by Anthony Ryan
“Oh,” she said. “You’re really here.”
“Yes. I really am.”
She tried to push herself into a sitting position but her arms seemed to have been sapped of strength and he had to help her, easing her onto the pillow he propped behind her back. He began to smooth the hair back from her forehead but she stopped him, catching his hand and gently but firmly pushing it away. That time was past.
He gave a tight smile before dragging his chair closer and sitting down. “You’ve been busy, from what I hear.”
“As have you, from what I hear. I take it your presence means you left the Electress in charge?”
“She finally took Merivus, showing a surprising capacity for mercy when they sued for peace. Only allowed herself one execution, some cousin of the Emperor’s who wasn’t particularly popular anyway. After that the other cities in the northern Empire fell into line. There’s some localised resistance here and there but the war is effectively over and the Corvantine Republic now a reality.”
“Don’t expect it to be there when you get back.” Her voice rasped over the last word and she gave a cough, finding her throat dry. Arberus poured her a cup of water, which she drank in a few gulps. “You’ll be bowing to Empress Atalina I before long.”
“I won’t be bowing to anyone,” he said. “Though I must say the pressures of leadership seem to have mellowed her somewhat, and she has agreed to organise elections.”
“If there’s more than one candidate, I’ll be very surprised.”
“There will be. But I believe we have more pressing concerns at present.”
“We do. I trust you brought some troops with you.”
“I did. And some old friends. One of whom brought you a present.”
* * *
• • •
Arshav’s milk-white eyes stared up at her from the confines of the sack. His head had been severed with a single blow which had frozen his features in an expression somewhere between surprise and disdain. His end had come some days before and the flesh was stiffened into something that resembled dried paper.
“Wanted to make a deal,” Varkash said in his deep nasal voice. The wharf was covered in a light drizzle this morning and a beading of moisture clung to his pyrite nose. “An alliance between the new Corvantine Republic and the Varestian League. Made the mistake of naming you his enemy. Didn’t realise the esteem Miss Blood enjoys amongst those who fought the revolution. When the Electress told him to get fucked him and his mother turned to me. When I told him to get fucked he got angry, challenged me.” Varkash shrugged his broad shoulders. He still wore much the same garb as he had in Scorazin, though the waistcoat he wore was fashioned from fine material and expertly tailored to fit his muscular frame. “Over-confidence is death in a duel.”
“His mother?” Lizanne asked.
“She went mad. The Electress seized her ships, gave them to me. I set the mean old bitch adrift in a row-boat.”
“Lockbar hadn’t lied after all,” Lizanne murmured. It had taken most of the day, and some Green, to recover enough strength to come here and receive Varkash’s present, so the kick she delivered to Arshav’s head was weak by her usual standards. Nevertheless it possessed enough force to propel the object over the edge of the wharf and into the waters below.
“Thank you for coming,” she told Varkash, glancing beyond him to the ships moored in the Sound. There were twenty in all, armed merchantmen and the rest all former Imperial Navy frigates and sloops. Apparently, this was all that remained of the Corvantine fleet. They carried a force of ten thousand volunteers, many of them expatriate Varestians come home to fight for the heartland. “We have much for you to do.”
* * *
• • •
Kinda dark in here, Clay observed, eyeing her whirlwinds, which, she realised, had taken on a much gloomier hue lately.
You have a report? she enquired. The fatigue that still plagued her in the real world had seen fit to follow her here. This was their second trance in three days and it transpired he hadn’t brought good news.
Four ships sunk, he told her after describing the Blue attack the night before. Another five too badly damaged to attempt the crossing. We also lost a lot of sailors.
Hardly a mighty armada, she replied. But it’s something. Her whirlwinds coiled in response to her frustration. It seemed their enemy had a worrying ability to anticipate their moves, which didn’t bode well for the next phase of the campaign. Morradin, she thought, forming a vortex into an image of the marshal alongside a slim figure in a general’s uniform. And Sirus. They both stand high in the White’s counsel, along with the Dewsmine woman. I assume most of its tactical acumen comes from them.
They might be dead, Clay pointed out. Was an awful big firework you hit them with.
Not big enough. The White still lives. That’s all that matters.
I’m not so sure. Remember what you saw in the Artisan’s memories, and what Silverpin told me. It needs that woman, needs a human mind to make it complete. Take her away and maybe we have a chance.
How do you intend to do that? I very much doubt I, or any other Blood-blessed, will be able to get as close again.
We don’t have to get close, or leastways I don’t. He went on to outline his plan, which Lizanne found scarcely more likely to succeed than her attempt to destroy the Blue crystal. Worth a shot, ain’t it? he asked, feeling her doubt. Better than just fighting more and more battles till everyone’s dead or Spoiled.
She gave a grudging pulse of agreement at this, though muted somewhat by the recognition that they were fast running short of alternatives. Will Captain Hilemore agree? she asked.
He’ll take some persuading, Clay admitted. Though I can tell that all the people we lost is playing on his mind, so he might be more agreeable than you think.
