Reds had begun to assemble in the sky above it and she realised it must be summoning them back, which boded well for the fate of the Blood-blessed and the pirates. The Tempest had orders to guard the pirates until they mounted the horses tethered at the southern end of the pass and galloped off towards the south. The Blood-blessed were to be picked up and carried away at speed thanks to the aerostat’s blood-burner. The Typhoon, on the other hand, had different orders.
The number of Spoiled increased as she drew nearer to the White, although they all seemed to be moving towards it, meaning she managed to avoid their line of sight. However, it was clear that a more stealthy approach was now needed. Slipping into a tent, she waited for a moment to ensure she hadn’t been noticed, then slit open the rear of it and moved to the next in line. It was a laborious but necessary business, eventually bringing her to the point where the line of tents ended. She cut a small slit in the tent wall and peered out at what lay beyond.
The White occupied a broad circular patch of empty ground, wings folded now as it prowled back and forth. Lizanne started in shock at the sight of a number of smaller infants scurrying about the White as it prowled. There are more? This was something no one had expected and the knowledge banished any doubts she might have about the need for this mission.
Standing at a short remove from the White were three figures. One was a Spoiled of youthful appearance wearing a Corvantine general’s uniform. Thanks to the Green Lizanne was able to focus on his face. His features were heavily modified by his deformity but somehow his profile retained an echo of the earnest youth she had met in Morsvale. Sirus, she realised with a note of dismay, deciding Tekela would never know of his presence here. Not that I’ll be in a position to tell her, she added, finding it strange that she was still capable of humour even now.
The second figure was also one she knew, although they had never actually met. Grand Marshal Morradin was even more imposing as a Spoiled. Lizanne thought that his brutish features were actually enhanced by the spines and the scales, considering it a more accurate reflection of the soul behind the face.
The third figure was odd in that she appeared at first glance to be entirely human. A slender golden-haired woman in a muslin dress with a shawl about her shoulders, she stood at the forefront of the trio, her gaze fixed on the prowling White. When she turned Lizanne was struck by another sense of recognition. She had definitely seen this woman somewhere but apparently her memory hadn’t ascribed enough significance to the experience to retain her name. Not human after all, she decided, noting the woman’s eyes. She seemed to be in silent communication with Sirus from the way her gaze concentrated on him to the exclusion of Morradin.
Unable to discern the content of their conversation Lizanne turned away, searching until she found what she was looking for. A cart was positioned not far from the White, a cart in which lay four crystals. It was hard to make out the hues in the mid morning sun but she was certain she had found her target.
Depressing the fourth button on the Spider, she slipped into the trance, finding Morva waiting once more. It was clear she was close to the limits of her Blue from the way the old sailing-ship pitched and yawed on a fractious, partially invisible sea.
“Are you alright?” Morva asked.
“We don’t have time,” Lizanne told her curtly. “Here.” She summoned one of her whirlwinds, quickly forming it into a reconstruction of the camp then added a glowing aura around the location of the cart. “The White’s close,” she said. “With any luck we’ll get it too. Launch immediately then light the blood-burner and return to the Mount.
”
“What about you? Tinkerer said the blast radius . . .”
“I’m aware of the blast radius. Just get it done.”
She severed the connection and exited the trance before Morva could argue further. Blinking and returning her gaze to the rent she had sliced in the side of the tent, she realised in shock that the three of them—Sirus, Morradin and the familiar but as yet unnamed woman—were all looking directly at her.
Turning, she found the reason staring at her through the tent flap. The wounded Spoiled leaked blood from the ruin of his face, which appeared to have been partially crushed. Sadly, this didn’t appear to have affected his mental faculties. He glared at her in fierce animosity, a strangled growl escaping his mangled face as he crouched for a charge. Lizanne pressed a button on the Spider and broke his neck with a well-placed surge of Black.
