The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “Looks like Green country to me,” Loriabeth said as they made camp, eyeing the surrounding foliage with evident suspicion. “And you can bet there’ll be other Blacks about somewhere.”

  Kriz tended to Clay’s injured hand as they shared the first watch. He found himself blinking tears and swallowing profanity as she bathed the various small wounds with diluted Green. Seeing his discomfort, she took a vial from one of the pockets on her belt and loaded it into her needle gun. “This help,” she said, pressing the muzzle to his neck and pressing the trigger to inject the substance. Clay gave a gasp of surprise as the pain abruptly vanished, the sensation transforming into a faint and not unpleasant tingle. Kriz completed her work by taking small bandages from her pack and fixing them over the ends of his two most badly damaged fingers.

  “Well, that’s surely something,” he said, flexing the fingers and marvelling at the lack of pain. Whatever she had given him didn’t seem to impair his senses the way laudanum or poppy paste might. “Guns and medicine of marvellous design. And all this.” He gestured at their surroundings. “Your people were kinda special, huh?”

  Kriz gave a faint smile, her gaze full of the same fascination she had displayed since they hauled him to the top of the cliff. It was an unfamiliar expression, one Clay had never thought might be directed at him, so it took awhile to place it. Awe, he realised. And a touch of fear too.

  “How?” she asked now, flattening one hand whilst she danced her fingers atop the palm, miming a recreation of him jumping and raising the slab.

  “It’s a new trick,” he confessed. “Seems like the more Black I use, the more tricks I can do.”

  She frowned and he realised that they were once again at the limits of their ability to communicate. Either that or she was being deliberately obtuse, still clinging to her secrets behind a veil of incomprehension. He had secrets of his own, of course. He hadn’t told her or the others about the egg in his pack or the newly filled vial he had attached to the chain about his neck alongside the one containing Blue heart-blood. But he doubted his small subterfuge would alter their chances of survival, whereas her knowledge was certain to be of vital importance.

  “Trance with me,” he said, taking the wallet from his jacket and extracting a vial of Blue. He held it up before her eyes, tilting it to and fro so it caught a glimmer from the red glow of the cylinder. “Trance with me and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Kriz looked away, her face taking on a familiar mix of reluctance and refusal.

  “Gonna have to happen sometime.” Clay returned the vial to the wallet. “You know that, right?”

  She didn’t reply but he sensed she caught his meaning, in the tone if not the words. She kept her gaze averted for a moment longer then abruptly stood, gesturing for him to follow suit. “There,” she said, pointing at something far off in the gloom. At first Clay could see only the jagged grey outline of the mountains beyond the forest, then saw she was pointing at something above the peaks: a thin pale line ascending into the black void. Some trick of the faux-sunlight must have concealed it when they scaled the cliff, but now it stood revealed as the distant glow caught its edge.

  “Another shaft,” Clay realised aloud. He turned to Kriz and laughed. “That’s where you’re taking us? Why didn’t you say so?”

  He began to give her an appreciative pat on the shoulder but she stepped back, features tense now. Her expression was harder than ever to read, fearful certainly, but also some guilt there in her eyes. It left him with the distinct impression that whatever awaited them at this new shaft, it wasn’t a way out. “We . . .” Kriz began, speaking slowly and forming the words with care, “trance . . . there.”

  “And what’s there?” he pressed, putting a hard insistence into his voice.

  Kriz turned and resumed her seat, face set and unyielding as she muttered a soft response he knew would be her last word of the evening, “Father.”

  • • •

  They saw no Greens as they made their way through the forest, nor any of the tell-tale marks the beasts were apt to leave on tree-trunks to mark their territory. But that didn’t mean the forest was void of life. Small birds moved in darting flocks about the tree-tops whilst larger creatures lived in the trees themselves. Clay soon recognised them as belonging to the same species as the Black’s part-eaten prey back at the cave. They were small monkey-like creatures with dark fur, stunted legs and long arms which they used to swing from branch to branch. They tended to make a righteous din upon sighting their party, screeching and hooting as they gathered into a protective huddle. Larger specimens, presumably the males, would be more active, bouncing on tree-branches as they bared an impressive set of teeth. One even threw twigs at them as they passed beneath the tree, screeching out a challenge.