We’ll trance at the same time tomorrow. Please ensure you impress upon the captain the lateness of the hour. Delay may be fatal.
* * *
• • •
“We simply don’t have the strength to defeat them in the field,” Arberus said. “Our best estimate is that they have over two hundred thousand troops, disciplined troops at that, plus the drakes. We have less than half that number.”
Lizanne had convened a council of war aboard the Viable Opportunity, Varkash and Arberus on one side of the map table with Captain Trumane, Madame Hakugen and Alzar Lokaras on the other. Lizanne stood at the head of the table, unacknowledged but undoubtedly accepted as the ultimate authority in the room.
“Your forget the difference in fire-power,” Trumane pointed out. “With the new carbines, repeating guns and the rockets we enjoy a considerable advantage in weight of gunnery. Professor Lethridge has given us another aerostat this week alone. Not to mention the fact that we now have command of the sea. If our forces are properly combined and organised it could well negate their advantage in numbers.”
“Superior fire-power is only effective if it can be brought to bear en masse,” Arberus returned. “The enemy has to be placed, or place themselves in a position where it can do most damage.” His finger traced along the eastern coast of the Varestian Peninsular. “I can see only one place where that could happen.”
“The Jet Sands,” Varkash said, peering at the map.
Arberus nodded, his finger tracing across a short stretch of land close to a shallow bay. “The Sands extend from the shore to the river four miles inland. The river is too deep and fast-flowing to be forded so they’ll have to advance across the dunes, and sand makes for slow marching. We concentrate our forces on the southern fringe of the dunes, giving the appearance of a thinly held stretch of line close to shore to tempt them to attack there. If they take the bait we bring the fleet’s guns to bear and all our land-based fire-power.”
“Also, if they’ve massed for an assault,” Trumane added with a note of approval, “the aerostats ca
n take a fearful toll with the rockets.”
Lizanne’s gaze strayed from the map table when she saw Tekela enter the room bearing a number of recently developed photostats. “It seems our latest reconnaissance is here,” she said.
“Uncle,” Tekela greeted Arberus briefly before spreading the photostats out on the table. “They’ve stopped,” she said, pointing to an image showing the terrain around the eastern part of the Neck. It showed a camp more or less identical to the one where Lizanne had so nearly met her death a week before. “Or at least most of them have.”
Tekela placed another photostat in the centre of the table. The image was slightly unfocused and it took Lizanne a moment to make out the sight of a column of infantry moving north in skirmish order. “There were more columns to the north-west,” Tekela added. “Each one has a large number of Reds flying overhead and Greens scouting the flanks.”
“They’re drawing back?” Varkash asked in bemusement.
“No,” Lizanne said. She turned her eyes to the map, tracing the most likely line of march for each of the columns. They all led to a region where the White’s forces hadn’t marched before, regions now rich in unconquered towns and villages swollen with refugees. “They’re gathering strength,” she went on. “Either we dealt them a heavier blow than we thought or they intend to offset our advantage in fire-power with sheer weight of numbers. My guess is the latter.”
“In any case they’ve been forced to delay their advance,” Trumane mused. “All to the good.”
“Not if you happen to live in one of these regions,” Tekela said. “They’re within range of the aerostats. We can . . .”
“No,” Lizanne cut in, Clay’s plan at the forefront of her mind. “The aerostats can’t be risked. The captain’s right. The more time they spend north of the Neck the better. Every day they give us means more weapons, more ammunition and the chance of reinforcement.”
“But the people . . .” Tekela protested.
“Will have to flee or see to their own defence.” Seeing the surprised hurt on Tekela’s face, Lizanne realised her tone had been sharper than she intended. “This is war,” she went on, moderating her voice a little. “Difficult choices have to be made.”
She turned to Alzar Lokaras. “Our situation would be greatly improved if we had more fighters,” she said.
“Not so easy mustering an army in Varestia,” he replied. “Our people have never taken well to being told what to do. Even the Corvantines never tried to introduce conscription here, with good reason. On top of that we have the clans to contend with. Half of them still have unresolved feuds with the other half. Many refuse outright to fight alongside each other . . .”
“They won’t refuse me,” Varkash said softly. Lizanne had intuited that Alzar was not a man to willingly tolerate an interruption and took note of the fact that he did so now, albeit with an angry clench to his jaw. “Not when I’ve spoken to them,” Varkash went on, addressing his words to Lizanne. “Give me one ship and ten days, I’ll bring you another thirty thousand fighters.”
“Take them,” she told him. “In the meantime General Arberus has graciously consented to take command of our land forces. Training will begin as soon as possible, but we require a base of operations within reasonable marching distance of the Jet Sands. The Mount is too small and isolated.”
“Here,” Alzar said, pointing to a small isthmus about seventy miles north of Blaska Sound.
“Gadara’s Redoubt,” Varkash said. “As good a place as any, if a little ill-omened.”
“Ill-omened?” Arberus asked.
