by Anthony Ryan
“So you know others?”
“A dozen or so. There are more, but the Cadre burned all the holy books, so I s’pose they’re gone for good.”
“Yet another Imperial crime to be punished in full when we get to Corvus.” Makario sighed and stepped closer to Hyran, placing a hand on his chest and another on the small of his back to ease him into a more upright pose. “Posture is important, my boy. Raise your chin and let the words soar. Contrary to popular belief the voice comes from the stomach, not the throat.”
“If you’re quite finished,” Lizanne said, impatience adding an edge to her tone. The army had made camp for the night and she had sat watching Makario tutor Hyran in the finer points of vocal performance for nearly an hour now. The musician had remained close to her since the escape, pitching his tent beside hers every night and rarely straying more than a few yards from her side. He had escaped Arberus’s training regimen by appointing himself Assistant to Miss Blood, though his duties in that regard seemed minimal to Lizanne’s eyes.
Miss Blood. The name had re-emerged during their time in Hervus and soon spread throughout the ranks of the army. She suspected Arberus might well have had a hand in resurrecting a title she thought left behind in Feros. Perhaps he sought to cement her position in this unwise expedition whilst also publicising the fact that the army boasted at least one Blood-blessed in its ranks.
“We have work to do,” she told Hyran, rising and plucking a vial from the Spider.
“Oh can’t you leave him be?” Makario implored, striking a somewhat theatrical pose as he placed himself protectively between her and Hyran. “I seek to educate him in the arts of life, whilst all you do is mire him in the arts of death.”
“You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?” Lizanne enquired.
Makario gave a sullen frown and slouched aside. “Actually, I only thought of it a moment ago.”
“Black,” Lizanne said, tossing the vial to Hyran. “Just a drop. We need to husband our supplies.”
So far these nightly training sessions had done little to bolster her faith in the youth’s abilities. His lack of experience and limited exposure to product made him a slow student, barely capable of more than a first-year girl at the Academy. He tended to exhaust any Green he imbibed in a matter of seconds, proving repeatedly incapable of suppressing the exhilaration that accompanied the rush of vitality. His use of Red was clumsy to the point of danger, not least to himself as evidenced by the long scorch-mark on the sleeve of his jacket. However, he did at least display some facility for Black, managing to exert an impressive level of control over the objects he grasped, though his choices were a trifle obvious.
“Smaller is often better,” she told him as he slammed a large boulder against the trunk of a near by oak. The great tree shuddered at the impact, shedding leaves that cascaded around them in a green rain. The boulder itself shattered on impact, sending stone shards in all directions, one of which found the back of Makario’s hand.
“Have a care, if you please!” he huffed, mopping at the bleeding scratch with a kerchief. “These”—he raised his hands and twiddled his fingers—“are my fortune, after all.”
Lizanne ignored him and pointed to a small stone lying close by. “Try that one,” she said. “See if you can set it spinning before you throw it. It’ll fly straighter.”
Hyran frowned and focused his gaze on the stone, raising it to eye level where it hovered and shuddered as he attempted to add the spin.
“Just one hard shove at a single point,” Lizanne advised. “Like flipping a coin. Momentum will do the rest.” The stone lost its shudder then abruptly began spinning so fast it blurred. “Focus on the target.” Lizanne nodded at the oak. “Remember, the quicker you do this the better. Product is always finite.”
The stone vanished and Lizanne initially thought Hyran had exerted enough force to crush it, but then saw a plume of powdered bark and wood blossoming on the centre of the oak’s trunk. “Faster than a bullet,” she told him, gratified by the mingled surprise and satisfaction on his face. “Send a swarm of them into the closed ranks of an advancing regiment and the results can be impressive.”
“I’ll try a load at once,” Hyran said. He raised the vial to his lips then frowned in annoyance when she reached out to tug it from his grasp.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid this is your last lesson. We can’t afford to expend any more product. Not if we’re to have any chance against the Blood Cadre.”
“You’re sure they’ll turn up then?” He tried to hide it but Lizanne could see his fear. At least he has enough wit to be afraid, she thought.