  “You ever see the like?” Clay asked Sigoral, ducking as the twig sailed over his head.

  “I saw monkeys aplenty in Dalcia,” the Corvantine replied, raising his carbine and using the spy-glass-sight to gain a closer look at the still-screaming creature. “Much the same size, though their heads were smaller and eyes bigger.”

  “Could bag a few,” Loriabeth suggested, hefting her repeating rifle. “Some fresh meat certainly wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “No!” Kriz moved to stand in front of her, then switched her stern visage to each of them in turn. “Leave . . . be. Not food.”

  “Alright, cuz,” Clay warned his cousin as she started to bridle. “Reckon we got grub enough to last us to the shaft.”

  If Kriz didn’t see the monkeys as food, it was not a sentiment shared by the local population of Blacks. They saw the first one a few hours into their trek, a male by Clay’s reckoning given the breadth of its wing-span, which was much broader than the female Loriabeth had killed at the cliff. They watched the Black glide above the trees with something dangling from its claws, something that wriggled and screeched as it was borne towards the grey peaks beyond the forest.

  “Might explain why there’s no Greens here,” Clay said. “Blacks won’t tolerate the competition.”

  “Let’s hope they tolerate us,” Loriabeth said. “Leastways long enough to get where we’re going.”

  Kriz led them on for another two days, eventually calling a halt when the forest began to give way to rocky hills. The mountains were looming ever larger ahead, as was the relentlessly inviting sight of the shaft. Clay could sense the impatience in Sigoral and Loriabeth, the growing desire to be gone from this place of wonder and ever-present danger. He shared their hunger for escape, but found his appetite for answers even more pressing. It was what they came for, after all. He had followed the vision gifted by the White’s blood in the hope that the spire might harbour some hope of defeating the beast’s design. Instead, he had uncovered a maddening and complex enigma, one Kriz apparently felt no compulsion to unravel for his benefit, at least not yet.

  He watched her scan the hills up ahead then straighten as she caught sight of something. A grin broke over her face and she began to run, scaling the rock-strewn incline with impressive agility and speed that left the three of them struggling to keep up. When Clay eventually caught up he found her standing before a plinth sitting alongside a huge boulder.

  “Looks like she found us another treasure trove to raid,” Loriabeth said, mopping her sweat-covered brow with a kerchief.

  “I ain’t too sure about that,” Clay said, seeing the conflicting emotions play over Kriz’s face as she regarded the plinth’s crystal. Her grin had been replaced by a wide-eyed anticipation that abruptly turned to a grimace of trepidation. Clay moved to her side and nodded at the boulder. “Worried what you’ll find in there, huh?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, apparently understanding enough of his words to reply with a nod.

  “Don’t be,” he said, putting a hand on her arm and hefting his carbine. “You got us backing you.”

  Kriz gave a brief, humou
rless laugh, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “No . . . need guns . . . here,” she said, placing her palm on the plinth’s crystal and stepping back. There came the now-familiar grind of stone and blossom of dust as a segment of the boulder’s surface receded then slid aside. This time there was no rush of air, meaning whatever waited within didn’t require a vacuum. The interior was completely dark which seemed to heighten Kriz’s agitation. She motioned for Loriabeth and Sigoral to light their lanterns, peering impatiently into the gloom until they did so.

