The Empire of Ashes

From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 32nd Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)

That the sad, ugly but mercifully brief affair that sparked the revolution has since earned the name “The Battle of the Barricade” says much for the scale of the fighting that followed. There had been some rioting following the mob assault on the banks, but this died down when it became apparent that the Protectorate was prepared to use lethal force to guard its principal installations. However, for the most part the Ironship military stayed in barracks, probably due to the sudden spike in desertions which robbed it of more than half its strength within a week. Sporadic gun-battles erupted between the constabulary and more radical anti-corporate elements, but the latter lacked sufficient numbers to be more than a nuisance. By far the most important thing to happen in the aftermath of what has, to my mortification, also occasionally been dubbed “Free Woman Tythencroft’s defiant stand” was the walk-out and subsequent strike by the vast majority of corporate employees in Sanorah.

Within two days every company office and manufactory in the city and outlying districts lay silent and empty, the strikers forming delegations which duly turned up at the offices of the Gazettein search of acknowledgment and guidance. My days soon became an often-trying mix of meetings, speeches, correspondence and yet more meetings. Those queueing up outside my door were a varied lot indeed, ranging from soldiers and sailors representing what has become known as “The Free Protectorate,” to civic and company bureaucrats who suddenly find themselves bereft of higher authority.

Rumours began to circulate following the brief spate of strife after the Battle of the Barricade that the interim Board had effectively ceased functioning, its principal members either fled to country estates or taken to secluding themselves in their town houses. It was a company of infantry from the Free Protectorate who confirmed this to be truth rather than rumour, barging into the Sanorah Ironship headquarters to find the upper floors largely empty. The senior management of the largest corporate entity in the world had, it appears, simply given up and gone home.

It was at this juncture that I realised my ad hoc approach to organisation was no longer practical and I began appointing deputies, assuring my fellow Voters that all such appointments would be confirmed by electoral sanction when the situation became less fraught. I have to admit to a palpable sense of the bizarre as I went about the business of building what is essentially a dictatorship, some might even call it a dynasty given that, lacking another qualified and trustworthy figure to fill the role, I was obliged to appoint my father to the position of City Treasurer.

The most pressing issue proved to be the most complex, despite its simple urgency: The city needed to be fed. The large corporate-owned farms surrounding Sanorah had stopped supplying food to the markets during the riots, and continued to withhold produce in the aftermath. Swiftly deposing their managers when wages stopped being paid, the farm labourers declared themselves a confederation of independents. They subsequently agreed to resume supplying food-stuffs only on condition that all outstanding debts would be paid, along with assurances that future debts would be honoured. It required several hours of persuasion to calm the more hot-headed elements of my nascent administration, who argued the Free Protectorate should be sent to seize the farms.

“Farms with dead labourers and ruined buildings won’t grow anything,” I pointed out, deciding on a more conciliatory approach. The main obstacle was the fact that, at the dawn of a new age in which corporate scrip had become worthless, how was it possible to pay anyone for anything? Fortunately, our new treasurer came up with a novel solution in the form of Liquidation Notes. These were essentially promissory notes issued by the Free Sanorah Republic guaranteeing the bearer an allotted share of assets resulting from the impending liquidation of the Ironship Syndicate and others. Whilst Ironship no longer possessed any financial wealth its warehouses and manufactories still held considerable stocks of goods of all description. Wealth, it transpires, is what those in authority deem it to be.

“But it’s just paper,” I protested when my father first proposed the measure. The prototype note he had given me consisted of a rectangle bearing a date stamp and two signatures, mine appearing above his.

“Of course it is, Lewella,” he told me in mild irritation. “That’s all money has ever been.”

Despite my misgivings the Liquidation Notes gained a surprisingly rapid level of acceptance amongst the populace, including the newly independent farmers, who soon resumed food shipments. I ascribed some of this to the prevailing mood of uncertainty; the appearance of something, however nebulous, that indicated a return to normalcy proving highly welcome.

In addition to local concerns there was also the continual distraction of events elsewhere. The Voters Rights Alliance has long made use of sympathetic Blood-blessed and they proved invaluable in keeping us up to date with developments from far and wide, the most important from my perspective being the communications from the Arradsian port of Stockcombe, not least because the event brought news I had begun to suspect I might never hear.

“Captain Corrick Hilemore,” the young Blood-blessed told me during one of our semi-regular meetings. He looked tired, having responsibility for maintaining communications with numerous locations despite a rapidly dwindling supply of product. “He says he knows you. I think they’re hoping you’ll tell them he’s lying so they can seize his ship.”

“I do indeed know him,” I replied, finding a genuine smile on my lips for the first time in many days. “And any attempt to seize his ship will be highly ill-advised.”

34th Vorellum

I have just concluded a highly taxing meeting with Mrs. Torcreek. Whilst I value this woman’s insights greatly, of late her brusque manners and increasingly unreasonable demands have been a distraction I could well do without.

I write these next words some minutes after penning the above paragraph, having partaken of a calming measure of tea. Mrs. Torcreek is more than just my friend, she is in many ways as crucial to the initial success of this project as I am. Without her, and the support of the Carvenport refugees, the barricade may well have fallen and I would be writing this journal in the seclusion of a Protectorate prison cell. So I will continue to attest my deep regard and respect for Mrs. Torcreek and hope our friendship continues. However, the simple matter remains that I cannot give her what she wants.

“The Protectorate’s still got ships,” she pointed out to me. “And soldiers. And I got plenty of folks willing to shoulder arms and join this fight.”

“The Free Protectorate’s maritime forces are in a state of considerable disarray,” I replied, forcing as much patient sympathy into my tone as I could. We had discussed this matter several times and I have always detested repetition. “Desertion has robbed the Northern Fleet of at least half its strength,” I went on. “Whilst the rest are scattered throughout Mandinor and elsewhere. Not all regions are sympathetic to our cause, nor all officers. As for our soldiers, given that the success we have enjoyed stemmed in no small part from the unwillingness of the rank and file to fight, I have few illusions they would be willing to sail across an ocean to do so in a war many regard as just a fanciful rumour.”

“Convince them otherwise,” Fredabel said bluntly. “You’re awful persuasive.”

“No amount of persuasion can overcome hard realities. This nascent republic of ours hangs by the slimmest thread. I regard it as nothing short of a miracle that we have avoided outright civil war. Sending the bulk of our military strength off on an expedition from which it seems unlikely they will return is unwise to the point of folly, and I will not do it.”

Seeing a glint of anger spark in Mrs. Torcreek’s eye, I realised my tone had become more strident than I intended. “I am fully aware of and sympathetic to your concerns, Fredabel,” I said, striving to adopt a more sedate tone. “And, thanks to my recent communication with Captain Hilemore, I know how dire the situation in Varestia is. It pains me to say this, but in all likelihood the peninsular is already lost. This monstrous army will assuredly visit itself on the former Corvantine Empire before turning its gaze towards Mandinor. When that happens we will need to be ready to meet it, with all the weapons at our disposal.”

She stared at me with an expression it pained me to see on her face: deep, sorrowful disappointment. “Won your great victory over the corporate world,” she said. “Now you don’t want to risk it. If the White takes Varestia there’ll be no stopping it. The battle is there.”

I closed my eyes, sighing heavily and knowing our friendship was now in peril, but the burden of duty sometimes permits no recourse to sentiment. Power, I have learned, can be a lonely business. “I have made my decision, Mrs. Torcreek,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

35th Vorellum

The man who came to see me this afternoon was slight of build, his suit neat and nondescript, as was his face, neither especially handsome nor especially ugly. In short, he was the kind of man it would be easy to miss. It quickly transpired that this lack of notability was far from accidental.

The nondescript man had taken his place amongst the multitude of those who daily come in search of a meeting with Free Woman Tythencroft. The only noteworthy aspect to him was his willingness to wait patiently and without complaint. In recent days I have taken up residence in the formerly vacated Ironship headquarters, it seeming to me somewhat perverse and self-defeating to eschew use of eminently suitable accommodation for reasons of anti-corporate prejudice. It also benefited from a large and unheated lobby devoid of seating of any kind, meaning only the hardiest and most persistent souls will consent to wait out the hours required to gain access to my presence. Most can be diverted to my deputies and sundry officials, but others are not so easily palmed off. The nondescript man offered a card to the receptionist which stated his name, an alias I won’t bother to record, and business: Trans Global Export Consultant. His stated reason for seeking an audience related to “valuable information concerning the state of affairs in Varestia.”

I had him brought in immediately. My brief but highly significant communication with Corrick had left me in little doubt as to the importance of events unfolding on the far side of the Orethic Ocean and I was keen to obtain all the accurate intelligence I could.

“This . . . army,” I said, “of deformed and enslaved people . . .”

“And drakes,” the nondescript man put in with a polite smile.

“And drakes. They are now advancing into the peninsular itself?”

“That is my understanding. It is estimated that they will, unless faced with considerable resistance, complete the conquest of Varestia within a maximum of two months. After that we expect them to strike north into the Corvantine Empire proper, or is it Republic these days? So hard to keep track, don’t you find?”

“We?” I enquired. “Your company seems well informed, sir.”

The nondescript man remained silent for a brief moment before speaking two words: “Exceptional Initiatives.”

My initial impulse was to reach for the small bell on my desk and summon the two Free Protectorate soldiers stationed outside my door. For one who has devoted years to the Voter cause, these two words cannot fail to provoke alarm.

“There is no longer an Ironship Protectorate,” I pointed out, silently commending myself for the steadiness of my voice. “Therefore, there is no longer an Exceptional Initiatives Division.”

The nondescript man replied with a short laugh, but otherwise said nothing, continuing to sit in patient expectation of my next words.

“What do you want?” I asked, choosing the obvious route as I was suddenly in no mood for any cryptic obfuscation.

The nondescript man cast a glance around the room before replying. “We want in. It’s cold outside.”

“You expect me to find a place for your vile organisation within this administration? I think you mistake the nature of what we are building here.”

“On the contrary, we understand it very well. Power, Miss Tythencroft. You are building power, and for that to succeed you need us.” His hand went into the inner lining of his suit and emerged with a sheet of paper, which he unfolded before placing it on my desk. I saw it to be a diagram of some kind, though the long cylindrical device it depicted was unfamiliar.

“This,” the nondescript man said, “is a blueprint for a weapon of unprecedented destructive power and accuracy. It is currently being produced at a secluded location on the Varestian Peninsular, ostensibly as a defence against the invaders in the north. Should that defence succeed, exclusive rights to and use of this weapon will then fall to whomsoever has authority over the region. Unless I misjudge your character, I assume you fully appreciate the significance of this intelligence.”

I sat back in my chair, keeping my features expressionless. “You have a Blood-blessed agent on the peninsular,” I said. “Presumably located at the very place where this weapon is being produced.”

The nondescript man returned my gaze, saying nothing until it became clear that I had no intention of speaking until he did. “There are . . . sympathetic elements amongst those gathered to defend Varestia,” he said. “Some of them keen to exploit old contacts for personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons?”

“We are not the only former Ironship employees keen to find a place in your new world.”

I looked again at the diagram. It had long been my hope that, should the day ever arrive when the Voters Rights Alliance gained sufficient power to effect change in the world, we would aspire to something better than the greed and endless conflict of the Corporate Age. But then, none of us had ever envisaged the old world’s fall to happen so completely nor so swiftly. My days as unelected leader of this nascent government had left me with few illusions about the realities of wielding power, especially when my hold on it was so fragile.

“Can this device be replicated?” I asked.

“It can,” he assured me. “If the appropriate labour and resources are provided. However, I must point out that this device is the product of a very singular and unusual mind. Who can say what such a mind might produce in the future?”

I could have refused him, of course. I could have rung my little bell and had him thrown out, or even killed since there are many in the Free Protectorate perfectly willing to undertake such tasks. But I didn’t. Instead I clasped my hands together, conjured a brisk, businesslike smile to my lips and asked, “I assume you have a course of action to propose?”

CHAPTER 35

Hilemore

Colonel Kulvetch arrived late, marching along the outer-wall battlement in company with a full squad of South Seas Maritime Marines. Hilemore assumed her tardiness was the result of a careful surveillance of the wall to ensure the Voter rebels hadn’t prepared a treacherous ambush. Coll and Jillett had come to represent the Voters Committee along with a half-dozen fighters from the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers. Hilemore had arranged for the parley to take place atop the bridge that spanned the river flowing through the wall and over the falls. He thought it a rather marvellous piece of construction, an elegant stone arch some thirty yards long with a defensive tower at each end. The towers were unique amongst Stockcombe’s outer defences in that they hadn’t fallen into disuse. Although they now featured a pocked and cracked appearance thanks to the rival groups occupying them continuing to exchange fire throughout the crisis. Coll said the otherwise well-maintained appearance of the towers resulted from the corporate regime’s desire to police the main access point between the two halves of the city.

“You had to pay a three-scrip toll to walk from east to west,” he said. “They always did their best to keep the scum out.”

Kulvetch motioned for her escort to remain at the far end of the bridge and proceeded alone, ascending the curving incline and coming to a halt a few feet away. She gave Coll and Jillett a glance of cursory hatred before focusing her gaze on Hilemore, face rigid and voice clipped as she uttered a curt “What is it?”

“You saw the drake, I assume?” he asked.

“We did.”

“Then I also assume you know what it portends.”

“I know it means there are still Reds living on this continent. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

Jillett let out a disgusted snort but fell silent at Hilemore’s sharp glance. Persuading the Voters to agree to a parley hadn’t been easy, but at least they fully recognised the danger this city now faced. Kulvetch, he knew, would be even more reluctant to set aside her hatred and lust for revenge.

“I have sound intelligence,” Hilemore said, turning back to Kulvetch, “that a large host of Green and Red drakes is advancing towards this city. We estimate they will arrive in less than two days.”

Kulvetch managed to keep her reaction to a few rapid blinks of her eyes, but Hilemore saw how her throat bunched a little above the starched collar of her tunic. “What sound intelligence?” she asked. “Or am I to simply trust the word of a corporate officer who so willingly surrenders his honour to throw in with these murderous fanatics?”

“Your father was the murderer,” Coll shot back. “Where were you on Lomansday when he flogged and slaughtered innocent people? Busy at home playing with your dolls?”

“Enough!” Hilemore barked, seeing Kulvetch’s face redden with fury, her hand inching towards the side-arm on her belt. “I have thrown in with no one,” he told her. “I come here in search of common cause, for without it we may all be doomed.”

He paused, pondering his next words and coming to the conclusion that there was no longer much value in secrecy. “As for the source of my intelligence, the Blood-blessed on my ship is in trance communication with a Contractor company in the Interior. You wondered why we came here, well, they are why. Their mission is vital, and I must recover them.”

“So,” Coll said, “you want us to fight the drakes off long enough for them to get here.”

“I don’t need to stay here to recover them,” Hilemore replied, once again deciding honesty was the best tactic. “But I do need the ships in this port. Most are now willing to sail to Varestia where there is a struggle of far greater import than your feud.”

“What assurance do I have that any of this is true?” Kulvetch asked.

“Wait two days and find out, you silly bitch,” Jillett advised with a bland smile.

Kulvetch flushed a little with suppressed rage and addressed her next question to Hilemore. “You propose we evacuate?”

He shook his head. “There aren’t enough ships to accommodate more than a quarter of your population. You questioned my honour, but it’s my honour that keeps me here rather than leaving you to your fate. I have formulated a plan which may succeed in ensuring this city’s survival, but to survive you’ll have to fight, and fight together. If you can’t do that, tell me now and we will be on our way.”

Kulvetch and the two Voters continued to stare at each other during the lengthy silence that followed. Hilemore felt as if the air separating them had somehow become heated with their mutual enmity. He had begun to wonder if this hadn’t been a fool’s errand when Coll spoke up, speaking directly to Kulvetch, “It’s a truce. That’s all. We ain’t forgiving or forgetting nothing. When it’s over there’ll be an accounting.”

“A day I hunger for,” Kulvetch replied before turning to Hilemore. “Your plan, Captain?”

They didn’t like it, nor had he expected them to, but at least grudgingly agreed to put it to their respective populations. Hilemore spent the rest of the day overseeing the redistribution of crew and fuel amongst his new fleet, all the while expecting both sides to respond with a firm no. However, such worries were overthrown by the reappearance of the Red that afternoon.

It flew lower this time, descending to a height that proved irresistible to marksmen throughout the divided city and the fleet, who let loose with a furious barrage of rifle fire. The Red twisted and turned in the sky above the harbour, the hail of bullets thrumming the air around it without scoring a hit. Hilemore detected, or perhaps imagined, a taunting note in the screech the Red let out before flying off to the north, chased by yet more ineffectual rifle fire. Despite the waste of ammunition the drake’s visit had the beneficial effect of focusing minds on both sides of the falls and Hilemore received the agreement of both factions by nightfall.

Via a trance with Zenida, Clay had confirmed that the Greens appeared to be keeping to the western bank of the river. Greens were renowned as good swimmers but at this latitude the river was too fast-flowing even for them, meaning their assault would fall on that side of the city. Colonel Kulvetch seemed to enjoy almost absolute authority over the western side for the bulk of the populace obediently decamped for an orderly transfer to the other side of the falls. Many made their way over the bridge but most were moved by the ships in the harbour.

At Kulvetch’s insistence an entire quarter of the eastern side had been cleared to make way for the new inhabitants. The civilians were preceded by a large contingent of Marines, who cordoned off the allocated streets. There were complaints, of course, few west-siders relished the prospect of taking up residence in what one middle-aged manager referred to as “the hovels of the uncontracted.” But the mood for the most part was one of fear rather than defiance. At least for the time being the citizens of Stockcombe were willing to forgo their bitter little war for the sake of survival.

It took over thirty hours to fully clear the west side, save for a few die-hards who refused to leave their homes. They were mostly former senior management types, those who had survived the initial bout of conflict but then found themselves side-lined in the days that followed, their skills and prior authority suddenly rendered meaningless. Colonel Kulvetch displayed an unsuspected sentimentality in not having the heart to compel obedience from these impotent luminaries. Hilemore, finding the issue a distracting nuisance, didn’t press the matter when she refused his offer to have the stubborn old buggers forced into boats at gunpoint.

With the transfer complete he arrayed the ships into a defensive line across the harbour, starboard hulls facing the other side. Every cannon, rifle and harpoon in the fleet was arrayed along the starboard rails and west-facing upper works. Unsurprisingly, the Dalcian vessels proved to contain the most armaments, piracy being a time-honoured hobby amongst those who plied the merchant trade. Altogether, Steelfine reported a total of seventeen cannon and three hundred rifles, plus the harpoons of the Blue-hunters. It was less than the combined fire-power of a single Protectorate flotilla but it would have to do.

Hilemore put more faith in the mines with which they had seeded the harbour waters. The value of such devices had been made clear to him amidst the southern ice and he had the survivors from that travail to thank for the rapidity with which the mines had been manufactured. Furthermore, a number of nasty surprises had been prepared in the streets of the west side. Hilemore knew this would all take a fearful toll on the Greens, but the Reds were another matter.

He had Kulvetch and the Voters place all the armed personnel under their command on the roof-tops of the east side. There were a few Contractors amongst the Voters with experience in killing drakes, but the bulk of the defenders had been told to aim for the wings rather than waste ammunition in vain attempts to achieve a head-shot. Positioned at various points in the streets were numerous fire-fighting squads armed with buckets and pump hoses. It was a measure of Hilemore’s assessment of their ability to defeat the coming assault that the fire-fighters outnumbered the armed defenders by two to one.

Time, he reminded himself as he made his way to the crest of the arched bridge. Night was coming on fast and his gaze was fixed on the northern horizon beyond the moonlit waters of the river. We just have to buy enough time.

He had left Steelfine in command of the Superior in favour of occupying a vantage point atop the east-side bridge tower. He had complete faith in the Islander’s ability to command in combat, besides which the plan allowed little scope for improvisation when set in motion. In fact there was only one decision to be taken dependent on the outcome of events. Mothers with children had been secluded in the cellars closest to the docks, ready to be rushed to the ships for a swift evacuation should the coming battle turn into a disaster. It would entail raising the harbour door on a one-moon night, meaning the lower portion of the city would be lost along with many of the townsfolk, but he considered this preferable to the alternative.

Hilemore had asked for only one volunteer to accompany him, Lieutenant Talmant stepping forward immediately. Hilemore’s first impulse had been to inform him that he belonged on the ship, being technically third in command. But faced with the young man’s stern, almost demanding expression the words died on Hilemore’s tongue. The lad’s earned the right to stand where he likes tonight, he thought, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder and ordering him to draw a rifle.

Besides Talmant, he had been joined by the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers, there on Coll’s order with instructions to “keep the corporate bastard alive.” Hilemore thought them a strangely cheerful lot in the circumstances, clustering round a flaming brazier as the night drew on and engaging in banter rich in mutual ridicule and lacking any mention of the impending danger. He detected a forced tone to much of their profane humour and knew it to be a refuge from fear, one he didn’t begrudge them.

The company included one additional recruit, there at Hilemore’s insistence and provisioned with as much product as he felt able to spare. Jillett had objected to being placed under his command, expressing a desire to stand alongside her Voter comrades in a speech that was rich in indignation but, to Hilemore’s ears, lacking in conviction. He could see the palpable fear in her eyes as she stood amongst the Volunteers. As the Voters’ only Blood-blessed she had been shielded during the conflict and tonight would be her first true taste of battle. He had wanted to place her aboard the Superior as added insurance in case the ships were forced to flee, but knew that Coll and the rest of the committee would never have stood for it.

The time before battle was usually a trial of jangled nerves and unnaturally long minutes, so he felt a pang of paradoxical gratitude when the drakes chose not to keep them waiting. “Sir,” Talmant said, handing him a spy-glass and pointing to the north. It didn’t take Hilemore long to find them, Nelphia’s light shimmering as it played over the mass of Greens on the western bank of the river. They were moving at a steady loping trot rather than a mad rush, presumably to conserve energy for a charge when they drew closer. He quelled an upsurge of dismay, realising it indicated some kind of reasoning intelligence behind this attack.

“We could just go,” Zenida had said before he took his leave an hour earlier. “This lot are intent on killing each other in any case. What do we owe them?”

“There are children here,” he said. “And others who took no part in this bloody farce. I can’t just abandon them.”

She hadn’t pursued the issue, merely shaking her head with a weary grin as she said, “You would have made a terrible pirate.”

“Send the signal,” Hilemore said. He raised the spy-glass to the sky finding it a starlit, partially clouded spectacle free of any drakes. They’re up there, he knew. Too high to see, probably.

The night was split by the flat crump of an exploding rocket as Talmant let the fleet and the city know the enemy was in sight. The message was answered with a prearranged chorus of sirens and steam-whistles from the ships, intended to wake any drowsing defenders on the roof-tops. Hilemore lowered the glass to gauge the progress of the Greens. They were keeping close to the edge of the river, those in front increasing their speed, mouths gaping as they let out their challenge calls. It grew in volume as the mass drew nearer, the screeching barks combining to produce something that resembled the burgeoning growl of a hungry monster.

“Oh fuck me,” he heard a Wash Lane Volunteer mutter then curse as one of his fellows cuffed him to silence.

Hilemore tracked the leading Greens until they reached the base of the wall on the far side of the river. They boiled over the partially ruined structure in a leaping, snarling torrent, some charging directly into the town whilst others scrambled onto the battlement and sprinted towards the bridge.

Hilemore closed the spy-glass with a brisk snap and handed it back to Talmant before descending the tower steps at a measured walk. He moved to the box positioned at the point where the bridge met the eastern wall. One of the Volunteers barked out a command and they moved to position themselves alongside him in two ranks, kneeling in front, rifles and carbines levelled.

“Save your rounds,” Hilemore advised, turning the locking switch on the box and elevating the handle. Chief Bozware had rigged this some hours earlier, Hilemore unwilling to trust the task to anyone else. “Once the lock’s off just push it forward, sir,” he said. “There’s a one-second delay, give you a chance to put your hands over your ears.”

He told the Volunteers to do this now, but, receiving only puzzled glances in response, shrugged and turned his attention back to the bridge. The first Green crested the span almost immediately, flames already blooming in its maw. The Volunteers all fired as one, peppering the bridge with bullets and scoring hits on the beast’s forelegs and shoulders but failing to stop its charge. Seeing another two Greens behind it Hilemore decided further delay would be unwise and pushed the handle on the detonator before clamping his hands over his ears.

The blast wave was sufficient to send Hilemore and the Volunteers sprawling, blinking rapidly against the instant pall of dust then huddling or dodging to avoid the falling cascade of debris. Hilemore shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears, rubbing at his eyes and wafting smoke. When it cleared he was rewarded with the sight of a dozen or more Greens tumbling into the space where the central span of the bridge had been. They fell screeching into the fast-flowing torrent below to be instantly swept over the falls. The momentum of the Greens’ charge was such that the cascade of falling drakes continued for several minutes, much to the amusement of the Volunteers.

“That’s it, drown, you scaly fucks!” a thin-faced girl yelled across the divide where a dense throng of Greens milled about the end of the stunted bridge, shrieking in rage and coughing out flames. “Try and eat us now!”

Hilemore shifted his gaze from the enraged Greens to the west-side streets below the wall, seeing them packed with a tide of onrushing drakes. The first booby trap went off a few seconds later, the explosion destroying the fountain in one of the palatial squares in the administrative district. Hilemore saw at least ten Greens tumbling amidst flame and debris. The remaining traps exploded in quick succession, each blast seemingly bigger than the one before.

Despite the carnage the Greens charged undaunted through the streets towards the harbour. The bulk of the booby traps had been placed in and around the harbour side, explosives strapped to the piers and wharfs in the expectation the Greens would be drawn there, and so it proved. The entire water-front seemed to instantaneously erupt into a wall of flame. Numerous mansion houses were transformed into rubble by the multiple blasts, which birthed a series of raging fires.

Hilemore called for Talmant to toss him the spy-glass and trained it on the water-front, seeing a mass of drifting smoke and rising flame. For one brief moment he entertained the notion that they had stopped the Greens completely, perhaps destroyed them all, but a brief scan of the neighbourhoods beyond the inferno revealed ever more Greens thronging the streets. Undeterred they charged through the raging fires and into the harbour waters, churning them white with multiple overlapping wakes as they swam towards the western side of the harbour.

Hilemore was impressed by the discipline of the merchantmen who, as instructed, held their fire, waiting for the moment when the Superior let loose with her broadside. The first mine erupted when the Greens were a third of the way across the harbour, producing a sixty-foot-high spout of water along with several dismembered drakes. The remaining mines exploded in quick succession with similarly grisly results. For a brief time it seemed the harbour waters were boiling, such was the energy released in so short a time. Water lapped over the east-side wharfs like waves in a storm-tossed sea and the line of ships heaved in the swell.

“Did we get all the bastards, Cap?” one of the Volunteers asked, the hefty lad who had shown an interest in Hilemore’s medals.

“It’s Captain,” Hilemore replied, watching the displaced water subside back into the harbour in a miniature rain-storm. “And I very much doubt it.”

An instant later a Green shot from the water barely ten yards from the hull of a Blue-hunter and latched itself onto the forward anchor chain. It managed to scramble halfway to the prow of the ship before a fusillade of rifle-shots from the crew sent it flailing back into the water. Small-arms fire erupted as Green after Green shot through the surface, reminding Hilemore of a huge shoal of salmon making their way up-stream. Most were cut down in mid air but some managed to gain purchase on the rails, casting their flames across the decks and roasting several crewmen before being shot down. Hilemore saw with dismay the numerous white flashes close to the Superior and knew the mind overseeing this attack had recognised the greatest threat and concentrated its forces accordingly.

Thankfully, under Steelfine’s command the Superior proved equal to the task. The cannon arrayed along the starboard rail fired successive blasts of cannister as the Greens rose into their sights, blasting most to pieces. The few who did manage to clamber up the hull were swiftly cut down by experienced marksmen on the upper works.

Taking the sound of the Superior’s cannon as their cue the other ships opened fire with their heavy ordnance. At Hilemore’s insistence they had all been loaded with cannister or, in many cases, a collection of any hard metal that could be found. The deadly rain lashed the harbour, killing Greens still attempting to swim across from the west side and catching many as they leapt clear of the water.

The cannon fell silent and Hilemore knew this to be the moment of greatest danger as the gun-crews frantically began reloading their pieces. The burden of holding off the Greens now fell on the riflemen and those merchant crew with small-arms. The crackle of rifle- and carbine-shots sounded the length of the ships, the marksmen moving to the rail and firing down at the Greens below. The drakes seemed to have abandoned their tactic of leaping for the rails in favour of climbing up the hull with the aid of their iron-hard claws. Several ships began to take on a serious list as the weight of drake flesh dragged them down. Hilemore bit down a curse at the sight of drakes swarming over the side of a small steam-packet. The potentially disastrous loss was averted when the next ship in line, the freighter commanded by the Dalcian pirate woman, turned its freshly loaded cannon on its neighbour and raked it with cannister-shot. Blasted free of drakes, the steam-packet righted itself but there was no sign of life, either drake or human, on its deck.

The Greens seemed to vanish when the rest of the fleet resumed fire with their cannon, those attempting to haul themselves up the hulls slipping back into the water. Hilemore could see numerous drake corpses bobbing on the surface and knew that in daylight the entire harbour would now be stained a deep crimson. It would probably burn to the touch too, he thought, pondering the grimly amusing notion that, with product now so scarce, he had inadvertently created a vast pool of wealth.

“Sir,” Talmant called from the tower, Hilemore looking up to see him pointing to the eastern rim of the crater. “Some sort of commotion.”

Hilemore raised his glass, blinking in alarm as a bright plume of flame occluded the eyepiece. When he looked again he was confronted with the sight of a Red drake clambering down from the ruined wall. It launched itself forward and landed amidst a group of defenders on a near by roof-top, jaw snapping and tail lashing as it cut them to pieces in a matter of seconds. Flames flooded the view once more and Hilemore lowered the glass to see dozens of dark shapes crawling down from the wall and into the town, fire erupting every time one reached the outer houses.

They were supposed to attack from the air, he thought, a hard ball of guilt-ridden despair building in his gut, fed by the certain knowledge of being outgeneralled. The Greens were just a distraction.

“Mr. Talmant!” he called up to the tower. “Get to the Superior and tell Mr. Steelfine to load standard shell and concentrate fire on the eastern rim of the crater. Spread the word to the other ships to do the same.”

“Aye, sir!” Talmant snapped off a salute and swiftly descended the tower steps before sprinting off along the battlement.

Hilemore drew his pistol, casting his gaze around at the Wash Lane Volunteers before it fell on Jillett. “I believe, miss,” he said, “it’s time for you to drink some product.”

CHAPTER 36

Lizanne

There is no such thing as a fair fight, one of Lizanne’s instructors had told her years ago. Just the fight you win and the fight you lose.

Given that he hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to tie her up or maim her whilst in the trance Mr. Lockbar, she assumed for reasons of professional pride, had apparently decided he wanted a fair fight. It was a singular miscalculation.

She side-stepped his blade, ducking as she did so and feeling the sting of its edge nick her ear. She stiffened the fingers of her left hand into a spear-point and jabbed it into his wrist before he could draw the knife back, hitting the nerve required to loosen his grip and allow the weapon to fall. The momentary distraction would have been enough to dodge away, perhaps make it to the window, but the image of Makario slumped over the pianola’s dripping keys banished such considerations. Instead she pressed herself to him, wrapping her legs about his waist and one arm around his neck in a strange parody of a lover’s passionate embrace. But she had no love to offer Mr. Lockbar.

He tried to choke down his scream as she drew back her free arm and jammed her thumb into his eye, digging deep whilst simultaneously clamping her teeth onto his nose. She worried at it with terrier-like energy, blood flooding her mouth, her thumb digging ever deeper. They careened about the room in a mad waltz, Lockbar’s scream finally escaping his throat. He hammered at her, fists like balls of iron as they pummelled her back and head. Lizanne barely felt it, putting all her strength into her limbs and her jaw, feeling a fierce exultant satisfaction as her teeth met and her thumb made a wet pop as it sank deeper into his eye-socket.

Lockbar howled in mingled rage and pain, charging forward to slam her into the wall, once then twice. With Green in her veins she might have been able to withstand it, but not now. Her legs lost their grip with the third slam, Lockbar tearing himself free of her. Too stunned to stand she could only slide down the wall and watch him stagger about, clutching his ruined face.

“Bitch,” he cursed in a high-pitched gasp, sounding like a child nursing a playground injury. The notion made Lizanne laugh, something to which Mr. Lockbar took understandable exception. “Dead . . .” he gasped, casting about with his one good eye until it alighted on his knife. “Fucking kill you . . .” He snatched the weapon from the floor, turning back to Lizanne. “Make you eat your own guts . . .”

Lizanne tried to get up but found her limbs unwilling to co-operate. Things might have gone very badly if Tinkerer hadn’t sat up in bed, unhooked himself from his saline bottle and thrown it at Lockbar. It was a well-aimed throw, the bottle shattering on the side of Lockbar’s head and making him stagger in confusion as blood seeped into his remaining eye. Lizanne willed all the strength she could into her limbs, bracing her back against the wall as she pushed herself upright. Seeing Lockbar scrape the blood from his eye she dived onto Tinkerer, grasping him tight and rolling both of them clear of the bed just before Lockbar’s knife sank into the mattress.

“Fucking kill you!” he roared, heaving the bed aside as they scrambled away. He lowered himself in preparation for a final, murderous charge, then the door exploded.

Lockbar whirled amidst a shower of shattered wood, lashing out with his knife as he shielded his face, but the knife met only air as he continued to slash . . . then froze. He stood there in mid-slash, pierced all over with splinters and blood streaming from his vanished nose and empty eye-socket.

“What do you want done?” Morva asked Lizanne, stepping through the remnants of the shattered door.

Lizanne disentangled herself from Tinkerer, helping him to his feet before turning her attention to Makario. The musician’s head lay on the pianola’s keyboard at an angle, almost as if he were resting. His eyes were open and Lizanne found his skin icy as she reached out to lay a hand on his cheek. The cut to his neck was deep and even now blood was still dripping onto the keys.

“Don’t kill him,” she told Morva, turning and moving to stand close to Mr. Lockbar. She peered into his remaining eye, wide and wet. “We still have a great deal to talk about.”

She didn’t ask questions, lacking the inclination and the skills for a proper interrogation which was a task best left in expert hands. Instead she had the iron works cleared, giving the workers a much-needed morning off, whilst Mr. Lockbar was suspended in chains above the huge smelting bowl filled with ingots which in turn sat above the sliding doors on top of the furnace.

Morva had offered to help but Lizanne sent her away, stoking the furnace herself, taking her time as she shovelled coke into the oven and ignited the kerosene-fuelled engine that worked the bellows. Lockbar hung in silence for the first ten minutes, blood leaking through the bandages on his face, applied none too gently by one of Dr. Weygrand’s orderlies. Lizanne was keen to ensure he didn’t bleed to death.

After a quarter of an hour Lockbar began to fidget, chains jangling as he jerked his body, but still refused to speak. Lizanne checked the temperature on the smelter’s gauge, and, finding it at the required level, opened the furnace doors. Lockbar’s fidgeting turned into desperate struggles at the sudden blast of heat, the first words emerging from his bandaged face as Lizanne climbed the scaffold to watch the smoke rising from the ingots in the bowl.

