The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “I—” Lizanne’s breath scattered grit across the floor as she fought to add her voice to the last vestiges of breath the Electress forced from her body, the words emerging in a garbled torrent, “I’m a Blood-blessed Ironship operative I can get you out . . .”

  The pressure paused, then relaxed a little. “Ironship? You expect me to swallow that shit, dear?”

  “It’s true,” Lizanne heard Makario say. “I watched her kill Darkanis.”

  “Your word isn’t worth a rat’s turd to me just now,” the Electress told him. A brief pause for consideration then the pressure disappeared from Lizanne’s back, leaving her gasping on the floor.

  “Get up,” the Electress commanded. “So much as twitch and Anatol will put a bolt through your skull.”

  Lizanne rose to her feet, keeping her hands out from her sides, fingers splayed. The Electress stood a few feet away in a state of bloody dishevelment. Never particularly elegant she now appeared almost monstrous, her face covered in dust save for the patch of congealed blood stretching from hair to jaw-line. She held a large oak-wood cudgel in one meaty fist. Lizanne saw fragments of bone sticking to the gore covering its gnarled head.

  “Constable skulls crack just like any other,” the Electress explained.

  The basement roof had acquired a large hole and Lizanne could see Furies peering down at them, most bearing the minor scars and bleached features of those who have survived recent battle. She counted perhaps thirty in total, with one notable absence.

  “Where’s Melina?” she asked.

  “Lying in front of the Citadel with half her head blown off,” the Electress said. “Where the fuck d’you think?”

  I’m sorry. Fearing Anatol’s reaction Lizanne left the words unsaid, even though she was surprised to find her regret genuine. She also saw it mirrored in the slight stiffening of Tinkerer’s posture; she had been the only friend he could claim in this place after all.

  “The Learned Damned?” Lizanne asked, returning her gaze to the Electress.

  “Holed up on the far end of Sifter’s Corner, what’s left of them. That bomb you had them hide in the ore made a right mess of the Citadel but left two of the cannon intact. They must’ve cut down a hundred or more trying to rush the breach. Then the whole garrison sallied out, shooting down everyone still standing. Your genius scheme has wrought a great deal of havoc, my dear. But I suppose that was the point. A nice big diversion to draw every constable in the gatehouse to the Citadel whilst you and Tinkerer sneak out through the tunnels.” Her gaze shifted to the slender artificer, narrowing in consideration. “What’s so special about him anyway?”

  “He’s worth a lot to my employer,” Lizanne said. “Anyone assisting me in securing his safe passage from Scorazin will be handsomely compensated.”

  “Which means I may have need of him.” The Electress’s fingers flexed on her cudgel, her wide mouth forming a smile. “But not you.”

  “You need me to get you out.”

  Atalina surprised her with a laugh before replying in a precise, almost sympathetic tone. It reminded Lizanne of those card-players who enjoyed enumerating the mistakes of less expert opponents. “You silly, ignorant bitch. Didn’t it occur to you that the Emperor’s architects might have anticipated this? All the constables have to do is raise one sluice gate and the river will flood the tunnels. You were never getting out of here, and now half my people are dead.” The Electress stepped closer, the smile fading from her lips as her eyes grew bright in anticipation. “So, as I was saying, I don’t need you. And any day I get to kill a Blood-blessed is a good one. It’s thanks to fuckers like you I’m in here.”

  “I can silence the cannon,” Lizanne said, raising her voice so the onlooking Furies above could hear. “With the cannon gone the breach will be open, everyone will have a chance to escape.”

  She saw the onlookers stir at this, gazes previously filled with grim enjoyment of her imminent demise now lighting with fresh hope.

  “The nearest Imperial garrison is less than two days’ march from Scorazin,” Lizanne went on, voice raised even louder. “And you can bet that a messenger will already be galloping towards them with a call for reinforcements. You know what will happen when they get here. Open rebellion cannot be tolerated. Our lives mean nothing, the Emperor can always find more slaves for his mines. We either escape or we die.”