  The lights revealed a narrow tunnel and a series of stone steps descending deep underground. Clay turned to Kriz, seeing that her trepidation had deepened, but there was also a steely resolve in her gaze. She said something in her own language, a brief muttered phrase that Clay fancied might have been a prayer of some kind, then took Loriabeth’s lantern and started down into the dark.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lizanne

  The assembled mass of convicts rushed through the gate with a roar of primal triumph, a roar that quickly faded as they were greeted by the thick smoke and thunderous chaos of battle. However, the combined weight of numbers and desperation ensured their charge continued, the close-packed throng streaming through the gate and spreading out to cover the cobbled parade-ground in front of the gate. A thin line of constables and Imperial soldiers had been hastily assembled to oppose them, but their volley was a ragged and pitiful thing against such an onslaught. The constables broke and ran after their first shot, the soldiers managing one more volley before they were swallowed up by the mob. Lizanne closed her ears against the brief but piercing shrieks as the soldiers fell victim to the fury of the escapees, keeping her gaze fixed on the Electress who, in turn, had her meaty hand fixed on Tinkerer’s arm. She moved with a tight-packed body-guard of Furies led by Anatol. The giant had loosed all the bolts from his cross-bow and now used it as a club, Lizanne seeing him bring the stock down to shatter the skull of a fallen sergeant before moving on with a steady and purposeful stride.

  Opposition stiffened as they pressed on, rifle-bullets twitching the smoke with increasing frequency, soon joined by a cannon-shot that sent swarms of canister into the ranks of the inmates. The mob’s speed had lessened now, people moving in a scuttling crouch as if caught in a heavy downpour. It was clear to Lizanne that someone of sufficient rank and composure had managed to organise an effective defence. She drank a small amount of Green and leapt, rising high enough to see above the smoke. Her enhanced vision revealed a full regiment of Imperial Cavalry, most dismounted and scurrying into a defensive formation. One battery of cannon had been set up in the centre of their line with another in the process of unlimbering on the right flank. Lizanne managed a quick headcount before gravity asserted its grip, and she found that the regiment was smaller than it should be by at least a squadron. Her second leap revealed the reason. Beyond the line of dismounts a thick swirl of dust rose as mounted troopers battled an unseen foe in a close-quarter contest of sabre and pistol. The Brotherhood, she realised. It appears they arrived on time after all.

  Lizanne landed and rushed to where the Electress and the surviving Furies were crouched behind a row of upturned carts. The mob’s advance had halted now as the troopers’ massed carbine fire took an ever-increasing toll. Escapees clustered in knots or fled in panic, seeking refuge on the flanks which only exposed them to more accurate fire as they fled the concealing shroud of smoke. Lizanne saw one of the Furies clutching a rifle and tore it from his grasp, delivering a discouraging Green-enhanced slap when he bristled in protest. She checked to ensure Tinkerer was still unharmed, albeit remaining in the Electress’s grip, then moved to Anatol’s side. “Lift me,” she told him, taking another gulp of Green and checking to ensure the rifle had a bullet in the chamber. Anatol just stared at her in naked animosity until the Electress spoke up, “Just do it. Can’t lie here all day, now, can we?”

  Anatol gave a snarl then grabbed Lizanne by the waist, raising her up above his head as if she weighed little more than a feather pillow. Lizanne allowed the Green to flood her system, her entire body seeming to thrum with the sudden injection of boosted strength and reflex. Time slowed as she brought the rifle to her shoulder, her pulse a faint, ponderous drum-beat as the drifting smoke stilled and the whine of passing bullets became a lazy drone. She trained the rifle on the regimental line, eagle-sharp eyes scanning for her victim. Where are you, Colonel?

  She found him in the centre of the line, where a good commander should be. The colonel was mounted on a sturdy black charger and appeared the epitome of a Corvantine officer with his stern grey-moustached features and chest beribboned with an impressive array of battle honours. Lizanne thought he might almost have stepped out of a painting from the way he sat tall in the saddle, sabre resting on his shoulder as he boomed out encouragement to his men. A man that other men would follow anywhere, or despair at his passing.

  Her bullet took him in the chest, ripping through his medal ribbons to find his heart. Impressive to the end he managed to stay in the saddle for a short while, gripping the pommel and continuing to shout his orders even as blood rushed from his mouth. Then, inevitably, he slipped slowly from his perch and lay still as his charger nibbled at his slack face.

  Lizanne drew back the rifle’s bolt to eject the spent cartridge and held out a hand to the Furies crouched below. “Ammunition please.”