“We . . .” he said in his strange nasal rasp. “We are in the same business.”

Lizanne angled her head, watching the ingots on top shift as those on the bottom began to melt. Despite the heat she somehow contrived to feel cold, her face frozen and her hands numb as they settled onto the scaffolding. Makario’s music played in her head, or rather the music he had spent his life rediscovering. She made a mental note to ensure all his papers were properly catalogued and secured then closed her eyes, remembering that first time she had heard him play back in the Miner’s Repose. Even in the midst of the worst place on earth, there had been something magical about it. A jarring note interrupted her reverie and she realised Lockbar was speaking again.

“. . . not so different.” She opened her eyes to find him attempting to angle his body towards her, striving to meet her gaze. “We are guilty of similar sins, I suspect.” He grunted the words out, Lizanne seeing sweat bathing his skin as more smoke rose from the bowl. She could see the first flecks of molten metal bubbling up between the as yet unmelted ingots at the top. “So, I ask you,” Lockbar went on, “would you consider this a fitting end? Would you not deserve some courtesy?”

He had managed to contort himself sufficiently to meet her gaze, his one good eye gleaming amidst the mask of bandages. Lizanne felt no reluctance in meeting his gaze, nor any in looking away. She said nothing, watching the iron melt and realising with a pang of deep regret that she had never learned Makario’s full name. She could hear Lockbar continuing to babble out entreaties but none of it captured her attention until he began to bargain.

“I bribed a bosun on one of the pirate ships to smuggle me here,” he said, his eye flicking between her and the now-almost-melted contents of the bowl. “I can give you his name.”

Seeing the last ingot subside into the bright orange soup, Lizanne moved to the length of chain hanging near by. It ran through a series of pulleys from which Lockbar had been suspended and required only minimal exertion to shift him about.

“Arshav and Ethilda!” Lockbar went on, shouting now. “I know where they are. They left the Seven Walls! As you must have guessed. But I know where they went.”

Lizanne hauled on the chain, tilting Lockbar’s body so that his feet pointed towards the bubbling contents of the bowl.

“North!” Lockbar screamed, legs flailing as a splash of molten iron escaped the bowl. “They went north, intending to treat with the Corvantine rebels. I was to join them in Corvus.”

Lizanne’s hands paused on the chain, lips pursed as she considered the information. “Yes,” she said, “I thought they might.” Then she began to haul on the chain once more, lowering him towards the bowl.

“Lizanne!” Her father stood at the top of the ladder, breathless from the run that had brought him here and staring at her in appalled dismay. “What are you doing?”

“The ironworkers tell me it won’t spoil the output,” she said, continuing to haul on the chain.

“Stop that!” He rushed from the ladder, reaching out to grasp her hands. She grimaced in annoyance and tried to jerk her hands free but he held on. “This is not justice,” he said. “Justice requires a court and judge.”

“I’m not sure the world has a use for such things any more, Father,” she said, inclining her head at Lockbar. “Now there are only people like him, and me.”

He gazed down at her with the expression of a man seeing a baffling stranger for the first time. “What did they do to you?” he murmured, releasing her hands to cup her face. “What did they turn you into?”

“What did you think they would make of me, Father?” she asked. “When you let them take me, what did you think I would become? You must have known I was Blessed even before the Blood-lot. A clever man like you would have made sure to discover his daughter’s true nature, would he not?”

Professor Lethridge lowered his gaze, giving a fractional nod.

“And yet you let them take me.”

“It was the law.” She saw him wince in the knowledge that he had spoken a lie. A clever man like him could have hidden her, perhaps even taken her far away, where the Syndicate would never find her. “I thought it for the best,” he said, meeting her gaze once more. “Academy-educated Blood-blessed enjoy great privilege, have rewarding careers. What could I offer you? A lifetime tinkering with novelties with barely a scrip to rub together. I didn’t know . . .” His hands gripped her face more tightly and he leaned closer, whispering, “I didn’t know what they would do to you. If I had I would never have allowed it.”

She felt her purpose slip away then, her body seeming to sag as the need for retribution faded into simple grief and loss. “I am such a disappointment then?” she asked him.

“No.” He pulled her close. “No, you are what you have always been. A very frightening but wonderful surprise.”

And Lizanne Lethridge held her father tight and wept for the first time in many years.

Mr. Lockbar was executed by firing squad the next morning. His trial had been brief but as thorough as they could make it. Madame Hakugen sat as judge whilst Captain Trumane acted as prosecuting counsel. Ensign Tollver took on the role of defending counsel and displayed an impressive gift for inventive argument. Employing a fine set of rhetorical skills, the young officer contended that Mr. Lockbar’s actions, terrible as they were, had been committed in a location lacking anything that could be called established legal process, or even a canon of recognised law. Therefore, they were not technically illegal. Madame Hakugen, however, ruled in favour of Captain Trumane’s argument that the charter of the Mount Works Manufacturing Company had been constituted on the same basis as Ironship Syndicate law, a law that prohibited murder and mandated the death penalty for convicted offenders.

The firing squad consisted of riflemen from the Viable Opportunity, though there had been numerous volunteers from the ranks of the workers. Dr. Weygrand had been popular and many had also appreciated the nights when Makario would consent to play a tune or two once the shifts had ended. Lockbar was marched to the end of a pier at high tide whereupon he refused a blindfold and faced his executioners as they levelled their rifles in response to Trumane’s order. Lizanne had heard how it was common for a few shots to go astray on such occasions, thanks to the natural human aversion to killing. If so, it was not the case with Mr. Lockbar. Every bullet fired slammed home into his chest, sending him tumbling from the pier into the waters of Blaska Sound.

“Too bad about Arshav and Ethilda,” Alzar Lokaras said as Lizanne accompanied him back to his ship. “They’re probably a hundred miles away by now. And forget what Lockbar told you about their heading north, too many Blues. My guess is they’ll head for the Cape of Souls and then make their way up the east Corvantine coast. Either that or strike out for Dalcia, if they’ve got the fuel. You could send your flying contraptions after them . . .”

“We have a war to fight,” Lizanne interrupted. “Other concerns will have to wait. The Firefly made a reconnaissance flight yesterday, it seems the White forces are less than twenty miles from the passes.”

He nodded and they halted at the foot of the gangway to his ship. “The Blood-blessed will be put ashore this evening, those that were willing. Seems the Blessing isn’t a cure for cowardice.”

Cowardice? Lizanne wondered. Or wisdom? In times like these perhaps there’s no difference. “This operation is only a delaying tactic,” she told him. “Even if every aspect succeeds the main battles are still to come. We need fighters, as many as you can gather and transport to the peninsular in the time remaining.”

He gave a small nod, a frown of consternation on his brow. “Wish they’d obliged us with a sea battle. Ethilda wasn’t right about much, but she was about Varestians never being fond of fighting on land. It’s how the Corvantines beat us.”

“A clever enemy never does what you expect. And our enemy is aggravatingly clever.” She gave him a formal nod and turned to go.

“My niece,” he said, making her pause. “You’ll be taking her with you?”

“Of course,” Lizanne told him.

There was a guardedness to his gaze, his voice clipped to ensure it betrayed no emotion. “Be smart to have a few Blood-blessed in reserve, wouldn’t it?”

“Not if this is going to work. And I doubt I could make her stay behind if I wanted to.”

Alzar gritted his teeth as he went on, eyes averted. “She’s the last Blood-blessed left to the Lokaras line, even though she’s not truly of our blood.”

“The Blessing might not be a cure for cowardice,” Lizanne told him, “but apparently being part of your line is.” Alzar nodded but didn’t move, Lizanne swallowing a weary sigh at the sight of him struggling to find a way of asking for a favour in a manner that didn’t chafe his pride. “She’ll remain on the Typhoon,” she told him. “As a rear guard. With any luck she’ll be clear of danger for much of the operation.”

Alzar let out a grunt of apparent satisfaction, still not looking at her as he turned and made his way up the gang-plank without a word of farewell.

She returned to the town, making her way to the administrative building and forcing herself to return the greetings she received along the way. Grief should have been a familiar sensation by now, and she had hoped such familiarity would have calloused her heart against fresh pain. But it transpired that she had no such callous and the pain, fresh and very raw, made her less inclined towards conventional civility. Even so, she maintained as friendly a demeanour as she could when greeting her employees, though she was thankful that their apparently genuine respect was coloured by a certain wariness, even fear. They saw what I did to Mr. Lockbar, she knew. And what I wanted to do to him.

“I don’t mind waiting if she’s busy,” she told Madame Hakugen’s secretary upon entering the outer foyer of her office. The girl immediately blanched and scurried to the office door, opening it wide after a whispered enquiry with the occupant.

“Miss Lethridge.” Madame Hakugen rose as Lizanne entered.

“Madame.” Lizanne gestured at the chair in front of the director’s desk. “May I?”

“Of course. Dissel,” she said, turning to her secretary, “please fetch us some tea.”

“Tea?” Lizanne enquired, sinking into the chair with a raised eyebrow as the girl bustled out.

“Sovereign Black no less,” Madame said, also taking a seat. “A gift from Captain Kashiel. We were acquainted before in Lossermark. She always did appreciate the social aspect of business.”

“I trust you shared it with your staff.” Lizanne gave her a bland smile. “I am hoping to foster a more egalitarian approach to management in this company. Individual privilege would appear to negate that.”

“I have never been one to hoard luxuries, in truth we are about to enjoy the last of the supply.” She paused for a moment, eyes narrowing a fraction. “Am I to take it then that the Mount Works will adopt a radical approach to commerce? Your intention seems more in line with that of a Corvantine revolutionary than the traditional corporate ethos.”

“The traditions of the corporate world seem to have availed us little of late. I think it’s time we tried something different.” She reached inside the pocket of the seaman’s jacket she wore over her overalls, producing a sheaf of papers. “It’s all in here,” she said, setting the papers on the desk. “Proposed management structure and remuneration protocols.”

Madame unfolded the papers and began to read, her eyes narrowing all the while. She read in silence, scouring the pages with a scrutiny of sufficient length that Dissel had returned bearing a tea-tray by the time she finished.

“The difference between salaries for management and worker is hardly considerable,” Madame Hakugen observed after the girl had made her exit.

“Indeed it isn’t,” Lizanne agreed, taking a sip from the steaming cup Dissel placed in front of her. Sovereign Black had never been her favourite but, after so long without the taste of tea it was quite wonderful.

“And all employees are automatically made shareholders,” Madame went on.

“Yes, with current workers and managers all holding an equal number of shares. New workers, assuming we ever have the opportunity to employ any, will receive one share upon joining to be increased by a share a year until they achieve parity with their colleagues.”

“A co-operative,” Madame said, setting the papers down and reaching for her own tea-cup.

“Quite so. A company where everyone shares in the profits and is thereby incentivised to generate more. And I should like you to run it.”

“A novel proposal, and one I’ll certainly consider. But I find it odd you would put this forward now, with the continuing emergency . . .”

“I put it forward because of the continuing emergency. You’ll find another document at the end of the bundle. I ask that you witness it.”

Madame leafed through the papers until she found it, her brows knitting in puzzlement as she read the opening paragraph. “You appear to have written a will,” she said.

“I have. There was a pre-existing will stored at Exceptional Initiatives headquarters, but I suspect it’s ash by now. In any case, my wishes have changed since then. The list of beneficiaries is short and I trust you will ensure they all receive the allotted bequests in due course.”

“One typically puts one’s affairs in order in the expectation of an imminent demise.”

Lizanne pursed her lips in agreement. “One does.”

Madame Hakugen sat back in her chair, eyeing Lizanne closely. “The fact that you prepared a will indicates you expect the beneficiaries to survive, but you do not. Am I wrong?”

“Rarely, I suspect.”

The director let out a soft humourless laugh, shaking her head. “It is my contention that you are far too valuable . . .”

“Just sign it.”

Madame’s gaze snapped up at the hardness in Lizanne’s voice. She met the older woman’s eyes, making sure she understood her resolve. After a moment, Madame reached for a pen, dabbed the nib in an inkpot and added her signature to the document.

“Thank you,” Lizanne said, taking a moment to drain her tea-cup. “I have one more request before I go, regarding personnel.”

“Personnel?”

“Yes. I know you have compiled copious records regarding the prior occupations of our employees. I require one with a special set of skills.”

“All those with military experience have been identified . . .”

“Not military experience,” Lizanne broke in. “Theatrical.”

The Little Cut was too far away to hear the explosion but the cloudless morning sky gave Lizanne a clear view of it. She watched through the front window of the Typhoon’s gondola as a brief flash of white blazed in the centre of the pass before a vaguely mushroom-shaped cloud began to rise above the mountains of the Neck. The charges laid in the Small Cut exploded shortly after and soon there were two tall mushrooms rising to east and west. The demolition crews, all experienced miners or road-builders, had been dropped by aerostat three days before, working with feverish energy to complete the task in the time available. Lizanne had yet to catch sight of any Reds but knew their enemy must have seen the explosions.

They know the only quick route now lies in the Grand Cut, she thought. But will they take the bait? It was possible the White could steer its army towards the coast road to the west, buying the Defence League valuable time in the process, but she had a sense it would try for the pass despite the obvious risks. What does it care about risks? It can always make more Spoiled, at least for now.

She held on to the central support strut as Tekela put the Typhoon into a steep descent. The other Blood-blessed, ten in all including Morva, were crowded together in various states of white-faced nausea. For most it was their first trip in an aerostat, and three of the Blood-blessed from the Mount Works had never seen any kind of combat before. They all carried Smoker carbines and each had a Spider on their wrist, fully loaded with product. In addition they carried full flasks of Red, Green and Black with an emergency vial of Blue. It occurred to Lizanne that with all the product on their person those drafted into this mission might well be, albeit briefly, the richest group of individuals on the planet.

“Get ready,” Lizanne told them as the Typhoon levelled out. She peered through the rear window at the Tempest, the Typhoon’s recently constructed sister ship into which another thirteen Blood-blessed had been crammed. The Tempest bristled with armaments, two Thumpers on either side of the gondola with a Growler at the rear and another two in a fixed position at the front which could be triggered by the pilot. The look-out in the upper gondola also had a mini-Growler to ward off attacks from above. The Typhoon was armed only with Growlers thanks to the heavy object hanging beneath her gondola, which limited the weight she could bear and still manoeuvre.

“Check your watch,” Lizanne told Morva, who obligingly extended her wrist to display her timepiece. Lizanne placed her own watch alongside to ensure they were synchronised. “Start the trance . . .”

“In exactly two hours,” Morva finished. “Remain in the trance until you contact me or the product runs out. I know.”

Lizanne nodded in satisfaction and started towards the front of the gondola, pausing when Morva said, “It was my uncle, wasn’t it? He made you leave me behind.” There was no heat to her words, just careful observation.

“My trance connection with you is stronger than with the others,” Lizanne replied.

“Mrs. Griffan could have taken on the role.”

“Mrs. Griffan is insane. She’s better off remaining on the Viable.” She met Morva’s gaze. “You have this role because I trust no one else to do it.”

She returned to Tekela’s side, watching the approaching mountains. The morning winds were stiff but she had been advised by Varestians familiar with the region they would grow fierce as the day wore on. The Grand Cut came into view as they flew over the southern foot-hills. Lizanne found its appearance somewhat at odds with its name, a narrow, cliff-sided track tracing the contours between the flanks of two mountains. She took some solace from the photostats that showed the pass to be considerably wider to the north and, therefore, hopefully a more tempting option for whoever had command of the White’s forces today.

Tekela, having made this trip several times over the preceding days, steered the Typhoon towards a broad ledge jutting from a point a hundred feet or so up the eastern mountain. Reconnaissance had revealed this as the optimum landing site as there was a similarly proportioned ledge on the opposite side of the pass. Tekela brought the aerostat closer, deft hands correcting their course as the fractious mountain air-currents buffeted the craft. After a few minutes of careful handling the Typhoon hovered over the ledge at a height of twenty feet.

“Remember,” she told Tekela, “not until Morva gives the order. No matter what else might happen.”

Tekela looked up at her, the tension evident in her set features. “And if there is no order?” she asked.

“The mission will be over. Fly back to the Mount.” She paused before moving to the hatch in the floor. “And be sure to meet with Madame Hakugen as soon as you return.”

CHAPTER 37

Clay

It seemed as if half of Stockcombe was already alight by the time Lutharon swept over the outer wall. Fires raged on both sides of the falls and he could see people running through the streets on the eastern side. At first it appeared to be the chaotic end of another city fallen to the White’s malice, but then he saw smoke-plumes rising from the cannon on the ships in the harbour. To Clay’s bemusement they were firing into the eastern districts of the city, the shells falling amidst the houses closest to the rim of the crater. As Lutharon flew closer, however, he saw Reds leaping from one roof-top to another, belching flame at the people running in the streets below. He saw one Red blasted in half by a direct hit from a cannon shell, but there were dozens, perhaps hundreds more still scrambling over the lip of the crater. Fortunately, it appeared none had noticed Lutharon’s arrival.

Clay had already filled his fist with vials of Red, Green and Black. He drank them all now then glanced over his shoulder to ensure Kriz was doing the same. He leaned forward, placing a hand on Lutharon’s neck with the intent of guiding his attack but the Black needed no instruction tonight. Folding his wings, Lutharon angled his body in a near-vertical dive, Clay finding himself thankful for the Green he had imbibed as the slip-stream might otherwise have torn his grip from the neck spines. Lutharon flared his wings and tilted back as they neared the roof-tops, claws stabbing down to pierce the hide of an unsuspecting Red. It struggled frantically, tail lashing at Lutharon’s hide, close enough for Clay to reel away from a whip-crack an inch from his ear. Lutharon clamped his jaws on the Red’s neck and snapped it with a swift wrenching jerk.

Rearing back from the kill, Lutharon raised his head to the sky and let out a loud, summoning roar. The great host of Blacks circling above responded without hesitation, streaking out of the gloom in a dark torrent. To Clay’s eyes it seemed as if the night sky were reaching down to pour a shadow over the city. Red after Red was crushed under the weight of the assault, some tried vainly to take to the skies only to be caught and dragged back into the tearing, rending maelstrom.

The rain of Black drakes swept over the upper districts, swallowing Reds as it did so, then spilling over the lip of the crater to assail those still charging across the plain beyond. The mind controlling the drake assault evidently realised the danger at that point for the sky beyond the edge of the crater suddenly became filled with Reds as they abandoned their ground assault. The Blacks began to take off in response, leaving behind a host of slaughtered drakes.

Clay communicated to Lutharon the need to wait as he and Kriz slipped from his back and hurried to a safe distance. “They’re all yours, big fella,” Clay told him as Lutharon crouched then launched himself upwards, his wings birthing a gale as he climbed into the darkness.

“Come on,” Clay told Kriz. “We gotta find the captain.”

They leapt from one building to another, sailing over streets thronged with panicked people, Clay constantly searching for someone in authority. He soon happened upon a crew of fire-fighters attempting to contain a blaze raging in a two-storey tenement. “Hilemore?” he said, leaping down to shout into the ear of the youth who seemed to be in charge.

“That way,” the youngster shouted in response, pointing to another blaze burning a few streets ahead. Clay and Kriz ran on, dodging past fleeing townsfolk who as yet failed to recognise the fact that their deliverance had arrived.

They rounded a corner into a small square where Clay’s gaze immediately alighted on Hilemore’s unmistakable form. The captain stood over a large Red, surrounded by bodies in various states of burnt dismemberment. A girl of about eighteen knelt close by, face frozen and expressionless despite the tears streaming from her eyes. As he drew closer, Clay saw that the Red was still alive despite the numerous bullet-holes in its hide. Its wings flapped feebly and its claws dug into the cobbles as it sought to raise itself, and might have done so had Hilemore not raised a revolver and put a bullet through its skull.

“Captain,” Clay called out, running to his side.

Hilemore’s face was grim as he glanced at Clay and offered a muttered greeting. “Mr. Torcreek. I had hoped to see you earlier in the evening.”

“Blacks can only fly so fast.” Watching Hilemore’s gaze track over the surrounding corpses, rich in guilt, he asked, “Friends of yours, huh?”

“The Wash Lane Defence Volunteers,” Hilemore replied. He went to the kneeling girl, crouching to gently pull her to her feet, murmuring, “It’s done, Jillett. We won.”

The girl closed her eyes and stepped away from him, hugging herself tight. “What did they win?” she asked in a sob, jerking her head at the bodies. Hilemore had no answer for her and she sagged a little in mingled sorrow and exhaustion.

“Here,” Kriz said, coming forward to take hold of the girl, offering a vial of Green. “This will help.”

Jillett made a faint effort to shrug her off, but allowed herself to be guided to a near by bench where she drank down the Green.

“We killed the first one we found easily enough,” Hilemore was saying in a faint distant voice, his gaze now fixed on the Red he had shot. “This one was different. Jillett tried to hold it with Black but it was just too fast, too strong . . .”

Clay coughed, finding he didn’t particularly care for this version of the captain. Much as they grated on each other the man’s unerring will and discipline had long been a source of reassurance.

Hilemore blinked and straightened, turning back to him. “There are still Greens on the other side of the falls and in the harbour,” he said, holstering his revolver. “They’ll need to be dealt with.”

“Our friends’ll take care of it,” Clay assured him. “Gonna need you to make sure the folks here don’t shoot at them. Think you can do that?”

Hilemore’s expression hardened into a gratifyingly familiar frown. “Of course,” he snapped and marched off, heading south to the harbour. “We’ll need help fighting these fires,” he added over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”

The battle between Red and Black raged in the skies over Stockcombe for nearly an hour, swift moonlit shapes soaring and diving against a back-drop of stars. Occasionally the struggle would be illuminated by a concordance of flame. Human spectators were briefly presented with the sight of a dozen or more drakes assailing each other in a whirling knot of lashing tails and stabbing claws, before the flames died and all became confusion once more. Drakes fell into the harbour throughout it all, trailing smoke as they plummeted down. Most were dead but a few struggled on the surface for a time, screaming out distress calls until the water pulled them down.

By dawn all the Reds appeared to have either fled or fallen and the Blacks turned their attention to the Greens still prowling the western side of the city. They swooped down in successive relays, plucking Greens from the streets, crushing them with claws and teeth before casting the bodies away and diving down for more. When sunlight crested the edge of the crater Clay saw a steady stream of Greens fleeing over the western wall. Apparently the unseen hand that commanded them had finally allowed a retreat.

In the aftermath Stockcombe lay silent under a pall of smoke. The ships sat in harbour waters painted a dull red in the meagre light. There was no celebration amongst the townsfolk, no upsurge of joy in victory. Many stood or huddled together, soot-stained faces blank with shock whilst others wandered aimlessly, staring at the blackened ruins of homes or businesses. The children were an exception, clustering around the many drake corpses and chattering in excitement as they poked them with sticks, sometimes scurrying back in delighted alarm when they twitched in response.

The Blacks continued to patrol the skies above the city, drawing many a concerned and wary eye. Clay had communicated to Lutharon the need to keep out of rifle-range along with a stern warning against perching in the city itself. Instead the Blacks came to rest on the walls along the crater rim, bodies turned towards the rising sun and wings spread to catch the warmth.

Captain Hilemore, seemingly immune to fatigue, organised working parties from the Superior and the merchant ships to assist in clearing the worst of the rubble from the streets and extinguishing the few remaining fires. He also enlisted the large number of harvesters in the port to extract product from the bountiful supply of corpses littering the streets and the surrounding country, raising a somewhat problematic question in the process.

“We’ll need it,” Hilemore said. “This war isn’t over, Mr. Torcreek. As you well know.”

Clay looked at the corpse of the Black lying on the eastern quayside. It was an adult female some twenty feet long, congealed blood covering the wounds in her hide from numerous Red tail strikes. There were others to be found in the city and the harbour waters, a valuable resource to Hilemore’s eyes.

In truth Clay wasn’t sure how the Blacks would react to the harvesting of their dead. Whilst he was well aware of their capacity for grief, unlike humans they didn’t seem inclined to keen over the corpses of their kin. Perhaps they don’t need to, he thought. The memories get passed on, leaving the flesh behind, empty and dead. Lutharon seemed indifferent to the matter, his mind preoccupied with scouring the surrounding country for more enemies. Even so, Clay thought it best not to risk antagonising their allies unnecessarily.

“Do it under cover,” he told Hilemore. “And tonight, lessen the chance of their seeing.”

Hilemore called a conference aboard the Superior that evening where he gave a reckoning of the losses suffered and damage done. Altogether, over four hundred people had perished in the fighting with double that number injured, most of the casualties having been inflicted by the Reds. Although Hilemore spoke with his usual brisk authority, Clay could see the guilt behind his eyes.

“Could’ve been a lot worse, Captain,” he told him, heralding a murmur of muted agreement from the others present. Captain Okanas had come, along with Captain Tidelow, as representative of the merchant fleet. There was also the Blood-blessed girl from the square, still somewhat pale of face, and a chunky youth in a Contractor’s duster Clay doubted he had any right to wear. These two represented the Voter rebels who had apparently been engaged in a minor civil war with the young woman in a partially scorched military uniform facing them across the ward-room table. To Clay’s eyes it didn’t appear that the previous night’s events had done much to heal the rift betwixt the two groups.

“With the danger averted,” the young woman, Kulvetch, said when Hilemore fell silent, “my people are keen to return to their homes.”

“Who says it’s averted?” Coll, the chunky youth, returned. “Plenty of drakes still out there.”

“This city now enjoys a very special form of protection,” Kulvetch replied, casting a meaningful glance at Clay.

“This fleet will be sailing for Varestia once the harvesting is complete,” Hilemore said. “Whatever dispositions you wish to make after that are a matter for you.”

“You just gonna leave us?” Coll asked.

“I have discussed the matter with Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore replied. “He will . . . consult with our allies, requesting that they leave a third of their number here to ward off future attacks.”

“There are those of us,” Jillett said, “who don’t want to stay here any more. What about them?”

“What?” Coll demanded but she ignored him, keeping her gaze on Hilemore.

“We can’t take children,” he said. “Or anyone not of fighting age. We’re sailing into battle, after all.”

“Then I want to volunteer,” she said, continuing to ignore the glowering reaction of her fellow Voter. “And there are plenty more who think like me. The real war needs fighting, and it isn’t here.”

“Very well,” Hilemore said, turning to Kulvetch. “Colonel? Any volunteers from your side of the falls?”

“Forget it, Captain,” Coll said as Kulvetch hesitated. “She’s just itching for you to leave with our best fighters so she can finally take the whole city.”

Kulvetch’s indecision faded abruptly and she straightened into a military bearing. “I will volunteer. Also, I’ve little doubt my Marines will follow me.”

“And they would be very welcome,” Hilemore said, turning back to Coll. “As for those who remain I recommend concentrating your forces in the east side and doing everything you can to fortify the outer wall.” He stepped back from the table. “Harvesting is expected to be complete within two days. Please be prepared to sail by then.” He nodded and started towards the door.

“You think we’re just gonna let you sail off with our best fighters?” Coll demanded, moving to stand in his way. “Our committee answers to the Voters Rights Alli—”

He fell silent as Hilemore’s fist slammed into the centre of his face. Coll’s head snapped back and he fell to all fours, blood streaming from a broken nose. “I have had enough of your infantile politics,” Hilemore said, very precisely. “After all your people suffered last night you still seek to play your games. Were you a member of my crew I would have you shot. In fact . . .” Clay stepped forward as Hilemore’s hand went to his revolver.

“I think that’s meeting adjourned, folks,” Clay said cheerfully, crouching to drag Coll to his feet and pushing him towards the door. “Nice coat,” he said as he hustled him from the room. “Where’d you get it?”

“Here,” Clay said, entering the cabin Kriz shared with Loriabeth. He hadn’t knocked but she didn’t seem to mind. “Gotcha a present.” He set the duster alongside her on the bunk. She had been sitting with her knees drawn up in silent contemplation of the vial of synthetic product. His cousin wasn’t present, which he didn’t find surprising. She and Lieutenant Sigoral hadn’t been seen much since they returned to the ship.

“It’s got blood on it,” Kriz observed, casting a brief glance over the duster. “Fresh blood.”

“Nobody died, don’t worry. And it’ll wash.”

“I thought only members of your . . . profession wore these.”

“Fella who had it before didn’t deserve it. Reckon you’ve earned it.”

He sat himself on the bunk and rested his back against the bulkhead, suddenly weary. It occurred to him that neither of them had slept for close on two days.

“I’m honoured,” Kriz said, her tone vague but genuine. She turned her gaze back to the vial, her other hand gripping the crystal shard about her neck.

“Still tempted, huh?” Clay asked her.

“I have to know, Clay,” she said, slipping into her own language. “Given what we’re about to sail into, there might not be another chance.”

“We already know a lot of it,” he pointed out. “One of the Whites you bred got free somehow. Zembi got Spoiled and Hezkhi flew off to Arradsia in the aerostat.”

“He wanted me to know,” she insisted, holding up the crystal so the light from the port-hole caught its myriad facets. “There’s knowledge in here, important knowledge.”

“Or a trap. He was Spoiled, remember? And he did try to kill you.”

“Part of him was still there, deep inside. I know it. Perhaps”—she gripped the crystal tighter—“in here, also.”

She’s already decided, he realised, seeing the resolve on her face. Short of tying her up there wasn’t much he could do to stop her. “Well, if you have to,” he said, shifting to face her. “But we do this together. You ain’t going in there on your own.”

Kriz seemed about to argue but then swallowed a sigh and nodded. They sat facing each other on the bunk, Clay seeing how she had to still the tremble in her fingers before she could remove the stopper from the vial. She unhooked the crystal from the chain about her neck and set it down on the bunk between them. “Ready?” she asked, vial poised before her lips.

“No, but as you’re gonna do it anyway . . .”

A smile ghosted across her lips and she drank, taking in perhaps a third of the vial’s contents. The reaction was immediate, Kriz stiffening with a sharp intake of breath. The vial slipped from her fingers and Clay’s hand darted forward to catch it before it spilled.

“Kriz?” he asked, receiving no response. She sat in rigid silence, eyes wide open but he knew they saw nothing. Clay blinked as something flashed. Looking down he saw the crystal shard pulsing with light, slow at first but the rhythm building rapidly until it emitted a constant bluish light. Clay returned the stopper to the vial and focused his gaze on Kriz’s blank face, finding the focus needed to summon the Blue-less trance.

It was different than before, Clay finding himself floating in a place without sensation. There was no ground beneath his feet and no air on his skin. The images he saw seemed to play out at a remove, like watching a play. Kriz stood in the chamber where they had found the ruined stone eggs, the place that had become the tomb of her fellow ancient Blood-blessed. When Clay had come here it had been a dark, dust-covered mess of rubble but now it was brightly lit by the crystal floating above the sleeping chambers. He watched Kriz move to each of the chambers, her hand playing over the stone surfaces.

“All the kids are still asleep, I guess,” he said, receiving no response. He called out to her but she didn’t seem to hear as she continued her inspection of the giant eggs. Repeated attempts proved similarly fruitless forcing him to conclude he would have to resign himself to the role of spectator rather than participant.

He saw Kriz start as the crystal flickered, stepping back from the chambers at the sound of grinding stone. The egg-shaped mass to her left began to come apart, leaking fluid over the floor. A naked figure tumbled out as the object became fully segmented. It was a young man, tall and lean, the light from the crystal gleaming on his athletic frame as he slowly rose to his feet

“Hezkhi,” Kriz said, involuntarily reaching out to him. However, this memory appeared both deaf and blind to her presence. His face, a handsome adult version of the boy she had once tutored in the Philos Enclave, was set in a preoccupied frown, his eyes constantly blinking and lips moving in a silent mutter. After a slight pause he returned to the segmented chamber and retrieved a set of sodden clothes, dressing rapidly, then bent to recover a belt holding four flasks. Donning the belt Hezkhi moved to the exit, then stopped, shaking his head as if in confusion. Then, slowly, he turned back and raised his gaze to the crystal hanging above the sleeping chambers.

“Don’t,” Clay heard Kriz say in a gasp, but of course, Hezkhi couldn’t hear her. Taking one of the flasks from his belt he took a hefty gulp and concentrated his gaze on the crystal. It began to emit the tinkling that told of being subjected to Black, but instead of being refashioned into a sculpture it spun violently in the air and let out a loud crack. The light bathing the stone eggs flickered and died, the crystal tumbling to the floor along with the chambers, each one birthing a loud boom as they toppled and rolled.

Clay heard Kriz let out a sob, rich in the kind of despair and grief he remembered from his last visit here. Then she had seen proof of the deaths of her companions, now she had been forced to witness their murder. He wanted to say something to her, reach through the invisible veil separating them to offer comfort. Even the most empty, awkward expression of consolation would have been preferable to impotently witnessing her anguish. But, try as he might, the veil proved impenetrable and he could only watch her stagger, sobbing after Hezkhi as he made his way from the chamber.

The memory blurred and accelerated then, Clay catching only glimpses of the rapid mélange of images that followed; Hezkhi making his way through the mountains to the cliff-face covered in wooden scaffolding . . . taking two eggs from the terraces at the base of the cavernous chamber within . . . drinking more product, Red this time, and bathing both eggs in heat before retreating to a safe distance.

The memory slowed when the eggs hatched, bursting apart like bombs. When the smoke cleared two infant White Drakes sat amidst the shattered shells, chirping as they nuzzled each other. Hezkhi approached to crouch near by and they leapt into his arms, wings flapping in excitement. Seeing how Hezkhi nodded in response, Clay realised he had seen his expression before. Silverpin, he thought. He’s their Silverpin. They were able to call to him even from within the egg.

Hezkhi gave another nod and set the two infants down before moving to the row of crystals, drinking from one of his flasks as he did so. A short pause and then the Blue crystal began to glow, growing brighter as it rose from the chamber floor. Hezkhi spread his arms out wide as the crystal emitted a pulse of light bright enough to swamp the vision. When the light faded Hezkhi had collapsed to his knees, shuddering. Seeing the light play over the scales on his back Clay knew what he would see before Hezkhi raised his face, the yellow eyes, the ridged brows, the spines. The first ever Spoiled, he thought.

The memory blurred again, the images racing by with dizzying speed too fast for Clay to catch. When it slowed again Hezkhi stood over the wet, naked form of an old man. Beyond them a segmented sleeping chamber hovered in the air below a glowing crystal. The two infant Whites snapped at the old man as he slowly heaved himself up, raising his gaze to regard Hezkhi’s deformed visage.

“I grew tired of your prison, Father,” Hezkhi told him. “I have been offered freedom, and a whole world to play in.”

Zembi’s gaze went to the two drakes. They hissed in response, one lashing out with its tail to score a cut into the old man’s arm. “The eggs,” Zembi groaned, his head sagging. “We should have destroyed the eggs.”

“Yes,” Hezkhi agreed. “But you didn’t. They called to me for centuries, Father. Though I fought them, tried to resist their enticements, the many dreams they planted in my mind. When the promises didn’t work they made their dreams into nightmares, but a free mind can wake from a nightmare, and I was not free. For year after year I suffered, and then a very important question occurred to me: Why?” Hezkhi crouched in front of the old man, speaking softly. “Why suffer so much for a man who gave me so little?”

“You’re insane,” Zembi told him. “They drove you mad.”

“They set me free,” Hezkhi corrected in a chiding tone. “Guided me to the facet within the crystal that would unlock the sarcophagus. No longer would I live according to your whim, or Krizelle’s.”