She quickly returned her attention to the rent in the tent wall, finding her gaze momentarily snared by the slender woman’s red-black eyes as recognition finally dawned. Famed society beauty Catheline Dewsmine, she thought, recalling a news-sheet headline as the woman opened her mouth to scream.
“KILL HER!” She started towards Lizanne in a frantic charge, eyes alive with hatred, still screaming. “KILL THE BITCH!”
Lizanne had time to catch sight of the White whirling about with an inquisitive roar, before she tore her gaze away and fled the tent, fingers pressing hard on the Spider to flood her system with Red and Black.
Outside a Spoiled jabbed at her with a bayonet-tipped rifle, Lizanne side-stepping the blow, sending him flying with a hard shove of Black. She ran as rifles cracked all around, bullets snapping the air. Thanks to the Green she was able to leap over knots of Spoiled as they attempted to block her path, blasting others aside with Black when they came too close.
“Launch!” she begged in a fierce whisper, casting occasional glances at the sky as she dodged and fought. Of course the Typhoon was hovering at too great an altitude to be seen from the ground, but she did hope to catch the flare of the rocket’s engine as it streaked down.
The distraction nearly proved fatal. A burly Spoiled tackled her, strong arms encircling her waist and bearing her to the ground. Lizanne rolled with the impact and slashed her knife across the Spoiled’s eyes, wrestling free of his grip then unleashing Red to incinerate the upper torso of another levelling a rifle at her. Lizanne continued the stream of Red as she ran, setting light to every tent she passed in the hope the smoke and the flames would provide enough cover, and buy time.
Nearing the edge of camp, she began to entertain the previously unsuspected notion that she might actually survive this mission. It seems I wasted Madame Hakugen’s time, she thought, then came to a mid-air halt as an invisible rope caught her about the neck.
Black, she realised, legs kicking as she hung there. They have a Blood-blessed.
She fought back with her own Black, sending a wave towards the ground to push her free, but only succeeding in spinning herself about. The hold on her neck tightened, starving her lungs of air. Lizanne’s vision began to dim, greying around the edges as her pulse throbbed in her temples. However, she was able to make out the sight of the woman, Catheline Dewsmine, doyen of the society pages, pelting towards her amongst the charging horde of Spoiled.
How on earth did she get here?
The question lost all significance when her ears became filled with a shrieking whoosh followed by a blinding flash beyond the oncoming mob. The grip on her neck instantly disappeared and Lizanne found herself once again tumbling in a blast wave. She used the last of her Green to turn into the blast and dig her boots in the earth, sliding to a crouching halt amidst the maelstrom. Looking up she saw the ground to her front littered with the unconscious or dead bodies of dozens of Spoiled. Beyond them a huge fire-ball rose from where the White had been only moments before.
Lizanne’s initial wave of joyful triumph plummeted into despair when she saw the beast rising through the roiling fire, flames licking at its wings but showing no obvious injury. Her sense of defeat increased as her eyes picked out something else. Four glowing orbs floated in the swirling dust above the wreckage of the cart. The crystals, she thought. It didn’t work.
Lizanne sank to her knees, head slumping as the product thinned in her veins. Hearing the shuffling of multiple boots she half-raised her head to see a group of Spoiled moving towards her, still partially stunned by the blast but retaining enough comprehension to aim their rifles at her. Wearily she took a firmer grip on her knife and tried to rise. But, finding she hadn’t the strength to do so, she reversed her grip on the handle and pressed it to her neck, the edge positioned precisely where it would sever the jugular.
A harsh, rattling growl came from above and she saw the upright Spoiled nearest to her slammed into the ground in several different pieces. Earth fountained as the growl came again, the other Spoiled falling in quick succession. Lizanne turned her gaze to the sky as a shadow fell over her, finding the broad curving shape of the Typhoon some fifty yards above. It was dark against the sky and she couldn’t see the face of her rescuer in the gondola’s lower hatch, though the invisible hand that reached down to pluck her from the earth was clue enough.