“It’s a hill-fort,” Alzar replied. “Long out of use. Built three hundred years ago by the pirate queen Gadara Slavas, considered by many to be the last monarch of Varestia. She made her final stand against the Corvantines at the Redoubt. The walls are in a state of disrepair but much of the fort itself was hewn out of solid rock and remains habitable. It also has wells for freshwater and overlooks a plain large enough to encamp an army.”
“Sounds acceptable,” Arberus said.
“Tekela will fly you there today,” Lizanne said. “Captain Alzar, please have your fleet begin ferrying troops to the Redoubt. I’ll join you in a few days. There are things to see to here.”
* * *
• • •
“A mile?” Lizanne squinted at the calculations on Tinkerer’s blackboard, finding little meaning in any of it.
“If the device is constructed according to specifications,” he told her. “There may be some variation in the blast radius according to variable weather conditions, but a mile is a reasonable estimation in most instances.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, more in wonder than doubt. “How?”
“Using a kerosene-gelatine mix in place of a standard fuel, an oxidiser-based explosive will generate a more energetic and sustained blast wave.” He blinked at her blank expression and added, “It will work. Trust me.”
“And it can be carried by an aerostat?”
“As long as crew numbers and additional weight are kept to a minimum.”
She stared at the board for a moment longer, pondering the implications of unleashing such a device upon the world. It was only one of several notions Tinkerer had proposed since emerging from his coma. The time spent imprisoned in his own mind had evidently generated a great deal of inventive energy, much of it of a worryingly destructive nature. If he can make this, she thought, what else can he make?
“Manufacturing time?” she asked.
Tinkerer turned to her father who had been summoned from the aerostat shed for an engineering opinion. “It will require transferring labour from other tasks,” he said. “Meaning no more rockets. And I’ll have to conduct some experimentation with materials . . .”
“How long, Father?” Lizanne insisted.
“Ten days, to make one device. And I’ll need a thousand workers to do it.”
“I’ll give you double the work-force,” she said, “to make two.”
* * *
• • •
Gadara’s Redoubt was in fact a chain of forts rather than a single holdfast. They were linked by a series of walls that followed the line of a ridge dominating the interior of the isthmus in an inverted U. The elevated position afforded clear views of the landward approaches. The Redoubt’s main keep consisted of a huge rocky mound which had been honeycombed over the course of succeeding decades to accommodate a number of chambers of varying sizes, providing enough space to house several battalions of troops. The mound was crowned by a narrow tower in a poor state of repair, though enough of the steps remained to allow Lizanne to climb to the top. She found Arberus there, binoculars held to his eyes as he surveyed his troops on the plain. It was a week since the conference aboard the Viable, and the army encamped below had grown to over fifty thousand fighters.
“How goes the training?” she asked him as she reached the top.
“It proceeds with varying success,” he said, a faintly sour note to his voice. “The Varestians excel in marksmanship and close-quarters combat, but ask them to march in line and they descend into a childlike state.”
“Is it strictly necessary to march in line on a modern battlefield?”
“Military discipline requires cohesion, the ability to work as a team. Drill is a useful way of instilling such discipline. These people know how to fight, but I contend they don’t yet know how to war.”
“Then they’d best learn quickly.”
He lowered his binoculars at the seriousness of her tone, eyebrows raised. “You have news?”
“I just tranced with Morva. The columns are returning to the main camp, with numerous captives in tow. We can expect them to march within the week. It’s time, General. Please muster your forces and advance to the Jet Sands with all possible haste.”
CHAPTER 42
Clay
“You�
�re certain this will work?” Hilemore asked him.
“I ain’t certain of anything much these days, Captain,” Clay replied. “But I do know there’s no way this fleet’s gonna make it across the Orethic in the state it’s in. But a blood-burner might.”
Hilemore turned away from him and moved to the starboard rail. Clay could almost feel the man’s guilt as his gaze tracked over the burnt and blackened fleet. In addition to the damage done the cost in lives had been heavy, as had the toll in wounded. Every ship still afloat reported sick bays full of burnt and maimed crew. Fully half their stocks of Green had already been expended in keeping the wounded alive.
“Just one battle,” Clay heard Hilemore murmur to himself.
“One battle don’t make a war,” Clay said. “The fleet may be done but the war ain’t.”
“You would have me abandon them?”
“Lutharon’s lost all scent of any Blues. They’re either dead or fled. The fleet can make its way back to Stockcombe.” He steeled himself for what he had to say next, aware of the likely reaction but also knowing it had to be said. “They did what we needed, anyways. If we’d tried to sail alone the Blues would’ve done for us.”
He refused to look away as the captain rounded on him, a dangerous glint in his eye. Since meeting Hilemore Clay had thought him incapable of breaking, a man so bound up in duty and the need to do what was right it was impossible for him to waver. Now he saw just a man like any other. Braver than most to be sure, and expert in fighting at sea, but still just a man who could be borne down by guilt. At another time it might have stirred Clay’s empathy. But today, with so much at stake, it just made him angry.