“I regret to say I’m quite certain of it.”
Her gaze was drawn to a commotion in the camp, soldiers clustering around Arberus and the Electress as buglers blew an inexpert rallying signal. Near by Lizanne could see Korian and a cluster of mounted Brotherhood scouts, the steaming breath of their horses indicating a recent arrival after a hard ride.
“And perhaps sooner than expected,” she added. “I do believe we are about to have some Imperial company.”
CHAPTER 38
Clay
The White’s cry faded after a few seconds, leaving the four of them standing back-to-back in primed and silent vigilance. The surrounding gloom seemed suddenly impenetrable, compelling Clay to enhance his vision with a swallow of Green.
“You see it?” Loriabeth whispered as he scanned the landscape, finding only yet more rocks each one of which possessed an uncanny ability to resemble a crouching drake.
“No,” he whispered back, “but it’s out there for sure.”
“Too much to hope you might be mistaken, I suppose?” Sigoral enquired in a tense mutter.
“It’s not a sound I’m ever likely to forget, Lieutenant.”
“Felt close,” Loriabeth said, the butt of her repeating rifle braced hard against her shoulder. “Musta’ seen us.”
“It saw us,” Clay assured her, his gaze flicking from one rock to another. Although Green enabled his eyes to pierce the dark to a high degree, there were still shadows of sufficient depth to conceal a full-grown White. The sense of being observed was strong and he could imagine the beast lurking in a rocky nook as it gazed upon the strange two-legged intruders into its domain. What’s it waiting for? he asked himself. He knew this beast would be smart, a drake that understood much of what it saw, and perhaps what it heard. If it’s waiting it has a reason.
A faint breeze chilled his scalp and he jerked his gaze upward, eyes roving the blank sky until he saw it, a broad-winged silhouette thirty yards above, moving in a slow circle. Clay gauged its size as a little larger than the fully grown male Reds he had seen in the Badlands. He raised his carbine and trained the optical sight on the silhouette. The range was well within reach of this weapon, but he had severe doubts the carbine’s ammunition could pierce the hide of a White. Also, even with Green in his veins the chances of making a head-shot against a moving target were minimal.
“I’ll follow your aim,” Loriabeth said, raising her repeating rifle. “Aim for the wings. Once it’s down I can make the kill-shot.”
“If we miss it’ll be on us in seconds,” he replied. “Ain’t a good idea to provoke one of these things.”
“Since when did they need any provocation?”
A loud clack snapped his gaze to Kriz, finding her standing with the bulky form of her bomb-thrower raised high and her face set in a fiercely determined grimace.
“Don’t!” he shouted, reaching out to push the weapon aside just as it gave a loud cough and a bright plume erupted from the muzzle. The projectile gave a faint whistle as it arced into the air before exploding in a blaze of white fire that banished the gloom in an instant. The flare dangled from a small canopy of some kind, casting forth a blazing light that painted tilting shadows over the surrounding rocks as it swung about. The White scre
eched in response to the sudden illumination, revealed in full as it angled its wings and swept towards them. Clay was struck by how thin it seemed in comparison to the full-grown cousin he had confronted beneath the mountain. This one had a neck that seemed more bone than flesh, its wings thin and ragged as was its hide. He stood in frozen surprise as it flew closer, his eyes picking out the mottled patchwork on its scales, before Loriabeth and Sigoral opened fire in unison.
The White twisted as bullets rent the air around it, swooping low then high in an effort to avoid the stinging rain of metal. Sparks flew from the rocks as they chased it across the half-lit landscape, the staccato rattle of their guns soon joined by the percussive boom of Kriz’s bomb-thrower. The White jerked left and right as the bombs exploded around it, Clay seeing one come close enough to blast a hole in its wing. It landed as his companions emptied their weapons and the gun-fire died.