  She met the Electress’s gaze, seeing a lust for retribution vie with the career criminal’s ingrained instinct for survival. “You’ve done impressive things in here,” Lizanne told her, lowering her voice. “Think what you could do out there.”

  • • •

  It took over two hours to gather what remained of the gangs and other survivors persuaded or coerced into taking part in this desperate gamble. Chuckling Sim and Varkash had both survived the initial massacre, along with about two-thirds of their affiliated members. King Coal, however, hadn’t been so lucky. By all accounts the Scuttlers’ leader had met his end in surprisingly heroic, if typically enraged, fashion, hurling himself into the advancing line of constables armed only with a half brick. It seemed Kevozan had managed to crush the skulls of no less than three constables before a volley of rifle fire ripped him apart from groin to chest. Lacking an obvious successor, the Scuttlers had fragmented into several loosely organised subgroups. Luckily, they hadn’t required much persuasion before agreeing to lend their strength to the Electress’s proposal. Neither had the Verdigris nor the Wise Fools for that matter, Chuckling Sim and Varkash both displaying a fatalistic awareness of their current predicament.

  “We were all on borrowed time from the moment we came through the gate,” Sim said with a shrug before favouring Lizanne with one of his overly florid bows. “I should thank this gracious lady for at least offering a chance to breathe clean air once more, however slender.”

  Varkash’s response had been less eloquent, voiced in his nasal twang that now seemed markedly less comical. “A short death is bedder dan a long one.”

  The pragmatism of the criminal element, however, was not shared by those of a more political mind-set.

  “Corporate whore!” Helina’s left arm was constrained by a sling, but her right was both unharmed and possessed of an impressive strength and swiftness. She flew at Lizanne with knife in hand, obliging her to dodge aside but not before the blade had sliced open the sleeve of her overalls, leaving an inch-long cut on the flesh beneath. The diminutive woman’s fury was such that it took several moments for Demisol and the two other surviving radicals to subdue her.

  “Better get a leash on her,” the Electress advised as Helina continued to thrash in her comrades’ grip, spitting expletive-laden invective at Lizanne all the while.

  “Lying, profiteering cunt!”

  “You must admit she has a point,” Atalina said to Lizanne before stepping forward and driving a meaty fist into Helina’s midriff, which left her retching on the floor.

  “Rest assured I share your sentiments,” the Electress said, stepping back to address the radicals as one. “But we have little option but to trust this one.” She nodded at Lizanne with a humourless smile. “Lying cunt though she is.”

  Demisol crouched at Helina’s side, gathering her small form into a protective embrace. He shot a hate-filled glare at Lizanne before turning to the Electress. “What do you need from us?”

  “A distraction,” Lizanne said. “Do you have any explosives left?”

  • • •

  The Citadel resembled a cake which had been attacked by a greedy giant. Tinkerer’s bomb had carved out a twelve-foot-wide breach in the wall as well as demolishing much of the inner structure all the way to the main gate. Lizanne could just make out the huge barrier through the gloomy crevice, less than three hundred yards away. With the guns still in place it might as well have been a thousand. After their first sally the constables had retreated into a tight perimeter around t
he base of the citadel, crouching behind rubble piled into a barricade and firing at any inmates who dared show themselves in the streets. The intervening ground was liberally dotted with corpses, victims of the constables’ homicidal frenzy as they beat back the first disorganised rush of would-be escapees.

  “Stay close to the Electress,” Lizanne told Tinkerer. “If anyone is likely to make it through the gate alive, it’s her.”

  They crouched together in the remains of a house opposite the breach. The building had taken the brunt of the constables’ cannon fire, providing some useful piles of shattered brick for cover. It was late evening now and the shadows were growing long. Torches fluttered atop the barricade and the raised walls flanking the breach. Lizanne watched Tinkerer complete the modifications to the only bomb remaining from the supply she had provided to the Learned Damned. She kept hoping to hear the tumult of confusion heralding the Brotherhood’s assault on the outer keep, but so far there had been no sign of their arrival. She could only conclude the assault had already been launched and the Brotherhood defeated or, for reasons unknown, they hadn’t yet arrived. In either case, it was obvious she couldn’t rely on that particular diversion now.