Zembi’s head snapped up at this, eyes bright with alarm and anger.

“Oh don’t worry,” Hezkhi told him. “I intend to leave her very much alive. One day she’ll wake.” He rose and stood back, gesturing at the Blue crystal which floated close by. “And find you waiting for her.”

The Blue crystal flared into life, Zembi letting out a short pain-filled cry that soon choked into a strangled gurgle. When the light faded the old man remained on the floor, convulsing. To Clay it appeared as if the scales on his back were only partially formed, his hands twisting into claws then back again. He’s fighting it, Clay realised.

“A parting gift,” Hezkhi went on, moving to the Blue crystal. He drank from one of his flasks and focused his gaze. A tinkling sound rose as one of the crystal’s spikes separated from the core and floated into Hezkhi’s hand. He stared at the shard for a moment of intense concentration, a faint light flaring then fading within.

“Perhaps you’ll kill her,” he went on, returning to Zembi. “Or she’ll kill you. In which case, I should very much like her to know. She can think about it for however long it takes her to grow old and die down here.”

He opened his hand, offering the shard to Zembi. The old man’s face was contorting now, ridges swelling on his forehead, gritted teeth elongating. It would only be seconds before the transformation was complete.

Clay heard Kriz let out a surprised yelp as Zembi’s hand shot out to grasp the shard then stab it into Hezkhi’s chest. The younger man shouted in pain and shock, reeling away, the shard falling free as he did so. He staggered back, blood leaking from the wound. The two infant Whites set upon Zembi, biting at his flesh in a fury, then stopping abruptly and scurrying back.

Zembi slowly rose to his full height, remade features now firmly in place, a fully converted Spoiled.

“You vicious old bastard!” Hezkhi railed at him, hand clutched over his bleeding chest. But the insults were wasted now, for Zembi replied with only an incurious glance. Hezkhi let out a grunt of impotent fury then reached for another flask, drinking the entire contents in a few urgent gulps.

“It’s not healing right,” he said in an aggrieved whimper, casting a desperate gaze at the two Whites. “The bleeding stopped but it’s not healed. I can feel it.”

The two infants let out an identical hiss and his mouth clamped shut. Hezkhi stood frozen in place as the Whites turned their gaze on Zembi. He blinked and turned back to the sleeping chamber, climbing inside whereupon it closed around him once more. The Whites issued a brief squawk and Hezkhi shuddered. The memory faded into a grey void as he started towards the rear of the chamber in an agonised stumble with the Whites scurrying close behind.

“You were right.”

Clay blinked and found himself back in the cabin. Kriz sat before him, face downcast and tears falling onto the blankets.

“It was a trap,” she went on in a whisper. “I should have left it be.”

“We learned some things we didn’t know before,” Clay said, reaching out to cup her face, thumbing the tears away. “Hezkhi flew them to Arradsia, but his wound must’ve killed him on the way and the aerostat crashed in Krystaline Lake. Sad to say the Whites didn’t drown with him. Somehow they made it out, made their way to the enclave and started making eggs. In time they had a big enough brood to start their war.”

“It doesn’t help us,” she said. “There was nothing there beyond malice, my brother’s need to hurt me.”

“Not true,” Clay said, pulling her closer. “You saw Zembi fight it. We know from Miss Lethridge there were once free Spoiled here. If they can be freed . . .”

His words died as she kissed him. It was long kiss after which she drew back and glanced at the door. “Your cousin isn’t coming back soon, is she?”

“I doubt it.”

Kriz turned back to him, hands moving to unbutton her shirt. “Good.”

CHAPTER 38

Sirus

He could feel Catheline’s mingled terror and anger as he made the suggestion that the surviving Greens and Reds should scatter. She had called him to her command tent to oversee the assault on Stockcombe. Given that it was an all-drake affair she would act as conduit whilst Sirus supplied the tactical direction. Linking minds with her was always a disconcerting experience, like sinking into a constantly shifting swamp of muted emotion whilst beneath it all the vast will of the White rumbled and smoked like a fractious volcano.

Sirus couldn’t help a perverse pride in both the conception and execution of his plan, making him ponder the unwelcome notion that he might have absorbed some of Morradin’s characteristics. His opponent at Stockcombe had evidently been a capable commander, the booby traps and the mines in the harbour were an unpleasant and costly surprise, as was the fierce resistance of the ships. But he had learned by now that it was always a sound strategy to subvert the expectations of one’s enemy. In compelling the Reds to mount a ground assault rather than attack from the air, he had done exactly that. Victory would undoubtedly have been his had not the Blacks arrived.

After hours of hopeless resistance, during which Catheline’s mind continued to communicate the death agonies of hundreds of drakes, Sirus had been forced to withdraw from their shared connection. “We can’t win this,” he said simply. “If He wishes to preserve their lives, they should scatter.”

Her red-black eyes bore into him with such intensity he wondered if she had suddenly decided to hate him. But then she reached out to capture his mind once more and he realised her expression was born of concern rather than hatred. For the first time he was able to fully experience her communion with the White. There were no words, no shared images, just an exchange of emotion so rapid it sent a jolt of pain through his mind. Somehow, despite the pain, he was able to discern the essence of this communication:

Failure.

Reproach.

Contrition.

Anger.

Deeper contrition.

Need to punish.

Acceptance . . . and supplication.

For a brief moment he managed to make out a coherent thought as Catheline ensured her message was unambiguous. He is still needed. My failure. My punishment. There was no pause before the White responded: Concurrence.

Sirus let out a groan as Catheline released her mental hold, seeing her offer him a sad smile and a shrug. “This time He would have killed you,” she said.

Abruptly she stiffened, arching like a bow, limbs shuddering as her head snapped back. Her body was so rigid she couldn’t even fall from her chair. Sirus forced himself to watch as she convulsed, blood spouting from her mouth and streaming from her nose. The sudden appearance of more blood beneath her chair indicating she was bleeding from all orifices. It continued for what seemed an age, so long in fact that her finely tailored cavalry uniform became drenched in blood and Sirus felt certain she would soon have no more left to give. The notion raised an important question: If she dies, what then?

But she didn’t die. Finally, when her skin had taken on an alabaster hue and the blood had begun to pool on the carpet, she collapsed. Sirus leapt forward to catch her as she fell, lifting her easily in his remade arms. Catheline’s eyelids fluttered as she shivered in his grasp, her lips forming a smile as she raised a hand to caress his scaled cheek. “My hero,” she whispered before fainting.

There were few foot-hills north of the pass known as the Grand Cut, the mountains rearing up out of the grassy plains in sudden, sheer-sided majesty. The pass itself was a broad canyon that narrowed considerably as it proceeded deeper into the range of peaks dominating the region the Varestians called “the Neck.” Reconnaissance flights by Reds the day before had confirmed the smaller passes to the east and west closed by rubble. The Grand Cut, however, remained open.

“An obvious trap,” Morradin growled, squinting at the pass and the clouds lingering over the cliffs that formed its flanks. “Expected better of them.”

“You’re sure?” Catheline asked. She had recovered quickly from the previous night’s punishment, colour having returned to her face and her bearing displaying scant sign of fatigue. Sirus detected a new wariness in her, however. In place of her ruined uniform she wore a simple muslin dress, a thick woollen shawl about her shoulders, which were slightly hunched. He also noted the tightness of her grip on the shawl, the knuckles bone-white.

“We go in there, we’ll pay for it,” Morradin asserted. “In blood.”

Catheline raised an eyebrow at Sirus, letting out an exasperated hiss when he gave a nod of confirmation. “Very well,” she said, turning away. “The scenic route it is . . .”

She trailed off as a loud boom sounded from the Grand Cut. Turning back Sirus saw a large grey cloud rising above the mountain mist, followed a second later by a thick pall of dust issuing from the mouth of the pass.

“What was that?” Catheline demanded.

Morradin’s brows knitted in bemusement as he raised a spy-glass to scan the pass. “Looks as if they’ve blocked it anyway,” he said when the dust had cleared. He continued to peer through the glass then straightened in surprise. “Or at least tried to. Bloody thing’s still open.”

Sirus extended his own glass and trained it on the Grand Cut. Morradin was right, there was a good deal of rubble littering the floor of the pass but it was far from blocked.

“Miscalculated their charge, perhaps?” Morradin said as he and Sirus exchanged glances. “Or blew themselves up trying to rig it.”

“It could still be a trap,” Sirus said. “Bait to lure us in.”

“The Reds will find out soon enough,” Catheline said. A trio of Reds flew overhead a few seconds later, wings sweeping in broad arcs as they climbed into the mist. Catheline shared the view through the eyes of the lead Red as it flew over the pass. As I thought, Morradin commented in satisfaction at the sight of numerous armed figures dotting the rocky terrain atop the cliffs. Sirus estimated their number at three hundred at most. Hardly the kind of force he would have expected if their enemy intended to inflict serious harm.

Unless they want the pass to do it for them, Morradin mused, reading his thoughts. Wait until we march in then bring the mountains down on top of us. A pulse of grim amusement. Looks like they pissed on their own breakfast with this one.

It could still . . . Sirus began but his thought was swallowed by a sudden upsurge of excitement from Catheline.

She’s here!

The Red’s vision of the pass sprang into more vivid life, focusing on a particular figure standing at the cliff-edge. Thanks to the power of drake sight they were soon confronted with a close-up view of the figure’s features. Lizanne Lethridge stared back at them through the Red’s eyes, a smile of grim mockery on her lips. She moved slightly and the image refocused, drawing back to reveal the sight of her raising a carbine to her shoulder. The muzzle flared in a bright orange plume and the vision went black. The absence of the usual confusion and pain indicated the Red had died instantly.

“Bitch,” Catheline breathed in a tone of hungry malice. Her gaze flashed at Sirus and Morradin, the red pupils seeming to glow like coals. “Get in there! Send all of them!”

Her will was implacable and shot through with the White’s irresistible blood-lust. Every Red leapt into the sky as the Spoiled battalions started forward. The Greens charged in two huge packs on the flanks, every mind, Spoiled and drake, filled with a single purpose: KILL HER!

CHAPTER 39

Lizanne

The Smoker jerked against her shoulder as she unleashed the Redball. It impacted at the base of the Red’s neck, the explosion instantly severing it from the body. The rest of the fighters, all armed with Smokers, opened fire on the other Reds. The hail of explosive bullets felled one immediately, but it took several more shots before they brought down the other, the bullets chasing it across the sky until one of the Varestians managed a hit on its chest.

Lizanne watched the stricken creature spiral down into the misty depths of the Grand Cut then turned her gaze to the north. She found that the fog, mingled with the drifting smoke from their intentionally abortive attempt to block the pass, made it difficult to gauge the reaction of the White’s army. She injected a small amount of product to enhance her vision and was soon rewarded with the sight of a multitude of Green drakes streaming towards the Cut. Following close behind were the Spoiled, their previously neat ranks forgotten now as they charged across the plain in a disorderly mob thousands strong. Shifting her gaze upwards, she saw the fast-approaching shapes of more Reds than could easily be counted.

In addition to the Blood-blessed contingent there were about two hundred Varestian fighters, mostly of a piratical nature judging by their clothing and abundance of knives. They were all volunteers who had been dropped on the lower south-facing slopes by aerostat the day before.

“They’re coming,” she told them. “Remember your orders, fire and retreat. We need to draw them in.”

The Varestians immediately ran off to occupy their positions deeper in the pass, the group on the other side of the dividing chasm following suit, leaving the Blood-blessed to face the first rush of Reds. Lizanne injected a short burst of Blue and slipped into the trance where Morva was waiting on the deck of the antique sailing-ship that formed her mindscape.

“It worked,” Lizanne told her. “Tell Tekela to commence her run.”

She ended the trance without waiting for a reply and moved back from the cliff-edge. “Product!” Lizanne ordered the other Blood-blessed, depressing the first three buttons on her Spider. “Full doses! No need to skimp here. Every one we kill today is one we don’t have to kill tomorrow.”

She moved to crouch behind a near by boulder, the other Blood-blessed also finding cover in the surrounding rocks. Lizanne rested the Smoker’s forestock on the top of the boulder, pointing it at the sky, and slotted another Redball into the glass receptacle atop the chamber. She waited, veins thrumming with product and eyes fixed on the Smoker’s sights. She heard the Reds before she saw them, their shrill cries echoing up the mountain side in a hungry chorus. She lit the Redball the instant a dark silhouette slipped into her sights, blasting it apart as a cacophony of carbine fire erupted all around.

Lizanne stood up, seeing a dozen Reds falling out of the sky as the explosive rounds took their toll. Seeing a Red twisting amidst the barrage she tracked it with the Smoker, sights aimed just in front of its nose to compensate for the distance, and fired three rounds in quick succession, the carbine’s lever blurring as she worked it. Mortally wounded by the trio of large holes punched into its hide, the Red let out a stream of impotent flame before slamming into the cliff-face below.

A warning shout from one of her fellow Blood-blessed had Lizanne leaping away, Green-enhanced limbs carrying her wide of the stream of fire cast at her by a diving Red. It reared back, wings fanning the air and neck coiling for another try. A salvo of rounds from the surrounding Blood-blessed tore one of its wings away and left a gaping hole in its chest, leaving it a bloody tangle clinging feebly to the cliff-edge before sliding into the Grand Cut.

Casting a glance skyward, Lizanne saw that the Reds had been forced higher by the fire of the Smokers and were now circling in a huge spiral. Seeing them begin to cluster together in groups of five or more, Lizanne knew that the defenders were about to be subjected to a massed onslaught from above. No amount of explosive bullets could hope to stem such a weight of drake flesh.

“Pull back!” she shouted, moving across the rocky ground in an unnaturally fast, leaping sprint.

Seeing their prey attempting an escape, the Reds let out a collective scream of fury and gave chase. Hearing the beat of large wings at her back, Lizanne leapt and pivoted in midair, aiming the Smoker one-handed at the head of the pursuing Red. Thanks to the reflex-enhancing effects of Green she was able to put a bullet in its eye before whirling about for a landing.

She didn’t pause as her boots met rock, propelling herself on and refreshing her diminishing Green with the Spider. A scream sounded behind her, human rather than drake, brief and full of agony before it choked off. Lizanne didn’t turn to see the inevitable grisly spectacle. She had entertained a faint hope of completing this mission without casualties, but knew it to be an indulgent self-delusion designed to assuage the guilt of commanding others in battle.

Upon reaching a point halfway along the pass she leapt atop a tall boulder and came to a halt, turning to face the Reds. The other Blood-blessed all rushed to pre-chosen spots and did the same, all Smokers raised and aimed as the Reds closed. Here the pass constricted to its narrowest point and was overlooked by ledges on the mountains rising on both sides, ledges where their pirate allies now waited, Smokers tracking the Reds streaming into their sights.

Over two hundred carbines began firing at once, blasting at least thirty Reds out of the sky. Lizanne aimed at the densest concentration of drakes and emptied her Smoker, hand once again blurring on the lever and cartridges spinning away in a brass cascade. The Blood-blessed had all been trained in the same technique, meaning the Reds found themselves charging into an impassible wall of bullets. The mass of drakes reared back from the fusillade, resembling a huge swarm of hornets retreating from a flaming torch.

“Reload!” Lizanne ordered, jumping down from the boulder and slotting fresh bullets into her Smoker from the bandolier about her chest. Her gaze was fixed on the southern end of the pass, the sun now risen high enough to burn off much of the mist. For a second she thought Morva had failed to pass on the order but then saw the curved wedge of the Typhoon’s envelope cresting the mountain side. She rose swiftly with the Tempest close alongside, the two aerostats drifting forward as they ascended. They stalled their ascent about eight hundred feet above, the Tempest letting loose with her Thumpers whilst the Typhoon unleashed a hail of bullets from her Growlers.

Assailed from above and below, the swarm of Reds split apart, one group banking away to the east whilst the other furiously beat their wings to gain more height, desperate to get at the aircraft. Lizanne concentrated on the other group, watching it split apart twice more, each subdivision banking away. Trying to disperse our fire, she realised. Come at us from all sides at once. They had only a few moments’ respite before the storm descended.

“It’s time!” she called out, rising to her feet and pointing at the southern end of the pass. “Make for the pick-up point!”

Most needed no encouragement, the Blood-blessed immediately refreshing their Green to sprint and leap away with the pirates following as fast as they could. But a few stayed, mostly Varestians but also a couple of Blood-blessed. “Miss Blood?” one of them asked, a middle-aged man who cast repeated nervous glances at the sky.

Lizanne resisted the urge to snap, “Don’t call me that!” and forced a smile instead. “Rear guard,” she told him, gesturing towards the south. “I’ll be along. Now go!”

She watched them flee then turned back to gauge the progress of the White’s army. The Grand Cut was thick with Greens and Spoiled all the way to the promontory where she stood, the promontory which their explosives had deliberately failed to send tumbling into the pass. However, the as yet unexploded second batch contained more than enough fire-power to bring it down. Lizanne quickly spotted the detonator positioned in a shallow crevice near by and started towards it, then stopped at a challenging squawk from above. Seeing a Red separate from the main pack to dive towards her, she swiftly slotted a Redball into the Smoker and blew it out of the sky at a distance of fifty yards.

Turning back to the detonator she rushed towards it and crouched in the shadowed confines of the crevice. Reaching into the pocket of her overalls she extracted the item so carefully crafted by Madame Hakugen’s theatrically experienced employee. Fashioned mostly from congealed glue and rubber Lizanne, with her extensive experience of disguises, had initially been sceptical of its efficacy. But, upon trying it out she had been reassured by Tekela’s assertion that she looked “utterly ghastly.” Pressing it to her face, she took a bottle of pig’s blood from her other pocket and emptied it over her head. It was thick with coagulants and possessed of a truly appalling smell, but she needed it to complete the disguise.

A fresh chorus of drake screams told her she was out of time and she reached for the detonator, one hand on the lever whilst the other pressed the second button on the Spider to flood her veins with all the remaining Green. She pushed the detonator’s lever then clamped her hands over her ears, shutting her eyes tight. A bare second later the explosives went off, Lizanne finding herself lifted clear of the mountain side by the blast. She spread her limbs to stabilise herself as she tumbled, grit-filled air whipping past as she plummeted into the pass.

She didn’t need to feign unconsciousness. Her attempt to slide down the flank of the dislodged promontory to the floor of the pass went well at first, but the huge slab of rock contrived to break apart upon connecting with the ground, leaving her tumbling in a cloud of dust. Something hard slammed into her back, possessed of enough force to cause serious injury if not for the copious Green in her system. Lizanne attempted to angle her feet towards the ground, intending to roll with the impact and hopefully prevent any fractures, but another something cracked against the side of her head and she found herself falling into a vast pool of utter blackness.

She came to atop a pile of corpses, blinking into the dull-eyed stare of a dead Green only inches from her face. It lay across an equally dead Spoiled, a woman about Lizanne’s own age with her neck twisted at an impossible angle. Looking around through bleary eyes Lizanne saw that the bodies were all stacked against the newly created wall of rock spanning the width of the Grand Cut. Those not buried by the avalanche had evidently piled up in front of it, crushing themselves to death in the process.

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 liked 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?”

The Blacks flew overhead for much of the first day, descending to their ship-borne perches come nightfall. There were fifty of them in all, the fleet being incapable of carrying more, not least because several captains had flatly refused to have any drakes aboard their ships, citing protests from mutinous crews. Those vessels that did carry the beasts had their holds loaded with freshly hunted Cerath meat and all the livestock Stockcombe could provide. At Clay’s urging Hilemore issued stern instructions that the sailors make no attempt to communicate with the Blacks. “Just feed ’em and leave ’em be,” Clay said. “And in the name of the Seer’s ass, don’t try and touch ’em.”

The sea proved uncooperative over the next few days. A heavy swell and stiff easterly winds confounded Hilemore’s hopes for a swift voyage to the Green Cape, the point at the southern tip of the Barrier Isles where the Myrdin and Orethic Oceans came together. His careful organisation of the fleet into two columns, the Superior leading one and Captain Okanas in the Endeavour leading the other, was also disrupted by the weather. Consequently, by the time they entered calmer waters the fleet was spread out over several miles and required half a day before the formation could be reassembled.

“I’d wager Grandfather never had this trouble,” he grumbled to himself during the evening watch, spy-glass trained on the line of ships following in the Superior’s wake.

He turned at the sound of boots, finding Lieutenant Talmant approaching. “Crow’s nest reports land in sight, sir,” he said, saluting. “An island. Thirty degrees to port and a dozen miles off.”

“So we’re finally at the Isles,” Hilemore said. He was tempted to press on, but the Green Cape was a notoriously fractious stretch of ocean and attempting to navigate it at night highly inadvisable.

“Signal the Endeavour,” he told Talmant. “Thirty-degree turn to port, then signal the fleet to follow. We’ll anchor in the lee of the island, make for the Cape at first light.”

“Aye, sir.”

He was woken from a dream in which a large parrot had taken it upon itself to perch on his shoulder and ask a series of unwelcome questions. Why did Lewella reject you? it demanded amongst other things, each question followed by a loud squawk.

Why do you pretend not to lust after Captain Okanas? Squawk!

Do you think they’ll give you a court martial before they hang you for mutiny? Squawk!

Why did you let all those youngsters die in Stockcombe? Squawk!

It was this last question that woke him, summoning memories that even his slumbering mind couldn’t face. Curiously, however, as his eyes opened on a darkened cabin the parrot kept squawking even louder than before. “Right,” he said, reaching for his revolver intending to shoot the bloody thing, then stopped as he came fully awake and realised the noise wasn’t coming from a parrot, but a drake. One of the sailors from the midnight watch had already begun pounding on his door by the time he opened it.

“Mr. Torcreek, sir,” the sailor said. “He says they’re all in a right state about something.”

“Sound battle stations,” Hilemore ordered, pulling on his tunic. “Fire rockets to alert the fleet.”

“Aye, sir.”

He found Clay on the fore-deck with Lutharon, the huge beast repeatedly calling out, wings spread and tail coiling in alarm. The two other drakes on the aft deck replied with equal volume, as did every other Black in the fleet. A signal rocket streamed into the night sky and exploded, quickly followed by two more, although Hilemore doubted there was a soul aboard any of the surrounding ships not already awake.

“What is it?” he demanded, striding towards Clay.

“He smells something. I’m doubtful it’s good.” Clay stared at the agitated drake in intense concentration then let out a sharp exhalation. “Blues,” he told Hilemore.

“How far?”

“Close, that’s all I can say. They don’t judge distance the way we do. There’s just near and far.”

Hilemore turned towards the bridge, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Battle stations! Weigh anchor and start engines! Signal the fleet to prepare for action!”

He turned back to Clay, intending to ask about the Blues’ direction of attack, but the question died as the Black abruptly sprinted towards the stern and launched itself into the air. From the sudden commotion on the other ships it was clear that the other drakes were following suit. It was a two-moon night so they could see the Blacks forming into a dense flock before flying south.

“They’ll do what they can,” Clay explained. “But there’s a lot heading this way. Gotta reckon on some getting past them.”

“You have product?” Hilemore asked him.

“More’n I need.”

“Then I trust you to choose your own spot and put it to good use.”

He ran to the bridge, finding Steelfine and Talmant present with Scrimshine at the helm. “Riflemen to the upper works, Number One,” he told Steelfine. “Mining party to stand to at the stern and deploy on the turn. Guns to load with cannister and fire at low elevations only. Be best if we avoided hitting our allies, don’t you think?”

“Aye, sir!” Steelfine saluted and swiftly departed the bridge.

“Mr. Talmant, go up top and take charge of the search-light. Keep it moving until you spot a target.”

“Sir!”

Hilemore moved to the speaking-tube. “Engine room.”

“Engine room reporting, sir,” came Chief Bozware’s tinny reply.

“Ahead dead slow, Chief. And have Miss Jillett stand by the blood-burner.” He waited to feel the thrum of the auxiliary engine through the deckboards before nodding at Scrimshine. “Due south, helm.”

“Due south, sir.”

Hilemore stepped out onto the walkway to check on the rest of the fleet. They were slowly arranging themselves into a circular formation in accordance with the plan he set out in the event of being attacked at anchor. The intention was to create an impenetrable defensive ring whilst the Superior conducted a more aggressive defence. He found the response of most of the merchantmen sluggish compared to what he would have expected from a Protectorate ship, but at least they were moving. He turned his gaze to the bow, watching the search-light beam cut through the gloom. Lieutenant Talmant was energetic in swinging the huge light about, playing the circle of bright luminescence over the gentle swell in regular, broad arcs.

Hilemore’s gaze snapped to a point a few degrees to starboard as a plume of flame erupted close to the surface. He caught a brief glimpse of two shapes entwined, one winged, the other long and snake-like, then the flames died and it was gone. The sound of the struggle reached them a second later, harsh shrieks of challenge and distress echoing through the sea air.

“How far away are they?”

Hilemore glanced over his shoulder finding Kriz climbing the ladder to the walkway. She carried a carbine and wore her Contractor’s duster.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “Mr. Torcreek sent you, I assume?”

“He thought you might need added protection.”

“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”

They witnessed another dozen flame-illuminated contests over the course of the next few minutes, each one closer than the other. In one instance the flames continued for some time, Hilemore recognising Lutharon by virtue of his size as the Black dragged a struggling Blue from the water. The two drakes skimmed the waves as they fought, the Blue casting repeated gouts of flame at Lutharon who replied with his own, his claws latched firmly on his opponent’s coils. It finally ended when Lutharon briefly released his opponent to clamp his talons onto its jaws, prising them apart to send a jet of fire directly into its throat. He let out a brief squawk of triumph before releasing the Blue’s body and beating his wings to push himself skyward. Watching the Blue corpse roll in the waves, Hilemore realised with dismay it was at most sixty yards away.

“Target ten degrees to port!” Lieutenant Talmant called. Hilemore tracked the search-light beam to the Blue rearing up in the white circle barely thirty yards off the port bow. The pivot-gun fired immediately, the Blue disappearing in a haze of red and white as the cannister-shot lashed the sea.

Hilemore returned to the bridgehouse. “Ahead two-thirds,” he barked into the speaking-tube before turning to Scrimshine. “Helm, hard a-port.”

From outside came the crackle of rifle fire, the marksmen no doubt finding another target illuminated by the search-light. The starboard cannon also opened up, Hilemore hoping they managed to do some damage. He glanced through the rear window of the bridgehouse, taking satisfaction from the sight of the mining party casting their devices from the stern. These were improved versions of the mines that had served them so well in Stockcombe harbour. Each had been fitted with varying amounts of ballast to ensure they lay beneath the surface at different depths. They had also been packed with twice the amount of explosive.

“Five degrees to port,” he told Scrimshine, repeating the order two minutes later to ensure the Superior seeded her mines in a wide arc along the southern flank of the fleet. Once every mine had been deployed he told the engine room to reverse revolutions and had Scrimshine bring the ship hard-about. Even in a gentle swell it was a tricky manoeuvre, taking several minutes and causing the deck to tilt at an acute angle.

The first mine exploded before they completed the turn, one of the deeper ones judging by the height of the waterspout. Hilemore saw some debris churning in the mass of bubbles boiling to the surface and hoped it was drake flesh.

“Ahead one-third,” he told the engine room as Scrimshine brought the tiller to midships and the Superior levelled out. “Port guns look lively!” Hilemore called through the window, the last word being drowned out by the near-simultaneous explosion of three mines. This time there was no ambiguity about the damage inflicted, Hilemore hearing a cheer from the crew at the sight of what may have been as many as five Blue corpses twisting amidst the falling spume and froth.

Hilemore went out onto the walkway to watch the still-twitching bodies pass by, expecting another explosion at any instant. Instead there was silence. The struggle between Blacks and Blues seemed to have ended and the Superior steamed through quiet waters. “Scared the bastards off, eh, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked.

The answer came before Hilemore could reply. A thunderous cacophony of cannon fire from the fleet had Hilemore rushing through the bridge to the starboard walkway. He had expected to find the sea around the circle of ships wreathed in smoke but instead saw a thick pall rising within the formation. He could hear a continuous rattle of small-arms fire as the gun-crews no doubt scrambled to reload their cannon, then saw ships silhouetted against multiple gouts of flame. It appeared as if the drakes had learned to concentrate their fire, Hilemore cursing in dismay at the sight of a freighter being entirely enveloped in flame. The fires soon found the powder stocks and the ship’s upper works disintegrated in a series of rapid explosions. Secondary blasts boomed within her hull a heart-beat later and she broke in two, each section forming a dark V against the flames as they sank below.

“Hard a-starboard!” Hilemore shouted to Scrimshine, returning to the bridge. “There,” Hilemore said, pointing through the window at the gap created by the freighter’s demise. He resisted the urge to order an increase in speed. They were so close to the formation that there wouldn’t be sufficient time to slow their approach. It made for several agonising minutes as the Superior closed with the fleet, Hilemore seeing another huge explosion rise above the masts.

“Reverse revolutions,” he called into the speaking-tube as the Superior’s prow edged into the gap. “Helm, full right rudder. Miss,” he said, nodding at Kriz and drawing his revolver. “If you would care to join me.”

She followed as he went outside, sliding down the ladder to the deck and calling for Steelfine. “Sir!” the Islander said, appearing at his side with the usual alacrity.

“Shift all guns and riflemen to port,” Hilemore instructed. “Have more mines brought up . . .”

He was interrupted by a hard shove that propelled him across the deck, his skin prickling at the suddenly heated air. Scrambling upright he was confronted by the sight of Steelfine beating out flames on his sleeve whilst a few feet beyond him Kriz stared up at the immobile form of a Blue that had reared up over the rail. Its head was frozen in place whilst the rest of its body coiled with a desperate energy, whipping the sea into a froth. It seemed as if every rifle, carbine and pistol on board fired at once, including Hilemore’s though he couldn’t remember aiming. He fired until the hammer clicked, the Blue’s head disappeared into a red cloud as the hail of bullets struck home, tearing most of the flesh away and laying bare the skull beneath. This too was soon blasted into powder and the Blue’s body immediately slackened, the beast hanging limp in Kriz’s grip. She released it, letting the corpse sink below the rail, and moved to help Hilemore to his feet.

“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You are entirely forgiven, miss,” Hilemore assured her.

He rushed to the rail, looking out on the fleet, which now resembled something from an illustrated folio of the Travail. Three ships were fully alight with fires raging on most of the others. The sea within the confines of the circle roiled with drakes, Blues repeatedly rearing up to belch flame at the surrounding vessels, then slipping below the waves to evade the subsequent mass of rifle fire. The Superior’s starboard cannon commenced fire and Hilemore saw Steelfine urgently organising the relocation of the other guns. It won’t be enough, he knew, watching the cannister lash at the drakes. With most of the heavy ordnance in the fleet now silenced it was clear they didn’t possess sufficient fire-power to prevail. But there were other weapons to call on.

“Miss,” he said, turning to Kriz. “I should be grateful if you would fetch Mr. Torcreek, Lieutenant Sigoral and Miss Jillett.”

He busied himself with organising the mines on the fore-deck, having the crew remove the floats and the ballast before arming the fuses.

“Captain?” Clay asked, running to his side flanked by his fellow Blood-blessed.

“They need to be evenly spread,” Hilemore said, pointing at the mines then the flaming chaos beyond the starboard rail.

Clay understood immediately, drinking down a full flask of Black and nodding at the others to do the same. Hilemore had the fore-deck cleared of crew and retreated to the bridge walkway before shouting out the order for the Blood-blessed to proceed. Clay went first, lifting the closest mine and gently guiding it out and over the starboard side of the ship then propelling it at speed into the seething mass of Blues. By Hilemore’s reckoning the explosion killed at least two drakes, and distracted several more. He saw a cluster of snake-like forms speeding towards the Superior. Fortunately, Lieutenant Sigoral saw it too and dropped the next mine directly in their path.

The mines flew in a steady arcing torrent after that, the sea within the circle of ships becoming a cauldron of waterspouts, tumbling drake flesh and reflected flame. The amount of explosive released so quickly in such a confined space inevitably caused the surrounding cordon to widen, making Hilemore worry the multiple shock waves might buckle the Superior’s hull plating. It continued until every mine had been thrown, the water displaced by the final explosion falling in a brief rain-storm and heralding a prolonged silence.

To Hilemore it seemed as if they must have killed every drake sent against them, the mass of dead and dying Blues bobbing on the surface was so thick he could probably have walked across it. Then he saw the snouts of more Blues pushing their way up through the carnage and knew they weren’t yet done. He prepared to call out an order for Steelfine to ready the cannon, but stopped at the sight of Clay urgently waving his arms above his head. The reason became clear a heart-beat later when Lutharon swooped out of the sky in company with a half dozen Blacks. Together they plunged their talons into the gory sea, dragging an uninjured Blue clear of the water. Its screams and flames of protest were cut short as the Blacks bore it high and tore it to pieces, the remnants cascading over the Superior in a grisly red rain that had the crew running for cover lest the blood find their skin.

More Blacks followed, diving down in groups to snare a Blue and carry it off to be slaughtered. The screeching and rending spectacle continued for nigh on a half-hour, by which time any triumph Hilemore might have felt had faded into a guilty recognition of the cost incurred by the night’s events. Several ships were still burning and he saw another had capsized, the sea boiling around her flanks as it slowly claimed her. He couldn’t hear the screams of those trapped within her hull, but they still sang in his head, loud and clear.

CHAPTER 41

Lizanne

She had no memory of the flight from the Grand Cut, nor any recollection of the two days that followed. Her exhaustion was so complete that her slumber remained free of dreams, something for which she would always be grateful. On waking to find herself in Tinkerer’s former clinic room, body aching in numerous places, she was confronted with a sight that forced her to conclude she was dreaming after all.

“So,” Arberus said, rising from a chair at the side of her bed. He regarded her with an expression full of concern but also not lacking in judgement. “Still addicted to risk, I see.”

“Go away,” Lizanne groaned, pushing her head deeper into her pillow. “I’ve no tolerance for dreams just now.”

“Lizanne,” he said, tone hardening a little. She looked at him again, blinking in surprise at the fact that he was still there. He wore the same cavalry officer’s uniform he had worn throughout the revolution, though it now lacked any regimental badges or insignia of rank. His face was as blockishly handsome as ever, though he had picked up another scar. It looked to her like a sabre-cut, tracing along the line of his neck to his collar.

“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 can 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.

“If you ain’t gonna do it,” he went on, voice hardening, “give us the Endeavour and me and the Longrifles will sail on alone. You can run on back to Stockcombe and take a nice big bath in your self-pity.”

Hilemore’s fists bunched as he started towards Clay, his face the rigid mask of a man intent on violence.

“Sea-brother,” another voice said. It was softly spoken but still managed to bring Hilemore to a halt. Zenida stood close by, Akina at her side. “He’s right,” Zenida said, casting a sombre glance at the fleet. “They fought bravely but they’re done. Time to send them home. But we still have work to do.”

Evidently the Varestian’s word carried more weight than Clay’s, Hilemore’s aggression leeching away as he straightened, nodding stiffly. “The Endeavour will go with the fleet . . .” he began.

“No,” Zenida broke in. “Two blood-burners stand a better chance than one.” She sighed and turned to her daughter who, Clay saw, had begun scowling again, this time with even more ferocity than usual. “Though I would ask that you request Captain Tidelow find a spare berth.”