They began to reload with feverish energy, Clay keeping his gaze locked on the White as it crawled towards them across the rocks, covering the distance in a skittering blur, mouth gaping as it summoned its fire. He fumbled for his vials, gulping down Black and stepping forward just as the flames started to blossom. He had intended to hold the beast in place but the urgency of the moment made him clumsy. Instead of freezing the White the unleashed wave of force blasted it to one side. The gout of flame streaming from its jaws went wide, though not before leaving a patch of flame on the sleeve of Clay’s duster. He ignored it and tried again, reaching out with his invisible hand to grab the White so Loriabeth could put a bullet through its brain. Once again it evaded him, leaping to the side as the Black cracked rocks to powder.
Clay sank into an involuntary hunch as gun-fire erupted again, Loriabeth and Sigoral moving to his side and blazing away with their reloaded weapons. The White screamed under the lacerating barrage. Clay saw several impacts on its flesh, though no evidence it had suffered serious damage. It leapt high, wings scattering shards of rock into their faces as it sought the air, then jerked spasmodically as one of Kriz’s bombs struck it square in the chest. The White’s wings folded as it plunged back down, smoke rising from a glowing orange spot on its chest. It began to thrash, tail whipping and wings fluttering, issuing an enraged scream along with an intense stream of fire.
Kriz stepped to Clay’s side, her face still fixed with a determined rage. He watched as she switched the drum on her bomb-thrower, slotting a new bulkier one into place. “What is—?” he began then stepped back in alarm as she lowered the angle of her weapon and resumed fire.
The first bomb struck the White just below its neck. Instead of the explosion Clay expected it gave a dull, popping hiss as it blossomed into a ball of flaming sparks, so bright his eyes flooded with water and he had to look away. Kriz continued to fire, emptying all six bombs in the drum in as many seconds. When he looked again, squinting from behind shaded eyes, he saw the White writhing in a bath of pure flame. It gave a final screech before succumbing to the inferno, the tail, now scorched and mostly denuded of flesh, rising to coil like a somnolent snake before subsiding into the all-consuming heat.
“Well,” Loriabeth said, giving Kriz an appreciative hug. “I guess that’ll do it, hon.”
• • •
He found a pool of the White’s blood in the lee of a large boulder. It was shallow and part congealed, probably the fruit of one of Loriabeth’s bullets. In the gathering light of the false dawn the blood appeared almost black and deeply uninviting. Clay well remembered his only previous taste of raw White blood and had no desire to repeat the experience, but they had come here in search of answers. Sighing he dipped an empty vial into the pool and scooped up a portion of the blood, careful not to get any on his fingers. He washed the excess away with his canteen and consigned the vial to his wallet before moving to join the others.
They stood around the blackened patch of rock which marked the White’s passing. The fire unleashed by Kriz’s weapon was evidently the result of some clever chemical concoction for it had reduced the beast down to a collection of blackened bones. Its skull was a cracked and wasted thing, though enough of it remained to form an eye socket. Clay couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying to that empty hole.
What did you know? he wanted to ask it, his gaze lost in the dark recess of the skull. Did you have the same purpose as your friend up top?
“The Wittler Expedition powdered up the bones,” Loriabeth said, poking a toe into the ash.
“Then went crazy and killed each other,” Clay reminded her, finally managing to tear his eyes from the White’s skull. “Think they’re best left where they lay, cuz.”
“At least we know they’re not invincible,” Sigoral said. “If we’ve learned nothing else here, there’s that.”
“This one wasn’t whole,” Clay said, shifting his gaze to Kriz. She stood regarding the beast’s remains in silence, apparently lost in thought. He recalled the animal’s comparatively spindly appearance and the mottled nature of its hide. Also, fast as it had been it was still sluggish compared to the only other White he had met. “Something was wrong with it. Had it been full-grown and healthy, we’d likely be the ones all burnt up. Right?” he asked Kriz, raising his voice and pointing to the White’s remains, speaking slowly. “It . . . was . . . sick.”
She met his gaze and gave a brief nod, frowning as she struggled to formulate a response he would understand. “New . . .” she said, grimacing in annoyance then trying again. “New hatched.”
Clay’s mind immediately went to the opening in the cliff they had found the day before. Too regular to be natural and coughing up smoke. “Hatched,” he repeated, pointing at the ground. “Hatched down below, right?”