  She killed the gunners next, picking off all but one of the battery in the centre. The final gunner took to his heels the moment his sergeant slumped dead beside him, leaving the twelve-pounder silent. On either side of the gun she could see cavalry troopers exchanging fearful glances, though they continued to maintain a steady fire at the prone and immobile mass of escapees. Their collective nerve only began to truly falter when Lizanne started to pick off the sergeants, obvious panic rising with every slain veteran. Open discord broke out on the left flank when she put a round into the head of a barrel-chested colour-sergeant bearing the company pennant. A squadron of troopers rose from their firing positions to begin an unbidden retreat, heedless of a vicious haranguing from a young officer. The panic soon spread to the neighbouring squadron, their line fracturing into confused knots as they saw their comrades succumb to fear. Within seconds the whole left side of the regiment’s line was in disarray.

  “That should do it,” Lizanne said, slipping from Anatol’s grasp and tossing the rifle back to its owner. She drew her revolver and caught the Electress’s eye. “Unless you would rather lie here and wait for them to recover their wits.”

  She moved on without waiting for a response, draining all three vials of her remaining product before accelerating into a Green-powered run towards the disrupted regiment. A dozen or so troopers fired at her but she was moving too fast, the bullets whipping harmlessly at her back. She made for the cannon on the right flank, now fully unlimbered but still unfired as the crew dithered over what to do. Deciding not to allow them the time to reach a decision, Lizanne sprinted to within thirty yards of the cannon and leapt, unleashing a blast of Red as she sailed over the battery. The intense wave of heat ignited the crew’s powder store, blasting them and their twelve-pounder apart in a bright orange fire-ball. The explosion had the added benefit of finally overturning what reserves of courage remained to the cavalrymen. The entire regiment broke as one, their line fragmenting as they turned and ran for their tethered horses.

  Lizanne came to earth amid a party of stragglers, most of whom wisely kept running, although she was forced to shoot an overly dutiful corporal who felt obligated to aim his carbine at her. A growing, angry murmur drew her gaze back to the parade-ground. The escapees were rising, their ranks swollen by a steady tide of convicts still streaming through the gate. The mob’s previous angry roar had changed now, the sound concentrated into a simmering, hungry growl. Dust rose as the horde cleared the parade-ground and swept over the dry grass beyond. It mingled with the drifting gunsmoke to obscure the dreadful spectacle as
the citizens of Scorazin reached the milling ranks of Imperial troops, however the screams were ample evidence of vengeance being enthusiastically slaked.

  Lizanne staggered a little as the last of Julesin’s sub-standard product faded from her veins, leaving a residual nausea and weariness. She wandered back to the remnants of the cannon she had destroyed, slumping against an upturned gun-carriage. She knew she should be looking for Tinkerer amidst all this chaos but her fatigue was suddenly undeniable.

  “Emperor’s balls, but you look terrible.”

  She raised her gaze to regard a tall figure reining in a horse a few yards away. Arberus slid his bloody sabre into its scabbard before leaping from the horse’s saddle. He rushed to her side, reaching out a steadying hand as a wave of fatigue threatened to topple her to the ground.

  “You always say the sweetest things,” Lizanne replied, raising a hand to brush away a patch of bloody grime on his chin. “Please don’t feel compelled to apologise for your tardiness, otherwise I might find myself quite undone by your abundance of affection.”

  “Can’t account for bad luck,” he said, his gaze betraying a certain guilty defensiveness. “Seems the Thirty-eighth Imperial Light Horse stops by every few months to drop off their prisoners. They arrived just as we started our charge.”

  Lizanne cast a gaze around at the carnage revealed by the thinning smoke. Many convicts were either busily looting the troopers’ bodies or squabbling over the spoils. Others could be seen rushing off in all directions, keen to put as much distance between themselves and Scorazin as possible. Most, however, stood around in loose groups, faces writ with confusion or fear. These were the gang members and veteran inmates, those who had spent years behind the walls and now had either no notion of what to do with their sudden liberty or a grimly realistic understanding of their situation. Winning freedom was one thing, keeping it was another.