Steelfine had to carry Akina across the gangway to the Farlight, kicking and screaming all the way whilst her mother looked on in stern-faced silence. The girl had twisted away when her mother tried to embrace her, spitting curses in Varestian until Steelfine stepped forward to hoist her onto his shoulder.

As Akina was being forcibly disembarked others were coming aboard. Colonel Kulvetch and thirty of her Marines arrived by boat. Another twenty volunteers from amongst the ranks of the Voters were embarking the Endeavour. In addition to the increase in crew each ship was being loaded with extra cannon donated by the other ships. Some captains, the Dalcian pirate woman and Captain Gurkan chief amongst them, had also offered to have their ships towed by the blood-burners but Hilemore forbade it as impractical.

Every ounce of Red remaining to the fleet had been divided equally between the two blood-burners, meaning they would be able to sail on thermoplasmic power all the way to Varestia. A great deal depended on the weather but Hilemore estimated they would reach the Red Tides within ten days. The only issue remaining was the question of what to do with their allies.

“Just Lutharon,” Clay said. “The others will fly home.”

“We have room for two more aboard the Superior,” Hilemore said. The usefulness of the drakes during their battle with the Blues had evidently made a deep impression on his military mind. “And the Endeavour could carry one.”

“Just Lutharon,” Clay insisted. “We only need him.”

He went to the fore-deck to communicate the decision to Lutharon, who proved surprisingly resistant. He still roiled with excitement after the fight with the Blues, the fresh scars on his flanks seemingly doing little to deter his ardour. It’s my belief, Clay thought, laying a hand on the Black’s snout to send a flow of calming images into his mind, your kin have risked enough on our account already. Time to send them home.

Lutharon let out an aggrieved huff, twin smoke-plumes rising from his nostrils as he pulled his head away. He turned about and launched himself from the ship’s prow, climbing into the sky and wheeling about, mouth gaping as he let out a summoning call. It was soon answered by the other Blacks, all rising from the ships to join him in a swirling flock. Clay could feel some of the conflicting emotions leaking from Lutharon and sense the reluctance amongst the other Blacks. Their cries became discordant and the circling flock took on a confused, disordered appearance, some drakes colliding and snapping at each other in apparent disagreement. Eventually Lutharon let out a huge roar that drowned out all other cries and the discord abruptly ceased. They continued to circle in silence for a short while, then began to peel away, flying north to the Isles in a loose formation one by one until Lutharon was left alone in the sky.

He descended in a wide arc, skimming the sea before flaring his wings and coming to rest on the Superior’s prow. He let out a low rumble as Clay came forward to run a hand along his flank. “Sorry, big fella,” he said. “But I’m fast becoming resigned to the notion that there’s only one way to win this war, and when the time comes it’ll just be you and me.”

Hilemore ordered the blood-burner lit once they cleared the Green Cape. The Superior with her larger engine and lack of paddles soon pulled ahead of the Endeavour, though the smaller ship’s comparative lack of weight meant she was able to keep station a hundred yards off the frigate’s bow.

Clay spent much of the first three days pondering every scrap of information he had been able to glean about Catheline Dewsmine. In addition to what Akina could tell him, an appeal to the rest of the fleet for any pertinent information had yielded a number of periodicals, including some copies of Scandal Monthly so beloved by the late Mr. Tottleborn. The details of the woman’s life were so alien to his own that it was hard to find anything to empathise with, something he knew would be important if his scheme was to work. Born rich and kinda nasty with it, was his main conclusion upon reading the various accounts of Catheline’s life. Maybe that’s why the White chose her.

Eventually he was forced to conclude that the most useful aspect of the periodicals lay in the drawings and photostats depicting his subject, albeit with varying levels of accuracy. The drawings were mostly advertorials, a typical example exhorting readers to “Try Daulton’s Skin Cleansing Cream,” above a serene image of Catheline reposing on a couch, perfect profile raised towards the lips of a handsome admirer. Below the drawing was the legend “‘All women deserve to feel special.’—Catheline Dewsmine.”

“She doesn’t look insane,” Kriz commented one evening as they lay together in his bunk. He had previously shared the cabin with Lieutenant Sigoral, who now spent his nights with Loriabeth whilst Kriz spent hers with Clay. There had been no prior discussion of the arrangement, the change taking place in an unspoken atmosphere of inevitability. If Braddon had an opinion about his daughter taking up with a Corvantine Blood-blessed, he had seen fit to keep it quiet, although Clay had perceived a certain frowning disapproval whenever his uncle saw the two of them together.

“Maybe she wasn’t,” Clay replied. “Not then at least. Looks a mite different in this one, though.”

He reached for one of the news-sheets, the front page showing a photostat of Catheline stepping into a carriage outside a large mansion house in Sanorah. “Who Did She Kiss Goodnight?” asked the headline above the photostat. The story beneath related how “Famed society beauty Catheline Dewsmine appears to be keeping late hours these days. Here she is exiting the home of Senior Ironship Manager Rence Cozgrave just after midnight. According to neighbours Mrs. Cozgrave is currently visiting relatives in South Mandinor so perhaps Miss Dewsmine was just making sure Mr. Cozgrave didn’t get too lonely.” It was the expression on Catheline’s face that he found most interesting. In other photostats she was always smiling, in this her slightly blurred features stared into the camera with naked, unabashed hatred.

“I reckon whoever took this was lucky she didn’t have any product on her,” Clay said. “Anyways, whoever she was before, she’s a monster now.”

“Just like Hezkhi,” Kriz said, shifting to rest her head on his chest. “I never knew how much he must have hated Father. In the end, after all those years imprisoned in the Enclave, we all resented him, myself perhaps most of all. But I could never hate him. If I had it might have been me they called to whilst we slept. I wonder if madness isn’t all the White needs to claim us. Maybe it needs hate too.”

Hate, Clay thought, looking at the photostat again and the steady-eyed fury of the woman it depicted. Now that’s something I do know about.

CHAPTER 43

Sirus

He didn’t so much wake from unconsciousness as be dragged from it. Get up! Catheline’s voice in his head, curt and undeniable in its authority, banishing the vague images that had begun to coalesce into a dream. Despite the immediate plethora of pain that greeted his awakened body, he was still grateful she had spared him the dream, Katrya’s face having been at the forefront of it.

He sat up slowly, displacing the soil that covered him and taking in his surroundings. The soles of his boots were only a few inches away from the edge of a large crater some twenty feet across. Hovering above the crater were the four crystals, glowing bright at first but then beginning to flicker. As Sirus watched, the flicker increased whilst their glow diminished. They fell when the glow faded, landing on the partially scorched earth near by to be swiftly scooped up by a number of Spoiled.

“I hope you kept his memories,” he heard Catheline say and turned to see her standing over a corpse. Morradin hadn’t been as fortunate as Sirus. The upper half of his body lay outside the crater but what remained of the lower half lay within it, reduced to little more than a smear of ash shot through with patches of red. For a moment Sirus entertained the impossible notion that there might be some vestige of the marshal still lingering in his mind and reached out to try and find it. Of course there was only the cold silence of death. Grand Marshal Morradin, perhaps the finest military mind of his age, a singularly horrible human being and a worse Spoiled, was truly dead.

An enemy and ally both, Sirus thought amidst the welter of fear that followed. What must be done will be done by me alone.

“Didn’t know you two were so close,” Catheline commented, moving nearer and offering her hand.

“We weren’t,” he said, taking her hand and getting to his feet. “But his talents will be missed.”

Catheline’s gaze became guarded, red-black eyes downcast as she nodded to the crater. “I think we have a far greater loss to mourn.”

The White lay in the centre of the crater, body curled around three mangled forms. The infant Whites were mostly whole but clearly dead, thick gore leaking from slack and open mouths as the White nuzzled them, letting out a sound Sirus hadn’t heard from it before. It was somewhere between a whine and a rumble, the pitch of it sharp enough to pain the ears. More than the sound he could feel it seeping into his own thoughts; the raw pain of a grieving parent. The two surviving infants crouched near by, tails twitching and eyes darting nervously about.

“She got away, you know,” Catheline said. “The Lethridge bitch. A Blood-blessed in one of their flying contraptions picked her up.”

“She failed,” Sirus said, nodding at the White.

“This time. We can take no more chances, General. We must end this. In the past I have allowed my emotions to guide us. That was my error, for which I expect I’ll soon be punished. You will formulate a plan to ensure our victory beyond any doubt and I will implement it regardless of how long it might take. This army is now yours.”

The calamity in the Grand Cut and the rocket attack had cost the army twelve thousand Spoiled and two thousand drakes. The Greens bore the brunt of the losses thanks to the speed with which they had charged into the pass, but the Reds had also suffered greatly, losing close to a third of their number. It was a stark illustration to Sirus that the drakes were a finite resource. They had been the key to victory in so many engagements but every battle reduced their strength. And when they’re all gone, he mused amidst a carefully modulated pall of fear, all He will have is an army of Spoiled. An army led by me.

Veilmist reported that, even after such a setback, the overall strength of the army stood at close to one hundred and eighty thousand. However, Sirus found it an easy matter to convince Catheline they needed to increase their strength yet further. “Our enemy is clearly more resourceful than we could ever have expected,” he told her. “Every time we meet them they reveal a new and more deadly novelty. We have no ships that fly in the air, no rockets of unfeasible accuracy, nor can I find a mind in our ranks capable of producing them. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned from Marshal Morradin was the importance of numbers. We need to overwhelm our enemy. Attack in such strength no amount of invention can save them.”

The three columns set off the following day, making for regions Veilmist identified as possessing the most-developed agriculture. “Thousands fled our advance,” Sirus explained to Catheline. “People have to eat. It stands to reason they would flee to where they expect to find food.”

Each of the columns was led by a contingent of tribal Spoiled as they possessed the most honed tracking skills. They were under orders to avoid large-scale engagements and kill only when necessary. Their success was rapid and surprising even to Sirus. It appeared that, having avoided the passage of the White’s army, many refugees had naïvely assumed they were gone for good. Several large groups were captured in the open as they attempted to return to their homes. Reds also prowled the skies, scouting the locations of refugee camps in the hills. These would then be set upon from the air and the fleeing people herded by pursuing Greens into the arms of the Spoiled. The most fruitful area of recruitment lay in the farmland north-east of the Neck. Here most people lived on plantations rather than villages, meaning they were too small and sparsely occupied to be easily fortified. With their farm buildings and crops set alight the people had no option but to flee, once again continually harassed by Greens into following a pre-chosen route.

Once a decent number of captives had been harvested Sirus would take the Blue crystal and climb onto Katarias’s back. Escorting a large contingent of unwilling captives across miles of country was a troublesome business. It was far more preferable to fly to the column’s location and convert them in place. Once all the recruits were converted they would begin the orderly march south to join the main body of the army.

Sirus had persuaded Catheline to limit the drakes’ habitual liking for hunting down the children and elderly left over after a large-scale capture, arguing that it was a waste of time and made the unconverted prisoners harder to handle. This had the result of littering the country-side with large numbers of orphans and old people. Usually the children would flee whilst the oldsters stood around in helpless shock. On a few rare occasions the children would linger in the vicinity, crying out to their converted parents as they marched away, deaf to their tearful pleading.

After three weeks Veilmist reported a total of thirty-eight thousand fresh recruits, more than sufficient to make good their losses and swell the ranks for the advance. Will it be enough? Catheline asked, her new-found caution at the forefront of the thought she pushed into Sirus’s mind. We can send the columns farther north if necessary.

Marching north will increase the risk of encountering large-scale opposition, Sirus replied. There are a number of port-towns on the Varestian Peninsular. They will undoubtedly have been evacuated by now but there are sure to be more recruits in the outlying villages. Veilmist estimates a further yield of ten to fifteen thousand. Thanks to the Imperial arsenal we captured we have weapons enough for all. If employed correctly, an army of this size and discipline can have no equal.

She gave a faint pulse of amusement. Is that eagerness, General? I thought Morradin was the bloodthirsty one.

He didn’t need to summon any fear to mask the intent behind his reply, it being entirely sincere. I should hate to leave this task undone.

As expected the first port they came to was empty. It was more of a large fishing village than a port, its streets silent and small harbour devoid of ships. The Varestians had seen fit to raise the harbour door and disable its mechanism, ensuring the docks were subsequently inundated by the tide and rendered useless. An extensive search revealed hardly a scrap of food or ammunition, the only living inhabitants a few cats, dogs and a far larger number of rats. Catheline, in an increasingly rare display of pique, ordered the place burned to the ground and the army marched on beneath skies darkened by a tall column of black smoke.

For once Veilmist’s calculations proved to be substantially wide of the mark for the Varestians had been efficient, even ruthless in clearing the outlying villages of inhabitants. Scouting parties reported a number of corpses amongst the empty houses and farms, each one with their throat slit or a single bullet through the head.

“They know us now,” Sirus concluded when Catheline expressed her puzzlement at the murders. “Every living adult who refuses to leave is a potential recruit, so they are determined not to leave any.”

Another thousand additional recruits were rooted out of the small farms in the hill-country to the west, but Sirus judged most were too scattered to justify the time and effort needed to capture them all. The army moved on, the neat ranks of Spoiled following the coast south in a single huge column with Greens on the flanks and Reds above and scouting ahead. Their line of march took them past yet more empty villages and another two abandoned ports. The last one appeared to have been evacuated in haste, the Varestians leaving the harbour doors undamaged and a large amount of stores in the dock-side warehouses, including food and a quantity of small-arms ammunition. A Spoiled working party several hundred strong had begun to prepare the supplies for transport when the entire warehouse district erupted in a series of explosions.

“Sneaky bastards,” Catheline commented as they stood together on the town walls watching the fires rage in the dockside. There wasn’t much heat to her words, just sour observation. “It appears everything I heard about Varestians was true.”

“Casualties could have been worse,” Sirus said, turning away to scan the country to the south. “I’m more concerned by the lack of serious opposition. They must surely have organised a defence by now. But the Reds report nothing to the south for another hundred miles.” He switched his gaze to the sea, eyes tracking along the empty horizon. “The lack of sea-borne attacks is also odd. For such renowned seafarers the Varestians seemed strangely reluctant to risk their ships, especially given the absence of the Blues.”

“Conserving their strength,” Catheline concluded. “Intending to meet us in one great battle. How pleasingly dramatic.”

“Morradin said it would be a bloody day when our forces met theirs.”

Catheline moved closer, pressing a kiss to his scaled cheek, whispering, “The bloodier the better, dearest General. He hungers for it, you see. We now serve a vengeful god.”

Three days’ march brought them into sight of a stretch of black sand that extended from the shore-line to the fast-flowing river four miles to the west. Beyond the river the steep and equally black slopes of a mountain ensured there was no easy route around this barrier. Sirus was therefore unsurprised when the Reds flew over and discovered the enemy present in impressive strength on the southern fringe of the Sands.

“I once had a lover,” Catheline said as she and Sirus strolled along the edge of the Sands, “an artist, who contended that all nature was beautiful. If he had seen this place I suspect he might have formed a different opinion.”

Sirus crouched to scoop up a handful of black grains, finding it rich in the small gleaming stones that gave this place its name. Unlike Catheline he found the way the Sands contrasted so starkly with the landscape fascinating. “Mount Alkus,” he said, nodding at the peak to the west. “An occasionally active volcano. Every hundred years or so it coughs up a good deal of lava and ash, the Jet Sands are the result.” He rose, letting the sand fall from his hand as he surveyed the undulating ground ahead. The dunes were over ten feet tall in places, robbing an attacker of a forward view whilst providing a defender an easy target when they came to the top. Plus, the looseness of the footing ensured any infantry attack would be a highly sluggish affair.

“Whoever Miss Lethridge has commanding her forces clearly knows their business,” Sirus said. “They couldn’t have chosen better ground for a defensive engagement.”

“Another trap then?” Catheline asked.

“Very much so.” He shared the image of the enemy line the Reds had captured earlier. They had been forced to fly high due to the storm of fire from the repeating guns, one falling victim to the barrage before it could gain sufficient height. The image showed at most six battalions of infantry and several batteries of cannon at the eastern end of the Sands whilst more could be seen marching up from the south. The enemy line grew thicker the farther west it went, bristling with cannon and repeating guns.

“A decent-sized force,” Catheline commented. “But they’re not yet fully in position.”

“It’s a ruse,” Sirus said, shaking his head. “They want us to attack close to the shore. As soon as we do I expect their ships will suddenly appear on the horizon whilst their airships assail us from above.”

“Then avoid it. Attack elsewhere.”

“On this ground, any point we attack will result in considerable losses.”

“Really?” He felt a murmur of scorn from her, and detected a tinge of acid to her tone when she asked, “What would Morradin have done?”

“He was a commander who never shied from the butcher’s bill, to be sure. And I suspect he would have been of the opinion that once you spring a trap, it can’t be sprung again.”

“You’re suggesting we simply do what the enemy expects?” Catheline gave a derisive laugh. “Even one with my meagre military knowledge knows that to be a mistake.”

“I do indeed suggest we do just that,” Sirus replied, stepping forward to press his boot into the sand. It sank into the soft surface to a depth of three inches. Bad ground for a human, he concluded. But not a drake. “Then,” he went on, turning to her with a smile, “I suggest we do something else entirely. I believe it’s time our army had a cavalry arm.”

He waited for dusk before launching the assault, reasoning that the enemy would surely have suspected something if he had attacked in full daylight. The lead battalions advanced across the dunes in a slow steady march behind a screen of skirmishers, kept in step by their mental connection, which allowed for two continuous unbroken lines of nearly a half mile in length. There were over forty thousand Spoiled in the first wave, with more lined up behind in a densely packed, well-ordered mass. As the advance progressed Sirus sent his cannon forward, teams of Spoiled man-handling the guns over the dunes to form a large single battery on the right flank. In accordance with their orders they began to fire on the enemy line immediately, concentrating their shells on the supposedly thinly held section of the opposing line close to the shore. They were firing at the limit of the guns’ range and their accuracy was therefore poor, but Sirus hoped this would at least convince the enemy commander of his intent.

Above the dunes the Reds patrolled in a dense swarm, Sirus deliberately holding them back as insurance against the appearance of the airships. Although few in number, the fire-power of these novel contraptions had been amply demonstrated at the Grand Cut. The Greens, having the most crucial role to play, he kept well to rear, awaiting the critical moment.

As expected, a line of Varestian ships appeared on the horizon as the Spoiled advance reached the halfway point to their objective. The enemy fleet approached in two divisions, steaming towards the coast at high speed then performing a sharp turn either north or south to present their broadsides to the shore. Sirus was surprised to see a number of Corvantine Imperial frigates amongst them, displaying an impressive accuracy and rapidity of fire as they unleashed their guns at the advancing Spoiled. Added to this was the fire of the enemy cannon arrayed along the southern side of the Sands. Wisely ignoring Sirus’s grand battery, they concentrated their fire on the infantry assault to devastating effect.

All along the ranks of Spoiled black sand blossomed in huge gouts as the shells struck home, Sirus feeling at least four of his soldiers die with every blast. But still the two lines advanced, shrinking in the process as the Spoiled reordered themselves to fill the gaps in their ranks. The enemy’s repeating guns began firing shortly after. Via the eyes of a Red, Sirus saw the human infantry casting aside earth-covered tarpaulins to spring up from previously unseen trenches, quickly manoeuvring the multibarrelled weapons into position. Their fire was rapid and accurate. The mass of bullets and cannon shells cut through the first rank of Spoiled like a huge invisible scythe. In response to Sirus’s mental command, the survivors, barely two thousand strong, commenced a charge towards the enemy line. They sprinted the remaining distance to their objective with all the speed their remade bodies would permit, falling by the dozen with every few yards covered. Only about a hundred reached the enemy trenches, all of whom were swiftly cut or shot down in the brief close-quarters fight that followed. Sirus ordered the second line to charge shortly after, with similar results, then noted with satisfaction that the light was fading fast.

He ordered another ten battalions forward, sending half of them around the battery in the centre of the dunes with orders to make for the extreme left of the enemy line. He hoped this would lead the enemy commander to assume he had learned his mistake and was attempting to probe for weaknesses elsewhere. As the second wave passed by the battery, suffering only marginally fewer casualties than the first from the enemy ships and cannon, he summoned the Greens forward. They had been kept a mile to the rear and well inland, beyond the sight of any reconnaissance. Sirus turned to watch them loping past his vantage point atop a hill a few hundred yards from the Sands. Every Green in the White’s thrall had been enlisted in this attack and they streamed past in a huge pack, every one carrying a Spoiled on its back.

Once the Greens were on the Sands Sirus ordered the Spoiled to the left of the battery into a dense formation ten ranks deep and sent them charging full pelt towards the enemy trenches. Rifle fire and repeating guns tore the first four ranks to pieces in short order, the Spoiled behind leaping their comrades’ bodies and keeping on, bayonet-tipped rifles gleaming in the two-moon night. The charge was doomed, of course, only the last rank of Spoiled reaching the trenches where they all fell in a brief but savage hand-to-hand struggle, a struggle that prevented the human defenders from noticing the huge pack of Spoiled-mounted Greens boiling across the dunes.

Some repeating guns managed to loose a hail of bullets into the onrushing mass of drakes, cutting down dozens in a matter of seconds, but the momentum of the charge proved unstoppable. The drakes tore through the trenches in a welter of fire, tooth and claw, the Spoiled on their backs leaping away as soon as they were clear of the Sands. They quickly formed into companies and launched an immediate attack on human defenders to their left. They had been ordered to concentrate on silencing the repeating guns and moved from trench to trench in relays, putting rifle and bayonet to murderously efficient use.

Gauging the moment had come, Sirus set the remaining battalions in motion, over one hundred thousand Spoiled starting forward at the run. A few battalions were sent into the teeth of the ship guns and cannon directly to their front, Sirus being keen to ensure the enemy commander didn’t have the chance to shift any forces. The bulk of the army veered to the west, keeping close to the river as they charged for the gap the Green cavalry had torn in the enemy line.

Wonderful. Catheline’s exultation and triumph sang in his head along with a not-inconsiderable measure of lust. How could I ever have doubted you?

The images captured by the thousands of eyes in the army played through their conjoined minds with nightmarish clarity. A Varestian continuing to swing his sabre despite the six bayonets that pinned him to the earth. A woman stumbling across the sand with her intestines trailing from a gaping stomach wound. A knot of defenders clustered around a repeating cannon, continuing to fire until the Greens closed in and bathed them in fire.

It was hard to make sense of the situation amidst so much horror but Sirus soon divined that the enemy had been engaged all along the line and the stocks of ammunition and reserves to their rear were also under attack.

Send the Reds, Catheline commanded, her thoughts riven with so much eagerness for the slaughter Sirus winced in pain. And the reserves. Finish it!

Not yet, he insisted. Resistance is still fierce. The Reds must be preserved for the pursuit.

He felt her gathering her will to override his objection, fed by the White’s vast need for vengeance, but the argument was rendered irrelevant when a blinding white light blossomed in the sky.

It hung in the air trailing sparks, casting its glow across the dunes. Flare, Sirus realised, his Spoiled eyes piercing the haze of light to make out the shape of the parachute above the blazing pyrotechnic. Two more blazed into light a split-second later, bathing the entire battlefield in a glow bright enough to banish all shadows. Sirus shielded his eyes, squinting as he focused on the black space beyond the flares, and was soon rewarded with the sight of a large, curved shape descending from the gloom.

The enemy’s airships had finally arrived.

CHAPTER 44

Lizanne

“Our lot are running,” Morva shouted, hair whipping in the wind as she leaned out of the Typhoon’s side hatch, peering through her goggles at the battlefield below. “Greens are everywhere.”

“Reds?” Lizanne shouted back.

“Not that I can see.”

Lizanne moved forward, making her way to Tekela’s side and telling the gunners manning the Growlers in the side hatches to get ready. “Give me one minute then take us lower,” she said. “Below two thousand feet.”

“That’s well within the ceiling for a Red,” Tekela pointed out.

“I know. But we need to make sure we drop in the right place.”

Lizanne injected a burst of Blue and quickly tranced with the Blood-blessed in the Tempest and the newly constructed Hurricane and Whirlwind, ordering them to follow the Typhoon. Slipping out of the trance, she gripped a handhold as Tekela put the aerostat into a steep dive.

“Reds ahead!” she called from the pilot’s seat, her voice soon drowned out by the roar of the Growlers. Lizanne moved to a window to watch the tracer bullets streaming into the gloom, the arcing streams soon bisected by the larger shells from the Thumpers carried by the Hurricane and the Whirlwind. These featured a new modification from Jermayah, a fuse that would cause them to explode after a distance of four hundred yards. Consequently, the sky surrounding the aerostats soon began to resemble a firework display. Lizanne saw Reds illuminated by the exploding shells, brief, frozen glimpses of the beasts banking and coughing flame, none of which came close to the aerostats. She had the satisfaction of counting four caught in the act of being blasted out of the sky before Tekela hauled back on the control lever and called out, “Nineteen hundred feet!”

“Slow and level!” Lizanne called back, moving to the apparatus newly fitted to the floor of the gondola. It was an uncomplicated contraption consisting of a telescope positioned vertically within a frame to which a small lever had been attached. The lever was connected to a taut steel cable that descended through the base of the gondola to the release mechanism below. Lizanne injected a one-second burst of Green and pressed her eye to the telescope, placing one hand on the lever. She tried to blot out the continuing roar of the guns, punctuated by a rich stream of profane fear and exhilaration from the gunners. The view through the telescope was chaotic at first, drifting smoke shrouding a landscape of numerous fires and the ant-like forms of running people. However, thanks to the Green she was able to ascertain that they were about to fly over the southern fringe of the Jet Sands.

Where are they? she thought as the landscape slid beneath, her concentration soon broken by a shout from Morva.

“The Tempest is on fire!”

Cursing, Lizanne removed her eye from the telescope, moving to the hatch where Morva crouched with her mini-Growler in hand. She fired just as Lizanne came to her side, sending a stream of bullets into the belly of a Red as it swooped by, flames jetting from its mouth. It let out a screech and tumbled in the air, plummeting towards the earth in a tangle of wings and tail.

Lizanne tore her gaze away and concentrated on the Tempest, seeing the fire licking at the rear of her envelope. The aerostat was still keeping pace with them but her course was becoming more wayward, the craft heaving up and down as the fire spread. Lizanne switched her gaze on the large, barrel-shaped object hanging beneath the craft’s gondola. Not yet, she implored. Just a little longer.

Her eyes jerked upwards at a burst of fire from the gunner in the cupola atop the Tempest’s envelope. The gunner had her mini-Growler raised high and unleashed a stream of bullets at a large Red streaking down towards the aerostat in a vertical dive. The beast’s head was shredded by the concentrated fire but its dive continued, the corpse slamming into the aerostat and causing it to lose height. Lizanne managed to catch sight of the barrel-shaped object detaching from the gondola before a dozen Reds swooped down to bathe the Tempest in fire. Her envelope exploded, leaving only a cloud of wreckage trailing flame as it streamed towards the ground.

“Hold on!” Lizanne ordered, moving back from the hatch and taking a firm hold on the central beam.

The explosion was everything Tinkerer promised and more. The gondola’s windows glowed orange as a massive gust of superheated air pushed the Typhoon up, tilting her at an acute angle as Tekela fought to keep control. The aerostat veered to the west, Tekela pushing the engines to their highest speed to take her clear of the turbulent air. When they levelled out Lizanne went to the rear window, finding that the Hurricane and the Whirlwind were now several hundred yards away, meaning the Typhoon would have to rely on her own guns for protection.

“Turn us around,” she ordered Tekela, moving to return her eye to the telescope. She found that the Typhoon had been pushed clear of the Jet Sands and was now over the river. The ground pivoted as Tekela killed power to the starboard engine before reversing its propeller, turning them around in a swift pirouette. An unforeseen advantage of the Tempest’s demise and premature release of its device was that the skies around Typhoon were now clear of Reds. Consequently, they flew unmolested for several minutes as Lizanne watched the river pass by below and the ground transform into a frozen seascape of black dunes. She blinked in surprise as a dense formation of infantry trooped by directly below, thousands of Spoiled moving in a rapid march no doubt intending to turn the night’s defeat into a disastrous rout.

“Stop!” she shouted, keeping her eye pressed to the telescope. She placed her hand on the release lever, waiting until the vanguard of the White’s army had passed beneath the Typhoon. Not yet . . . not yet. She forced herself to count to ten then pressed the lever.

The Typhoon instantly began to rise as the huge weight of the device fell away, ascending at least three hundred feet in the time it took for the barrel-shaped silhouette to shrink into a speck, whereupon the view through the telescope instantly turned white. Lizanne let out a pained gasp at the brightness of it, snapping her head away, eye streaming. The shock wave hit them a heart-beat later, far more powerful than the first. Lizanne found herself careening around the gondola as the aerostat bucked and heaved in the artificial storm. When it finally settled Lizanne pressed her undazzled eye to the telescope, finding much of the western edge of the Jet Sands had been transformed into something that resembled a huge scratched mirror.

“Reds!” one of the gunners shouted, his Growler blasting out a hail of bullets a second later.

“Due south,” Lizanne told Tekela. She injected a burst of Red and moved to the blood-burner’s ignition tube, hitting the switch to flood the combustion chamber with product. All the Typhoon’s guns were firing by the time she lit the engine, the acceleration sending her onto her back as the aerostat sped away from the pursuing Reds.

They stayed aloft for as long as their ammunition lasted, re-forming with the Hurricane and the Whirlwind to launch repeated attacks on the pursuing Reds as the Varestian army retreated along the coast. The two massive detonations on the Jet Sands appeared to have halted the White’s ground forces, at least for now, but the Reds continued to harass the defenders as they fled south. Lizanne tranced with the Blood-blessed in the other aerostats to co-ordinate their efforts, attacking the mass of drakes in relays. The Typhoon would streak through the whirling pack on thermoplasmic power, all guns blazing, moving too fast for the drakes to catch. As the Reds recovered, the Hurricane and the Whirlwind would light their blood-burners and fly through the flock in opposite directions. This succeeded in disrupting the drakes’ pursuit long enough for Arberus to establish a rear-guard position atop some high ground ten miles to the south.

The Reds’ assaults on the rear guard were beaten back by massed fire from all the Growlers and Thumpers remaining in the army. With the advent of daylight the Reds no longer enjoyed the protection of darkness and, with no support on the ground, were much more vulnerable to the repeating guns. Arberus later reported that over a hundred had been hacked out of the sky by the time they abandoned their attacks. The general had been quick to get his remaining forces moving south, sadly without many of their Thumpers, which had to be destroyed in place for want of transport.

As the army retreated the Varestian fleet kept pace with them, staying close to the shore in order to bring a mass of gunnery down on any pursuing forces should it be needed. However, Lizanne’s subsequent reconnaissance flights revealed that the White’s army had encamped a few miles south of the Sands. Their commander had evidently taken full notice of the events of the previous night, setting out the camp in a series of small widely spaced enclosures beneath skies constantly patrolled by Reds. Even so, Lizanne felt that if she had another five such devices they could have wiped out the Spoiled for good. Sadly they didn’t. Word from the Mount related that a lack of crucial chemical agents meant they could only produce one more device, and that would take at least another week. Lizanne sent instructions for them to concentrate all efforts on finishing the device whilst any spare labour would be required to work multiple shifts to make good the losses in Thumpers.

It took five days for the army to make a full withdrawal to Gadara’s Redoubt. Much of their food had been left behind at the Sands meaning they had to be constantly resupplied by the fleet whilst the aerostats made repeated flights to evacuate the worst of the wounded. Arberus maintained a harsh pace throughout the retreat, something that did little to endear him to the troops, whose morale had already suffered in the aftermath of defeat. Desertion reached alarming proportions, some ten thousand troops disappearing over the course of two days. However, many soon returned after coming to the realisation that, in a land denuded of most of its population where the few crops had been destroyed, there was nowhere to go. Consequently, it was a bedraggled and none-too-happy army that limped into camp below the Redoubt. Some units stayed firm, particularly the companies formed of pirates and the volunteers who had followed Varkash to defend their homeland. Others were far less resolute and many soon began agitating for immediate evacuation from the peninsular.

“Pick out the biggest loudmouths and put them in front of a firing squad,” Varkash suggested at the council of war Lizanne convened at the Redoubt. “Or hang them if you’d rather save the ammunition.”

“That will set the whole army to riot,” Arberus said. “A few days of rest and decent food will do much to restore their discipline.”

“If the Spoiled will give us that long,” Alzar said. “Besides which, cowards they may be but it doesn’t make them wrong. If we couldn’t stand against the monsters at the Sands, how can we stand against them here?”

Arberus began to reply but Lizanne caught his eye and shook her head. “We can’t,” she told them. “Not indefinitely. But General Arberus assures me that we can hold out for several days, perhaps longer. And it is important that we do so.”

“Why?” Alzar asked. “We can transport the army to Iskamir, gather more strength.”

“Leaving the White to advance into the heart of the peninsular,” Lizanne said. “Where there are far more people than we could ever hope to evacuate. Once there the White can gather an army so great there will be no force in this world that can stop it. We have to hold here, for as long as we can.” She paused, unsure of how to explain her reasoning. She was asking a great deal of these people, many would die if they continued to follow her lead. But many more might live. “A man is coming here,” she said. “A Blood-blessed, bearing a new weapon found in the Arradsian Interior. Something that can kill the White.”

“What kind of weapon?” Alzar demanded. “And why haven’t we heard of this before?”

“Because the White knows the secrets of every human it makes into a monster,” Lizanne replied. “Which is why I will not tell you the nature of this weapon. Suffice to say that if we can keep the White’s attention on us for the next month, we have a chance to end this.”

“We wounded them badly at the Sands,” Arberus added. “They’ll be more wary of us now, more cautious, and a cautious enemy is a slow enemy.”

Alzar’s doubts were plain but he gave a slow nod. “Very well. I’ll take a tour of the camp, speak to these malcontents. See if I can’t harden a few hearts.”

“My lot will happily form the firing squad if you can’t,” Varkash offered.

“Good to see time has done a lot to mellow your soul,” Alzar observed dryly.

Lizanne expected Varkash to bridle at this but he just laughed. “What use is a mellow soul in an age such as this?”

CHAPTER 45

Sirus

The glass crunched under his boots as he strode to the centre of the near-perfect circle blasted into the Jet Sands. Hotter than a furnace, he concluded, crouching to retrieve a shard of the glass produced by the heat of the explosion. He found the way it caught the light oddly beautiful, resembling obsidian in its lack of transparency. Casting his gaze around, he could find no corpses within this circle, despite Veilmist’s estimate that over three thousand Spoiled had died at this very spot. The blast and the heat had been so powerful they had simply been vaporised. The first explosion hadn’t been so well placed, claiming only about two thousand Spoiled, but together they had sown enough disruption in the advance to make his victory a flawed one.

Morradin would have been spitting bile, he thought with a grim smile, tossing the shard of glass away and rising as Catheline spoke in his head.

He’s ready, she told him. Best if you hurry. I’ve no idea how long he’ll last.

The captive was the only survivor of the airship the Reds had brought down, plucked from the Sands with near-fatal burns, multiple broken bones and crushed organs. Reasoning that a small experiment would cost nothing, Sirus had him taken to the Blue crystal. After the conversion many of his injuries remained beyond repair, but his brain was still intact.