She nodded, offering an apologetic smile as she gestured to the remains. “This is . . . one. There are . . . many.”
“Well ain’t that just fine,” Loriabeth said, casting a wary gaze around.
“We go,” Kriz said, moving away to gather up her pack. Clay wanted to object, compel her to wait so they could finally trance. But he knew she was right. If there were more they couldn’t linger.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, donning his own pack and unslinging his carbine. “Lori, follow at a twenty-yard interval. Lieutenant, guard the rear if you please. Keep an eye on the sky. We push hard from here on. No sleep till we reach the shaft.”
• • •
They covered perhaps another five miles without incident, their progress inevitably slowed by the increasingly steep landscape. The hills had now become mountains and they were climbing rather than walking. Clay soon felt obliged to surrender the lead to Sigoral, who possessed a keener eye for the most efficient route up the successive slopes, each one more treacherous than the last. Almost all greenery had vanished now, save for the occasional patch of moss. Also the air grew noticeably colder with every passing mile, so that their breath soon began to steam in the chill.
“At least there’s no snow,” Sigoral observed during a brief rest stop. They were required to clamber from one rock to another, putting Clay in mind of children scaling a staircase. After a few hours his leg had begun to ache once more and his chest burned from exertion.
“Guess whoever made it wasn’t overly keen on being too authentic,” Clay replied, taking a long pull from his canteen. He resisted the urge to take another gulp. Their canteens were becoming increasingly light and he hadn’t seen another stream since leaving the ledge where the White met its end.
“Which once again raises the question of who made it and why.” The marine met Clay’s gaze for a second before his eyes flicked towards Kriz, who had perched herself on a boulder a few feet below. “Questions that require answers, Mr. Torcreek.”
“She says we’ll trance again at the shaft. Guessing we’ll get our answers then.”
“If we can trust she intends to keep her word to a bunch of savages.”
There was a bitterness to Sigoral’s vo
ice that Clay didn’t like, and a certain resentment in his expression as he regarded Kriz. “Why don’t you just throw down your scrip, Lieutenant,” Clay said.
Sigoral frowned at him. “My scrip?”
“Old Blinds expression. Means say what you gotta say.”
The Corvantine inched closer, lowering his voice. “I catch her expression sometimes when she thinks we’re not looking. My old captain had a similar look in his eye when he surveyed his crew, but he didn’t bother to hide it. Contempt, Mr. Torcreek. That’s what she thinks of us. To her we are just useful primitives. Which raises the question of what happens when she’s done with us.”
“Or maybe she worries what we’ll do when we’re done with her.”
“A question we also should be pondering.”
Clay held the marine’s gaze for a second longer then looked away. “We’ll keep a keen watch on her,” he said, his tone short. “Best get moving,” he added, jerking his head at the slope ahead.
“I was there when the drakes rose off Carvenport.” Sigoral straightened, shouldering his carbine. “I know what is at stake here. We both have a duty to perform. Rest assured I will perform mine, regardless of how unpleasant it becomes.”
“Then you’d better hope we see things the same way when the time comes.” Clay met his gaze again, holding it for longer this time. Eventually Sigoral’s mouth formed a faint grin before he gave a shallow nod and resumed the climb.
• • •
By the time the light began to fade they had reached a point less than two miles from the shaft. It had swelled to monolithic proportions now, rising into the black void beyond the reach of the lights. The urge to press on through the dark was strong, but the route that confronted them forced a pause. They had ascended to the top of a plateau to find that there was only one remaining peak to scale. It was a broad mountain with an artificially flat summit where a building of familiar construction sat. Viewed through the optic of his carbine Clay found it to be a much larger version of the structure on the island, standing at least twice as high, its broad base covering most of the mountain top. The shaft rose from the structure’s roof in all its weird majesty and irresistible promise of escape. However, between them and the mountain stood a ridge no more than five feet across at its widest point. Clay could make out signs of construction along the ridge as it wound its way towards a point less than a few hundred yards from the mountain’s summit. The ridge was littered with patches of flat stone and disordered brickwork bespeaking a once-impressive construction.