  “To clarify your meaning,” Tinkerer replied, not looking up as his deft hands did their work, “you have calculated your own odds of survival as minimal.”

  Lizanne ignored his observation, taking Julesin’s wallet from her pocket and extracting all three vials. “There may be friends of mine waiting on the other side,” she said. “Members of The Co-respondent Brotherhood. Make yourself known to a man of military bearing named Arberus. He’ll be the tallest one among them. He will convey you to my employers.”

  “Your tone indicates a suspicion this man may no longer be alive. In which case what course am I to follow?”

  “Make your way to an Ironship holding by whatever means necessary. When you do, report to the company offices and tell them you have information for Director Bloskin. Mentioning my name will probably expedite matters.”

  “I do not know your name.”

  “Lizanne Lethridge.” She concentrated her gaze on the barricade, judging the best angle of attack. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “A name shared by the inventor of the thermoplasmic engine,” Tinkerer said. She detected a rare animation to his voice, a slight upturn in tone that could indicate he was actually impressed. “A relative of yours, perhaps?”

  “My father, though he let my grandfather take the credit. It’s a long and tedious story, best saved for another time.” She turned to him, seeing the paleness of his complexion beneath the pall of dust. He’s terrified. She almost laughed at the realisation, having thought such base emotion beyond him. “Do you have a name?” she asked. “A real one.”

  “‘Boy’ when I was small. ‘Tinkerer’ when I grew.”

  “I’m afraid that simply won’t do in civilised company. We’ll need to think of something else when time allows.” She turned back towards the Citadel, removing the stoppers from the vials. “When you’re ready,” she said, putting all three vials to her lips.

  Tinkerer tightened a screw on the bomb’s carapace and held it out it to her. “Three-second fuse.”

  She swallowed about half the vials’ contents in a single gulp, fighting down the resultant wave of nausea at the acrid taste and the instant ache the substandard dilutions birthed in her skull. Despite the product’s lack of refinement, its potency couldn’t be denied, her body seeming to thrum as the Green flooded through muscle and sinew, bringing a much-missed focus to her eyes. She took the bomb from Tinkerer’s outstretched hand, primed the fuse and hurled it at the barricade, the Green providing sufficient range to ensure it fell just beyond the barrier.

  She heard a few shouts of alarm from the constables as the bomb landed in their midst, accompanied by some panicked firing in expectation of an imminent assault. The firing intensified when the bomb detonated, not with a blinding explosion but a dull boom. The smoke blossomed immediately, the result of a chemical concoction Tinkerer had derived from a mix of sulphur, salt and steamed milk. The yellow cloud soon covered about half the barricade’s length, proving sufficiently dense to obscure the barrier from view, though Lizanne knew it would last only a few seconds.

  “Remember, stay close to the Electress,” she repeated before drawing her knife and vaulting over the ruined wall. She covered the distance to the barricade in the space of a few heart-beats. The smoke would have blinded her but for the Green in her veins, and the constables were not so fortunate. Some were coughing and stumbling about in confusion, others firing wildly into the haze. She leapt the barricade, killed the nearest constable with a single slash of her knife, the force of the blow sending him spinning like a top, blood spraying from the gaping rent in his neck. A rifle-bullet snapped the air an inch from Lizanne’s ear and she whirled, lashing out with a round-house kick that sent the rifleman reeling.

  She paused to finish him with the knife then took up his rifle, holding it by the barrel as she moved through the swirling yellow mist, clubbing down four more constables in quick succession until the weapon broke in two and she tossed it aside. The smoke had begun to thin now, revealing the breach and the walls on either side. The gun-crews were busily readying their pieces, Lizanne recognising the cylindrical shells being double-loaded into the barrels.