Where are the airships made? Sirus enquired, staring down at the lopsided face of the newly fashioned Spoiled. The fall had robbed him of a cheek-bone and one of his eyes in addition to shattering his jaw, but Sirus didn’t need to hear him talk.

Aerostats, the Spoiled corrected, his thoughts possessed of a surprising coherence. A brief rummage through the man’s memories revealed him to be a former locomotive-driver with a level of technical understanding Sirus would be sorry to lose. They are manufactured at a place called the Mount Works, the Spoiled went on. Along with many other weapons.

Sirus felt a flare of excitement from Catheline, one he couldn’t help but share. He summoned a mental map of the Varestian Peninsular and pushed it into the Spoiled’s mind along with a question. Where is it?

“You shouldn’t be risking yourself like this,” Catheline had said as he climbed onto Katarias’s back. She reached out to him as he settled between the spines, one hand clutching her shawl about her shoulders whilst she grasped his forearm. He supposed that to an ignorant observer they might have made a romantic tableau, the hero being sent off to war by his beautiful, golden-haired paramour. But he wasn’t a hero, he was a monster and Catheline, in any way that mattered, was far from beautiful.

“The mission is crucial,” he replied. “The outcome must be certain. I need to lead in person.”

She didn’t object, the White’s approval overriding any objections she might harbour though Sirus was struck by the anguish evident in her face. “If you don’t come back . . .” she began, then faltered before continuing. “It will be . . . difficult.”

“Veilmist will make an adequate replacement,” he said.

She looked up, meeting his gaze, red-black eyes wide and expression devoid of the arch cynicism he had come to expect. “That’s not what I meant.”

Katarias banked steeply to avoid a thick patch of cloud, bringing Sirus back to the present with a jolt. Looking down, he could see the two moons reflected on a calm sea, meaning they had crossed the coast-line north of Blaska Sound. He had opted to cover much of the distance in an overland flight, avoiding the many eyes of the Varestian fleet whilst also affording the Reds the opportunity to rest along the way. Even a drake couldn’t stay aloft indefinitely. After flying from midnight to noon, Sirus had the formation set down where the mountains rose some fifty miles north-west of their objective. There were thirty Reds in all, each carrying a veteran Spoiled. Hardly a mighty force but it was important their approach not be noticed. Sirus also calculated that the intelligence provided by the aerostat pilot before his inevitable death would more than compensate for a lack of numbers.

He waited for nightfall before setting off again, skirting the northern flank of the mountains and making for the coast whereupon the Reds made a sharp turn into the Sound. They flew low over the placid waters, wary of being silhouetted against the two moons. The Mount Works soon came into view, Sirus quickly confirming that the description of the defences matched the mental image supplied by the pilot. Lizanne Lethridge clearly hadn’t taken the settlement’s security for granted. There were a dozen gun emplacements surrounding the town and the manufactory, with another six within, all manned day and night by the town militia. However, it was the manufactory that captured most of his interest, a large building with light streaming from its windows and open main doors, illuminating the copious steam and smoke rising from its vents.

That must burn tonight, he told Forest Spear and the other Spoiled. Everything else is secondary.

The Spoiled slipped from the backs of the Reds as they neared the wharf, Sirus tumbling from Katarias’s back into the chill embrace of the Sound. It was a three-hundred-yard swim to the docks, an easy feat for a Spoiled. The hour corresponded with the turn of the two-moon tide so the current was friendly, allowing a swift approach. He kept beneath the surface for most of the journey, pausing occasionally to rise and poke his nose out of the water and draw in some air before slipping below, leaving barely a ripple on the surface. A number of ships were moored at the wharf, freighters waiting to take the munitions manufactured here to the army in the north. Sirus and the other Spoiled dived down and swam beneath the hulls, rising on the other side to conceal themselves in the matrix of girders beneath the wharf. With the tide high it was a short climb, Sirus dividing the Spoiled into two groups and leading one to the eastern side of the docks whilst the other went west.

Sirus scaled the girders to the edge of the platform, slowly hauling himself up to peer at what lay above and finding himself instantly greeted by a pair of guards. They were frozen in the act of sharing a match, cigarillos dangling from their mouths as they gaped at him. Sirus swung his body and vaulted over the edge, knife coming free of the sheath on his belt as he rolled towards the guards. One managed a half-shout before the blade slashed across his throat whilst the other continued to gape in shock even as Sirus stabbed him under the chin, driving the knife up into his brain.

He moved on without pause, the Spoiled following close behind. There were many crates stacked up around the docks, providing valuable cover as they slipped from one shadow to another. Upon clearing the docks pairs of Spoiled peeled off, moving swiftly to the gun-positions they had been ordered to silence. Sirus and Forest Spear, in company with four others, made for the manufactory.

As expected, there were no people in the streets, the converted pilot having informed them of the strict curfew observed at the Mount. Those not working a shift were to be afforded an uninterrupted sleep, though Sirus wondered how that was possible with the noise produced by the manufactory. A continual clatter of metal on metal rose in volume as they approached, still keeping to the shadows and avoiding the notice of the cordon of guards surrounding the works.

They paused as Sirus checked the progress of the Spoiled he had sent against the gun emplacements. Four positions had already been silenced, the gunners cut down with knife and war-club before they could raise the alarm. Another seven were wiped out in the space of a few minutes but then one of the gunners, a young woman with impressive reflexes, managed to draw her revolver in time to shoot down the two attacking Spoiled. Within seconds the piercing shriek of a siren cut through the noise of the manufactory and lights began to flare in the windows of the houses.

Sirus sent a mental command to Katarias, calling the Reds down from their circling vigil several hundred feet above. He had known the chances of achieving complete surprise were slim, but the damage already done to the Mount’s defences ensured at least half the Reds would make it through the barrage.

Tracer bullets were already arcing into the air when he led the Spoiled from cover, drawing his revolver and making straight for the cordon in front of the manufactory’s huge open doors. The Spoiled spread out on either side as he ran, firing their revolvers on the run and cutting down ten guards. Their comrades responded swiftly with rifle and carbines, Sirus and the other Spoiled throwing themselves flat as the bullets snapped the air around them. He took the time to reload his revolver, glancing up at the familiar hiss and roar of drake fire.

Katarias swooped down out of the night sky to blast the remaining cordon of guards with his flames. He landed directly in front of the manufactory doors, two more drakes coming to earth on either side. As one they turned and charged into the manufactory, the noise of labour soon becoming drowned by the cacophony of many people screaming in terror.

Sirus got to his feet and led the Spoiled on, leaping to the side to avoid the falling corpse of a Red that landed in his path, its hide pierced all over by cannon fire. Inside the manufactory everything was chaos, charred or mutilated corpses littered the rows of work-benches and burning people ran in all directions. Katarias and his two fellow drakes were halfway along the cavernous space, belching repeated gouts of flame at the mass of people fleeing to the rear of the building. Those running for the side exits were cut down by tail strikes or bullets from the Spoiled as Sirus led them forward in a skirmish-line.

He levelled his revolver at a fleeing man, putting a bullet through his head from thirty paces, then instinctively jerked away as the chest of the Spoiled to his right exploded. Sirus took cover beneath a work-bench, seeing another Spoiled fall, the impact of the shot that killed him powerful enough to remove his head from his shoulders. The other Spoiled raised their pistols to a higher angle and returned fire, Sirus slipping from cover to track their aim to a walkway above. A man was crouched behind some steel plating, sparks flying as the Spoiled’s bullets struck home. Sirus could make out the shiny crown of the man’s bald head and the barrel of the carbine he held, jerking as he reloaded. Raising his revolver, Sirus centred the sights on the man’s head, then stopped as a small round object was tossed over the steel plating, trailing smoke as it arced down to land a few feet away.

Sirus leapt with all the strength his remade limbs allowed; even so, the grenade came close to killing him. Shrapnel buzzed the air as the blast sent him careening into a girder, Sirus feeling the snap of breaking ribs as his chest connected with the iron pillar. He lay stunned at the foot of the girder, pain flaring in his chest with every breath. The snick of a carbine lever drew his gaze upwards, finding the man with the carbine staring down at him from the walkway. He was a stocky fellow in soot-covered overalls, and Sirus felt a faint pulse of amusement as he scanned the man’s broad features, recognising him as one of the duo that had flown away from Feros with Tekela.

“Hello,” he said, though the words were probably meaningless, garbled by the blood leaking from his mouth. “A friend of Tekela’s, are you not?”

Whether the man heard or even understood him, Sirus couldn’t know. In either case being greeted by a Spoiled didn’t seem to stir any merciful impulse. The man swiftly brought the carbine to his shoulder, eyes dark and purposeful behind the sights as he trained them on Sirus.

Forest Spear’s knife came spinning out of the grenade smoke, sinking into the bald man’s neck up to the hilt. The carbine swung wide as his finger gave a final convulsive twitch on the trigger, the bullet missing Sirus by a few inches, though the explosion of sparks as it impacted the girder sent flakes of molten steel into his face.

He felt Forest Spear pulling him upright and wiped the blood from his eyes, glancing around to see the other Spoiled lying dead. The interior of the manufactory was now so filled with smoke and heat it was hard even for his unnatural gaze to discern the scale of the destruction. However, a bright blaze was burning at the rear of the building, the roar of the flames punctuated by exploding munitions. Sirus was able to make out the slumped forms of two drakes, meaning they had encountered some fierce resistance during their rampage. A sudden drop in temperature made the view clearer, Sirus catching sight of a Red tearing a large rent in the manufactory’s roof. He was able to recognise Katarias as the huge drake clawed his way out.

Another round of explosions sounded deep in the manufactory, shaking the ground and convincing Sirus they had done all the damage they could. He and Forest Spear rushed outside, finding the sky above the town criss-crossed by arcing lines of tracer from the surviving gun emplacements. Their fire was augmented by numerous repeating guns on the ships moored at the wharf. Sirus saw a Red fold up in mid air, caught by two converging bursts of cannon fire that sent it plummeting into the streets. Another Red swooped down, spewing flame at a squad of militia, then fell dead as their carbines sent a fusillade of exploding bullets into its chest.

A mental survey revealed to Sirus that he and Forest Spear were the only Spoiled to survive the attack, a distinction that wouldn’t last long judging by the large number of militia streaming towards them from the town.

There was a brief rumbling cry from above followed by a gust of wind as Katarias came to earth near by. Sirus and Forest Spear scrambled onto his back, ducking as bullets zipped around them and the beast sprinted forward before launching himself skyward. Katarias twisted and turned as cannon shells and bullets chased them across the sky, swooping low and banking to soar to the north end of the town where the rising smoke and flame from the manufactory masked their escape.

The drake let out a loud roar as they flew away, wings sweeping as he bore them towards the mountains. Whether it was an expression of triumph or grief for his lost kin, Sirus couldn’t tell.

CHAPTER 46

Lizanne

She jumped from the Typhoon’s gondola before it came to earth, landing hard and sprinting towards the smoking ruin of the manufactory. Some of the townsfolk called out to her but she tore past them, only vaguely registering the corpses, drake and human, that marked her path. Several long rows of covered bodies had been placed on the flat ground before the manufactory and teams of workers were busy carrying more from the blackened structure. Lizanne’s gaze swung wildly from face to face, finally alighting on one she knew.

“My father?” she said, rushing to grab Madame Hakugen’s arm. The woman stared at her for a moment, eyes uncomprehending in her soot-stained face, then gave a helpless shake of her head.

“I don’t know,” she said in a thin whisper. “I haven’t seen him.”

Lizanne left her, running to the ruin to be greeted by the dreadful carnage that lay within. Her strength seeped away and she slowed to a stumble, moving in a daze as she took in one horror after another. A group of workers, melted together by drake fire into an obscene parody of a sculpture, clawed, stump-fingered hands reaching up to her, teeth gleaming in the charred remnants of their faces. A young assembly worker, remarkably untouched by the flames and lacking any obvious injury, lying dead beneath her work-bench, face frozen in a wide-eyed mask of terror. She found the worst of it at the rear of the building. Hundreds had died here, crammed together amongst the heavy machinery as they tried to flee only to be roasted alive. The stench of death seemed to claw its way into her being, choking nose and throat before sinking an acidic claw into her guts.

The world went away for a time, everything becoming hazy and distant, when she came back to herself she was retching air past a dry throat, staring at a pool of her own vomit. A sound came to her then, soft but easily heard in the eerie quiet. Someone was sobbing. Lizanne got unsteadily to her feet and followed the sound to the walkway above the manufactory floor, climbing up to find Tekela weeping over the body of Jermayah Tollermine.

“It was him,” she said, raising a tear-streaked face to stare at Lizanne. “A Spoiled in a general’s uniform, they said. Sirus did this. He did this because I failed to kill him.”

Lizanne found she had no words for her, finding that all sensation seemed to have fled her body. She could only stand and stare in dumb fascination at the knife handle jutting from Jermayah’s neck. It was a curious design, one she hadn’t seen before. An intricately carved piece of bone, its elegant curve oddly pleasing to the eye.

“Lizanne.”

Professor Graysen Lethridge stepped cautiously onto the walkway, tattered lab coat besmirched with soot and blood, though not his own as far as she could tell. He looked at Jermayah’s body, face sagging in grim resignation. Lizanne’s first thought was that he must be a product of her imagination, something conjured to prevent her slipping into madness. But then her father’s arms enfolded her and the freezing numbness transformed into an instant blaze of relief that had her convulsing in hard, wracking sobs as she clung to him.

“Over eight hundred killed,” Madame Hakugen reported. “Three times that number wounded. About sixty percent of the machinery is damaged beyond repair. Fully half the stocks of recently completed munitions destroyed.”

“The new explosives?” Lizanne asked, turning to her father.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “We just completed the casing, it’s mostly still intact, even salvageable. But the chemicals needed to achieve the correct explosive mix were consumed in the fire.”

“And,” Tinkerer added, “the precision instruments required to manufacture the detonator.”

Lizanne had found him wandering the ashen remains of what had been his workshop, expressionlessly rummaging through the detritus as he gathered various components and scraps of charred paper. Apart from a faint grimace when Lizanne enquired as to his well-being, he hadn’t betrayed any particular reaction to the disaster, although she noticed he was blinking more than usual. Looking at him, she found she had to suppress a guilt-riven and unpleasant inner question: Why couldn’t it have been him instead of Jermayah?

She went to the window of Madame Hakugen’s office, looking out at the ships in the Sound. Five freighters had arrived that morning to collect the latest shipment of weapons and were now destined to leave half-empty. “Madame,” she said, “I require an honest and unvarnished opinion; how long will it take before this facility can resume production?”

“There are many variables involved . . .” Madame began then fell silent as Lizanne glanced over her shoulder, gaze steady and demanding. “At this juncture,” Madame continued in a subdued tone, “too long to make any difference to the outcome of this war.”

“Thank you.” Lizanne returned her gaze to the window and was surprised to find children at play in the park, running and laughing, seemingly oblivious to the pall of smoke that still hung in the air over the Mount. Just another horror witnessed in their short lives, she thought. One of many. Perhaps all this has rendered them immune to fear. It occurred to her that, win or lose, the children who would grow up in the aftermath of this war were already spoiled, in mind if not body. What kind of world will they build? But then, they could hardly do worse than we have.

“Please call a general meeting of the work-force,” she said, turning to face them. “The Mount Works Militia will sail to Gadara’s Redoubt together with any adult who wishes to volunteer for military service. Lone parents with children are excluded.”

“And those left behind?” Madame asked.

“Sufficient shipping will remain to carry them away should the need arise, though in the event of our defeat, I can’t imagine a safe place where they might go.”

“You intend to just abandon this place?” her father asked. “A place so many have laboured to exhaustion to build?”

“There is no purpose to it now. No further contribution it can make.”

“There are the new rockets,” Tinkerer said.

Lizanne frowned at him in bemusement. “What new rockets?”

They were lined up in a narrow brick shelter which had been constructed well away from the other buildings. Exactly three hundred in all, looking to Lizanne’s eyes like a miniature version of the rockets that had served them so well at the Grand Cut. Each was about a yard long and ten inches in diameter. They had a smooth bullet-shaped steel warhead and a pair of aerofoils positioned halfway along their length with another larger pair at the base.

“It occurred to me that one of the Red drakes’ advantages is their ability to attack in a massed formation,” Tinkerer explained. “Rather like a swarm of bees overwhelming a larger threat. It seemed reasonable to combat one swarm with another.”

“‘Swarmers,’” Tekela said, sinking to her haunches and running a hand along the smooth casing of the nearest rocket. “That’s what we’ll call them.” Lizanne detected an unfamiliar tone to Tekela’s voice. It had a low, hungry note to it Lizanne didn’t like. Nor did she like the sight of the bone-handle knife Tekela now wore strapped to her calf.

“Appropriate,” Tinkerer said with a small shrug. “Each rocket contains a mechanism that compels it to follow a random course towards its target. When fired in a group they can be set to explode at slightly different intervals.”

“So,” Tekela said, smiling a little, “they might dodge one but the next one gets them.”

“Quite so,” Tinkerer confirmed. “The materials and components required to construct another five hundred have been set aside. It’s just a matter of assembly.”

“How long?” Lizanne asked.

“Two days with sufficient hands.”

“I’ll see to it. Have them loaded when ready. These”—she gestured at the completed Swarmers—“will be fitted to the aerostats and made ready to fire immediately.”

Viewed from the air the plain below Gadara’s Redoubt resembled one-half of a huge dartboard. Three continuous lines of trenches curved around the northern flank of the ridge from one end of the isthmus to the other. Dust rose in thick clouds from the people at labour on the plain, Lizanne seeing the rise and fall of many shovels as she landed the Firefly within the arc of the third trench line, the other larger aerostats coming to earth a short distance away.

“It worked at Carvenport,” Arberus explained after Lizanne had climbed down from the gondola.

“Against the Corvantines,” she said. “Not the drakes and the Spoiled.”

“It might have if we’d had the numbers. This is an excellent defensive position. We can place the bulk of our muzzle-loading cannon along the walls of the Redoubt itself. From there they can reach any part of the battlefield. Plus, the whole trench network is within range of the fleet’s guns. I wouldn’t even consider an attack here given the likely butcher’s bill.”

“Morradin would,” Lizanne pointed out. “And I doubt the White cares about casualties amongst its troops.”

Arberus gave a short nod of agreement. “True, but in any case I thought our object was to hold them, not defeat them.”

“At this juncture, I’d be happy with any outcome that didn’t involve our utter destruction.” She went on to relate the full scale of the calamity at the Mount, noting how he managed to keep any reaction from his features as he took in the news. It wouldn’t do for an onlooking soldier to see their general succumb to despair.

“No more munitions,” he said, speaking softly and pasting a bland smile on his face.

“The final consignment is on its way. Another thirty Thumpers and fifty Growlers, plus a hundred of the new carbines. The Mount Works Militia and a volunteer contingent will accompany the consignment, five thousand strong.”

“All very welcome. But it’s not enough.”

“I know.”

She noticed Tekela standing a short way off, eyes fixed on the plain beyond the trenches. They had given Jermayah as much of a funeral as they could before leaving the Mount. The headland east of the town had become an impromptu graveyard, marked with numerous freshly excavated graves. Tinkerer and Professor Lethridge came to help dig Jermayah’s resting-place. Together they laid his canvas-shrouded body in the earth and covered him over. A few of the artificers who had worked under Jermayah’s direction came to offer their respects but the crowd was not large, there being so many funerals that day. Tinkerer marked the grave with a wooden post onto which the words “Jermayah Tollermine—Technologist” had been etched in precise letters. Professor Lethridge then gave a halting, awkward eulogy, listing his colleague’s many technical achievements and thanking him for his many hours of tireless labour in service to humankind. Throughout it all Tekela had said nothing, staring fixedly at the mound of earth, eyes red in the pale mask of her face. She pulled her hand away when Lizanne tried to take it and had maintained much the same demeanour since.

“It was a long flight,” Lizanne said, moving to her side. “You should get some rest.”

Tekela ignored her, turning to Arberus. “How long until they get here?”

He paused a moment before replying, frowning as if not quite recognising the face of a girl he had known since infancy. “Two days, at most,” he replied. “The Spoiled march with an annoying swiftness.”

“We should attack now,” Tekela said, her gaze switching to Lizanne. “With the aerostats. We can test out the Swarmers. Might slow them down a bit.”

“We need to conserve our resources,” Arberus said.

“Sirus is their leader, isn’t he?” Tekela persisted. “If we can find him . . .”

“Your uncle’s right,” Lizanne said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The Swarmers will have more effect if they come as a surprise.”

There was a faint echo of the old pout in Tekela’s expression then, but what had once been the frustration of a spoilt child was now something far more disconcerting. “He needs to die,” she whispered, voice rich in both sincerity and certainty. “And I need to kill him.” She turned and stalked away, muttering, “And he’s not my fucking uncle,” at Arberus.

“She feels guilty,” Lizanne explained. “About Jermayah.”

“There’s plenty of guilt to go around,” he said. “If the history of this crisis is ever written I suspect it might well be called ‘The Guilty Age.’ The corporations, the Empire . . . the revolution. No one in this world has clean hands any more. Perhaps that’s why it falls to us to save it.”

True to Arberus’s prediction the White’s army appeared on the northern horizon by the evening of the following day. At first it was just a rising cloud of dust, the dark specks of patrolling Reds wheeling above, but the neat ranks of advancing Spoiled soon resolved into focus through the lens of Lizanne’s spy-glass. The army proceeded along a southerly route parallel to the trench works, stringing out in a line a mile long before coming to an abrupt simultaneous halt and turning to face the Redoubt.

“A good two hundred yards out of range,” Arberus muttered in frustration, tracking his binoculars along the enemy line.

They stood atop the tower, Lizanne’s Spider loaded with one of her few remaining vials of Blue. Whereas they had decent but not copious stocks of the other colours, especially Red thanks to the assault on the Mount, Blue was a fast-diminishing resource. Those Blood-blessed not allocated to one of the aerostats were seeded throughout the trench works and the fleet. They had been instructed to imbibe Blue the moment the enemy began to advance, enabling Lizanne to relay the orders which would co-ordinate the defence.

The battle plan consisted of a staged withdrawal, timed to commence when Arberus had judged each successive line of trenches to have inflicted the maximum casualties on the enemy. Upon receipt of the signal the defenders would withdraw to the next line under cover of the combined weight of gunnery from the cannon on the Redoubt and the ships waiting a few hundred yards off shore. He estimated they could hold out for three days, perhaps four with a modicum of luck. Lizanne’s last trance with Clay indicated he needed at least another four days to reach them, so it appeared they would have to make their own luck.

“They’ll wait for darkness,” Arberus concluded as the Spoiled army continued to stand immobile. “Take advantage of their freakish night-vision. Best spread the word for our lot to get what rest they can.”

Lizanne nodded and began to press the fourth button on her Spider, then stopped as Arberus raised a hand. “Wait. They’re moving.”

“An attack?” she asked, returning her eye to her own glass and blinking in surprise at what she saw. Instead of commencing a march towards the trenches the Spoiled were clustering into three large divisions, each one resembling a disturbingly well-co-ordinated group of ants in the way they reordered themselves into narrow columns. Lizanne suspected they intended to assault the defences in three places at once, hoping the narrowness of their formation would negate the effects of the fire-power they faced. But then she saw the first rank of Spoiled sink to their knees and begin to dig. Most had shovels, but others clawed at the ground with their inhuman hands, tearing up clods of earth and grass with a fierce, near-frantic energy.

“What are they doing?” she wondered.

“Sapping,” Arberus replied, a faint note of admiration in his otherwise grim tone. “Sirus always did know his history.”

Apparently it was a tactic from the early days of the gunpowder age, favoured by armies besieging fortifications in an effort to spare their soldiers the fire of defending cannon. It had fallen out of favour with the advent of faster-firing modern artillery and repeating small-arms, but Sirus had evidently found a use for it now. The three trenches progressed across the plain with remarkable swiftness. The Spoiled worked in a ceaseless relay, clawing or digging at the earth until exhaustion set in, whereupon they staggered to the rear and were immediately replaced by fresh labour. Consequently, the trenches were each close to fifty yards in length before nightfall and the Spoiled didn’t show any signs of resting for the night.

“They’ll be in range of our cannon come morning,” Lizanne pointed out. “A sustained barrage should impede their progress.”

“It should,” Arberus admitted. “But every shell we fire can no longer be replaced. And something tells me Sirus is too clever to simply dig his way into our sights.”

He was proven correct come first light, the rising sun revealing that the forward progress of the enemy trenches had halted. Instead they were now digging laterally, new trenches branching out from the terminus of the three already dug. By late afternoon the White’s army had a trench network of its own, whereupon all activity apparently ceased.

“I’d wager a sack of gold that Morradin no longer has a say over this campaign,” Arberus noted with grudging respect. “Sirus has spared his troops a good two hundred yards of open ground. Even at extreme range our cannon would have taken a fearful toll when they advanced. Plus we would have had ample warning of the moment they decided to attack.”

Arberus ordered a few of the more powerful cannon in the Redoubt to try their luck at the enemy trenches, scoring a few hits. However, most of the shells went wide and the damage inflicted was minimal. There was no answering fire from the Spoiled; in fact most sat in their trenches in placid quietude. Tekela made several offers to attack in the Typhoon, arguing that it would be a simple matter to rake the trenches from end to end with Growler fire. Lizanne forbade it, unwilling to risk an aerostat in the massed Red assault that would inevitably follow.

Arberus had the army stand on full alert throughout the night. Rocket flares supplied by the fleet were prepared all along the Redoubt, ready to bathe the battlefield in artificial light when the attack came, except it didn’t.

“What are they waiting for?” Arberus wondered aloud come the morning as he and Lizanne looked out at the Spoiled still sitting quietly in the trenches.

“As long as they keep waiting,” Lizanne said, “I shall consider myself satisfied.”

“We can’t become complacent. There must be a strategy at work here. Something we’re missing. Just like the Jet Sands.”

Noting the tension in his unshaven jaws, Lizanne saw for the first time how deep the sting of defeat had wounded him. Pride, she thought, reaching out to grasp his forearm, the disease of generals and revolutionaries alike. “Get some rest,” she told him. “I’ll be sure to wake you should anything happen.”

Got hit by a storm last night, Clay told her. Lost sight of the Endeavour till morning. The captain had to take the blood-burner off-line. He reckons it’ll be another two days sailing.

Lizanne replied with a pulse of acknowledgment, momentarily distracted by the clarity of the shared trance. Before his new-found ability Clay’s mindscape had been somewhat basic in construction, Nelphia’s surface a uniform grey and the black sky above lacking a rendition of the planet they called home. Now it hung above them in majestic, blue-and-green glory against an endless spectacle of stars.

Kriz helped me with it, he explained, sensing her curiosity. Ain’t had much else to do during the voyage.

Somehow I doubt that, she replied, enjoying the momentary thrum of embarrassment that ran through the dust.

Is there a secret in my head you don’t know? he asked.

Thousands, I’m sure. It’s not your thoughts that betray you, but your feelings. Something they used to drill into us in the Academy.

She gave a final glance at the planet filling the sky above, resisting the urge to lose herself in the beauty of it, even for a short time. I have to go, she told him. Our Blue stocks are low. Please reiterate the need for urgency to Captain Hilemore.

I do that one more time he’s like to shoot me . . . Clay trailed off, his gaze drawn to something beyond her. Who’s she?

Lizanne turned, seeing a sailing-ship approaching across the mindscape, the moon-dust parting like a wave before the bows. Morva was perched on the figure-head below the prow, hands cupped around her mouth as she called to Lizanne: You have to come! It’s started!

CHAPTER 47

Sirus

Light the fuses.

Sirus watched through Forest Spear’s eyes as he touched a match to the tip of the fuse wire, igniting a ball of sparks, then tracked its fiery dance into the depths of the tunnel. He checked to ensure the fuses laid in the other two tunnels had also been lit then returned to his own eyes, peering down from Katarias’s back at the enemy trench works below.

The captives they had taken at the Jet Sands had confirmed the identity of his opponent and Sirus would very much have liked to see Arberus’s face at the instant he realised his efforts had all been for nothing. He had never particularly cared for the major, finding his attitude to Tekela disconcertingly opposite to his own. Though she called him “Uncle,” at her father’s insistence, Sirus had long perceived a lack of warmth between the two. The fact that Arberus was half a foot taller and much admired by the female nobility of Morsvale hadn’t done much to endear him to Sirus either.

Such adolescent notions you cling to, General, Catheline’s thought popped into his head, amused and judgemental in equal measure. Sometimes I forget how young you were.

As do I, Sirus admitted. It all seems so far away. Like a dream of someone else’s life.

As it should. We all have new lives now, for which we should be grateful.

The first mine exploded directly beneath the first line of Varestian trenches, bathing the darkened plain in yellow-orange light, Sirus watching the debris and bodies tumble in the rising ball of flame. The size of the crater was as Veilmist had predicted, leaving a hole thirty feet wide. It had taken the Spoiled a total of sixty hours to dig the three tunnels and pack them with explosives. Arberus had presumably expected a massed night-time assault, which he would shortly receive, but only after the mines had done their work in piercing the outer defences.

The next two mines exploded barely two seconds later, with similarly gratifying results, the glow revealing ten battalions of Spoiled rising from their own trenches and advancing across the plain at the run. A dozen rocket flares streamed into the sky from the fortified ridge-line above the trenches, banishing the dark and heralding a barrage from the guns along the walls. Shells tore into the ranks of the attacking Spoiled, felling dozens at a time. Casualties increased as a few repeating guns opened fire from the undamaged sections of the enemy trench, inflicting heavy losses, but none of it was enough to stop the tide.

The Spoiled boiled over the outer trench, Sirus feeling the pain, joy and death of close-quarters combat as they battled the human defenders. Glimpsing the struggle through Forest Spear’s eyes, he was struck by the savagery of the Varestians, most of them eschewing fire-arms to fight with swords and knives, seemingly without any regard for their own survival.

Pirate scum, Catheline surmised, taking the measure of the Varestians’ clothing.

Pirate scum with an inconvenient amount of courage, Sirus replied, noting the continued fighting all along the trench. Frenzied mêlées were raging in each of the craters and the trench itself was choked with Spoiled and humans locked in desperate combat. As yet, he could see no evidence of the hoped-for flight to the second trench line. The fiercest resistance came wherever the enemy had placed a Blood-blessed, the Varestians clustering around them as they blasted the attackers with Red and Black. Some leading desperate countercharges with sword or clubbed rifle in hand, the Green in their veins making them more than a match for any Spoiled.

A swift survey of minds revealed a spot close to where the first mine had exploded which appeared to be free of Blood-blessed. Sirus immediately ordered another four battalions into the attack, aiming them at this point. They streamed across the plain, covering the distance with a speed no human could match, but that didn’t spare them the attentions of the Varestian gunners or their fleet.

The cannon on the Redoubt kept up a steady fire but the most damaging barrage came from the ships off shore. Shells arced down in a continuous torrent, aimed with expert precision to explode above rather than amongst the advancing Spoiled. The lead battalion was cut to pieces in the barrage, only about a fifth of them managing to press home their attack, whilst the battalions following behind fared little better. However, the sudden arrival of additional numbers at the crucial point finally told and soon Spoiled were spilling through into the flat ground beyond the trench.

A plethora of bugle calls and shouted orders ran the length of the trench, evidently the signal for the defenders to withdraw. In an obviously pre-rehearsed manoeuvre the humans abandoned the struggle and immediately sprinted towards the second line whilst the Varestian ships lowered their sights to rake the conquered trench in shell-fire. The Spoiled who had broken through on the left pelted towards the second line only to be met by a hail of fire from well-positioned repeating guns. None of them managed to get within twenty yards of the trench and Sirus ordered the survivors to withdraw to the first line.

The ship-borne fire continued, Sirus feeling the death or maiming of multiple Spoiled with every exploding shell. It petered out as the flares guttered and died, leaving the battlefield mostly in darkness save for Nelphia’s glow. Small-arms fire continued to crackle as sharpshooters in the second trench and the Redoubt trained their longrifles on the first trench, though they scored only a few hits.

A good start, don’t you think? Catheline asked.

I had hoped to take the second trench in the first assault, Sirus replied. We need to do something about those ships.

A singular paradox of being in proximity to the White was that he didn’t need to engage with the increasingly difficult task of summoning fear to mask his thoughts. Being close enough to smell the sulphurous breath of the beast, and see the awful, knowing gleam of its eyes, birthed all the terror he could ever need. As before he felt the communication between Catheline and the White rather than heard it as thought-speech. The deep lust for vengeance that had characterised its thoughts ever since the loss of the infants at the Grand Cut was still present in full force, but the intervening time had also seen a resurgence of the beast’s innate cunning.

It responded with a disconcerting rumble as Catheline communicated the essence of Sirus’s plan. Whilst it never balked at casualties amongst the Spoiled, risking the lives of so many drakes was another matter. Smoke streamed from the White’s nostrils as it turned about, pacing back and forth. It had established itself on the summit of a hill-top, the only high ground to be found on the plain. It offered an uninterrupted view of the fortified isthmus a mile away where its quarry waited. The two surviving infants were at work close by on one of their bone towers, squawking in apparent contentment as they fused the remains together with regurgitated bile. Sirus assumed the bones had been supplied by the other drakes, fruits of their labour at the Jet Sands.

Necessity, Catheline emoted, receiving a pulse of angry reluctance in response as the White turned its baleful gaze on them, Sirus noting the small sparks amidst the smoke rising from his nostrils.

He had never before sought to intervene in a communication between Catheline and the White, but did so now. Summoning all the memories he could of Lizanne Lethridge, he entwined them with the image of the dead infant Whites, condensing it all into a dark ball of sensation before offering it to Catheline.

Revenge, she thought, accepting Sirus’s gift, breaking the ball of memory apart so it expanded in the White’s mind. For the briefest moment Sirus was able to share the link between them, experiencing it as an image of a dark roiling sea of fire shot through with veins of light. Wherever the light touched the fire the flames calmed, became placid, taking on a semblance of order.

That’s what he needs her for, he realised. She calms the storm of his mind, allowing true intelligence to blossom.

The White gave a grunt of annoyance at the intrusion and Sirus found himself shut out. The jarring sense of disconnection was accompanied by a bolt of punishing agony that sent him to his knees, teeth clenched. The pain lingered for a time, preventing him from following the rest of the communication. When it faded he felt Catheline’s hands on his face, fingers wiping the pain-induced tears from his scaled skin. She smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, speaking softly, “He said yes.”

CHAPTER 48

Hilemore

“Land in sight, sir. Dead ahead.”

“Thank you, Mr. Talmant. Tell the Chief to take the Blood-burner off-line and signal the Endeavour to follow suit.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore went outside and trained his glass to westward, making out the misted slopes of an island cresting the horizon. If his calculations were correct this was the most easterly islet of the Sabiras chain. Navigating the channel through the islands to the Red Tides was not a task that could be performed at speed, necessitating another delay. The storm that had swept across their path three days before had been mild by the standards of the Orethic but the seas it produced were sufficiently steep to force a reduction in speed. Since then Hilemore found his mood veering between frustration at the lack of progress and a small, barely acknowledged kernel of relief he knew stemmed from the battle off the Green Cape.