“Morva,” she muttered, her vision fading away as exhaustion claimed her. “I thought I told you to leave . . .”
CHAPTER 40
Hilemore
The fleet departed with the morning tide, witnessed by a mostly silent crowd. Parents waved and wept for the sons and daughters Hilemore was carrying away to war, children called to fathers and siblings, but there was no cheering. In the few days since the drake assault Stockcombe had resumed its prior state of division. The west-siders returned to their homes and the east side remained under the control of the Voters Committee, although their authority had waned considerably. Without a Blood-blessed to act as a conduit for the guidance of wiser heads Hilemore had serious doubts the status quo would continue for much longer. Coll, now sporting a bandaged nose and shorn of his Contractor’s duster, had become increasingly intolerant of dissent, forcing some of the committee members to resign and making most decisions without recourse to discussion. Factions were already forming around the former committee members and there were reports of protests which quickly degenerated into brawls.
Hilemore found he had to resist the compulsion to stay and provide some form of government for the city he had fought to defend, even if it amounted to little more than a military dictatorship. But he couldn’t allow Stockcombe to become his concern, something starkly underlined by Clay once they cleared the harbour.
“Who is Catheline Dewsmine?” Hilemore asked, the name meaning nothing to him.
“Wondered that myself,” Clay admitted. They were on the walkway outside the bridge, Clay having emerged from a lengthy and apparently sobering trance with the eminent Miss Blood. “According to Miss Lethridge she was kind of famous. Guess her fame never reached Arradsia though.”
“Catheline Dewsmine is the eldest child of the wealthy Dewsmine family,” an unexpected voice said, making them turn. Akina had been engaged in cleaning the bridgehouse windows and now stood regarding them with the smug air that came from possessing superior knowledge. “Despite being Blood-blessed she was exempt from Corporate service,” Akina went on in her accented but precise Mandinorian. “Upon entering managerial society she quickly became a sensation thanks to her beauty and charm. She was romantically linked with a number of actors, musicians and senior managers before succumbing to an unexplained nervous condition which required an extensive period of isolation.” Akina shrugged and flicked her wash-cloth before adding in Varestian, “She went over the rail and her family stuck her in a madhouse.”
“And how might you know this?” Hilemore enquired.
“Mr. Tottleborn,” she replied, referring to the one-time Blood-blessed of the Viable Opportunity who had met his untimely end at the Battle of the Strait. “He like
d his periodicals. Catheline Dewsmine regularly featured in one called Scandal Monthly. He had a lot of those.”
“Thank you, sea-sister,” Hilemore said. He gestured for her to get back to work, which she did after a typically disdainful scowl.
“So,” he said to Clay, “a mad Blood-blessed is now leading the White’s forces.”
“Lead ain’t really the right word. It’s more like she’s the means by which the White leads.” Clay’s expression darkened and he let out a heavy sigh. “Silverpin warned me the next one would be worse. According to Miss Lethridge, she wasn’t wrong.”
“So, if I understand the military situation, the attempt to destroy this all-important Blue crystal was a failure but the blocking of the passes into Varestia was a success?”
“Seems about the size of it, yeah.”
“At least they bought us time. I know the Varestian region well and it’ll take weeks for an army of any reasonable size to proceed in force along the eastern coast of the peninsular.”
“A human army,” Clay pointed out. “This lot could well be different. You think we’ll be able to get this whole fleet across the ocean in time for it to matter?”
“What choice do we have? The deciding battle of this war will be fought there. We have to proceed with all the force we can bring to bear.”
Clay nodded but Hilemore saw a lingering uncertainty on his face. “You have an alternative suggestion?” Hilemore asked.
“Maybe, I ain’t sure yet. Let me think on it awhile.” Clay moved to Akina, taking the wash-cloth from her and tossing it into the bucket. “Let’s take a walk, kiddo,” he said, guiding her away. “What else can you tell me about Catheline Dewsmine?”