  She chose the gun on the right and sprinted for the wall, leaping high and latching onto the brickwork before scaling the remaining distance in a rapid scramble that denuded much of her Green. A gunner appeared at the top of the wall just as she reached it, eyes wide with terror as he levelled a revolver at her chest. He was just out of arm’s reach so she resorted to Black, plucking the revolver from his grip before unleashing a pulse that sent him flying backwards into the rest of the crew. She opened her hand to receive the stolen revolver and exhausted her remaining Green in eliminating the gun-crew, enhanced reflexes and vision combining to put a bullet in each gunner’s forehead in less than four seconds.

  She ducked at the sound of a barked command to her rear, bullets whining over her head to smack into the walls and the bodies of the fallen constables. Lizanne turned to see four gunners on the other side of the breach reloading their rifles. Beyond them a sergeant and two others were desperately manoeuvring their gun towards her. Lizanne turned her gaze to the gun standing a few feet to her right, an aged but serviceable six-pounder freshly loaded with two canister shells and a fuse already pressed into the firing port. She used her Black to push it around, raising the trail of the carriage to depress the barrel before unleashing a thin stream of Red to light the fuse.

  The recoil sent the gun careening backwards with sufficient force to buckle its carriage and leave it lying on its side, but not before it had fired its payload directly at the other gun-crew. Lizanne got to her feet as the smoke cleared, finding that the other gun was intact, whilst what remained of its crew had been decorated onto the surrounding brickwork.

  A great roar drew her gaze to the city in time to see what appeared to be its entire population rushing from the ruins. The Electress was in the lead with Anatol at her side and the surviving Furies at their backs. They were flanked by the Verdigris and the Wise Fools, clubs and makeshift spears waving and every throat voicing a cry so rich in blood-lust Lizanne found it pained her ears. Behind the three main gangs came the Scuttlers, their ranks swollen by the minor gangs plus those midden-pickers and mud-slingers who retained sufficient vitality to run.

  The horde swept across the open ground like a dark tide, apparently immune to the bullets cast at it by the surviving constables, overwhelming the barricade in an unstoppable frenzy of rage and desperation. Those constables not killed instantly tried to run but were soon swallowed by the mob and torn to pieces. Within a few moments the barricade had disappeared, Lizanne seeing the impaled heads of several constables held aloft in jubilation as the river of unwashed criminality flowed through the b
reach and on towards the gate.

  Lizanne paused to retrieve the revolver’s holster and ammunition from the body of its owner before drinking a large dose of Green. After clambering down into the now-densely-packed throng below she was obliged to force her way through to the gate, shoving numerous inmates aside and being none-too-gentle about it. Her way became easier when constables appeared in the exposed walkways above and began to assail the crowd with rifle fire. Screams of pain and outrage rose as a dozen or more inmates fell to the first volley. In response many streamed into the corridors and doorways laid open by the Tinkerer’s bomb, an animalistic cacophony echoing through the hallways as they hunted down the riflemen and exacted bestial revenge. Several uniformed bodies landed in Lizanne’s path as she continued her journey to the gate.

  She paused for a second at the sight of one constable’s body, lying in a twisted tangle atop another corpse clad in unusually dapper clothing. She hauled the constable’s body aside, revealing Chuckling Sim’s bleached and frozen features. A bullet had removed much of his upper skull but somehow his lips had contrived to retain some vestige of a grin even in death. The resultant flare of guilt was a surprise; the man had been scum after all. Like Melina, and the Learned Damned and every other wretch deservedly consigned to this place. But still the guilt lingered as she pressed on. Scum or not, they would have lived if she hadn’t come here.

  A dense knot of inmates assailed the gate, the tree-sized cross-bar and huge iron hinges groaning under the pressure, but as yet showing no signs of giving. She found the Electress alongside Anatol and Varkash at the fore of the throng and was gratified to see Tinkerer had followed her orders and stayed at the Electress’s side. His face remained as blank as ever, though there was a brightness to his eyes that told of unabated terror.