Steelfine insisted on recording the engagement as a victory in the ship’s log, one the rest of the crew seemed to consider the equal of anything won by Hilemore’s grandfather. He knew differently. No admiral who loses his fleet can be counted a victor of anything. If the Superior didn’t reach Gadara’s Redoubt in time for Clay to attempt his plan, a plan Hilemore still didn’t fully understand, he might well consider it a reprieve rather than a failure. He had already studied the charts of the northern Orethic in preparation for a voyage to Sanorah, where he felt sure Free Woman Tythencroft would offer refuge to the valiant crew of the Superior.

And then what? he asked himself. Sit and wait for the White’s army to appear, however long it takes, all the time knowing yourself to be a miserable coward.

He closed his spy-glass with a hard snap and returned to the bridgehouse. “Ever sail the Red Tides, Mr. Scrimshine?” he enquired of the helmsman.

“A few times, Skipper.” The former smuggler gave a small, wary smile. “Didn’t find it the friendliest place, truth be told. Varestians love to steal but hate to be stolen from. Kind’ve hypocritical of them, if you ask me.”

“Indeed so. I’ll trust you to choose the best approach to the channel. I require a swift but safe navigation to the Red Tides. Mr. Talmant, ask Chief Bozware to join me in the hold. You have the bridge.”

“Don’t seem big enough to do much damage,” Clay said, squinting at the apple-sized object the chief placed on the work-bench.

“Got enough of a charge to kill a drake of any size,” Bozware replied, his oily brows forming a piqued frown. “Gun-cotton laced with lamp oil around a core of black powder. Made the casing deliberately brittle so’s it’ll shatter into sharp pieces when it goes off. Jagged iron’ll cut through anything if it’s travelling fast enough.”

“What are these?” Kriz asked, extending a finger to one of the blunt spikes protruding from the device’s casing.

“Contact points,” the chief said. “Got the notion from those mines the captain had us make. Sets it off the instant they touch anything. Don’t worry, missy,” he added as Kriz swiftly withdrew her finger, “won’t do nothing until you arm it.” He pointed to a metal ring in the top of the device. “Yank this out before you throw the bomb, just make sure anything you chuck it at is at least twenty yards off.”

“Excellent,” Lieutenant Sigoral said, giving the chief a nod of respectful approval. “It’s certainly preferable to trying to get a bead on a drake’s head in the midst of a battle.”

“Long as you’ve got Black in your veins,” Clay said. “Don’t relish the prospect of throwing one of these by hand.”

“We only had sufficient materials to construct forty in total,” Hilemore said, addressing himself to Clay. “How many do you think you’ll need?”

“Hard to say. I’ll take ten, I guess. You can share the rest out amongst the others.”

“Very well. We’ll relight the blood-burner upon clearing the Sabiras Islands, which means we should reach our objective shortly after first light tomorrow. I suggest you get what rest you can in the meantime.” Hilemore watched them leave, all but Jillett whose gaze lingered on the grenade, face even paler than usual.

“I’ll require you to remain in the engine room,” he told her. “Your job is to fire the blood-burner.”

“Guess you weren’t impressed, huh?” she said with a faint grin. “By my fighting skills, I mean. Can’t say I blame you.”

“You fought bravely and well. What happened at Stockcombe was not your fault.”

She moved her slim shoulders in a shrug. “They were a bunch’ve rotten bastards, y’know. The Wash Lane Bully Boys was their real name before the revolt. When I was little, my ma used to give me a fresh piece of fruit every day to take to school. An apple usually, even an orange sometimes, though it must’ve cost her plenty. And every day those Wash Lane fuckers’d corner me and steal it, till I realised what I was. Scrounged up enough scrip to buy just a smidge of Black.” Her grin broadened. “They didn’t steal from me after that.”

She reached out to the bomb, fingers playing tentatively over the contact points before picking it up. “I’ll take this one, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Just in case.”

They passed the first ship shortly after Scrimshine steered the Superior through the islands and into the Red Tides. An aged one-stack clipper steamed by a mile off the starboard bow, sails raised to augment her paddles. She sat low in the water, a crowd of close-packed people thronging her deck fore and aft. The crow’s nest related a signal that had been rapidly hauled to the top of her mainmast: Turn back. No safe harbour ahead.

Hilemore ordered the signaller to reply via the lamp, advising the clipper to make for the east Corvantine coast, but the Superior was moving too fast to catch any reply. They saw four more ships before nightfall, all heavily laden with refugees and steaming towards different points of the compass. One, a broad-beamed freighter, altered course to approach the Superior, her signal pennants displaying a request for medical assistance. Hilemore had the battle flag raised to warn them off, maintaining their speed and heading until the freighter was far to their rear.

When night fell he had the blood-burner taken off-line briefly to allow the Endeavour to draw alongside then ordered the ship to battle stations. Steelfine mustered the riflemen and had cannister stacked alongside the gun-crews. Braddon Torcreek and Preacher climbed the mast to the crow’s nest, rifles strapped across their backs. Kriz took up station with Clay and Lutharon on the fore-deck whilst Sigoral and the few remaining Corvantines from the original crew stationed themselves aft. Hilemore had Colonel Kulvetch position her Marines on the upper works, each squad supplied with full water buckets and sandbags to combat the inevitable fires.

“Got room for two more?” Loriabeth asked, appearing in the bridge hatchway with Skaggerhill at her back. Steelfine had already assigned a squad of riflemen to the captain’s guard, but additional guns couldn’t hurt.

“Of course, miss,” Hilemore told her. “You’re very welcome.”

He went outside to check on the Endeavour, finding the Voter volunteers lining her rails, crews standing ready at her cannon, a half-dozen four-pounders and two rifled six-pound pivot-guns. It was poor armament for what they were about to face but ordering Zenida to remain on station would have been pointless. Hilemore climbed up to the bridgehouse roof, taking the signal lamp and flashing out a brief message: Will proceed at full speed. Follow as best you can.

Zenida appeared at the door of the Endeavour’s wheel-house, silhouetted in the light from within as she raised her own signal lamp to respond: Try losing me, sea-brother.

Hilemore allowed himself a brief smile before handing back the signal lamp and climbing down to the bridge. “Mr. Talmant!”

“Sir!”

“Signal the engine room. Three vials to the blood-burner.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Scrimshine . . .”

“I know the way, Skipper.” Hilemore saw Scrimshine’s hands shake a little before he took a tight grip on the tiller, eyes locked on the dark sea beyond the prow. “Dead west it is.”

They heard it before they saw it. The flat crump of cannon carried through the morning mist that hung on the horizon. The sea was calm and the Superior steamed westward with the needle of the speed indicator dial pushed well past its maximum. By sunrise the Endeavour had fallen at least a mile behind causing Hilemore to entertain the faint hope the whole affair might be over before she could join the battle.

“Five miles until landfall, sir,” Talmant reported, glancing up from the map table, ruler in hand.

Hilemore swallowed a curse at the lingering mist. At her current speed the Superior would run aground before she could slow enough for a turn, and they had yet to catch sight of a target. “Switch to auxiliary power,” he said, sending Talmant rushing to the speaking-tube. “Tell the Chief to let her drift for one minute before engaging the engine. Ahead one-third.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore saw flashes in the mist as they drew closer, then the first dim outlines of ships. He made out the shape of a Corvantine sloop and an armed Varestian freighter, both steaming in parallel to the as yet unseen shore, guns firing in relays along their port sides. More and more ships resolved into view as they drew closer and the sound of cannon fire became thunderous. There were so many ships steaming back and forth Hilemore at first had difficulty in making out the shore, but then he saw the imposing silhouette of the Redoubt rising above a narrow beach.

“Receiving multiple hails, sir,” Talmant said as a plethora of flags ascended the masts of the nearest ships, accompanied by the flicker of numerous signal lamps.

“Send the response in plain,” Hilemore said. “Here to assist. Blood-blessed aboard.”

Hilemore scanned the ships for their response then found his attention captured by a whispered mutter from Scrimshine, spoken in a strained reverential tone he hadn’t used since their first encounter with Last Look Jack. “Honoured ancestors accept the soul of this miserable wretch.”

The helmsman was staring through the forward window, eyes wide and wet, hands shaking again. Hilemore followed his gaze, spying what he initially took for a large dark cloud to the right of the Redoubt. Scrimshine evidently had keener eyes, however, for the cloud soon expanded to fill the sky above the shore-line, Hilemore making out the winged shapes amongst the mass.

“That’s . . .” he heard Loriabeth say in a tone eerily similar to Scrimshine’s. “That’s a whole lotta Reds.”

Hilemore’s gaze snapped to the fore-deck, seeing Clay share a brief embrace with Kriz before moving to climb up onto Lutharon’s back. “Don’t!” Hilemore shouted, rushing outside, cupping his hands around his mouth as he leaned over the walkway. “There are too many!”

Clay turned to him as Lutharon clambered up onto the prow. Hilemore saw him offer a grin of farewell before he raised his hand, drinking down the three vials it held in a few gulps before tossing them away. Hilemore’s protestations died on his lips as the drake launched itself from the ship, mighty wings raising vapour from the sea and tail whipping as he climbed into the air.

CHAPTER 49

Lizanne

“Get them all up!” Lizanne shouted as she sprinted towards the Typhoon, the other aerostat crews all running across the Redoubt’s courtyard to where their craft waited. Tekela was already strapping herself into the pilot’s seat when Lizanne clambered inside. Morva and the three gunners followed in short order. The top gunner climbed the ladder to her station in the upper cupola as the others prepared their guns and Tekela tilted the engines toward the ground, simultaneously opening the throttles to take off.

Lizanne slotted one of her three remaining Redballs into the chamber of her Smoker, positioning herself at the rear port hatch, gaze fixed on the top of the Redoubt wall as the Typhoon rose, expecting the Reds to appear at any moment. Instead they ascended into an empty sky, the reason becoming obvious as the walls fell away beneath them. The Red swarm was streaming by a half-mile distant, keeping out of range of the repeating guns as they flew over the coast and banked towards the Varestian fleet in a dense crimson mass.

“They’re going for the ships!” she called to Tekela, moving to the blood-burner’s ignition tube. “Take us east. Maximum speed. Morva, trance with the Hurricane and the Whirlwind, tell them to form up alongside.”

She waited until she could see the two aerostats through the port and starboard windows then injected Red and put her eye to the ignition tube, lighting the thermoplasmic engine. She managed to catch hold of the central support beam before the instant acceleration sent her flying and hauled herself forward to stand at Tekela’s shoulder.

She could see the ships already firing at the oncoming Reds, the diminishing space between them lined with criss-crossing tracer and exploding cannon shells. White splashes pock-marked the sea beneath the swarm as drake after drake fell to the guns, but it was clear no amount of fire-power would stem their charge, there were just too many. The ships closest to shore were blotted from view as the horde of Reds swept over them, Lizanne seeing others diving onto the neighbouring ships, talons opening to deposit Greens on their decks. Within seconds the entire fleet was obscured by the multitude of drakes, Lizanne catching sight of explosions blossoming beneath as ships began to fall victim to the assault.

“There,” Lizanne said, pointing to the densest part of the drake horde. “Take us straight through.”

“Swarmers?” Tekela asked, hand poised to trigger the firing mechanism for the rockets. There were four switches, one for each row of ten Swarmers fitted to the underside of the gondola.

“Not yet,” she said. “Let’s see if we can get some to follow us. We need to take the pressure off the fleet.”

A trio of Reds spotted the aerostats as they approached, peeling away from the flock to fly directly into their path. Tekela pulled the switch fitted to the top of the main control lever, triggering the forward guns and blasting the lead Red from the sky. The stream of bullets tore the wing of another, sending it spiralling down into the sea, but the third dodged aside, banking hard to assail them from the side only to be cut in two by a burst from the starboard gunner.

All guns aboard began firing as they tore into the central mass of the swarm, the hull resounding with the thud of colliding drakes and the windscreen becoming so spattered with blood Tekela had to engage the mechanical wipers. Lizanne rushed back to the rear port hatch, rapid firing her Smoker at the drakes flashing by the opening. Then they were through, the windows showing clear sky.

Lizanne turned to the rear window, letting out a relieved sigh at the sight of the Hurricane and Whirlwind following close behind. The Hurricane appeared undamaged but she could see smoke streaming from the Whirlwind’s port engine. Beyond them she was gratified to see a large number of Reds, wings blurring as they laboured in pursuit.

“Blood-burner off,” she told Tekela. “Turn us around and make ready to fire the Swarmers.”

The Typhoon slowed then tilted as Tekela killed their forward speed and reversed the propeller on the starboard engine, spinning them around. Lizanne saw the Hurricane and Whirlwind following suit, forming up on either side as Tekela put the Typhoon into a hover. Lizanne went forward, peering through the blood-streaked window at the fast-approaching pack of Reds. It was hard to judge the distance but she had little doubt they were now in range.

“Fire half only,” she told Tekela who lost no time in flicking two of the switches on the firing mechanism. There was no recoil from the rockets, the Typhoon rising a little due to the reduced weight as the Swarmers shot from underneath the gondola, smoke trails overlapping to describe a complex pattern in the sky. Seeing the danger, the formation of pursuing Reds began to break apart but were unable to avoid the unpredictable trajectory of the Swarmers. Multiple explosions ripped through the drakes, sending dozens plummeting down. The survivors veered left and right only to fly into the rockets launched by the Hurricane and the Whirlwind. Within seconds the sky to the front of the Typhoon was clear of drakes.

“Well,” Tekela said, “that worked.”

Lizanne lowered her gaze to the battle raging below. She counted five ships alight and apparently adrift whilst battles seemed to be raging on several more as the crews fought the Greens that had been dropped onto their decks. However, most vessels appeared undamaged and were maintaining a blizzard of Growler and Thumper fire at the Reds, the waters around them dotted with numerous dead or dying drakes. Satisfying as this was, Lizanne also took note of the fact that whilst the battle raged, no ship was firing its main guns towards the shore.

“Take us up,” she ordered.

Tekela angled the engines to ninety degrees, putting the Typhoon into a rapid ascent, Lizanne watching in dismay as the Redoubt came fully into view. Cannon were firing all along the fortified ridge, shells trailing smoke as they slammed into the mass of Greens and Spoiled assaulting the second trench line. The attacking army resembled a dark tide on a stormy two-moon night as it washed against a harbour wall, the waves inching closer to overwhelming the barrier with every passing heave.

“Re-engage the blood-burner,” she told Tekela. “Head for the Redoubt.”

She turned, intending to tell Morva to trance with the Blood-blessed in the other aerostats, but finding her distracted, frowning as she squinted at something to the east.

“He’s a big bastard,” she said, hefting her mini-Growler. “Think I might be able to get him from here.”

Lizanne went to her side, tracking the direction of the Growler’s multiple barrels to see a very large drake flying towards the fleet. In the haze beyond she could make out the outline of a ship. It was an unusual design, her hull lacking paddles and leaving a broad wake as she headed towards the shore.

“Don’t!” she said, pushing Morva’s mini-Growler aside and sending the stream of tracer arcing into the sea. She could see him now, a figure perched on the drake’s back, a drake with black scales instead of red.

“Tekela!” she called out. “Change of course!”

CHAPTER 50

Clay

No way around, over or under, Clay mused as he looked upon a sky filled with Reds. As Lutharon flew closer to the embattled fleet the surrounding air whined with wayward bullets and shrapnel from exploding cannon shells. The drakes seemed entirely preoccupied with the ships, but he doubted that would last once they caught sight of a Black. Looks like we’ll just have to fight our way through, big fella.

Lutharon let out a low, rumbling growl in response, broadening his wings to send them higher into the air. As expected, Clay saw a half dozen Reds separate from the main flock and fly towards them, their challenge cries audible even above the cacophony of gun-fire below. Lutharon replied with a roar, deep and hungry, angling his body to take them straight towards the nearest Red. Clay focused his gaze on the Red’s left wing, waiting until it closed to within twenty yards then letting loose with a concentrated burst of Black. The drake’s wing-bone snapped at the upper joint, sending the beast into an untidy forward plummet that abruptly ended when Lutharon reared back and lanced out with his talons, piercing the Red’s chest with a swift, tearing slash before casting it away.

Lutharon folded his wings and corkscrewed, Clay feeling a blast of heat from the other Reds before the Black levelled out. Craning his neck, Clay saw the Reds wheeling and coming about, wings sweeping in frenzied arcs as they scrambled to pursue. He could sense Lutharon’s instinctive need to turn and meet the threat but urged him to ignore it and increase his forward speed. Got more important things to do today.

The Reds, however, proved capable of matching Lutharon’s speed. Being lighter, they were able to close half the intervening distance in short order. Clay reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder and withdrew one of Chief Bozware’s grenades. He jerked the pin loose and twisted about, using his Green-enhanced sight to aim a burst of Black towards the head of the leading Red, the invisible force wave carrying the grenade along with it. The drake tried to dodge the missile but it was too swift, catching it on the shoulder and tearing much of its upper body apart in an ugly explosion of black smoke and crimson gore. The surviving Reds let out a screech of rage as the corpse fell away, sweeping upwards then diving down, moving too fast and coming too close for the grenades. Their mouths gaped as they dived, ready to belch out their flames, then the two in the lead blew apart as a line of cannon shells streamed down from above.

A shadow fell over the remaining Reds as they broke formation, proving too slow to avoid the hail of bullets and cannon shells that soon sent them plunging in pieces towards the waves. Clay looked up as the aerostats passed overhead, engines roaring. There were three of them, their size and speed more impressive in reality than the images he had seen in the trance. They descended to take up position directly to Lutharon’s front, Clay spotting a slim figure leaning out of the rear hatch of the craft in the centre. She wore goggles and, although it seemed like a great deal of time had passed since he had last seen her in the flesh, he recognised her instantly.

Lizanne began to lift her hand in a wave then abruptly pivoted, bringing a carbine to her shoulder as a Red came screaming in from the side. Whatever manner of bullet she had loaded into the carbine was clearly something special, leaving a trail of flame in its wake as it impacted on the Red’s torso. There was a blinding flash and the Red had mostly disappeared, save for a few chunks of flesh tumbling in the aerostat’s slip-stream.

The sky suddenly grew dark and Clay realised they were now surrounded by Reds. A glance at the sea below Lutharon’s wings revealed that the ships were no longer under attack. Looks like we been recognised, he thought.

The guns of the three aerostats all began firing at once, sending streams of tracer in all directions. Clay held Lutharon on a steady course as he continually scanned the sky for threats, sending one Red tumbling away with a blast of Black and searing the eyes of another with a fulsome torrent of Red. The loud, bone-jarring thump of a blast wave snapped his gaze back to the aerostats, finding the one on the right had lost an engine. Clay could see the blackened corpse of a Red falling away in a cloud of shattered, smoking mechanicals. The aerostat began to spin out of control, losing height and drawing away from the others. Sensing a kill, the Reds mobbed the stricken craft, uncaring of any danger as they streaked in from all sides to slam themselves into the envelope, many falling victim to the craft’s guns, which continued to fire without pause. More and more drakes flung themselves onto the aerostat, tearing at it with claw and tooth, others belching fire at the gondola until it was a mass of flame. The aerostat’s descent accelerated, its nose tipping forward as it went into a dive and exploded before hitting the sea.

Clay tore his gaze away from the dreadful spectacle in time to see a large Red slip through the gap between the two remaining aerostats, flaring its wings as it reared back, talons flashing. Lutharon coughed out a brief but intense stream of fire, the force and the heat of it sufficient to cast the attacking Red aside, leaving it a smoking tangle in their wake.

Lizanne reappeared in the aerostat’s rear hatch, urgently pointing a finger at her head. Understanding the signal Clay closed his eyes, trying to shut out the screams of a thousand drakes as he slipped into the Blue-less trance. Lizanne took a second to appear, her whirlwinds more disordered than he had ever seen them and he was appalled to find a glimmer of panic in her gaze.

Thank you for coming, she said, forcing a smile.

Said I would.

She nodded, the misty vortices beginning to break apart as her mindscape darkened and Clay realised he was trancing with a woman who expected to die very soon. They’re forming up above the shore-line, she told him. Follow us closely. We’ll make a hole. There’s a hill a mile to the west. You’ll find her there.

Clay began to reply but she was gone, leaving him alone on Nelphia’s surface. He ended the trance, blinking tears in the rushing chill. When his vision cleared he saw multiple smoke streams blossoming from the base of the aerostat’s gondolas. Rockets, he realised, watching several small cylindrical forms detach from the craft and streak away. The rockets flew in spirals of varying widths, hurtling towards the wheeling barrier of drakes in a concentrated swarm. Their impact resembled a short but impressive firework display, except every flash and boom meant the death of at least three drakes. When it faded there was a large rent in the flock of Reds through which Clay could see a broad plain beneath a cloudless blue sky.

The two aerostats immediately accelerated towards the gap, guns blazing as they fought to keep it open. Clay sent all the urgent thoughts he could to Lutharon but the drake needed no encouragement. He surged forward with a growl, sail-sized wings sweeping faster than Clay ever thought possible. He kept his gaze on the plain beyond the gap, refusing to be distracted by the roaring gun-fire and screaming drakes on either side.

She’s intending to die here, he knew, hating the knowledge and hating himself for the determination not to turn away and save her. Make it mean something.

Lutharon went into a steep dive as they cleared the gap, increasing his speed yet further. Clay quickly found the hill-top, the White an unmistakable landmark. Its wings were spread wide, head thrown back and mouth gaping. Even above the rushing wind Clay could hear its challenging roar.

Remember me, huh? he asked it, surprised to find a grim smile playing across his lips. He tore his gaze from the White, Green-boosted eyes scanning the hill until he found her, a slender figure standing alongside a Spoiled wearing some kind of uniform. Her features became clearer as they flew closer, eyes of red and black staring back at him, her face a porcelain mask of disconcerting beauty.

Catheline, he thought, slipping into the Blue-less trance state, summoning all the images he had memorised, all the stories from the periodicals and the scandal sheets, reaching out. There was no response, the trance felt like sinking his hands into tepid water. Hate, he reminded himself. You know hate, and so does she.

He summoned his own memories to join with hers, everything he tried to keep locked away in dark crevices of his mind. The first time he saw his father beat his mother . . . His father’s head jerking as the bullet slammed home, blood and brains on the cards . . . Dozens of vicious back-alley struggles in the Blinds . . . Keyvine’s blade at his neck . . . Silverpin, the red wings blossoming across the glass floor . . . And the White. He hated it. Hated it for all it had wrought upon the world. But more, he hated it for what it made him do. Silverpin as the longrifle bullet tore through her . . . All those good people lost on ice and in the battles since . . . Lizanne, accepting her own death just to get him here.

The hate burned at the core of him, filling the trance with the purity of its heat and finding a mirror in the soul of Catheline Dewsmine.

A moment of complete emptiness. He felt nothing. Not the beating of his heart. Not the air on his skin. His eyes saw nothing. There were only his thoughts, roiling in panic as he pondered if this is what it meant to die. Then he saw a single point of light, no larger than a raindrop, but growing steadily, expanding into a ball that filled his gaze and soon enveloped him.

He stood in a garden of some kind, neat hedgerows and flower-beds surrounding a vast lawn at the centre of which stood a three-storey mansion house. The sky was darkened by clouds pregnant with rain, the air chilled almost to the same degree as the southern ice. Trees dotted the garden, their bare branches sagging with a macabre fruit.

Bodies, Clay realised, gaze snapping from one tree to another. Men and women, boys and girls, old and young. They all hung from the trees, grey faces bloated and hollow eyes empty as they twisted in the stiff breeze.

I don’t recall inviting you in.

He turned, finding Catheline standing close to the shore of an ornamental lake. She was human now, her eyes a pale blue, though her beauty remained undimmed, even enhanced. No human skin had ever been so luminous and no hair so golden. Her vanity, it seemed, extended deep into her consciousness. But no amount of visual artifice could mask her emotions. He could feel her outrage at his intrusion, it hung in the air as a simmering electric thrum that reminded him of the moments before a storm.

You didn’t, he replied. Yet here I am.

You’re the one. Her mouth twisted in a smile, self-satisfied and very knowing. He remembers you.

I remember him.

You killed her. Her smile broadened as she sensed his discomfort. The one who came before me. I suppose I should be thanking you.

You should, he agreed. I’m here to set you free.

Really? She raised her elegant eyebrows in mock contrition. You are here to rescue me? I do crave your pardon, sir. I had assumed you were here to kill me. How remiss of me to mistake our respective roles in this drama. Apparently, you are the brave hero come to vanquish the monster and I the helpless princess. Tell me, how exactly do you intend to accomplish this mighty feat?

Clay looked around at the nightmarish garden with its dangling corpses and storm-dark sky. He saw that the mansion house was shifting in appearance. One second it was a fine whitewashed example of the classic style favoured by the upper echelons of the managerial class, the next it was a ruin, the windows empty of glass, the walls streaked with soot and the roof a mess of blackened timbers.

Well, I ain’t gonna appeal to your kindly nature, he replied, turning back to her. What is this place? Your home? Where you grew up, maybe?

Mind your own fucking business, you gutter-scraping bastard. The thought was accompanied by a sweet smile, rich in sincerity.

Clay ignored her and moved towards the nearest tree, looking up at one of the corpses dangling from the branches. It was a woman of hefty proportions clad in an unadorned black dress. Her eyeless, blue-lipped face possessed a stern aspect even in death.

Who’s this? Clay asked.

Catheline crossed her arms, tilting her head and remaining silent as they matched stares. After a few seconds of mutual antipathy she shrugged. Miss Pendlecost, she told him. My governess. She used to twist my fingers if I got my calculus wrong, only when my parents weren’t looking of course.

Clay inclined his head at the corpse. Is this what you did to her, or what you wanted to do to her?

What difference does it make? Now or when I return to Mandinor, she’s still dead.

Clay moved on to the next corpse, a bewhiskered man of middling years, his pot-belly poking out above a pair of half-fallen trousers. And him?

My mother’s second cousin, Erdwin. He tried to fuck me when I was thirteen. She gave a fond smile as she looked up at the dead man. Him I did kill. Paid a short visit to his house in Sanorah before I took ship to Feros. It was strange, but I almost pitied him. Just a sad little man living a sad little life with only his cats and his very specialised library for company. When I burned them he cried and cried so I broke his neck. Just in case you imagined mercy to be beyond me.

Clay shifted his gaze from the tree to the house on the far side of the expansive lawn. That seems a mite strange, he said, noting again how its appearance continued to shift from whole to ruined. Can’t decide how you want it to look?

What are you talking about? she demanded. It’s my parents’ country residence a few miles east of Sanorah. I spent most of my childhood here.

You don’t see it, do you? he asked, finding no note of subterfuge in her thoughts.

She replied with a bemused frown, though Clay saw how her lips twitched a little as she asked, See what?

Not afraid of it, are you? he pressed, sensing her growing unease. Something in there you don’t want to remember?

It’s just a house. She pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and turned away.

Then I guess you won’t mind if I take a look.

He managed only a few steps before a geyser of dark earth erupted directly in his path. A Green clambered from the hole, eyes glowing and flame blossoming in its maw. This is my head, Catheline informed him as more Greens began to claw their way up through the lawn. And I don’t want you here.

Clay drew the revolver from his belt, holding it out as he fused it with fresh memories. The revolver doubled in size, growing multiple barrels and a large chamber. It was a reasonable facsimile of a repeating gun, not entirely accurate but it would serve his needs well enough. He levelled the barrels on the nearest Green and pulled the trigger, the drake transforming into bloody pieces in the torrent of bullets. Clay advanced across the lawn, working the repeating gun like a scythe, sweeping the whirring barrels left and right as he reaped a harvest of dismembered Greens.

Sorry, ma’am, he called to Catheline over his shoulder as he reached the house. You’re stuck with me for a while yet.

He turned the repeating gun on the large double door at the front of the house and blew it into splinters, stepping inside and returning the revolver to its original size. The shifting nature of the house’s exterior was matched by its interior. The marble-floored lobby with its fine curving staircase and chandelier transformed every few seconds into a scorched, soot-blackened wreck. There were more bodies here, not hanging this time but lying about the chequerboard floor. Clay took them for servants from their clothing, maids and footmen either burned to death or broken by the kind of injuries that only Black could inflict.

I haven’t been here in years. Catheline stood in the shattered doorway, arms crossed tight about her chest. Clay could feel the depth of her reluctance to step inside, her pale blue eyes guarded as they darted about the lobby with its many corpses. I have no use for childhood concerns, she insisted. There’s nothing of interest here.

Clay saw that, although her eyes roved about, they were conspicuous in avoiding the hallway to the left. What’s back there? he enquired, gesturing with his revolver.

Nothing. The word was spoken in a whisper, Catheline’s gaze abruptly frozen, staring straight ahead. There’s nothing there. That wing of the house was long out of use, even when I was a girl.

For someone who’s done so much bad, you’re a really terrible liar, Clay observed, starting down the hallway.

There’s nothing there! she insisted, rushing after him. You’re wasting your time.

He found a door at the end of the hall, locked when he tried the handle. He turned the revolver into a replica of Skaggerhill’s shotgun and blew the lock to pieces, kicking the door open. The room he stepped into wasn’t like the others, no continual shift from one state to another. Here everything was in a permanent state of disorder. Clay deduced it had been a study from the blackened remnant of the desk in one corner and the charred books on the shelves. The room wasn’t completely burned out, however, one section near the fire-place remained intact.

A couch sat on a fine Dalcian carpet in front of the fire-place, and on the couch were two bodies, a man and a woman. They were undoubtedly dead judging by their bleached skin and open but unseeing eyes, but they sat upright, hands resting in their laps. The man was somewhere in his fifties and wore a well-tailored suit that only the most senior managers could afford. The woman was a few years younger, wearing a plain but elegant dress that would have done much to enhance her figure, had her form not been so completely drained of life. Her hair was a shade darker than Catheline’s, but Clay saw the similarity in their features.

This . . . Catheline began, entering the room on unsteady feet. This is just how I remember them . . .

They’re dead, Clay pointed out. You remember your parents as dead folk?

They were very dull people. She let out a short shrill laugh, her wide eyes fixed on the face of her mother. So very very dull.

Clay moved closer to the bodies, peering into their eyes and finding the whites threaded with a dense mesh of burst veins. It was something he had seen before. How’d you learn that trick? he wondered, shaking his head. Only ever knew one Blood-blessed who could do it.

I did nothing, she whispered, her voice taking on an accusatory tone. You did this. This is all just theatre of your making.

No. Clay retreated from the corpses, turning to face her. I didn’t. You did it. You broke out of the madhouse and you came here.

No. No, I . . .

You killed all the servants and then you sat your parents down . . .

No . . .

And you used Black to squeeze the vessels in their brain so they died in agony, but they couldn’t scream. Just had to sit there whilst their own daughter tortured them . . .

NO!

A rumble of thunder came from outside as Catheline collapsed to her knees, folding in on herself, tears streaming from her tight-closed eyes. My parents loved me, she sobbed. They wanted to keep me safe. I would never hurt them, never, never . . .

Clay watched her subside into her grief, face veiled by her hair as she shuddered on the floor. I guess that’s true, he told her, turning back to the corpses of the late Mr. and Mrs. Dewsmine. They tried to keep you safe but there was one thing they couldn’t hide you from. He crouched at her side, speaking softly. It ain’t too late. You still got a chance to put this right. End this war.

The thunder sounded again, the room growing dark as the clouds thickened in the sky.

Yes, he heard her say in a small, scared voice. Yes. We will end it.

The loud echoing thud of colliding metal snapped Clay’s gaze to the door, finding oak-wood had been replaced by iron and, instead of standing open with a shattered lock, the door was now firmly closed. Also, he couldn’t see any sign of a lock. More metallic thuds echoed around the room, Clay turning in time to see iron shutters slamming closed on the windows, leaving the room in darkness apart from the blaze that had suddenly appeared in the fire. Clay reeled back as the fire-place blasted out a brief torrent of flame, some of it catching the sleeve of his duster. As he beat the flames out he noted that the fire-place now resembled the mouth of a large drake.

The thunder came again, far louder now, persisting until it slowly revealed itself as a growl. One Clay had heard before. It shook the room, dislodging the pictures from atop the mantelpiece. Catheline was still sobbing behind the veil of her hair, except the sobs had taken on a higher pitch. As her hair parted the glow from the fire played on a smiling face and he realised she wasn’t sobbing at all.

Did you think I was alone here? she asked, getting to her feet. That I was alone when I did this? She cast a dismissive hand at her dead parents. He has been with me for every step and the journey has been glorious.

He watched her enjoy the shock on his face, blinking her pale blue eyes as they slowly transformed back into red-black orbs. What lengths you have gone to, Catheline observed, raising her hands to the surrounding room, now rapidly transforming into a cube of bare iron walls. All those miles travelled and battles fought, just to place your mind in a prison.

Clay raised his revolver, aim swift and true, the sights centred on her forehead. She moved as he fired, blurring with speed. A hard, jarring impact to his chest and he found himself slammed into the iron wall. Pain was often muted in the trance, the mental shields creating a barrier against a mostly physical sensation, but not here. Clay shouted with the shock of his spine shattering against the wall, the revolver flying from his grasp as he slid to the floor.

It isn’t too late, Catheline told him, eyebrows raised in sympathy as she crouched at his side. You still have a chance to put this right. She lifted a finger. You can get in here. But I can’t get in there. She pushed the finger hard into the side of his head. Let me in and I won’t make you watch when I cut your friends open.

Guh . . . Clay coughed, jerking with pain. Guh fuh . . .

I do beg your pardon, Catheline inched closer, cocking her head. Didn’t quite catch that.

Clay dragged in a slow ragged breath, speaking very deliberately. Go . . . fuck . . . yourself.

Catheline rolled her eyes at him. Well, that’s charming. She glanced over her shoulder at what had been the fire-place but was now the widening maw of the White. He just wants to eat you, in body and in mind. He doesn’t really have an imagination, you see? She extended a hand, flattening it out as the fingers grew, her nails becoming claws which she slowly pressed into his chest, provoking another shout of pain. But then, he has me for that . . .

She stopped talking, all emotion draining from her face, which had taken on an aspect of shocked surprise. No, she breathed in a voice laden with genuine fear. The claws withdrew from Clay’s chest and she whirled away, blinking out of existence to leave him alone and crippled in his prison.

CHAPTER 51

Sirus

He’s here! Sirus could feel Catheline’s hungry exultation as she shared the image of the man riding on the back of a Black drake. Her excitement was mirrored by the White, the beast letting out a long, rumbling growl that seemed to shake the ground. Sirus watched in dismay as the great flock of Reds began to abandon their attack on the enemy fleet, rising and wheeling away towards the approaching drake and rider.

“Their mission is not complete . . .” he began, abruptly falling silent as his jaw clamped shut at a glance from Catheline.

“Their mission is what I say it is, dear General,” she said. “The second line of trenches is about to fall. Concentrate your efforts there.”

Sirus withdrew as much of his mind from hers as he could, worried his sudden rage might lead her to some unfortunate conclusions. Turning his attention to the assault on the trenches, he took some satisfaction from the fact that the fighting had progressed beyond the second trench line. The defending humans once again clustered around their Blood-blessed, loosing off volleys of rifle fire as the encroaching Greens and Spoiled attempted to fight their way past invisible walls of Black and scorching waves of Red. He searched for a point of weakness, somewhere to concentrate his reserve battalions, but this time the defenders appeared to be equally resolute all along their line, even pushing back in some places thanks to the Blood-blessed.

It all hinges on them, he decided, quickly conducting a mental search for the keenest marksmen in his army. He picked out a hundred in all, ordering their fellow Spoiled to hoist them up above the attacking throng, one simple command filling their heads: Kill the Blood-blessed.

The first fell within seconds, her head blown to pieces by five expertly aimed shots. Another two fell in quick succession, Sirus swiftly sending his lead battalions against these points in the line and ordering the reserves forward. Seeing the danger the defenders immediately clustered around the remaining Blood-blessed, shielding them with their bodies as they beat a hasty retreat to the third trench. The enemy defence collapsed soon after, the humans turning and running towards the only remaining refuge.

Sirus attempted to launch a rapid pursuit, hoping to use the momentum of the advance to overrun the third line, but found the effort frustrated by a sudden loss of discipline amongst the Greens. Combat and the overpowering scent of blood stoked their hunger beyond the point of resistance. They began a feeding frenzy, creating a series of obstacles as they gathered in thrashing mobs around the bodies littering the ground, human and Spoiled. This soon created a gap between fleeing defenders and attackers.

Arberus, evidently not one to forsake an opportunity, had the cannon on the Redoubt lower their sights and begin a rapid barrage. The attackers were close enough to the wall to bring them into range of cannister-shot, the rain of iron balls and metal shards tearing holes in the Spoiled battalions stalled around the feasting Greens. They were also now in range of the repeating guns positioned along the Redoubt. Sirus felt the minds of over two hundred Spoiled blink out of existence in the space of ten seconds as cannon shells and tracer bullets lashed the army.

Pull back to the second line, he ordered in resignation. Bring up the artillery. It would be a costly difficult business, but he would use his own cannon to suppress the fire from the walls, hopefully providing sufficient cover for the final assault.

He turned to Catheline, intending to ask that she impose some order on the Greens, but found her staring fixedly at the sky to the east. Following her gaze he saw that the Reds had formed a broad, swirling barrier over the shore-line, a barrier that appeared to have just had a hole punched through it. He could see two aerostats, tracer flickering around them as they fought to keep the hole open, and between them a lone drake.

The White let out a sudden, deafening roar, Sirus looking up to see it rearing, wings spread wide and head raised as it bellowed out a challenge. Sirus looked again at Catheline, hoping for an explanation as to what might be happening. She began to turn to him, then froze, all light seeming to fade from her eyes as she collapsed.

A pain shot through Sirus’s head, sharp enough to make him stagger, vision blurring as confusion reigned in his mind. Memories churned in a rapid visual soup. Katrya . . . Morradin . . . Greens feasting on the corpses of children . . . Feros burning . . .

When it cleared he found himself on his knees, hands clasped to the side of his head. The pain slowly ebbed, and as it receded he realised something was different. She’s gone. He looked at Catheline lying next him, eyes vacant and body limp, feeling not the slightest touch of her thoughts. Catheline’s mind was gone.

Furthermore, his mental connection to the White was greatly diminished. He could still feel the Spoiled, the link with them was as strong as ever, but the White’s thoughts were muted now, like distant thunder, and that distance brought a single thought to the forefront of his mind.

I have slaughtered thousands.

He looked at his hands, clawed, scaled, powerful enough to rip a man apart if he chose, and in the midst of battle he had. His plan had been a delusion, he saw that now. A hopeless lie he told himself to preserve some vestige of sanity. Win the war in the hope the Spoiled’s loyalty to him would overcome their enslavement to the White. We are its creatures. That will never change. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been permitted this delusion, that Catheline had known all along. It had made him so useful after all. Forging a bond with Morradin as they conspired together, unifying them in the need to win freedom through victory. All just another link in his invisible slave chain.

“You knew,” he said, staring at Catheline’s perfect, unresponsive face. “Didn’t you? All this time. All that affection. How much you must have enjoyed the game.”

Anger. Another lesson he had learned from Morradin. Anger could mask his thoughts just as well as fear. He let the anger surge into a hot, all-consuming rage, feeding it with the countless horrors in his head, feeling the connection to the White shrivel in its flames. It didn’t break, not completely, but for one brief instant it burned down to little more than a thread of purpose, the White’s dominance lifted enough to allow his own will to blossom.

He got to his feet, moving swiftly for fear that any delay would allow the White to reassert control. Drawing his revolver, he thumbed back the hammer as he trained it on Catheline’s forehead. He began to squeeze the trigger but was momentarily distracted by the sudden appearance of something in his eye-line. It resembled a spear-point, catching the light as it turned, Sirus seeing blood dripping from its sharp point down to the scaled skin that formed its base.

A soft hiss came from above and he looked up into the White’s eyes. Sirus began to form a thought, something he might say, even though no human ears would ever hear it, but all thought fled as the pain arrived, and he screamed instead. The White blinked and tore its tail spike free of Sirus’s body. He fell, still screaming, feeling his blood leak away in a warm torrent. A chill descended, numbing him enough to banish much of the pain.

“No.”

He looked up to find Catheline standing over him, fully awake now, tears shining in her inhuman eyes. “My dear General,” she said, hands cupping his face, lips pressing against his. “We had so much still to do. If that bastard hadn’t snared me in the trance . . .”

“You . . .” The word emerged in a cloud of blood, staining her face though she barely seemed to feel it. “You . . . knew.”

“Your mind was unique,” she said, tears falling over her lips which now formed a fond smile. “Far too bright and interesting to waste, regardless of whatever little schemes you came up with over the years ahead. I was greatly looking forward to it all.”

Her face bunched and she stifled a sob, raising her face to the White. For once there was no awe or reverence in her eyes, just hard, judgemental reproach. “You didn’t have to,” she whispered. “I locked the gutter-born bastard’s mind away. It’s done. You didn’t have to . . .”

The White flicked its tail, spattering her face with Sirus’s blood before letting out an impatient growl. Catheline’s eyes clamped shut and she shuddered in pain, Sirus realising she was being subjected to more punishment. When it ended she let out a low, rasping moan, taking a few seconds to master herself before once again fixing her gaze on Sirus, the red coals of her eyes now dimmed with grief.

“I will miss you, dearest General,” she said, pressing another kiss to his lips before rising and moving away. Dust rose and Sirus felt a hard gust of wind, seeing the White ascend into the sky with Catheline on its back. When they flew out of sight he continued to stare into an empty blue sky. He could feel the battle raging, share the sight of so many Spoiled compelled by the White to renew their assault and realised in a flare of guilt that he would actually miss being a general.

An inquisitive squawk caused him to slowly turn his head and he found himself looking into the eyes of a juvenile White, tongue darting over its bared teeth. It gave another squawk and hopped closer.

CHAPTER 52

Lizanne

The Hurricane exploded as they headed back to the Redoubt. There was no warning and it had been several minutes since a Red had even come close. A sudden burst of flame in the upper rear portion of her envelope followed by a booming thud as the whole structure blew apart, then she was gone, just more flaming debris falling into the sea.

“A Red must have lit a small fire earlier on,” Morva opined, face grim as she regarded the fast-fading wreckage. “Took awhile to spread.”

Lizanne refused to let her gaze linger on the sight, moving to the rear hatch as they neared the Redoubt. A quick survey of the battlefield made for unwelcome news. The second line of trenches had fallen and Spoiled and Green were mounting a fresh assault on the third. They were met by a blizzard of Growler and Thumper fire, the ground midway between the second and third trench lines becoming marked by a growing mound of dead. Lizanne discerned a lack of cohesion in the White’s forces now. The discipline and tactical organisation that had marked their previous assaults had been replaced by a seemingly desperate desire to charge straight at the human defenders, regardless of any weight of fire-power they now faced. However, Lizanne took only small comfort from the mounting enemy casualties. A brief glance to the west revealed substantial reinforcements trooping across the plain.

We must have killed close to half by now, she reasoned. But they have the blood to spend. We don’t.

At her order the Typhoon’s gunners expended what little ammunition they had left as they flew over the battlefield, aiming for the Spoiled rushing to join in the assault. It might buy the defenders some small respite. Tekela closed the throttles as they passed over the walls of the Redoubt, turning the aerostat around in preparation for landing.

“It’s flying,” she said, hands pausing on the controls as she peered through the front window.

Lizanne moved to her side, seeing the White ascending from the hill-top where it had perched for most of the battle. She turned her gaze to the sky, finding the large Black wheeling about over the plain. She quickly injected Blue and slipped into the trance, found no sign of Clay and slipped out again. What are you doing? she thought, eyes fixed on the Black as it continued a seemingly placid circular glide, apparently oblivious of the White now dragging itself into the sky with broad sweeps of its huge wings.

“Get us down,” she told Tekela. “We need to rearm.”

Upon landing she ordered fresh Swarmers loaded and went to find Arberus. He was engaged in directing the fire of cannon on the western end of the walls, attempting to impede the advance of the mass of Spoiled closing in on the outer trench line. The cannon scored hits with every shell fired, it being impossible to miss, but the Spoiled swept on below undaunted. Lizanne noticed again how all order had apparently been forgotten and they appeared possessed by nothing more than an unreasoning desire to throw themselves at the human line.

“Can you hold them?” she asked, coming to Arberus’s side.

One look at the grim resignation on his face was sufficient answer. “When the ships resumed their bombardment, I thought we might have a chance,” he said, nodding at the sea. “But now . . .”

Lizanne turned, seeing that the Reds had resumed their attack on the fleet. Their strength had been eroded in the first assault but, judging from the number of burning ships, they were still capable of inflicting substantial damage.

“Is there anything you can do?” she said. They both knew evacuation was now impossible, and there was no line of retreat from this place.

“I can pull what’s left into the Redoubt,” he said. “Since the enemy seems to have abandoned all rational tactics, it might buy us time.”

Lizanne shifted her gaze to the sky above the plain. The White was still flying towards the gently circling Black. At least I know where it’s going, she thought. “Do it,” she said, turning and running back towards the courtyard. She drew up short, however, at the sight of the Firefly taking off. The small aerostat drifted towards the walls before revving up its engines and flying away. Lizanne stared after it, quickly discerning that it was headed for the hill-top where the White had perched. Turning back to the courtyard, she saw Morva raising her arms in a helpless shrug.

“She took off before I could stop her!” she called up to Lizanne.

Tekela! Lizanne realised, gaze snapping back to the Firefly as it flew an unerring course towards the hill-top. Gone to keep her promise.

“Get on board!” she shouted, running to the Typhoon and clambering into the gondola. She flung herself into the pilot’s seat, restarting the engines and pulling back the levers to angle them towards the ground.

“We’ve only loaded half the Swarmers,” Morva protested as they took off. “And the gunners aren’t aboard.”

“No time,” Lizanne told her. “Stand ready at the ignition tube.”

She brought the Typhoon to three hundred feet, angling the prow at the now-distant silhouette of the Firefly before calling out for Morva to ignite the blood-burner. The ground blurred below as the Typhoon shot forward, Lizanne opening the throttle as wide as it would go. They had closed half the distance to the other aerostat when she saw a trio of Reds diving towards it. Lizanne looked out of the port window, seeing the White pass by in the opposite direction. Craning her neck farther she saw the huge Black finally respond to the danger, abandoning its serene glide to angle itself towards the White.

You already made your choice, Lizanne told herself, turning back to the Firefly. There was nothing she could do to prevent whatever was about to befall Claydon Torcreek, but she could still save Tekela.

The three Reds were less than fifty yards from the Firefly now. Tekela had evidently spotted the danger and put the aerostat into a sharp turn. As the drakes veered towards it they passed directly in front of the Typhoon. The range was fast diminishing thanks to their speed, bringing the Reds close enough for Lizanne to try her luck with the forward-facing guns. The first two flew through the bullet stream unscathed but she had the satisfaction of seeing the third twist in a spiral of blood, wings flailing as it plummeted down.

“Hold on!” she called out, hitting the switch that took the blood-burner off-line then reversing the angle of the port engine. The Typhoon hadn’t been designed for such sharp manoeuvring, the entire craft letting out a metallic howl of protest and shuddering as she wheeled about, bringing the Reds back into Lizanne’s sights. She blew the second Red out of the sky with a concentrated burst, then adjusted the craft’s angle to take aim at the third. It was considerably larger than the average Red and made an easy target. Lizanne let the Typhoon settle and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Didn’t have time to reload those either,” Morva called out by way of explanation.

Lizanne gave voice to some rarely spoken profanity and slammed the port engine back into a vertical angle before reopening the throttles. She drew back the main control lever as the Typhoon lurched forward, angling the craft to the left so Morva could fire at the Red with her mini-Growler. This drake, however, proved far more wily than most, folding its wings and slipping beneath the Typhoon, the stream of tracer missing by inches. Morva kept firing, tracking the drake as it passed underneath, then letting out a shout of surprise as the beast turned on its back and stabbed its talons into the hull. The mini-Growler was jerked from Morva’s grasp by the impact, the weapon tumbling from the hatch into empty space. She came close to following it, managing to grasp a handhold as her legs swung outside, then screamed as flame enveloped the gondola’s exterior.

Lizanne injected Black and used it to drag Morva inside, setting the automatic controls before leaping from the pilot’s seat. She let out another blast of Black to banish the flames licking at Morva’s legs, then lifted her from the gondola’s floor as the Red’s talons stabbed through the thin hull once more. Metal screamed as the talons tore at the hull, slicing open a large rent. Lizanne looked down, finding herself matching gazes with the Red and realising she had seen it before. An impressive scar marred the scales around its eye, left there by Lizanne’s exploding bullet. The beast’s gaze narrowed in obvious recognition and it renewed its efforts to tear open the hull, snout poking through and jaws widening. Lizanne threw Morva to the rear of the gondola, cast her gaze around until it alighted on her Smoker and used Black to pull it into her hands.

She unleashed all her Red as she trained the carbine on the Red’s gaping maw, scorching its eyes and jamming the barrel deep into its throat as the Redball ignited. The bullet must have met the onrushing combustible gas from the beast’s gut as it detonated, the explosion sending Lizanne into the gondola’s ceiling whilst filling the interior with a thick crimson vapour. Lizanne landed hard next to the rent in the floor, watching the Red’s talons lose their grip as it tumbled headless towards the earth.

Finding it hard to breathe and feeling the onset of unconsciousness, Lizanne pressed her Spider’s second button, flooding her veins with all her remaining Green. A certain grogginess still lingered as she regained her footing and clumsily leapt over the gaping hole in the floor to check on Morva. She was unconscious but still breathing; the burns visible through the scorched gaps in her overalls were bad but survivable. She might even walk again, Lizanne thought in bitter self-reproach. Going after Tekela without properly rearming had been a mistake driven by sentiment, not something any of them could afford at this juncture. She positioned Morva on her side and used the Spider on the woman’s wrist to inject a full dose of Green.

Making her way forward, she struggled into the pilot’s seat, resuming control and killing their forward speed. Both engines were smoking but somehow still operational, though she had no notion of how long they might last. She could see the Firefly several hundred yards off now, angling towards the hill-top. Turning her gaze south, Lizanne saw the Black and the White finally come together, both drakes spewing fire at each other as they closed so the subsequent struggle began in a nova of flame.

Lizanne pointed the Typhoon at the ball of flame and opened the throttles.

CHAPTER 53

Hilemore

The revolver jerked in his fist, sending a bullet into the head of the Green drake charging towards him. It didn’t die, however, falling onto its side and continuing to scrabble towards him, claws skittering on the deckboards until Steelfine stepped forward to bring a fire axe down on the beast’s neck, the blow sufficiently powerful to sever the head from the body. The Islander reeled back from the explosion of drake blood, teeth gritted in pain as he wiped it from his hands and neck.

A challenging hiss snapped Hilemore’s gaze to the left in time to see another Green charging towards him across the aft deck. He raised his revolver, finger repeatedly squeezing the trigger only to hear the dry click of the hammer on an empty chamber. A flurry of shots came from his right, scoring hits on the drake’s forelegs and shoulders, sending it into a thrashing halt. Loriabeth stepped past Hilemore, stamping a boot to the back of the Green’s neck, pressing it to the boards before putting her last bullet through its head.

A shout of triumph came from the stern where Lieutenant Sigoral was casting the bodies of two more Greens into the sea with the aid of Black, his Corvantine shipmates raising their weapons in celebration.

“Reckon that’s the last of them, Captain,” Loriabeth said, glancing up from reloading her revolvers. The Superior’s decks and upper works were liberally spattered with blood, most of it drake but they had suffered casualties of their own. Three of Colonel Kulvetch’s Marines had been roasted in the first Red assault and one of the gun-crews had fallen victim to the Greens dropped into their midst. Looking up at the many Reds still wheeling about the sky, Hilemore deduced their troubles were far from over.

“Mr. Steelfine,” he said.

Steelfine paused in the task of dousing his blood burns with water from a canteen and snapped to attention. “Sir?”

“Get any wounded below and remuster the riflemen. Have additional ammunition brought up for the guns. I’ll be on the bridge.”

“Very good, sir.”

Loriabeth followed him as he made his way to the bridgehouse, finding Skaggerhill and two of the riflemen carefully man-handling a Green corpse over the walkway railing. “Whatever else happens, Captain,” the harvester grunted as they heaved the beast over, “all the product soaked into this ship today is sure to make you a wealthy man.”

“Everyone will get equal shares in any prize money, Mr. Skaggerhill,” Hilemore assured him, extending his glass and training it on the shore-line. They were only two miles off but the amount of smoke from so many burning ships made it difficult to gauge the progress of the battle. He could make out numerous flashes indicating a sustained artillery barrage and even from this distance the shouts of thousands of people engaged in combat were audible. As to who might be winning he had no notion at all.

“Drakes ahead, sir!” Talmant called out. Hilemore found them an instant later, a pack of a dozen or more Reds swooping low out of a smoke bank to skim across the waves, heading for the Superior’s prow.

“Hard a-starboard!” he barked, Scrimshine spinning the wheel in response. The forward pivot-gun fired as the ship heaved to the right, cutting the lead Red out of the air with a well-aimed cannister shell. The remaining Reds split into two groups, wheeling about to assault the Superior from two sides. Hilemore saw the head of one drake jerk as it banked towards the port bow, the beast raising a curtain of water as it tumbled into the sea.

“That’s another one for the Preacher, I reckon,” Skaggerhill said. He slotted shells into his shotgun and snapped the breech closed before moving to stand ready in the hatch. Loriabeth took up position at the opposite hatch as the riflemen on the upper works commenced firing. The tactic of aiming at the wings paid dividends, two drakes plunging down with shredded wings before they could come close enough to cast their flames at the ship. The cannon on both sides accounted for three more, leaving four who managed to close the distance.

Hilemore saw the pivot-gun crew run for cover as a Red fanned its wing to hover over the fore-deck, fire jetting from its mouth. It managed to send one crewman over the rail in flames before a dark blur streaked into its chest and exploded. Hilemore saw Kriz crouched amidst the smoking debris, another grenade clutched in her hand should she need it. But the drake was unmistakably dead, its open chest cavity leaking gore as it lay across the prow. Hilemore saw Kriz cast the body away, then look up and dive to the side just before a wall of flame covered the bridgehouse windows. Glass shattered and fire momentarily filled the bridge, leaving Hilemore on the deck coughing smoke. He heard the double blast of Skaggerhill’s shotgun followed by a chorus of pain-filled profanity.

Hilemore wafted smoke and got to his feet, finding Scrimshine frantically beating out the flames on Talmant’s jacket. “Stand aside,” Hilemore ordered, hefting a full water bucket and dousing the lieutenant with the contents. “Get back on the wheel.”

Hilemore turned to find Loriabeth covering Skaggerhill’s broad torso with her duster, smoke seeping from beneath the garment as she pressed it down. Hilemore fought down a rising gorge at the stink of charred flesh. The harvester’s face was mostly untouched but, as Loriabeth drew the duster away, it became clear those parts of his chest not covered by green leather had received a bone-deep burn. It extended in a ghastly line from his collar to his belly, blackened flesh leaking blood amongst the rising smoke.

“Got . . .” he breathed, voice pitched high with suppressed pain, “the fucker.” He made a vague, jerky gesture with the shotgun still clasped in his hands. Hilemore’s gaze went to the head of the Red dangling in the hatchway, leaking copious blood onto the deck, its body lying atop the bridgehouse roof.

“Get that thing over the side,” Hilemore called out, sending the riflemen of the captain’s guard hurrying to comply. He then instructed two of the South Seas Maritime Marines to take Skaggerhill below and administer a full dose of Green. He began to suggest Loriabeth go with him and oversee his care but one glance at her part-stricken, part-furious visage convinced him to still his tongue.

He went out onto the walkway, drawing up short at the sight of a body lying across the railing. Preacher’s tall form was bent like a bow, his upturned face staring up at Hilemore, as blank in death as it had been in life. Hilemore could see no burns on the marksman’s body but the blood seeping in a thick torrent from his torso indicated he had fallen victim to a tail strike.

“Preacher.”

Hilemore turned to see Braddon Torcreek climbing down from the mainmast. Together he and Hilemore lifted Preacher’s body from the railing, laying him down on the walkway. “It was coming for me,” the Contractor captain said, crouching at Preacher’s side and staring into his empty eyes. “He stepped in front of me . . .” He shook his head, touching a hand to Preacher’s bloody chest. “Crazy old bastard. Guess he really wanted it to come true.”

“Wanted what?” Hilemore asked.

“The Seven Penitents,” Braddon said. “The Seer wrote that the most faithful would be the first to die in the Travail.” He shifted his gaze to Preacher’s longrifle, which lay on the walkway close by. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain,” he said, moving to retrieve the weapon and jerking the lever to chamber a round. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, went to the ladder and began to climb. “I got business up top.”

Hilemore gave Preacher’s corpse a final glance then descended to the main deck, calling for reports. All the Reds had been accounted for and the fires they birthed contained, though the attack had cost them another five casualties besides Preacher, three fatal and two wounded along with Skaggerhill. One consolation was that the Superior had now drawn close enough to shore for him to gain an appreciation of the course of the battle. He could see cannon and repeating guns firing all along the length of the Redoubt, providing cover for a large number of defenders retreating through the main gates close to the beach. The trenches appeared to be completely in the hands of the White’s army, Spoiled and Greens continuing to advance in the face of the intense fire from the walls. In places they were only yards from the retreating humans, some of whom were fighting a valiant rear-guard action. Blood-blessed, Hilemore concluded, seeing how the Greens and Spoiled were cast into the air or blasted with heat as they charged at these knots of resistance. Despite their courage it was clear to him they were about to be overrun. Sheer weight of numbers would tell before long.

“Ship approaching off the starboard bow, sir,” Talmant reported.

Hilemore looked to the north, seeing the smoke part to reveal a familiar shape. The Viable Opportunity steamed to their front, paddles churning at full auxiliary power, her signal lamp blinking a message in standard Protectorate code. “Fall in astern,” Hilemore read, quickly recognising the author’s hand in what followed. “All guns fire to shore. Report for court martial at close of hostilities.”

“So time hasn’t improved his temperament,” Hilemore muttered to himself before returning to the bridge. “Signal the engine room, ahead full auxiliary power. Mr. Scrimshine, follow that ship.”

Under Scrimshine’s deft handling the Superior took up position twenty yards to the stern of the Viable. Hilemore descended to the deck and directed the transfer of guns from the port rail to starboard, he and Steelfine man-handling one of the pieces into position before hearing an eruption of repeating gun-fire from the Viable. The Reds had evidently noticed their approach and determined to prevent it, descending in a dense stream straight for the lead ship. Her repeating guns were putting up a hail of fire, concentrated so that the tracer converged on the leading Reds, blasting drake after drake out of the sky.

“Load explosive shells!” Hilemore ordered the gunners, tearing his gaze from the unfolding spectacle in the sky. Their mission was to save the army on shore and the Viable was buying them the time to do it. “Fuses set for air-burst.”

He focused his gaze on the Redoubt, seeing the rear guards breaking in the face of overwhelming odds, the defenders streaming for the gates which were now in the process of closing. “Aim at the base of the ridge,” he told the gunners, glancing left and right to ensure all guns were loaded and lanyards ready to be pulled. “Fire at will!”

The cannons fired almost as one, all eight guns arrayed on the starboard rail and the forward pivot-gun. They were close enough to the shore for Hilemore to judge the fall of shot without use of a glass. Most of the shells were on target, exploding in a line along the steep lower slopes of the ridge to send their deadly rain down on the Spoiled and Greens now charging towards the Redoubt gates. The effect was immediate, the enemy so close-packed that Hilemore estimated a hundred at least had been felled by the first broadside.

“Keep firing!” he called out. “Pour it on, lads!”

A loud screech from the direction of the fore-deck drew his gaze in time to see Kriz send another grenade into the midst of a trio of attacking Reds. Two were killed outright and the third landed on the prow, managing to cough out some flames before Kriz snapped its neck with Black. Hilemore raised his gaze to the Viable, blinking in shock at the sight of her upper works being mobbed by drakes. They latched themselves onto the railing and superstructure, snapping at the crew or spewing flame into the hatchways. Many of the Viable’s fittings were alight and she began to fall out of line as a loud boom sounded within her hull, a tall column of dark smoke shooting from her stacks a second later.

He started forward, intending to order the pivot-gun to rake the Viable’s deck with cannister, but forced himself to a halt. Not my mission, he told himself, teeth gritted as he tore his gaze away, turning it to the shore. The Superior fired three more broadsides as they passed by the Redoubt, each one seeming to cut down more drakes and Spoiled than the one before. They lay in mounds beneath the walls and the gates, which Hilemore noted in relief were now firmly shut. Only when satisfied that the attack had been stemmed did he turn his attention back to the Viable.

She was listing badly now, one paddle turning feebly whilst the other churned the sea white. Fires raged across her decks and Hilemore was treated to the dreadful sight of a crewman being torn apart by Reds, three of the beasts rending the screaming figure into pieces which they then cast into the sea, squawking in triumph. Above the screeching drakes and roaring flames he could hear the crackle of rifle fire and the growl of at least one repeating gun. They’re still fighting, he realised.

His mission was clear. He should turn the Superior about and conduct another barrage of the shore-line to prevent the enemy massing at the gates. But they’re still fighting!

For one of the very few instances in his life Hilemore was seized by an unwelcome and very palpable sense of indecision. The Viable Opportunity, the ship he had commanded from the Battle of the Strait through all the many travails that led them to Lossermark, was dying before his eyes, and he found he simply couldn’t allow it.

“Mr. Steelfine!” he called out. “Ask Lieutenant Sigoral to join us on the fore-deck and be sure to bring his grenades. Tell all guns to load cannister, and prepare a boarding party.”

“Aye, sir!”

The Islander turned and began to shout out the requisite orders, then fell silent when Hilemore, seeing a new shape resolving through the smoke a quarter-mile off the port bow, said, “Belay that, Number One.”

“Sir?”

The Endeavour emerged from the haze on full blood-burner power, her prow knifing through the sea as she steamed towards the Viable. The two guns on the Endeavour’s bows blasted out cannister as she closed the distance, Hilemore seeing several Reds fall from the stricken ship as the metal hail struck home. When she was less than a hundred yards off, the Endeavour halted then reversed her paddles, the sea seeming to boil about her hull as she slowed. It was a manoeuvre that no sane captain would usually contemplate, but this day was far from usual. Shattered and splintered wood emerged in a cloud from the Endeavour’s paddle casements as the force of the water fought the power of the blood-burner. In seconds the paddles were in tatters, capable of making only about a third of their normal purchase on the sea, but that was more than enough for her captain to perform a rapid turn, presenting her port-side guns to the Viable. They fired in quick succession, raking the other ship’s upper works with cannister and sweeping away at least half the Reds still tormenting her. The surviving drakes on the far side of the Viable rose as one to meet the new threat, wings blurring as they sought the sky.

Hilemore barked out a rapid series of orders to the pivot-gun crew. Within seconds they had loaded cannister and trained the gun on the space between the Viable and the Endeavour. “Fire!” Hilemore ordered as the first Reds began to sweep towards the smaller ship, blasting several out of the air. By then the Endeavour had completed another full turn, bringing to bear the as yet unfired guns on her starboard side. Water rose in tall spouts as drakes careened into the sea, cut down by the broadside, but a dozen or more remained to press home the attack on the Endeavour.

“Twenty degrees to port!” Hilemore shouted towards the bridge, pointing frantically towards the Endeavour. Scrimshine had apparently anticipated the order given the speed with which the Superior altered course. A pall of smoke had already blossomed around the Endeavour, though Hilemore could hear a cacophony of small-arms fire and drake cries. Kriz ran towards the prow, her satchel of grenades over her shoulder. At Hilemore’s call Sigoral soon joined her and the two Blood-blessed waited, grenades in hand.

The smoke cleared as the Superior closed on the Endeavour’s position, revealing a ship bathed in fire from stern to bow. Reds were still hovering over her, casting their flames down to add to the inferno. Kriz and Sigoral let fly with their grenades, launching them with Black so fast that they blurred. Within moments the Reds had been blasted out of the air, leaving the Endeavour a flaming wreck.

“Hoses to the port rail!” Hilemore ordered, though he could see it was pointless. The fires had begun to merge, forming one great conflagration that completely covered the Endeavour above the water-line. Within seconds the inevitable happened and her ammunition exploded, tearing her in two. Steam rose as the divided hull capsized, the two sections slipping beneath the roiling sea before the Superior’s prow cut through the scene of her demise.

Sea-sister . . . He stared at the flotsam passing by the hull, flames still licking at some of it, hearing a distant voice call to him but suddenly finding himself too weary to respond.

“Captain!” Steelfine’s large hand gripped his shoulder, the Islander pointing to something off the port beam. Assuming they were about to face another onslaught of Reds, Hilemore straightened his back and raised his gaze. A cluster of figures were struggling in the water twenty yards away, Zenida easily recognisable in the midst of them by virtue of her voice, loud enough to reach his ears, “Are you just going to let us drown?”

Unwilling to stop the ship unless in absolute necessity, Hilemore had Kriz and Sigoral haul the survivors aboard, plucking them from the sea with Black and depositing them on the fore-deck.

“Clever,” he said as Zenida shook the salt water from her hair. “Abandoning ship the moment they pressed home their attack. Lost your ship but saved your crew.”

“Not all,” she said, face grim. “Left ten behind to burn.”

“Victory demands a blood price,” he told her in Varestian. It was an old saying, one he knew to be beloved of pirates, and was gratified to see it bring a faint smile to her lips.

“I would like to make a statement,” she said.

“And that is?”

She moved close, pressing a kiss to his lips, brief but far from chaste. “I need to find some product,” she said, moving away. “I trust you have some left.”

Hilemore cast a brief glance around the deck, but it seemed the crew were too preoccupied with hosing away the copious amounts of drake blood from the boards to have noticed. He proceeded swiftly to the bridge, ordering the engines to dead slow and instructing Scrimshine to bring them about. He had the deck-hands play their hoses over the Viable as they passed by, although a good portion of the fires seemed to have already been extinguished. Despite this it was evident the ship was out of this fight, smoke leaking in a dense black cloud from her stacks and her paddles idled in the water. Seeing a signal lamp blinking atop her bridge Hilemore recognised the rigid form of Captain Trumane, working the lamp with one hand whilst pointing to the shore with the other. “See to your duty,” the message read.

“Send an acknowledgment, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Then signal the engine room to increase speed to one-third.”

His briefly uplifted spirits plummeted upon clearing the wallowing hulk of the Viable and it was a struggle to keep the dismay from his features as the situation ashore stood revealed. The White’s army were boiling up the slopes of the ridge, resembling a huge swarm of ants as they clambered over one another, the bodies forming together to create a ladder of flesh. They fell by the hundred to the defenders on the walls above, massed rifle and repeating guns reaping a terrible toll, but the tide of drake and Spoiled continued to rise inexorably.

Hilemore called down to Steelfine to rig the shells to detonate on impact and have the guns fire into the base of the massed bodies. Their first pass succeeded in reducing the height of the mass by several yards, blasting grisly red holes into it that seemed to be healed almost instantly. The Superior circled around for another pass, achieving less impressive results. The shells evidently killed a large number of Spoiled and Greens, but the mound continued to grow. Raising his spy-glass, he soon saw why. The Spoiled were gathering up the bodies and parts of those killed by the barrage and pushing them back into the mass. They were using the flesh of their fallen as building material.

Raising his glass higher, he saw that the top of the mass was now only yards away from cresting the Redoubt walls. In desperation he brought the Superior round again, moving at dead slow to allow a maximum number of broadsides, the guns this time ordered to aim at the top of the mass. This succeeded in reducing its height in some places, but not all, forcing Hilemore to an unwelcome conclusion. We are only one ship, and the ammunition won’t last forever.

Their stocks of explosive shells were already down to six rounds per gun, although they did have copious stocks of cannister but the range was too great for it to be effective. He had only one more manoeuvre to try and, although the consequences were obvious, it was either this or just sail away.

“Mr. Scrimshine,” he said, “prepare to steer hard a-starboard on my command. Mr. Talmant, spread the word to the crew. Load cannister and stand ready to run aground.”

He saw in annoyance that Talmant wasn’t listening, instead the lieutenant had his ear pressed to the crow’s nest speaking-tube, eyes wide in shock. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore snapped, causing the young officer to snap to attention.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just . . . crow’s nest reports ships to the north.”

“There are ships all over this particular stretch of sea, Lieutenant. Sadly, none of them seem to be in a position to assist us at present.”

“Beg pardon, sir. Not Varestian ships . . .”

Talmant’s voice was drowned out by a loud whooshing sound that filled the bridge as something very large passed overhead at considerable speed. He managed to catch sight of the point of impact, the explosion dwarfing the Superior’s efforts with a blast that exceeded all the shells they had fired that day. The detonation turned the world white and sent the ship reeling back from the shore, Hilemore feeling a hard, stinging impact to the back of his head before the whiteness turned to black.

CHAPTER 54

Clay

This is not my body . . . He repeated the thought, over and over, jerking as he fought the pain. My body is whole. There is no pain. This is not my body, my body is whole, there is no pain. This is not my body my body is whole there is no pain!

He let out a shout as the pain vanished, his shattered spine fusing back together, reforged by sheer effort of will. But though he could exert control over his own mental image, the prison that held him rested in the mind of Catheline Dewsmine, who at this juncture seemed unlikely to return.

Clay got to his feet, eyes roving the featureless iron cube of his cell. Clever or not, he thought, she’s still crazy. There has to be a crack somewhere.

He scoured the walls, hands tracing over the rough metal, looking for some small fissure in the surface, something he could pry apart. Several minutes of searching produced nothing but, as he retreated from the walls, grunting in frustration, something scraped beneath his boot. Looking down he saw it was one of the pictures that had fallen from the mantelpiece above the fire when it transformed. The fire-place was gone now but this picture remained. Crouching, he picked it up, expecting to find an image of Catheline in her younger days, or a photostat of her unfortunate parents. Instead it was a Spoiled wearing a military uniform. The same one from the hill-top, Clay realised, recalling Lizanne’s shared memories from recent trances. Sirus. Guess she must like you to keep your image in her favourite memory.

As the thought rose, rich in self-recrimination at allowing himself to be trapped, he saw the image shift in the frame. The deformed face of Sirus turned, looking out at him in clear recognition. Clay stared back, watching Sirus’s lips move. He brought the picture closer, straining to hear the words.

I’m dying, Sirus told him in a strangely matter-of-fact tone. It struck Clay as the voice of a man entirely accepting of his fate, free of fear or desperation. He almost envied him. She kept something of me, Sirus went on. I suppose she wanted to be able to talk sometimes. I suspect she gets very lonely.

Yeah, Clay said. That’s too bad. You got anything useful to share?

I don’t think so. I had a plan, you see? A grand scheme to free us all, set the Spoiled to rebellion and bring down the White. But it was just a childish folly. She knew. The Spoiled cannot be freed. Once it takes us, it binds us forever.

No, Clay told him. That ain’t right. There were free Spoiled once. They helped bring it down before.

The picture-frame suddenly became hot in Clay’s hand, the image of Sirus emitting a soft glow. How?

Ain’t something to be said. More something to be felt. It was the gift of the Black drakes, they showed me. And I can show you.

The frame grew hotter, the glow brighter. Clay felt Sirus’s thoughts lose their reflective apathy, replaced by a fierce, rage-fuelled need. Do you have it? he demanded.

Clay found the required memory quickly enough, but as this was not his mind the ability to form it into something he could share was limited. In his own mindscape he could have refashioned Nelphia’s surface, here all he had was what he carried with him. He drew his revolver, remoulding it into a ball of gun-metal the size of his fist. Concentrating hard, he brought to mind the crystals he had seen in the Enclave, and the Black crystal Kriz retrieved from Krystaline Lake. The ball of grey metal began to change, growing spines and the hard dull surface turning to glass. With the crystal complete, Clay summoned the memory Lutharon’s ancestors had shared with him. The crystal began to take on a soft glow as Clay poured in the memory.

Here, Clay told Sirus, extending the picture towards the floating crystal. The picture-frame suddenly became white-hot. He dropped it, yelping in pain. Focusing on his singed fingers, he banished the pain and returned the charred tips to their previous state. When he looked again Sirus’s picture was glowing bright enough to dazzle him. Squinting, he watched as it began to melt the iron floor of the cell, the metal glowing red then white before dropping away, creating a wide hole. The picture disappeared into the hole, quickly followed by the crystal, leaving Clay standing over it in indecision.

Well, he thought, preparing to jump. Can’t see any other way out of here.

The waking world returned with a jolt, Clay gasping in shock as a heavy buffeting wind came close to dislodging him from Lutharon’s back. He grabbed hold of a spine and held on, ears filled with the challenging roar of a drake, but this time it wasn’t a Red.

The White streaked towards them, the roar swallowed by the flames jetting from its mouth. Lutharon banked hard, Clay gripping the spine with both hands as the Black stood on a wing-tip, deftly avoiding the flames before flaring his wings and pivoting about. The White spread its own wings, wheeling around to hover some twenty yards away, Lutharon following suit. Clay saw that the White was not alone. Catheline was perched atop its back, staring at him in evident puzzlement. Thought she’d locked me away for good, Clay surmised, reaching into his satchel and drawing out a grenade, but the White attacked before he had a chance to arm it.

Lutharon folded his wings and dived as the White surged forward, Clay hearing the snap of its jaws above his head. Lutharon extended his wings and went into a tight turn, opening his jaws to blast out a stream of fire at the White, catching the larger animal in mid-turn. It let out an enraged roar, lashing out with its tail as Lutharon swept closer, the spear-point leaving an ugly red scar on the Black’s neck. Lutharon coughed flame directly into the White’s face, momentarily blinding it before rearing back to lash out with his talons, tearing into the scaled flesh of its opponent. Clay could only hold on as Lutharon pressed his advantage, head stabbing forward to clamp his jaws on the White’s neck, blood welling as he bit deep.

The White screamed in pain and rage, its own talons slashing at the Black, their blood mingling as they tumbled about the sky, Lutharon holding on despite the wounds scoring his hide. There was a sound like a miniature thunderclap, Lutharon’s teeth tearing clear of the White’s neck as he was propelled backwards. As they were pushed away Clay caught sight of Catheline, staring at them in intense concentration as she unleashed a powerful wave of Black. The force wave continued, pushing them down towards the earth. Clay glanced over his shoulder to see the plain rushing towards them and, realising he had somehow managed to keep hold of the grenade, tugged the arming pin free and used the last vestiges of his Black to propel it at Catheline.

The White moved in a blur, tail whipping to intercept the grenade before it could strike its target. The explosion broke Catheline’s concentration, cutting off her stream of Black and leaving the White minus the spear-point at the end of its tail. The severed tip leaked blood as the White whirled about and went into a steep dive. Lutharon twisted and spread his wings wide, stalling their fall then sweeping back up into the sky. Clay looked down to see a fire erupting on the plain as the White chased them with its flames.

Clay armed another grenade and tossed it over his shoulder, quickly followed by two more, reasoning gravity would provide the required distance. He was rewarded with the sound of three rapid explosions, but a backwards glance revealed the dispiriting sight of the White still labouring in pursuit, albeit with one side of its face blackened and leaking blood. He could feel Lutharon’s strength fading, seeing the blood streaming in thick torrents from his many wounds, but still he turned to fight.

Drawing in his wings, Lutharon turned over and streaked down to meet the White head-on. Clay met Catheline’s eyes as the drakes sped towards one another, finding them full of hate but also something more. She’s afraid, he realised, seeing how her eyes widened as the massive Black plummeted towards her. Even the mad can learn to fear.

He quickly drew his revolver and began to fire, managing four shots before a wave of Black blasted it out of his hand, Clay hearing the snap of breaking bones as it spun away. He ignored the flare of agony and unleashed all his remaining Red in a rapid stream. He had the satisfaction of seeing Catheline’s hair take light before the two drakes collided.

The impact jarred him loose of Lutharon’s back, and the surrounding air turned briefly into fire before he fell clear, trailing smoke as he tumbled towards the ground. The impact came sooner than expected, Clay careening across the earth in a cloud of raised sod before sliding to a halt, stunned and winded. He lay there, dragging air into his lungs and trying to force animation into his limbs, hearing the sweep of very large wings drawing closer.

CHAPTER 55

Sirus

He returned to his body to find his left hand clamped between the jaws of a juvenile White. He barely felt it, having lost so much blood that sensation was now just a distant thing. His hand gave an involuntary twitch as the juvenile bit down, causing it to open its jaws and hop back with an annoyed hiss. An answering squawk from the right caused Sirus to turn his head, finding the other juvenile regarding him with its head cocked, yellow eyes blinking in apparent curiosity.

“Wondering why I’m still here,” he said in a guttural whisper. “So am I.”

The juvenile on the right seemed to take this as some sort of challenge, flaring its wings and lowering itself to pounce, mouth opening wide. There was a sharp percussive crack and the juvenile was instantly transformed into two separate pieces. The upper half spun away from the lower, turning end over end in a bloody cart-wheel. It landed a few feet away from its twitching lower half, jaws snapping in a reflex.

The juvenile on Sirus’s left leapt, wings blurring and flame jetting from its mouth, only to be swiftly blasted out of view. Sirus was curiously unsurprised by the face that looked down on him once his rescuer came into view, a face tense with hate and intent on murder.

“I . . .” Sirus began, finding the words choked by blood. He coughed, trying to clear it but Tekela didn’t seem interested in any statement he might make.

“Shut up,” she said, shouldering the carbine she carried and reaching down to pull a bone-handle knife from a sheath on her calf.

“I have . . .” he tried again, blood gouting from his mouth.

“Shut up, Sirus!” She stepped closer and crouched, putting the knife blade to his neck. He saw that she was crying and was pained to have grieved her so.

“I have something to do,” he said, throat finally clear of blood although he could feel more rushing in. He met her damp eyes, hoping she saw some vestige of who he had once been in the monstrous visage she beheld. He managed to raise his right hand, fingers open and palm extended. “Please . . . it’s very important.”

Tekela let out a sob as her gaze tracked from his face to the blood welling from the hole in his chest. “You killed Jermayah,” she said, taking a hard ragged breath. “You killed all those people.”

“Yes,” he replied, his words punctuated by sharp, rasping breaths, each one he knew bringing him closer to death. “And . . . I have done . . . far worse. Soon . . . I’ll die . . . for what I’ve done. You can kill . . . me, if you wish. But first . . . there is something . . . I have to do. For you . . . for everyone.”

Tekela closed her eyes tight, another sob escaping her as she withdrew the blade from his neck. “What?” she said, head sagging and voice laden with defeat. “What is it you have to do, Sirus?”

“Remember . . .” He extended his hand to her again. “Will you . . . help me?”

She stared at his hand, baffled and appalled in equal measure. “How?”

“I need . . . to remember . . . what it was . . . to be free.”

His vision grew suddenly darker, Tekela’s face becoming a vague shadow, as if veiled by a curtain of black lace. He felt her take his hand, the first time she had ever done so. It was smooth against his callused, scaled palm, small but also strong, hardly the hand of a girl. He forced himself to focus on her face, piercing the veil that covered it just for an instant, but it was enough. Once he had thought her a doll, something so beautiful as to be not quite real. Now she had a small bloody scar on her chin and another tracing across her brow into her tousled and unkempt hair. Her eyes were red with tears and dark with fatigue, lips pale and drawn back from her teeth in anguish. She was so very real and he knew she had never been a doll at all. He looked upon a face that possessed only an echo of the girl she had been, a face transforming into the woman she would be.

Sirus closed his eyes, drawing his mind back into himself. The bright shining crystal was waiting, a gift from the Contractor Catheline had imprisoned in her mind. It shone brighter as his purpose found a connection with the memories it held, blossoming out, filling him with its gift. The memory it revealed was strange, but filled with enough visual clues for his archaeologist’s mind to divine that he was seeing a moment from the past, a moment which contained a vital piece of information. He watched the memory play out, and summoned Tekela’s face once more, let it lead him to the moment he had first seen her. It had been some tedious ball his father forced him to attend, trussed into a suit that didn’t really fit him, scratching his collar as he concealed himself in the quietest corner of the room.

When he saw her it was like everything else went away, fading into a mist with her at the centre, so bright, so utterly captivating. She moved with a peerless grace across the ball-room, gliding into a curtsy as Burgrave Artonin presented her to the Governor General. Her smile was a thing of wonder and her necklace glittered in the glow of the chandelier as she gave a delighted laugh at the governor’s witticism.

But it hadn’t been like that. Her smile had in fact been nervous and forced, often veering into a scowl as she scanned the other ladies present with badly concealed disdain. When she danced it was a clumsy, inelegant spectacle that drew titters from the other guests. Also her necklace, Sirus saw now, hadn’t glittered very much at all. The jewels were glass set into a brass chain. Sirus discovered later that her father had sold much of her mother’s jewellery to fund his expeditions to the Interior.

He had thought that the many humiliations he endured over the following months had been inevitable, that his helpless pursuit of her had been beyond his control given how completely she had captured his heart that night. He was her slave, after all. Except he wasn’t. He was a foolish youth who had convinced himself he was in love with a beautiful but, on occasion, deeply unpleasant girl. He had made a choice, because a free mind can do such things and in time he had learned what it was to have no freedom at all, not in mind or body.

Until now Sirus had been shutting out the other Spoiled, the babble of their minds in the midst of battle a low, ugly murmur at the edge of his consciousness. Now he let them in, all of them, and shared the gift of long-dead drakes.

At first it was like pouring cold water on white-hot coals. Thousands of Spoiled minds snatched from the fury and chaos of battle roiled in confusion as the gift spread through the multitude. Some slipped instantly into madness, their minds breaking at the sudden intrusion of a sensation they had never suspected might return. Others fought it, raging against the separation from the all-powerful consciousness of their White god. But most welcomed it, joy filling them as the invisible shackles fell away. As the gift leapt from mind to mind like a fire let loose in a dry forest, Sirus felt more and more souls blink out of existence.

They’re dying, he realised, pausing to look through the eyes of a Spoiled, seeing those around him standing still, faces drawn in wonder or shock as bullets and cannon flayed them from above. I’m killing them. The thought was accompanied by panic that came from an awareness of how little time he had left.

Sirus flitted from mind to mind, searching the now-silent and immobile army for a soul that might save them, finding it close to the Redoubt gates. He found Forest Spear lying only seconds from death as his life seeped out from the many bullet-holes in his chest, his mind filled with memories of his days hunting through the jungle with his brother warriors. Sirus touched minds with him, feeling a pulse of gratitude before the darkness fell. He moved on, finding Veilmist under a mound of dead and dying Spoiled. There were hundreds of them, all seemingly cut down in an instant, by what means Sirus couldn’t know. Veilmist had survived the calamity but the weight of so many corpses would soon crush the air from her lungs.

Help her! Sirus commanded. The Spoiled were slow to respond, some stumbling in confusion, others taking advantage of their new-found liberty to rejoice in the novelty of refusal. Please, he added. You know me. I want you to live. All of you.

He felt a pulse of recognition run through them, shot through with a sense of trust and empathy. He had been a slave like them, and now they felt his desperate desire to preserve their lives. Several hundred Spoiled surged towards the gates, braving the continuing fire from the walls above to drag Veilmist from beneath the mound of corpses.

Get them away from the walls, Sirus told her. He found the Islander’s mind warm with welcome and a seemingly endless well of gratitude.

Where are you? she asked. We will come to you.

It doesn’t matter. Just . . . Sirus felt a growing chill creep over the fringes of his awareness, the combined vision of so many eyes rapidly eroding, shrinking to just a few images, one of which brought a fierce urgent need to cling on to life.

The White!

He could see it, mighty wings spread wide as it came to earth on the plain, the slim figure of Catheline slipping from its back. Lying near by was the body of a large Black drake.

It’s there! he told them, putting every ounce of will and strength he could in the thought, the last command he would ever give to this army. Kill it!

The Spoiled left him then, the tumult of rage and blood-lust fading away. He blinked and found himself looking up into Tekela’s eyes once more. He raised a hand, pressing it to her cheek and took joy in the affection he saw in her face, a face he found himself content to take with him into the dark.

CHAPTER 56

Clay

For a time he lay stunned, vision clouded as he sought to refill his lungs, the ominous sound of fast-approaching wings loud in his ears until it was swallowed by the roar of engines. He blinked, vision clearing to reveal Lizanne staring at him from the hatchway of her aerostat. It hovered above, engines pointed towards the ground. He lifted a hand to wave in greeting but then a loud, ragged exhalation drew his gaze and he saw Lutharon lying some twenty yards away, wings flapping and tail coiling weakly. Clay tried to stand, found he couldn’t, and cursed as he reached for the product in his duster, drinking down a full flask of Green. Rising to his feet he half-stumbled to Lutharon’s side, letting out a groan of dismay at the sight of his injuries.

Ragged, deep gashes had been clawed into Lutharon’s hide, leaving his chest and belly a gory mess. Blood welled from a bite mark in his neck as he tried to raise his head towards Clay.

“Lie still, big fella,” Clay told him, smoothing a hand over the Black’s brow as he looked into his eyes. He could feel his pain and fear, and the gradually slowing beat of his heart. “It’s fine, we did all we could,” Clay said, exuding as much calmness as he could. “You don’t have to stay on my account. They’re waiting for you.”

He stood and watched the light fade from Lutharon’s eyes, knowing that in his dying Ethelynne would die with him, although the memory of both would live on as long as there were Black drakes to carry it.

He turned, hearing a change in the pitch of the aerostat’s engine, watching as it came to earth a short distance away. Lizanne emerged from the gondola and they stood regarding each other, apparently neither having any notion of what to say. Finally, she said, “Do you have any Green? I’m running short.”

“Yeah, I got another flask.”

He began to reach into his duster, then his gaze jerked back to the aerostat as the air became filled with the sound of roaring flames. The White reared up from beyond the curved bulk of the aerostat, flames jetting from its mouth to bathe the craft from end to end. Clay gaped in shock as Lizanne, instead of running clear, immediately leapt back inside. He dragged his satchel round, pulling out a grenade before reaching for his product once again. He gulped down some Black and focused his gaze on the White, now in the process of crouching amidst the smoke from the burning craft. Clay raised the grenade, summoning his Black in preparation then found himself in the air, the grenade flying away to explode harmlessly well wide of its target. He landed a good fifty yards from Lutharon’s body, the Green in his veins preventing serious injury, though he was obliged to spend several seconds lying stunned before managing to scramble to his feet.

“Gutter-born bastard!”

Catheline advanced through the grass towards him, weaving from side to side as if drunk, blood streaming through the fingers she had pressed to the wound in her stomach. Guess I’m a decent shot after all, Clay concluded. Much of Catheline’s golden hair had been burned away, leaving behind a seared and smoking scalp. Her skin was marble-white from loss of blood, but her red-black eyes glowed bright, lit with a vibrant hatred.

She screamed as she sent another wave of Black towards him, Clay leaping to the side with Green-assisted speed and replying with a burst of his own. It struck her squarely in the chest, sending her flat on her back. Clay leapt high, focusing his gaze on Catheline’s prone form, intending to expend all the remaining Black in crushing her into the ground until she was just a red smear on the earth.

The White’s tail slammed into his midriff, sending him spinning in the opposite direction. Had the tail still possessed its spear-point tip the blow would certainly have been fatal, instead of inflicting enough agonising pain to leave Clay stunned and helpless as he rolled to a halt. He heard the White’s claws scrape at the earth as it came closer, moving with unhurried intent. Looking up, Clay saw its head poised above, blackened and bleeding from his grenade but possessed of a gaze as knowing and full of malice as he remembered.

“Hate me as much as I hate you, huh?” Clay asked it in a pained grunt. “Guess that’s fair. It’s what we do, us folks, us people. Hate’s what’s worst about us, and grows worse with the hating. You were made to hate, because we made you.”

The White let out a faint huff of smoke, head tilting as if in consideration. Clay had no notion of whether it understood him, or even if it cared for anything beyond its own malice. But somehow he had given it pause, and that was all he needed.

“Got something for ya,” Clay said, “gonna make you hate me even more.”

He snapped his gaze to the side, focusing on Catheline. She had managed to get back on her feet and resumed her stumbling walk towards him, eyes glowing bright as ever. Clay used all his Black at once, unleashing it too fast for her to deflect or evade. In one swift motion he reached out to grasp her neck with an invisible hand and snap it.

The White let out a roar as Catheline’s body collapsed, rearing back from Clay, shaking its head in confusion. Clay fumbled for his satchel, clumsy hands trying and failing to grasp a grenade. By the time he had managed to drag one of the devices free of the satchel the White appeared to have recovered some of its senses, turning back to him and rearing up, a haze of heated air forming around its mouth. Then it stopped. The White stood frozen, the flames blossoming from its jaws but shooting into the air instead of at Clay. His gaze swivelled to the aerostat, now a smoking ruin, but standing in the foreground was Lizanne, staring fixedly at the White as she directed her Black at it. Slumped on her knees at Lizanne’s side was a young woman Clay didn’t know, but evidently also a Blood-blessed from the signature Black-fuelled focus with which she stared at the White.

Clay’s gaze swung back to the beast, seeing how it shook in the invisible chains that bound it, neck slowly coiling as it fought against its bonds, its head inching closer to the point where its still-blossoming flames could be brought to bear on its victim. Clay hooked a finger into the grenade’s ring and pulled, letting out a shout of pure agony when his broken digit lost purchase. Spitting curses he switched hands, sweat bathing his scalp as the heat bore down . . . then disappeared.

He looked up to see the White drowning in a dark wave. Lizanne’s black had faded and it thrashed and flamed in the tide that swamped it, biting and tearing as the wave swept over it, a wave of flesh rather than water. The White continued to fight, its tail and claws leaving dozens of Spoiled rent and dying, others blasted by flame or snapped in two by its jaws. But the weight of numbers proved unstoppable. The Spoiled tore at the White with their claws, stabbed it with their bayonets or hacked at it with their war-clubs. Blood and scraps of scaled flesh rose in a cloud as they bore the beast down, thousands of them crowding in to rend at the beast in a crimson fog. Clay was struck by the fury on their faces, lacking the blank purpose he had witnessed in Lizanne’s shared memories. The Spoiled, like the White, had learned to hate. Their destruction of the White took place in silence, free of shouts or screams of vengeance, the only sounds the wet tearing of the huge drake’s flesh and its last few, guttural breaths.

When it was over Clay found himself surrounded by Spoiled, all standing in immobile silence. He started to rise, finding it difficult and jerking in instinctive fear when the Spoiled helped him up. Looking around, he saw that most of them regarded him with curious, even expectant faces like an audience waiting for a speech. One of them soon worked her way through the throng towards him, a diminutive female with the blonde hair typical of Island folk. She addressed him in perfect Mandinorian with a slight managerial accent, her tone formal if a little guarded.

“On behalf of those present,” she said, “I offer our surrender. But we have conditions.”

CHAPTER 57

Lizanne

They burned Sirus on a pyre constructed atop the hill where he died. The Spoiled lay his body on a pile of Green corpses, the plain being so lacking in trees. The bones and shredded flesh that constituted the White’s remains were added to the pile, along with the bodies of the two juveniles. The body of Catheline Dewsmine had been left where it lay, none of the Spoiled showing the slightest inclination towards touching it. When it was done Lizanne injected Red whilst Clay drank a vial and together they blasted the pyre with heat, the blaze soon consuming its grisly fuel and birthing a thick, foul-smelling smoke that rose into the darkening sky.

Lizanne retreated from the fierce heat, pausing when she saw Clay lingering, something clutched in his hand as he stared into the flames. He stood with a slight stoop, his face drawn in a persistent pain large doses of Green had yet to erase and she worried what internal injuries he might have suffered. He looks like an old man, she thought. She ran a hand through her hair, thick with sweat and assorted grime, and it occurred to her that her own appearance was hardly any more edifying.

“What’s that?” she asked him, nodding at the object in his hand.

He glanced at her, holding it up. It was a vial, the contents impossible to discern in the glow of the fire. “Just some old product,” he said, tossing it into the flames. “Reckon it’s gone bad.”

They moved back, Lizanne going to Tekela’s side and drawing her into an embrace when she saw the tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” Tekela sobbed into her shoulder. “For flying off . . .”

“So you should be.” Lizanne drew back a little, smoothing the hair away from Tekela’s face. “Need to get some Green on those scars,” she said, reaching to extract a vial from her Spider.

“Leave it,” Tekela said, turning back to the fire and resting her head on Lizanne’s shoulder. “They’re not so bad.”

The surrounding Spoiled, several thousand strong, stood around the hill-top in silence as they watched the fire consume their general. Lizanne could see their brows twitching and knew that however still their voices might be, the mind of every living Spoiled was joined in grief.

She had used her scant remaining Blue to trance with Sofiya Griffan, requesting that she communicate the terms of the Spoiled’s surrender to Captain Trumane and the rest of the Varestian Defence League’s high command. She found the woman’s trance had changed, the dark forest regaining some colour, though there was a guarded feeling to it, the air shot through with an aura of tense expectation.

Something to tell me? Lizanne had asked her.

Sofiya’s trance thrummed with momentary indecision before she replied, Lizanne discerning a great deal more from her thoughts than her words. The Free Protectorate Fleet has arrived, she said. Captain Trumane has accepted a commission as Commodore.

How fortuitous for him, Lizanne observed.

Their arrival was fortuitous for all of us, Sofiya returned. Had they not, the battle might have gone against . . .

How long have you been in contact with Exceptional Initiatives?

The sky above the forest turned a faint shade of red, Lizanne detecting both shame and defiance in Sofiya’s emotions.

I recall asking you to pass on the weapons designs to the Protectorate, Lizanne continued. I said nothing about Exceptional Initiatives. I assume the Protectorate never actually received the designs. What else have you told them, Sofiya?

I have a child to think of, Sofiya replied, her mindscape darkening into something wind-swept and hostile. I should like them to grow up in as safe and comfortable a place as possible.

Was contacting Exceptional Initiatives Captain Trumane’s idea or yours?

The wind grew stiffer, twisting the branches of the surrounding trees so that they resembled snakes coiling for a strike. The captain has been a good and loyal friend in these difficult times, Sofiya replied, Lizanne sensing a dangerous edge to her thoughts.

I am glad to find you recovered from your grief, Lizanne told her and ended the trance.

“Come on,” she said, taking hold of Tekela’s hand and moving to Clay’s side. “The Superior,” she said. “Have you tranced with anyone on board?”

He nodded. “Lieutenant Sigoral, says they’ve taken some bad knocks but she’s still afloat.”

“Good. We have to go.” She turned, leading him towards the Firefly. “Now.”

Morva slipped into unconsciousness during the flight to the Redoubt. Lizanne and Clay carried her to the subterranean chamber where the League had established a makeshift hospital. It was full of wounded, the air musty with stale blood and filled with the constant murmuration of hundreds of people in pain.

“Lucky we’re not wanting for Green,” a grey-faced doctor told Lizanne as he examined Morva. She and Clay had been obliged to remove a recently expired Varestian pirate in order to provide an empty bed. “Plenty of drakes piled up outside. The harvesters are working flat out to refine it.” The doctor lifted the lid of Morva’s right eye, grunting in satisfaction. “She’s still with us,” he said. “And her pulse is strong.” His expression grew more severe as he turned his gaze to Morva’s burn-covered legs. “As for these . . .”

“Use any amount of Green necessary,” Lizanne instructed.

Seeing the implacable glint in her eye, he nodded. “It’ll repair much of the tissue damage, but the scars . . .”

“A Lokaras is always proud of their scars.”

Lizanne turned to find a bedraggled Alzar Lokaras striding towards them, his gaze dark as he surveyed his adopted niece. “Especially when earned in battle,” he added in a more subdued tone. He jerked his head at the doctor, sending the man scurrying to fetch the product. “So,” Alzar said, Lizanne seeing how his hand hovered near Morva’s. “It appears we have a victory, Miss Blood.”

“Won with her help,” Lizanne said. “Your niece had a hand in killing the White. Is that sufficient to finally win your approval, Captain?”

She was expecting anger but he barely shrugged. “I didn’t adopt her, you know,” he said softly. “Not truly. I met to trade with some Dalcian reavers. She escaped from the cage they had her in and stowed away on my ship. They came after us, thinking I’d stolen her. Reavers are not easily dissuaded from battle, so we fought. I lost crew that day, including my son.” Lizanne saw him extend a finger to tap the back of Morva’s hand. “When it was over I wanted to throw her to the King of the Deep, but I couldn’t. She was just a little girl who took a chance at freedom. So I took her back to the High Wall, but I never let her call me father. Only ever uncle.”

Lizanne moved to Morva’s side, smoothing back the hair from her head. “She’s my best pupil,” she murmured, for some reason finding the unwelcome face of Madame Bondersil coming to mind. At least I didn’t try to kill her, she thought, pushing the image away.

“I have to go,” she told Alzar. “Will you stay with her?”

“My ship burned and sank,” he replied. “For the moment it seems I have nowhere else to be.”

Arberus had his arm in a sling, the shoulder having been broken by a tail strike from one of the few Greens to make it over the wall at the height of the battle. He appeared even more aged than Clay, face sagging with fatigue as he cast his gaze over the mass of bodies below the Redoubt. They were thickest around the gates, piled up in a great ring around the crater, a legacy of the rocket fired by the Free Protectorate cruiser now moored off shore along with a flotilla of six frigates. As a result of all the damage and destruction wrought on the Varestian ships this small fleet now constituted the dominant maritime force on the globe.

The bodies were a mix of Spoiled and Greens, though not every drake had perished. The Greens left alive after the battle had fled into the hills to the west, followed by the few surviving Reds. However, Lizanne doubted that a population of drakes would continue for very long on Varestian territory. As they flew towards the Redoubt the Firefly passed over numerous sickly drakes stumbling about the plain, both Reds and Greens. Some had already slumped into lifeless immobility and Clay opined that it had only been the White’s will that had sustained them so far from their birthplace.

“We’re still counting,” Arberus said, gaze still preoccupied by the bodies. “It could be over a hundred thousand people died here, ours and theirs.”

Lizanne glanced back at the Firefly, waiting in the courtyard with Clay and Tekela on board. She was keen to be gone but required certain assurances first, and had little time to indulge his morbid reverie.

“General Arberus,” she said, voice clipped and formal. It was enough to make him blink and turn towards her, a cautious frown on his brow.

“Back to business, is it?” he asked.

“The Spoiled,” she said. “I need to know their terms will be respected.”

So far the Varestians hadn’t ventured closer than a mile to the hill where the Spoiled congregated. The fact that the Spoiled had kept their weapons and posted a cordon of cannon around their camp might have had a good deal to do with it.

“There are few in my command with the appetite for another battle,” Arberus replied. “However, that may well change as the days pass. It’s a rare heart that can resist the lure of vengeance, and this army has a great deal to avenge.”

“Evacuate the Redoubt,” Lizanne told him. “Hand it over to the Spoiled. At least then they’ll have a strong position to defend if the Varestians turn on them. In the meantime I’ll set about meeting the rest of their terms.”

“You really think that’s possible? After all this?”

“The corporate world may have fallen, but I suspect there are still bargains to be struck in the one that has replaced it.”

A day later the Firefly rendezvoused with the Superior, resting at anchor some fifty miles south-east of Blaska Sound. Tekela skilfully steered the craft through a stiff cross-wind to set her down on the aft deck. Clay, still stooping a little but otherwise much recovered, was immediately embraced by his cousin and uncle as he stepped down from the gondola.

“How’s Skaggs?” he asked them.

“He’ll live,” Braddon Torcreek assured him. “And got himself quite a scar to boast about for years to come.”

“Sorry about Preacher, Uncle,” Clay said. “Mad as a Blue-addled rat he may have been, but I reckon I’ll still miss him.”

“At least he ain’t around to be proven wrong,” Braddon replied with a sombre shrug. “All the Seven Penitents were s’posed to perish in the Travail.”

“An impressive machine, miss.” Lizanne turned to find herself confronted with a tall man she knew instantly but hadn’t actually met. Hilemore’s gaze roamed over the Firefly in evident fascination, his military mind no doubt imagining all manner of practical uses for such a contraption.

“We had others that were more so,” she said, extending her hand. “You, I assume, are Captain Hilemore.”

“And you are Miss Lethridge.”

He gave a formal nod of his head as they shook hands. “I’m glad to see you recovered,” she said. “I had heard you were wounded.”

“Just a bump on the head. The blast from that newfangled rocket gave us a pretty hard smack. I got off lightly compared to my helmsman: broken jaw. Still, at least it’s shut him up for a while.”

“Thank you for doing this. I know you’re risking much in undertaking this mission.”

He gave a thin smile before replying, “Yesterday I received a signal from Captain Trumane to report aboard the Free Protectorate flagship as of this morning. I very much doubt he intended to offer warm congratulations and a captaincy in his new command.”

“Doesn’t that make you a mutineer? An outlaw perhaps?”

“Then little has changed. In any case, as far as I can ascertain, the laws that previously bound us no longer have meaning. Which would make me a private individual free to sail wherever I wish. Luckily, the bulk of my crew seems to share my sentiments, for the time being at least.”

“Where will you go when this mission is complete?”

“My . . . co-captain and I will retrieve her daughter from Stockcombe. After that . . .” Hilemore’s smile broadened. “I’ve a yen to do some exploring. My grandfather left a long shadow, one I’ve spent my life trying to match. But he was always more an explorer than a fighter. Perhaps that’s the legacy I should be honouring from now on. Besides”—Hilemore’s gaze darkened somewhat—“in a world that now has weapons like that rocket and your marvellous aerostat, the military path no longer has much appeal to me.”

“Without the Protectorate how will you live? A ship needs supplies, repairs from time to time.”

“There are many ports in this world, all now bursting with stockpiled goods. There are always opportunities for an honest captain to turn a profit.”

Lizanne turned as Tinkerer’s lanky form emerged from the Firefly. He stood surveying the ship and its scorched decks and damaged fittings, his usually bland features betraying a certain trepidation.

“I’ve never been on a boat,” he explained, catching Lizanne’s eye.

“This is a ship, sir,” Hilemore pointed out in polite but emphatic tones.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to become accustomed to your passenger’s manners, Captain,” Lizanne said. “Give him a cabin to himself, keep him supplied with pen, ink and paper and you’ll find him mostly tolerable.”

She went to Tinkerer, hesitating a moment before embracing him. His thin frame remained stiff and unresponsive except for the soft pat to her shoulder. “Are you sure about this?” she asked, drawing back. “Life in the new Mandinorian Republic might not be so bad.”

“A prison is a prison, no matter how comfortable,” he told her. “The memories the Artisan left me are more interesting in any case. There is a great deal still to find and study. Also, weapons are boring. They only do one thing.”

Lizanne went forward, finding Clay on the fore-deck with a young woman she recognised from the trance. “You have it?” she asked after Clay made the introductions. Kriz looked him at him before replying. When he nodded she reached for a chain about her neck, detaching a small vial and handing it to Lizanne.

“The formula,” Kriz added, giving Lizanne a strip of paper bearing a number of symbols. “I have tried to mirror the chemical notations used in this age,” she went on. “Although a plasmologist should conduct a thorough analysis before attempting to recreate it. The crystals?”

Lizanne consigned both items to her pocket then inclined her head towards the stern. “Unloaded and awaiting your inspection. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

“Actually,” Kriz said, moving away, “I believe I’m doing your world the greatest service by taking them where they won’t be found.”

Lizanne watched her leave before turning to Clay. “Trance with me when you arrive,” she said. “I should also like to be updated as to your progress, if you’re so minded.”

“Happy to. Might take awhile to find all of Miss Ethelynne’s note-books. I’m thinking she had a lot of hidey-holes scattered about the Interior. We’ll take a look at the Enclave first, make sure there are no more infant Whites scuttling about.”

He met her gaze, his expression growing more serious. “You really think they’ll agree to this deal of yours? I know everything’s changed and all, but you’re asking them to give up the very thing that made the old world what it was.”

“With this,” Lizanne said, patting the pocket containing Kriz’s vial and formula, “I suspect I could ask for all the tea in Dalcia and there would be a long list of those willing to fight each other to give it to me.”

She paused, unsure of what to say next. They had shared so much in the trance that words now seemed inadequate, clumsy even. “Good-bye, Mr. Torcreek,” she said finally. “It has been . . . a very great honour.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “But thanks for saying it, anyways. And for saving my life, o’course. Occurs to me I hadn’t said so before.”

They didn’t embrace, or even shake hands in farewell. It seemed strangely formal, even meaningless. Their minds would be joined for however many years they had left. Between them there would never truly be a good-bye.

Lizanne turned towards the stern at the sound of the Firefly’s engine revving up. She gave him a final smile and went aft, greeting Braddon Torcreek along the way. “If you’re ready, Captain.”

He nodded and pulled his daughter into a crushing embrace. Loriabeth blinked tears as he released her, saying, “Tell Ma I’ll come see her soon.”

“Come with me and I won’t have to,” Braddon said.

Loriabeth glanced at the Corvantine Marine lieutenant standing close by and lowered her head. “Sorry, Pa. I think it’s time I found my own contracts.”

Hilemore’s hulking second in command barked out an order as Lizanne moved to board the Firefly, a line of sailors snapping to attention on the aft deck in response. The captain saluted as she climbed into the gondola, Braddon Torcreek following her after a moment’s hesitation. She closed the hatch and Tekela angled the engine to take them up.

“Back to the Mount,” Lizanne told Tekela. “I suspect Captain Trumane has already arrived.”

Lizanne turned her gaze to the starboard port-hole and watched Superior shrink beneath them, Hilemore maintaining his salute until she could no longer make out his form. Soon the ship had become just a speck on a very big ocean, fading from view as they flew away.